Imagine you wake up
With a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak still stands, spreading
glorious shade. If you don't look back,
the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits--
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours
to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You never know
who's down there, frying those eggs,
if you don't get up and see.
- Rita Dove, "Dawn Revisited"
Nothing makes me anxious in quite the same way as the act of writing Christmas cards. Not because it is an obligation-- rather, because it is an opportunity to organize my love for other people. I always sit down optimistic, listing out my friends from each stage of my life, flooding myself with gratitude for how many good people I have known. I try to communicate this in a few sentences-- the pride I have in each person, the luck, the thankfulness. With every card I write I feel more urgency to be sincere.
And yet, at the same time, I know that Christmas cards are a corny cop-out. I should (should, should, should) have been writing to everyone all year, longer things, with promises of visits, and a demonstrative interest in everyday life, unprompted by materialistic traditions. I know that no one actually accomplishes this, and that in these times of facebook and chain emails, I'm trying to sustain more friendships than is humanely possible. But I want to, and so my short snowflakey-love notes freeze over into a general guilt and anxiety. This is all exacerbated by the fact that just a few months ago I moved away from my closest friends, and I feel estranged. One of said friends recently wrote an email saying, "I can't imagine your life now," and I thought, "Can I? Or is it just happening, sliding by without my noticing?"
The only conclusion I can reach is that this anxiety itself is good. Though I do hope my friends and family feel happy when they receive my attempts at sincerity, I know that the act of writing and sending cards is just as important for the sender. I am reminded, again and again, of all the good people in my life, who will hopefully forgive my worries and write back.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Day 74: Christmas Theater
Seems like everything I've been invited to do since Thanksgiving ends up being about Christmas, and lots of experiences having to do with Christmas end up being about theater. I have mixed feelings about both-- they have influenced me since childhood, and in my memories, stir up the most nostalgic emotions. But part of my growing up has been the sharpening of a critical eye. I don't mean pure adolescent cynicism; though I am completely repulsed by people being trampled to death at Wal-Mart, I do think that Christmas inspires a lot of people to be emotionally generous. People are intoxicated by the emotions that they associate with the season, be they kindness or the pride of discount shopping, and it's up to us to direct the holidays in a direction we can be proud of.
Anyway, last night I found myself at a four-person church concert in Wallingford. The three singers sang a complete hour-and-a-half concert of Christmas music-- most of it either modern or new arrangements of traditional songs-- and I surprised myself by enjoying it. Two of the singers were old theater friends of Greg's, and one was Jewish. She sang several convincingly devout tributes to Mary, and the tenor sang a bit about how Christmas shouldn't be commercial, and the whole thing ended with a version of Silent Night arranged around the descant. The church was tiny and packed with ancient ladies in festive sweaters. I suppose I liked it because it was the antidote to my Transsiberian Orchestra experience, although my mind did wander into odd corners where I started thinking about small-town life and if these were the very people who go to Wal-Mart on Saturdays and church on Sundays, and I started hating myself for being so judgemental. I tried to just shut my brain up and enjoy the music, largely because Christmas church music is how I learned to read music in the first place, and that's a great thing. My parents aren't extremely religious either, but they go to church for the chance to sing and be part of the community, so I always imagine my mother singing the alto line in my ear and my father turning around to shake a stranger's hand. That is church to me.
But when the performance was over, the performance was over. Everybody shuffled out and we waited in the hallway while the congregations took apart the sound system. After a few minutes we heard a girl's voice belting out Amy Grant's "Grown-Up Christmas List" and we snuck in the back of the room to see the size of this kid. There was a small group gathered around her, her mother pressing her forward, and her eyes were right on us, the anonymous audience, as she performed runs (non-singers: think Mariah Carey vascillations all over the notes) over these lyrics:
No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown up Christmas List
And I mean, this girl was singing it. It was a head-turning performance. Everybody was grinning at her, and I just wanted to run out of the building. It seemed so insidious to me, this demonstration of talent for the sake of talent, and the way she was staring at us demaning that we be impressed by her. And what really bothers me is the use of this song for child-prodigy kids. Yes, the song is incredibly corny and vague in its optimism, but it is quietly political and. at the very least, about people other than yourself. Christmas without modesty is not something I want to be around.
But that was yesterday. Today was good. Today, I piled into a pickup truck with five others-- a couple of friends, a couple of coworkers-- and drove out through the first real snowfall to a matinee performance of It's A Wonderful Life at the Thomaston Opera House. The drive was long, and the snow on the branches was the kind you move to New England for, and we were crammed in with our coffee cups and scarves, and I was happy. The play was an awkward adaptation and the acting was absurd, like a parady of community theater. But that Opera House, with its crumbling ceiling and uncomfortable wooden seats, is charm enough for an afternoon.
Why do community theaters insist on reenacting well-known stories like It's a Wonderful Life? I can't say with any hostesty that it's a creative pursuit. It's an attempt to relive something that never really existed, to perform an idea of small-town goodness. Like Christmas, in a way. Part show, part total earnestness. We drove home as it was getting dark and cold and the snow looked blue on the trees, until there were no trees, and we were back in Hartford, where the wind comes around the corners of the buildings and you realize it's really winter.
Anyway, last night I found myself at a four-person church concert in Wallingford. The three singers sang a complete hour-and-a-half concert of Christmas music-- most of it either modern or new arrangements of traditional songs-- and I surprised myself by enjoying it. Two of the singers were old theater friends of Greg's, and one was Jewish. She sang several convincingly devout tributes to Mary, and the tenor sang a bit about how Christmas shouldn't be commercial, and the whole thing ended with a version of Silent Night arranged around the descant. The church was tiny and packed with ancient ladies in festive sweaters. I suppose I liked it because it was the antidote to my Transsiberian Orchestra experience, although my mind did wander into odd corners where I started thinking about small-town life and if these were the very people who go to Wal-Mart on Saturdays and church on Sundays, and I started hating myself for being so judgemental. I tried to just shut my brain up and enjoy the music, largely because Christmas church music is how I learned to read music in the first place, and that's a great thing. My parents aren't extremely religious either, but they go to church for the chance to sing and be part of the community, so I always imagine my mother singing the alto line in my ear and my father turning around to shake a stranger's hand. That is church to me.
But when the performance was over, the performance was over. Everybody shuffled out and we waited in the hallway while the congregations took apart the sound system. After a few minutes we heard a girl's voice belting out Amy Grant's "Grown-Up Christmas List" and we snuck in the back of the room to see the size of this kid. There was a small group gathered around her, her mother pressing her forward, and her eyes were right on us, the anonymous audience, as she performed runs (non-singers: think Mariah Carey vascillations all over the notes) over these lyrics:
No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown up Christmas List
And I mean, this girl was singing it. It was a head-turning performance. Everybody was grinning at her, and I just wanted to run out of the building. It seemed so insidious to me, this demonstration of talent for the sake of talent, and the way she was staring at us demaning that we be impressed by her. And what really bothers me is the use of this song for child-prodigy kids. Yes, the song is incredibly corny and vague in its optimism, but it is quietly political and. at the very least, about people other than yourself. Christmas without modesty is not something I want to be around.
But that was yesterday. Today was good. Today, I piled into a pickup truck with five others-- a couple of friends, a couple of coworkers-- and drove out through the first real snowfall to a matinee performance of It's A Wonderful Life at the Thomaston Opera House. The drive was long, and the snow on the branches was the kind you move to New England for, and we were crammed in with our coffee cups and scarves, and I was happy. The play was an awkward adaptation and the acting was absurd, like a parady of community theater. But that Opera House, with its crumbling ceiling and uncomfortable wooden seats, is charm enough for an afternoon.
Why do community theaters insist on reenacting well-known stories like It's a Wonderful Life? I can't say with any hostesty that it's a creative pursuit. It's an attempt to relive something that never really existed, to perform an idea of small-town goodness. Like Christmas, in a way. Part show, part total earnestness. We drove home as it was getting dark and cold and the snow looked blue on the trees, until there were no trees, and we were back in Hartford, where the wind comes around the corners of the buildings and you realize it's really winter.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Day 73: The Total Building
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
- Wallace Stevens (Poet, Insurance Executive, lifelong Hartford resident)
We went to The Governor's mansion with Emily, her roommate, and her sister for a little tour of the Christmas decorations. The Governor doesn't actually live there, so tour is a shuffle-through of a museum to opulence. I nearly persuaded myself into buying this year's ornament- "The Genius of Connecticut," a protector angel of our city- but the use of the word "Genius" was odd and the women selling them didn't seemed accustomed to people passing by. The best thing in the place was a punchbowl made for a Connecticut Battleship that some schoolchildren saved up $4,000 for, though I'm not sure why. What I learned from the tour: Greg has no interest in colonial furniture, and is grumpy when cookie recipes are only handed out to women, even though he doesn't bake.
Our group seemed a little stunned by our dutiful Connecticut Holiday Season Activity, so we headed into West Hartford for fantastic vegetarian food. Greg and Emily talked Connecticut Facts and Hartford Urban Planning for quite some time; I think they may be soulmates. We headed to a bookstore and I bought Wallace Stevens' Complete Poems, which I've been meaning to since I finished my paper. Like most people, I am vaguely afraid of poetry's mysteries, but I feel connected to Stevens because he refused to leave Hartford. This is from his "Sketch of the Ultimate Politician":
He is the final builder of the total building,
The final dreamer of the total dream,
Or will be. Building and dream are one.
We talk about the buildings in Hartford-- the ones that stand empty, the ones that have promised to be built--like they will change the city. I agree; the empty lots and cleaned-out storefronts seem like an echo of an empty government, an empty bureaucratic process, empty citizens. But we talk about them so much that they are being built in our imaginations and recognized for the possibilities they are. Maybe it would be sadder if they were full; maybe it would be sadder if they were all over-decorated mansions where nobody lived.
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
- Wallace Stevens (Poet, Insurance Executive, lifelong Hartford resident)
We went to The Governor's mansion with Emily, her roommate, and her sister for a little tour of the Christmas decorations. The Governor doesn't actually live there, so tour is a shuffle-through of a museum to opulence. I nearly persuaded myself into buying this year's ornament- "The Genius of Connecticut," a protector angel of our city- but the use of the word "Genius" was odd and the women selling them didn't seemed accustomed to people passing by. The best thing in the place was a punchbowl made for a Connecticut Battleship that some schoolchildren saved up $4,000 for, though I'm not sure why. What I learned from the tour: Greg has no interest in colonial furniture, and is grumpy when cookie recipes are only handed out to women, even though he doesn't bake.
Our group seemed a little stunned by our dutiful Connecticut Holiday Season Activity, so we headed into West Hartford for fantastic vegetarian food. Greg and Emily talked Connecticut Facts and Hartford Urban Planning for quite some time; I think they may be soulmates. We headed to a bookstore and I bought Wallace Stevens' Complete Poems, which I've been meaning to since I finished my paper. Like most people, I am vaguely afraid of poetry's mysteries, but I feel connected to Stevens because he refused to leave Hartford. This is from his "Sketch of the Ultimate Politician":
He is the final builder of the total building,
The final dreamer of the total dream,
Or will be. Building and dream are one.
We talk about the buildings in Hartford-- the ones that stand empty, the ones that have promised to be built--like they will change the city. I agree; the empty lots and cleaned-out storefronts seem like an echo of an empty government, an empty bureaucratic process, empty citizens. But we talk about them so much that they are being built in our imaginations and recognized for the possibilities they are. Maybe it would be sadder if they were full; maybe it would be sadder if they were all over-decorated mansions where nobody lived.
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