Imagine Karaoke

On Tuesday, at the Applebee’s in Harlingen, TX, I’m going to get up and sing John Lennon’s “Imagine” in front of a group of mostly strangers. It started out as kind of a joke in my sangha (meditation group). One of the things I think is cool about going to a church is the singing with other people, and it’s not just a select group of good singers that do it, but everybody in the congregation, for mutual connection and uplift out of the workaday mind. Well, I wanted to sing in the sangha, too. Why not compile a Buddhist hymnal? There are many great numbers with a Buddhist philosophy: “Let It Be.” “Give Peace a Chance.” “(Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” We were all calling out the names of songs and laughing and occasionally breaking into a line of song to illustrate. Someone mentioned a certain plaintive number from “Hair,” the disappointed-in-love ballad called “Easy to Be Hard.” Several of the other people there didn’t know the song, so I started singing it from the beginning, because I could. As a teenager in the 1970s, enthralled with 1960s culture, I played that record over and over and over. And even though I hadn’t really thought about it for 35 years, I still remembered most of the words, enough to get well advanced into the song. I can’t say for sure whether the sangha was impressed with my long lyrical memory (or my audacity), but I know I felt relaxed and happy. Confident, not of having noteworthy talent, but of my right to exhibit my averageness.

“Let’s have a Buddhist karaoke group!” I said. “Let’s buy a karaoke machine and use it for a Buddhist Karaoke Night Benefit!” I was kidding, but I also meant it. “I’ll buy the machine,” I said. “When we’re not using it, we could rent it out to other organizations.” Yes, yes, they said, go for it. (Kidding?)

We shall see! One step at a time. I found a venue. I went last week to reconnoiter, learning that the quality of singers varies widely and the crowd doesn’t heckle. The worst-case outcome is that only the two or three closest tables give only polite applause for a few seconds. The best-case is more enthusiastic applause from the half the bar that’s paying any attention and a few hoots of approval from across the room. There are many quirky song choices, not all latest-hit numbers. An eastern-inflected Beatles number, for instance, would fit in just fine. I’ve announced the event on my Facebook page: world debut of the Buddhist Karaoke Circle (which may turn out to consist of just me). I’ve chosen and practiced a song.

I’m going to do it. Tuesday. My little dare to me. My little achievable project to cultivate fearlessness and joy. Not just mine, but for all sentient beings. Imagine!

David Small's Stitches is now out in paperback. I'm using it as a text in three classes, Intro to Creative Writing, Intro to Creative Nonfiction, and Graduate Nonfiction Workshop


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It's a great book for teaching what I want to teach--thematically rich composition, moral complexity, subtlety of the narrative focus and voice, plot structure, suspense, characterization, tone: it's all there and all working beautifully. And people like the book. And I like it, which is a bonus in teaching. Teaching a text I don't like is tolerable for one semester, maybe even two, but after that I can't stand the rereading.

Anyway, so, I loved Stitches, let's have no mistake about that. Nothing but praise for the design and the execution. And, I largely share what I take to be the author's moral assessment of the characters. The parents have clearly not done a good job of parenting: the failure to give their son appropriate medical attention is appalling. "Neglectful" and "cold" are a generous description of the mother; many people if not most might call her abusive, though perhaps her methods aren't way out of line with cultural norms: David is shouted at and slapped when he runs off to play where he was told not to, losing his shoes in the process.

Make no mistake: I do not approve of the mother's behavior. Small shows her slamming around the house in resentful silence for days on end; I don't think it's right to give little children a punitive silent treatment for more than a very brief time, though what constitutes brief I shall leave as an exercise for the reader. (I don't favor hitting, but a parent has to have some means of indicating disapproval in moderation. Though maybe a childless person shouldn't pontificate too long on the subject.)

I don't believe the author intends us to read this narrative in the simple way some people like to read: identifying wholly with the boy and having zero compassion for the mother, investing 100% of their empathetic imagination in his perfect innocence and her perfect contemptibility. Look: the boy calls out for his mother's protection against a roughhousing older brother and against his harsh, unstable grandmother; doesn't that mean she must have provided him some degree of maternal protection on some occasions? In fact, we see David's mother's spontaneous impulse to shield him from her own mother's menace, and, by a short imaginative hop requiring only a one-link chain of inference, we realize that as bad as David's childhood may be, his mother's was likely worse on the average day.

Even the grandmother is handled with some measure of compassion in the narrative. She is discomfitted when her grandson can't understand her country speech, and does a pained double take when David asks what a crucifix is and she realizes the extent to which her daughter has rejected the religion of her childhood. David then wounds her deliberately when he says "Mama says people who say 'ain't' are stupid!" The grandmother's had a pretty hard life, but--let's have no mistake about this--I think it's worth calling her "evil" if we're ever going to use that word at all for assessing people's behavior. But the evil grandmother is portrayed not as someone animated by an inexplicable force of unprovoked malice and consciencelessness (like the evil people in much popular culture and a certain brand of politics); she's a damaged person, like David, like his mom. If David's misdemeanors--joyriding, truancy, etc.--are mitigated by the suffering and mistreatment he endured beforehand, aren't the felonies of the mothers mitigated by their suffering and mistreatment too? Not excused, mind you. We can understand and pity without necessarily forgiving. I think it hurts to be evil. Maybe there are a few exceptions--joyous psychopaths--somewhere, but not in this book.

There's only one place where I can't quite go along with what I take to be the book's assessment of the characters. I sort of feel I'm kicking over the pedagogical traces even to say this. Shouldn't I keep my own attention on form and technique, leave the students (at least the undergraduates) to work out their moral reactions free from my influence? What do you think of the characters, class? What do you think David Small thinks? Yes, by all means bring your own life experience to bear, but remember to keep coming back to the details of the text....

No, I can't help it. Listen: I think the psychiatrist did a wrong thing. I don't consider it wholesome to start therapy with a 15-year-old by saying "Your mother doesn't love you." What a dangerous, potentially injurious thing to say, even if it were definitely true and the shrink definitely knew it to be true. But I also don't think he had any very good grounds for making that assertion. How long could he have spent with the mother at that point, a couple hours? What arrogance, to be so certain about another person's inner life! And, yes, I think there is an element of Freud-inflected, mother-blaming misogyny there. The mom and shrink probably made mutually poor impressions on each other at their initial interview; the mother thinks psychotherapy is "throwing money down a hole." And, whew, that reminds me: the parents were paying for this. The Small couple paid for a shrink three times a week to reinforce David's worst feelings about his mother. Yeah, the therapy made David feel better about himself, but at his mom's expense. Oh, so, turns out it's the (male) shrink whose love is supposed to be true! Well, it's pretty easy to love someone for only an hour at a time, when you're getting a good salary, and you never have to take that teenager home with you and bear full responsibility for them, bailing out of jail and so forth.

Granted, we know that David's mother certainly didn't love him in a uniformly good or effective way. Granted she made consumer goods and partying a higher priority than nurturing him as she should have done; but it's ridiculous to suppose she didn't care whether her own son had cancer: she was in denial about the lump in his neck, is the reasonable explanation. Do you think love is a blanket of kindness, settling evenly over every interaction with the loved one and (especially in the case of parents) smothering every more self-centered desire? I have loved and I have been loved. I am not a parent, but I have parents, and I am here to tell you that love is not a blanket of kindness.

David, if you read this, I loved your book.

In Franz Wright's remarkable poem "Robert, Cat" a man feels his cat bestows "unqualified forgiveness." This may just be the speaker's persona, of course, not the author's view, but I feel like disputing it anyway, since lots of pet owners do hold this notion that animals have feelings that are just like ours, only deeper, purer, unsullied by ulterior concerns. The thing is, we really don't know what animals' mental states are like. Maybe Robert the cat doesn't even have any clear memory of having been mistreated by the speaker, if, indeed, he ever even had any sense of mistreatment in the first place. Heck, I can't even count on my own spouse bringing the same frame of reference to any interaction that I bring to it, so how can you make that assumption in an interspecies relationship?

If I step on a fire-ant nest in the yard, and get bitten, I don't harbor any feeling of resentment toward the individual biting ants. I don't think, "You little bastard, you're the one who did me wrong." In my head, a vague sense of menace and annoyance surrounds the whole anthill, but that's it. Suppose tiny robot servants carefully plucked just the "guilty" ants from my body and saved them in a separate petri dish, I would have no feeling about those ants that was different from any other fire ants.

That's why I've always thought hell was such a crazy idea. That a supposedly omnipotent being would bother to punish such comparatively insignificant consciousnesses at all, let alone infinitely, is preposterous. Or to love them, either, in any but the most abstract and not especially gratifying way.

Nope, hell is invented by humans, for humans, in a paroxysm of masochism or hate.

I'd put the whole Wright poem up here, but I don't want to run afoul of copyright. It's worth a look.

*Lit* - Mary Karr

I read Mary Karr's *Lit* this week. I've gotten interested in addiction memoirs. David Sheff's *Beautiful Boy* was so lovely. (Should I go and read the son's memoir too?) Anyway, *Lit* was pretty gripping, there's some fine writing. I got just a weensy bit tired of the how-I-kept-resisting-God narrative thread, which was repetitious and plodding.

But I read with interest about all Karr's relationships, some with famous people whom I admire, like Tobias Wolff, others with people I never heard of before, or whose names had been changed anyway, like her ex-husband, or people for whom Karr gives only a first name, like "David," who she bumps into at an AA meeting halfway through the book, socializes with at a halfway house, and later has a stormy affair with. David gets "Mary" tattooed on his arm even before they've "kissed on the lips," and then later he breaks her coffee table in a raging fight.

It was an interesting relationship, well integrated across 130 pages, though on restudying it, I find the David story takes up less than 6 pages total itself.

And then I'm done with the whole memoir, and I'm reading the back matter, which includes a *Huffington Post* interview, and the interviewer asks about people Karr wrote about maybe not seeing things just the way she did, and she says, among other things, "Whatever David Foster Wallace's motivation was for throwing my coffee table..."

Whaaaat!?

I would have read the book quite differently if I'd known that "David" was David Foster Wallace. So I go back and read the relevant parts again and feel like a fool for not twigging before. Karr was playing a tricky, coy game with us, wasn't she? The first sighting of David includes the trademark bandana, the vocabulary, the logic; when he begins to write Karr love letters they are "meticulously footnoted." How did I not notice those things? But of course I wasn't expecting David Foster Wallace. And why didn't she just tell me, isn't that deceptive? But no, it's simply accurate to her experience, because he *wasn't* David Foster Wallace yet, back then. And maybe she's bending over backwards to take the high road and not exploit the connection. But then she does put in the bandana and the footnotes, so is it kind of *wink-wink-nudge-nudge* having it both ways?

Not only did I have to go back and study every page in *Lit* on which DFW appears, I had to google up "mary karr and da..." by which time Google completed the phrase for me. In an interview in *Busted Halo* Karr says a few more things about DFW. She's not all hagiographic about him like most people who reminisce. She describes his famous solicitousness as kind of an act and says he was a "pussy hound" "in a creepy way" when she first knew him. So maybe it wasn't just incredible imagination that enabled him to write *Brief Interviews with Hideous Men*.

Debt is sharecropping

Unlike most people I know, I regulate carefully the spending of small amounts of money on things like clothes, haircuts, manicures, books I want to read once but can just as easily get on interlibrary loan if I wait, bottled water, soda, coffee, treats and prepared foods, eating out, and in general any food item that doesn't derive from the grocery store or somebody's garden. How did it come to seem normal for middle-class and even working-class people to spend so much on prepared food so many times per week? This is not, by the way, moralizing on behalf of elaborate slow-food family dinners--not that I'm against that stuff either, if you like it--but for myself I favor the fastest food there is: bread and peanut butter and fruit straight out of the fridge, for instance. The cost in both time and money is negligible. I really don't understand the desire to spend more. Why isn't retaining their money worth more to people than a series of impulsive mini-luxuries and illusory conveniences throughout the week?

Advertising has something to do with it, and so does habit and social norms, and a general background level of prosperity--compared to the third world, anyway. (I'm aware that relative incomes are slipping in the US for all but the top percentiles.) And each individual item, taken singly, doesn't cost a huge amount. It just costs way more than it needs to and is unnecessary. A twenty-dollar bottle of moisturizer? Thanks, I'll hold onto the $20, "because I'm worth it." (I know, I know, that's not even anywhere near the high end products.)

I don't mean to scold or set myself up as superior. Everyone has the right to determine their own priorities; I just advocate awareness: for instance that the cumulative amount spent buying sodas each month (compared to the amount spent on more nutritious food staples) really does reflect the proportionate position a person thinks soda ought to occupy in his life.

I'm aware too that my habits are way outside the norm, freakish by current cultural standards. It hurts to suspect that some of my nearest and dearest may think me "cheap." I don't think of myself that way. I didn't buy the cheapest house I could find, or the cheapest car. Ditto furniture and major electronic appliances. Those are long-term investments and I want to get the best long-term value I can. I love going to museums or getting tickets to other artistic performances. But I don't want to drop unmonitored little bits of money on restaurant food or objects and services whose ability to provide satisfaction is fleeting. The cumulative effect is significant.

This is not a moral issue. It's practical, like a well-insulated house. You want all the money you invest in heating and cooling to go directly to your comfort, instead of being dissipated uselessly outside of your own living space. You want to eliminate leaks.

The worst sort of financial leak there is, is consumer debt. Of course, go into debt for a house or car or an education: those things can be worth it because in the right circumstances they promote your long-term assets. But nothing else is worth debt. All money spent paying interest is money that could otherwise have been spent to enhance your life. If you cumulatively spend more on consumer purchases than you can cover with your income, and make up the difference with credit cards, you are reducing your spending power, not increasing it. This is obvious enough, and in fact, I've learned recently that a slight majority of US citizens don't pay any interest at all to credit card companies, either because they don't have credit cards (about 25%) or (another 30%, including me) because they pay off every new charge within the grace period before the interest is applied. Prior to googling up some statistics while writing this blog post, I was under the misapprehension that the average American pays a whopping credit-card interest charge on a regular basis. Not so. But a good-size minority does, only a whisker less than half. The average amount of income that went to credit-card debt among households carrying a credit-card balance was 21% in 2004. Now, since the financial meltdown, it's down to under 17% in most places, but still, OMG, 17% is a sixth of your income, a hefty fraction, and many people are forking over that much or even more of their resources mostly just to purchase the privilege of continuing to owe money while chipping away with a teaspoon at the original purchase amounts (paying the credit-card minimums ensures that total interest expenses will comfortably outweigh the principal amount). What a trap.

A person mired in consumer debt is in exactly the same position as a sharecropper.

*Project Runway* lets me down

You'll think this is terribly naive of me, but last week I lost my innocence with respect to reality television. For the last year or so, I've become an avid watcher of Project Runway, which will be a surprise to anyone who knows my extreme reluctance to invest any time or money with clothes and fashion. My mate got me into it. At first it was only something to do while snuggling on the couch; I brought my book with me. Gradually I came to see that clothing design is an art form like any other; following its trends is no more inherently contemptible than following literary trends. Tim Gunn is a delight, providing the kind of compassionate, honest critique I aspire to as a teacher and workshopper. And besides, the human drama is riveting. Watching the designers try to maintain grace under the pressure of extreme desire and fear as they wait onstage to hear whether they will be eliminated is a moral education just like literature is. I'm often very impressed by their integrity. (Whether it's at all decent to exploit that kind of mental suffering by actual people for mass entertainment is a different question.)

So, but, okay, Season 8, Episode 9, "Race to the Finish." At the end of the previous week, Episode 8, the preview scenes showed Tim saying to Valerie "You can't forfeit!" Then the bathroom door swinging shut and Gretchen saying: "Val...?" And then Tim in the workroom in announcement mode saying "Even I'm shaking over this." My mate and I looked at each other in wild surmise: what's next? A contestant dropping out? (It's happened before.) A trip to the hospital? (It's happened before.) Worse?

http://www.mylifetime.com/shows/project-runway/season-8/video/full-episodes/episode-8/a-rough-day-on-the-runway

Well, what it was, really, was nothing. The implied narrative arc among these three incidents was a complete fabrication. Tim's "shaking" was just a commiseration with all the designers over the not-really-all-that-surprising twist added to the ongoing challenge (create a ready-to-wear complement to the high-fashion piece). The "forfeit" business was only an offhand bit of teachery encouragement. And the bathroom weeping was unconnected with either of the other moments of dialogue and action. AND they were put out of chronological order.

Oh! Oh! I'm so disappointed in the person who bears moral responsibility for this piece of blatant fibbing. The director, would that be? Well, not Tim, anyway, I comfort myself.

I mean, of course the material for any show like this is manipulated, shape is imposed on umpteen hours of raw footage edited down to a scant one hour. I knew that. But there are honest and dishonest ways to do that kind of artistic manipulation, and I guess somewhere in the back of my head I assumed, naively no doubt, that Project Runway was more or less honest. Now it's right up there in the front of my head: What if there are things in the show that are lies in the same way that trailer was a lie? Nothing prevents it. This could be happening all the time, and I wouldn't necessarily know it.

The Project Runway trailer reminds me a bit of emotional upsets that my mate and I had early on, before we arrived by mutual efforts at our present happy state of stable equanimity, affectionate generosity, and tolerance. Not that there was any dishonesty involved in the case of our relationship, but I would be shocked sometimes to learn that out of two or three of what I had regarded as completely trivial and unrelated incidents over the course of a few days, she had constructed a linked narrative of inconsiderate behavior rising to a plot climax. I've been the object of unflattering narrative-construction at work also, where Dr. X believes, on the basis of a botched communication from Dr. Y, plus another unfortunate coincidence--I happened to be present when somebody asked him something he didn't like, but it wasn't my idea, but he probably thought it was--that I'm an enemy. Alas! There's pretty much no fixing that impression at this point. Every new contact between us gets grafted onto the existing story.

And then, and then... what if--? Could I myself, honest memoirist that I am, also be falling into unconscious narrativization errors? Creating a storyline at times where none really exists, from random events no more related in the real world than the stars of the astrological constellations? It's what people do. It's what Buddhist teachers are warning us about when they tell us to "drop all the stories we tell ourselves."

Okay, I'll try to keep a skeptical eye on my human tendency to narrativize, and I hope y'all will too. But as for the Project Runway preview, that's just despicable.

Rereading *Middlemarch*

So I assigned Middlemarch for a class on “Form and Theory of the Novel,” mostly because I wanted a 19th-century realist novel with a classic omniscient narrator that sees deeply into the inner life of multiple characters. I’m making the evolution of narrative point-of-view one of the themes of the course, since it’s mostly MFA students, in training to write fiction themselves. But I’d forgotten what a sheer pleasure it is to be absorbed in Middlemarch. It’s a life-enhancer, just as George Eliot intended. I’ve read it about once per decade since 1980-something and each time I felt like the book grew me.

I’ve always been curious about the sexual aspect of Dorothea’s marriage to Casaubon. Eliot signals from the start that young Will Ladislaw is the appropriate mate for Dorothea’s beauty, eager affections, and moral passion; almost every character who knows Dorothea (except Dorothea) recognizes the wrongness of her marrying the unlovely aging Casaubon. The right match will be made eventually, but in the meantime, she’s married to the old dude for more than a year. So, did they do it, during that time, even once?

I know how crass I sound, but really I do think the question matters, for a number of reasons. Say the marriage was never consummated at all, then it’s odd that that fact never comes up in the ruminations of either Dorothea or Casaubon, each of whom ruminates at length over her/his disappointed marital expectations. On the other hand, if they had a sexually successful honeymoon and thereafter a reasonable frequency of gratification (just apply your own standards here) for the duration of the marriage, then that’s significant, as contrasting starkly with their emotional disharmony otherwise. If their sex life began satisfactorily and went awry later, who snubbed whom, or whose desire petered out, or who withdrew first? If he wanted sex more than she did, or vice versa, or the sex drive of one of them was positively disgusting to the other, any of those things have characterization consequences, and Eliot is sidestepping the consequences of every possible sexual permutation.

The fact is, Eliot has a tough row to hoe, because she wants Dorothea to be completely blameless with respect to Casaubon. She can’t be mercenary, so her initial desire for Casaubon himself (not his money or position) has to be genuine if ill-founded; on the other hand she can’t be such a ninny that she never wakes up to having overrated the man at first; she can’t be selfish in her disappointment; she can neither withhold affection nor become demanding of attentions and treats as Rosamund Vincy would do; no, she has to try her level best to achieve her own rather lofty ideal of wifely loyalty; she can’t be unfaithful even to the extent of flirtation or fantasy; finally, she can’t be frigid, not least because she will need to bring a healthy sex drive later to her union with Will. To meet all these standards simultaneously, Dorothea has to have no discernible sexual traits at all, not even asexuality. Eliot left this part of the picture blank, on purpose, presumably feeling it was the best she could do.

Since Dorothea can’t be chilly, Eliot has her actively desire to shower physical affection on Casaubon in the form of hand-holding and the “childlike caresses” that are the “bent of every sweet woman” who has practiced love since girlhood, kissing the “hard pate of her bald doll.” She calls Casaubon “dear,” and rushes to his side when he’s physically distressed. In terms of all G-rated caresses, it’s Casaubon who drops the ball, but we are not really ever invited to assume that analogous initiatives and rejections are occurring behind the closed doors of the boudoir. This is not merely a matter of 19th-century propriety. Eliot could, if she wanted, have led us to make the correct inferences. Just a few years later, in A Modern Instance, William Dean Howells makes his heroine’s sexual enthusiasm very clear to all savvy readers without any overt indelicacy, and Eliot’s skills are surely equal to Howells’s.

What do I want from her, why can’t I just drop it? I can’t, though. Did Dorothea ever feel attracted to Casaubon erotically, on the basis of her misplaced intellectual crush? We shouldn’t rule it out. Dorothea is a person of bodily passion: she enjoys horseback riding, for instance, in what she considers a “pagan, sensuous way.” And it so happens I have reason to know that a woman of 19 can indeed be filled with intense physical lust toward an admired professor in his fifties.

And Casaubon’s erotic response? There’s a suggestion of impotence. Courting Dorothea, ready to “abandon himself to the stream of feeling,” he finds it “an exceedingly shallow rill” in his case:

As in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only be performed symbolically, so Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he concluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine passion.

Still, even a “sprinkling” of moisture is more than zero. Even if Casaubon’s foremost motive was “to secure… female tendance for his declining years,” he had made a conquest of a woman that everyone in the county regarded as a major babe. Surely he would have at least tried to enjoy sexual relations with his brand new wife, at least on the honeymoon.

I don’t really hold it against Eliot that she felt she couldn’t go there. If you want a beautiful, explicit evocation of a realistic, near-miss sexual misfiring between two characters, virgins up until their historically situated wedding day, each individually sympathetic in his/her own way, go read Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach. McEwan will give you full satisfaction.

I love Middlemarch, and Eliot, and Dorothea very much. But I still wish for a bit more. I could have felt closer to both the Casaubons. The question of whose fault their lousy marriage was didn’t have to be played as such a zero-sum game. I would have cherished a slightly less saintly Dorothea just as much and believed in her more. And I have always, always—should I admit this?—identified strongly with underachieving, fearful, intellectually vain Casaubon. Even when I was 19 and like Dorothea wishing for a mentoring-marriage that would naturally lift me up to a higher plane.