the golden west volume 21 part 1 - 2000 september | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
Vancouver, 4th September 2000 I was at the west window talking to Tom on the phone, looking over the dark roofs to the fading brightness at the horizon. A silent line of geese came over five feet above my roof, flying northwest. A lot of them. Could I count them from memory, no, but let's try eleven or twelve, the right number. I'm not done but I will be, I'm calmed down. Marion Engle last night on Eleanor's show, archive tapes of her talking to Gzowski about Bear. Her voice - compare it to Atwood, Shields, Monroe - was round, clear and bright, like a hair in its roundness, not childish, not mannered, not light, not heavy, a beautiful self. They had excerpts of Bear read perfectly by someone else. The writing was wonderful. I must have rushed past it when I was thirty, thinking I knew everything in it. I didn't know how hard it is to write that well. I dreamed among many other things a car driving along a snowy street with its windshield still covered with snow. I don't like having said that now I know that writing is hard. Something else I don't like is that Tom likes me better since I am not surging and crashing. I say I used menopause as rocket fuel for emotional work and I did the work and that's why I'm steadier. I loved the surges and crashes. -
6 Oily neurotic David Zimmerman on the phone laying down the law, I have to go to the lecture and spoil my Tuesday, rather than listen to the lecture on tape and have the day for real work. "I'm glad you understand." Then chilly robotic legalist Peter Horban makes us sit through every point on his list of fourteen things that should be discussed at the first TA meeting. Now I have to get focus back because I have Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Meeting Kathleen tomorrow will scramble me. What have I got to do. This section on the IPL and rep. Computer music, graphics, perspective, Liddell's sequence, Talmy, math notation. 7 The way my middle stiffens when I think of the department makes me see how sweet and easy the summer has been. I recoil even thinking of the students. I need to figure out how to be with it, since I'm wanting to shut down.
- I'm wonderful. I just went and revised the three chapters and I'll ship them to Kathleen tomorrow. It was a bad moment. Tom phoned out of turn. He was looking at the moon thinking he was triangulating maybe. I came home after the lecture and my scary meeting and understood what to do. Use this afternoon to get the chapters ready. Worked through to 9. Write tomorrow. 8 It's 7:30, a weak rainy light, a wee grainy light, on the asphalt shingles. There's the gravel truck squeaking in the alley. Sitting in bed stalling as the house warms. This and that. What to tell Kathleen when I mail the chapters. Tell her it's going to be a web site with a reader attached. Tell her about Colin and Barry. Suggest Lakoff as an external. Tell her how much she can help. Tell her my strategy for getting it published. Ask for help with my diffidence. She's a model of getting out there. Tell her I like the work and am happy with it and want it to be perfect in every possible way.
9 Very soon going to sit in the back room where it will be chilly and stark. This is a stressed passage. I'm pressed at heart, throat, brow. What am I doing in this fear zone, with these unpleasant people. I'm jangled by so small an amount of it. Can anything worth doing be done there, can anything worth having be found there? Yes, the afternoon in AQ4050, talking with Adam, Sean, Cindy, about Spinoza. Yes, the seminars with Kim [Sterelney]. Yes the moment hovering over Mary Tiles feeling comprehensive vision. Yes the moment coming through about perception not being representation. The vision I've made, altogether, the way I outgrew one collective cramp after another. There is also, however, the endless, endless unwelcome. When I was young I was welcome, I worked and succeeded, I took myself through three days of stress per exam and one day for papers, and was not at odds with the system. Being at odds began at the Slade and is getting worse. Does it get worse before it gets better? Is it my eternal nature? It says the institution is about control and has to be. I resist control and should. The institution is worth dealing with. So it is an endless tension. Everyone finds their own style in it. Evading it means living without influence. I have something I want to give. The question is, will the institution want it. Will it want it in the form I want to give it. I'm tired. My tongue and throat sting. I'm not finished the IPL chapter, even.
Sunday 10th The IPL chapter is done! Yes! And I'm finally writing to my standard. Going into the music chapter. - Oh you are not answering the phone, are you sleeping, are you out? Looking at the moon listening to Willie Nelson by candlelight I have that achy breaky heart that's me with you, that's you sometimes, the moon riding high and alone, your hands when you were a young man playing guitar with that boy's light touch, lightness in the way you danced too. I haven't said it yet, something you are at the core, young grace, the flinching in your eyes and that light core. I never feel you this way now, you don't like it when I do, it's women pressing on you, but I think it's my soul seeing yours, I think the ache is true, I think it's one soul feeling beauty and death in another. 11 But then the question is - should I feel it for anyone? Does Peter Horban have a soul? Is everyone's soul good? I can know it of anyone by asking - I see and feel them in a certain posture. Peter's a straight perpendicularity radiating will. Kathleen is a sideways spreading oval at the height of the shoulders quite soft, slightly pulsing. These souls are separate from ego, which I'm thinking of as a calculating faculty. My soul is that listening elegance of the head and nose. Louie's soul is safe and merry and shines outward very stably. Rob's is a light quirky alertness, not blended. Is that right? Luke is a warm brown soul quite low in his chest. Rowen is an ironic soul with a backward tilt of the head. Michael, interestingly, is a cynical soul, a curl of the lip on the left. The least loving of the souls I've seen. Zimmerman's soul is a headlong rushing point entirely blind. Dennis is a sinking settling embarrassed soul, no, more like caught out. Ray is not what I would have thought - it's a solid soul, dense, but what's the tone - disappointed, is it? Nathalie is a thin anxious wavery soul. Mary is a heavy truculent soul, the heaviest so far. Ed is a compressed bright star inside the head, incandescent from compression. David is a kind of slant, higher on the right. I have trouble seeing David, is there a reason? Being hard to see is part of what he is, is that it? Tony Nesbit a kind of rubbery soul. Do people's souls change? It says no. Are they created by circumstance? No. Should one always speak directly to the soul? Personalities work at odds with souls. Some of these people don't have personalities. 12
14 Was dreaming work. I was working on a section about tracking, was that the word? I had a sense there was a section missing. Was glad my brain is still set up for that though I've had a first tutorial, dealings with overbearing bosses and a meeting with the graduate dean who was lovely. He was wearing a beautiful shade of dark green, corduroy pants and a shirt and a dark red zippered vest, and had a long scholarly English face. I took command of the conversation. He liked me. Okay, now. I'm into the part of the writing I can like. I'm not done, but I can relax. Can I get eager? I'm in the computer music chapter. I'm in the computer music chapter with the whole body of the work supporting it. I'm saying here is a composition of acoustic events, I won't say 'of sounds,' here's a composition of an acoustic event that makes me hear, makes me seem to hear somethings (ie 'sounds') at locations. Take Peter Manning's concert. With the sense of hearing located somethings - the air around me is full of them, some are arcing through, some are standing in a quivering texture - there is the sense of being in a space that is and isn't the space of the hall. The quivering shivering somethings could be in the air of the hall but that bright small something fading over the horizon is miles away. Those are not exactly incommensurable spaces - depends what 'spaces' means. We imagine something when we talk about it. Transparent structure. What I'm sort of thinking is that space is known with an abstract parietal sense that is inherently multimodal. Is that correct? It says no. It's how we imagine it, but in fact it's more muscular than we think. The sense of reaching with the eyes and ears. Experiencing space and imagining it are different. Imagining it as token space. Imagining a diagram of it. Imagining being at the concert seeming to feel myself in a space. What it is about that example is that I want it as a template for the others, because it has in an obvious form the perceptual event that arranges simulation, plus a form of simulation as whole-body: presence simulation. The relation of perceiving and simulating is clear in it. Bodily involvement is clear - the way Körpertastbilder are used, somatic simulation, the body about a circumstance it isn't in. - Hey I have money, $100 from Louie. 14
Dreamed my parents were living in a house that had surprisingly large rooms, a couple of them still under construction, one with a fireplace. A lot of cars coming past on a dirt track out of the back country, surprised there were so many people living back there.
16 Do you understand what she says about expanding time? "Regard all time as infinite. Whatever time you're in, think of it as going on forever. The time you're in suddenly becomes huge and you do a huge thing very fast."
- An unpleasant state, speedy and argumentative. But I found an ally, Noë in Santa Cruz. Have I wasted the day? I'm sore and sad and anxious. Didn't want to write this morning, didn't like any of what I have in this chapter. Read all day, the Tucson [consciousness conference] abstracts and Noë this morning, newspapers all afternoon. David Adams Richards in the Globe book review section. I liked his books before I heard him on radio and then liked him more, and then there in the Globe is his face staring out of a life entirely his own. He decided to write with Oliver Twist at 14, he said. He has been with Peg since he was 17. He didn't go to university. He had four books by the time he was 31. He wouldn't take welfare or UI. He is loyal to the people he grew up with and makes us love them. And then there was the sentence that said his mother fell on her belly and he was born with his left arm and leg deformed. A crack of tears. I am crying still. Fellow feeling, but more than that, shame. I tried to pass. What should I do. I am still trying to pass. What should I do. There is something wrong with what I have been trying to do, if it takes me to wrestling with Kathleen to get a stamp for what I've done in such good faith. What should I do.
18
I won't finish the pictures section before I have to teach and then there are two more sections after. I only have one more weekend before Tom and Rowen come, have to get this section done before I talk to Barry. Have to talk to Barry so he can read it. I've done five hours today but my brain wants to quit, none of it was writing and I have to go in to school tomorrow.
- And afterwards sat down, began carelessly and wrote a few pages. Now I've washed my room: windows, wood, floor. Beginning washing the whole house. 20 A white bull walking (left to right) with a quality I couldn't describe in the dream - the greatest assurance. A white apartment door, on the right side of the corridor, a spyhole - might be number 334. I felt these as having something to do with my work. [Bookwork summary extracted up to here]
Here's a thing. when I think of Tom - this happens often - I break into a broad grin. I laugh. Tickled. - It's Wednesday evening. I marked after the two hours at school. Couldn't write, I thought. Read the autumn in San Diego two years ago. What do I notice - I was deep and happy alone living in the West. Tom's rage consumed me after he got there. Don't ever get consumed by anxiety about Tom, like that, again. 21st Tomorrow there'll be money. The milk is turning. Not sure I can drink this tea. Eating cold hard beef before I go to school. Won't be able to buy anything. Will there be enough gas? I think, just. Washed the kitchen walls and ceiling yesterday. The pictures had to come down. There was a greasy fur of dust above the stove.
22nd Nightmare. Sitting beside Kathleen at a seminar or evaluation. It has to do with a house with a view down onto the sea. A picture book. Tom wants to show off and does. He's bull-shitting. Louie and someone else in the back seat of a car afterward have a word for it. They crack up. I am at the railing of the house weeping, banging my head, wailing with failure.
I went out in my leopard skin jacket, though I had to take the bus after my license plate was stolen on Duthie yesterday, where I day-parked it at the bottom of the hill. And what effect did it have. Kathleen said, Nice top, and laughed when she saw me doing a chin-up to look into my mail box. Sam wanted to talk about roses. I had to remember not to bend forward over the desk during tutorials. When I was waiting to pay for lunch - because there was money in the bank - the young cashier was flirting with a girl he knew, and when he turned my way I said, Now you have to be nice to me too, and he said quite astringently, You've been told you're beautiful so often I'm not even going to go there. I was startled. I said, You have to ask for it. He said, I don't think so. It sounded like resentment. I think it was the jacket, which seems to say I think I'm beautiful - does it? And what else in the jacket's day. When I went to the insurance office an elderlyish man smiled as he passed through. In the motor vehicles branch where I slipped through the door a woman was standing ready to lock, I had my new driver's license photo taken wearing it. The office was dealing with its last two people for the week, a tall girl with flowers because it was her birthday, and me, laughing with the clerks, who were sweetly punch-drunk. As I drove around in my car, newly with money, newly re-licensed, there was a yellow yellow sun, thick traffic. Near the skytrain three cops had a young man in handcuffs sitting on the sidewalk with piss running off the pavement from under him. He had a ten-inch spiked blue mohawk and was bent forward sobbing and rocking. - And then Gloria when I bought feta cheese at Union Market said it too, Nice top, and it suits you. I said, It's been such a hard week that I .... You too? she said. I left out the wallet I saw sitting by itself on the bus seat opposite me. The bus was a 16 Arbutus waiting across Commercial from the express bus stop. I took the wallet to the driver, who opened it and looked for ID. When I saw an SFU card I knew it belonged to the dumpy girl who'd been opposite me wrapping a wrinkled scarf around her hair. I'd been looking at her wondering why. When I knew it was hers I got off the bus and went across to the other bus stop and spoke to her and she trotted away on her heavy post-legs and retrieved it from the driver. When she came back she said, It would have been the perfect end to a horrible week. 23 Crucified. Feeling if my thesis fails I'll die. Feeling there's no one who can help. No one willing. It's reactivation. Someone else wouldn't be feeling it like this, peril of death.
25 Here's Monday. I worked yesterday. The perspective section needed to be redone. And then up to the end of the deixis section. Today and tomorrow the rest of the language section. After Tom leaves, go through it all quickly. Then the math section. Then give it to Barry. I'm stressed by the fear that it's bad - I'm very very stressed by that.
An O Henry in the afternoon when my head wouldn't move gave me two hours more. I feel I'm writing at random, as if I have no sense of the whole work. It is very disconcerting, as if my brain has been damaged. The MA was less than half as long but I held an outline firm from beginning to end. This is inchoate. It's real work. It's trying to - what? - my metaphors aren't good - gel a whole field of intuition, I wanted to say. I found people saying something like what I think, I took those bits of them and stuck them together. It's not good but it's the only thing I could do. I'm fighting for my life, intellectually. I know they're wrong. I'm right, but I am not able to do what I need to do - is that correct? Yes. I can work from a coherent vision but I am not able to write it as a theory. Not about but from. Is there some other way I should have done it? I needed to try. I had breakthroughs. At that moment Rowen phones. He wants to come at the beginning of October. I say can he make it a week later, because I'll be overwhelmed. He wants a 3D program. Then he says he's been talking to a pendulum. It says it's the same entity that talks to me. I get my safety pin and ask it, and it says yes. Rowen is so fine a spirit, the tone of his voice when he says 'bye. I can hardly bear it. I feel I'm insufficient to it.
26 Where am I. Tuesday morning. Isn't this a long birth. It seems to be my heart that is the orifice. Butala is being trashed by her neighbours for saying what she says about the land. Is there a similar motive in career philosophers? They want the use of something? They want to be justified in their abuse of something. They do not see they could have the use of something better. Cartesian separation, a prestige of denial. Very smart people who can separate enough to rise in those ranks. I'm less separated now; philosophy in me is not a completely isolated engine, but in transition still. The language section is done. Some pages into the math section. Might finish by Friday. Logic prepped for the week. 27 Analytic philosophy is a cult. It makes sense to insiders and resists contact with outsiders who'd import the counterevidence. It strokes believers and freezes out and punishes doubters. Large sections of branches heaped up blazing on the floor. The longest, maybe seven feet long and as thick as a man, with a crook at the center, heaves itself up and staggers across the floor to something against the wall - a door? A cupboard? Part of the dream is dynamic ad lib and part is rationalizing commentary, habitual dispersal. Colorado - for the next millennium - water protecting itself, she said - a bowl in the center of the continent - where silence is so intense it tests the visitor. Hanna Strang an unpleasant tough German voice, administrator to strange powers, as she believes. UFOs coming to the peak to refuel on emanation. Not one of the people interviewed sounded as if they were in touch with any sort of spirit. Only the artists sound that way. Oh only the artists; and the power they are in touch with is pain. Sharon Butala on the radio saying science irritates the heck out of her, also saying twenty-five years of suffering got her ready to see and know what she sees and knows. Women know it more than men, middle-aged women. She had a relaxed, not-trying sound. She says what she knows, what she's earned. I don't quite like her sound but I recognize my state in it. She didn't use to know any paleontologists but now she knows a lot of them, she said. I very soon must get up and launch into my long Thursday. Come home and do a few last things, clean the stove, wash the car, mop in here, shop some. Washed the windows yesterday, cleaned the stairs, took two years' dust off the pretty curves of the bathroom mirror frame. How would I really like to live - now that the possibilities are opening - I could live in the Peace River Country - now that there are web jobs - I could teach philosophy at the college in Grande Prairie - I could live in an Airstream in California - or Colorado - but first three or four years where I must help Rowen with access. There has been something very chilled about the last conversations with Tom. -
Trudeau died this aft, while I was falling into shame at the tutorial Peter Horban was inspecting me at. Listening to people talk about Trudeau is like hearing them talk about me. 29 I had better talk about the humiliations of this life. When I was young at school there was never anything I couldn't do. I had to slog at math but I could get 90 on exams. Now I am getting caught frozen in front of eighteen-year-old boys. And when it goes analytic in papers I detest it, I don't want it, I don't engage with it. I am not in command of my field. That began at the Slade. I started to be an outsider at school when the postmodern stuff came in. I went from A's in general exams in three majors at once, and a philosophy medal and Woodrow Wilson nomination, to being insulted by Noel Burch and James Leahy at the Slade. What happened. Feminism. Or did I lose my edge when Roy clubbed me on the side of the head? The evidence sometimes is that I'm not smart anymore. The evidence sometimes is that I'm smarter and can go deeper than just about everybody working in philosophy now, but I'm smart in a groping integrated not-quick way. I don't know what to conclude. It's worrying. I wish there were a larger wiser person who could tell me. There's no one at school I can trust to ask.
|