Infelicitous

Would you at any point in your life want to be described as 'truly infectious'? Professionally speaking, whatever your profession may be, in a general summing up of character or possibly a recognisable trait such as a laugh? Though such laughter if it's also the belly quaking sort is usually described as contagious which is, I think you'll agree, another dubious choice, despite the laughter being exactly that: caught and passed on indiscriminately, like disease.
Somebody's personality, I gather, can be infectious but naming it thus does make it sound rather unpleasant, as if one should be immunised against it or take precautions to avoid at all costs. Last year however 'truly infectious' was uttered by quite a few lips in homage to someone and with each utterance I almost recoiled. How horrid! 
I say almost because it wasn't pure revulsion for I understood its meaning was complimentary and yet something within me still thought: surely you could have used a more pleasing phrase, not just to the ear but to the eye.
The phrase every time immediately brought to mind Philip Roth's Nemesis, which is about the scourge of polio in Newark, New Jersey, 1944. The main protagonist, Eugene (Bucky) Cantor would not, I think, have welcomed being seen as infectious, either positively in regards to his work as a playground director or later, as he came to believe, as a carrier of the disease where the damage done was largely irreversible and often disfiguring. That he came to think this way of himself was punishment upon punishment because polio finally got him too and left its mark. It infected everything, whereas in the innocuous stage he was a witness, doing what he could when he could, and polio was the foe that none of the community could account for and were all in fear of. When it pegged him, with certainty despite lacking in evident symptoms, that all changed.
Of course it was a false accusation, and by none other than Bucky himself, because even if he was throughout the event a carrier it was unknowingly so; therefore he's blameless. He, even before, and upon diagnosis judges otherwise. I didn't however (in my reading) think that was the case: his catching of the disease was circumstantial. I rightly or wrongly concluded that when no answer from God was forthcoming he took it upon himself: willed himself to believe he was indeed the agent, which, as he suffered but survived, made him culpable and undeserving of any good that might later befall him.
It's easily done when nobody's too sure of the causes and everything's viewed with suspicion, including the very elements that give and sustain life: air and water and food. To think that these are poisonous must have been crippling even without contracting the disease that could cause exactly that. To exist alongside fear, in whatever capacity: man-made, airborne, poor sanitation etc., is strangulating and divisional.
History attests to it: TB, HIV, Aids and Ebola, because little was known and there was nothing to prevent its spread or effect a cure. In short, there was a growing list of suspects, rumour-driven and not evidence-based, because anything at the time of an outbreak was a likely source.
For Bucky, after his disengagement with God, to come to believe, firmly believe, that he's the most obvious and logical cause of much suffering seems omnipotent, even that it's a story he's had to tell himself to apologize for what he feels were evading actions when all along the God he was seeking answers from had provided him with the answer: HIM. It's very sad that someone's life could be so destroyed when others somehow make the best of what life offers: good or bad. But experiences can do that to you; it only takes one event to blow the positives to smithereens, which even the strongest-willed in the world find it hard to bounce back from.
Or be the same person after. The latter is often an impossible task, far less accomplished in full than in half-measures. A sort of existence and a lengthy wait for all associations to fade, if ever.
So, would you now choose to say of someone 'you're truly infectious'?

Picture credit: An Egyptian stele thought to represent a Polio victim, 18th Dynasty, 1403-1365 BC. Source: Wikipedia.org

Some Place

Yes, I realise I'm late in writing about this as it's 'so last year' but as it did then it has returned to prod me, probably because as I said I didn't write about it at the time even though it occurred to me that I had (and do) experience the same weird phenomenon. And you still haven't a clue what I'm talking of do you?
Duh basic English 101. Yeah, well I don't believe in creative writing instruction - I'm not a writer. I just write, spin whatever yarn comes out, you know. To hell with structure and gripping the reader. I mean really who cares?
Though that's not true; I do, but formulating how to put thoughts down on a screen page so that a reader, any bog-standard reader, might get them takes time, too much sometimes, and interrupts the flow. The beat, man. And so in this instance I'm divesting myself of it. Whoa, that's a big word: divesting, and I'm pretty sure it's not one I've used before. In a sentence. It's not usually the type of word I'd choose; I'd normally use something like abandon or remove. Oh well, it does the same job.
Anyhow, if I haven't completely lost you, let's go back to the beginning. In the beginning was the Word...no, that's not what I intended...try, try, try again. In the beginning...nope. At the beginning...at the beginning was Fargo. Year 3 with Ewan McGregor. Yes, yes he gave an excellent performance as both Stussy brothers, but it's chief of police Gloria Burgle I want to talk of, sort of. Because like her I've experienced moments where my very existence is called into question by sensors.
Am I a Hologram like Rimmer in Red Dwarf? Different show I know, but is it a possibility? Dunno. Which is the best way to answer anything you dunno basically. But we'll park that potential theory because whilst there could be some truth in it it's amateurish and I don't know anyone who has that expertise and could tell me definitively whether I am, whether I'm not, whether I'm showing signs of etc. Plus I'm not ready to be a lab rat. Not even if the mad scientist fronting the whole she-bang was strangely alluring. And no, I don't think I'd cope with The Big Bang Theory Sheldon or Howard-type either. Can you imagine? No don't! Primo Levi from what I've read (and if he were still with us) would be more inducive, but then his field was chemistry, metals and paint. Oliver Sacks? Hasn't he too departed?
So now you'll have got it into your head I'm a science dork with a penchant for extremely dark but laughable criminal acts. Actually, perhaps that's not far off the mark. The last part anyhow.
No, no, no what am I saying? That's way off. Way, way off. Science, pah! I know nothing. Well ok, some but it's a jumble and essentially worthless. I couldn't string anything together and present it to you here. It would take years. How long have you got...?
Criminality? I'm an ignoramus. The deeds others do, even minor ones, blow my mind. Not necessarily the impulse but why the execution. A thought has the same result but nobody gets harmed. Though I'm not sure a thief would be happy with virtual spoils. Would you be if that was your profession? Please circle one of the following: Bank Robber/ Store Thief/ Fraudster/ Embezzler. I mean nobody would openly admit to it would they if it became a thing on a form, though less I think for the disapproval than the removal of risk and confiscation of stolen property. Hmm, perhaps we're all just petty crooks in one shape or another? Love a bargain me. Yet I think I've just flunked the criminal class of '18 don't you? Too goddamn honest. It should be my middle name.
Glory be my name. Nope, wrong again. It was Gloria Burgle wasn't it? Before I got diverted. And her lack of presence despite her investigative persistence and tough-talking. Automatic doors refuse to open unless she waves her arms like an air traffic controller or someone else gains entry or exits; faucets in rest-rooms won't shed one drop of water even if their function is proven. I'd like to affirm it's a common problem because I share it but I know, beyond any doubt or stretch of the imagination, it's most definitely not that. No, I'm in some place, foreign to the masses, which fails to sense even my finger taps. Where am I exactly? Dunno.

Picture credit: Gloria Burgle (Carrie Coon), Fargo, series 3.

Worlds (and Words) of Yesterdays

This has been said of someone else but the same is true of me: (I have)'...a childlike propensity to question absolutely everything.' Volker Weidermann said this of Irmgard Keun in his novel Summer Before the Dark.
Irmgard Keun was a self-confident woman novelist whose books were banned in Germany and who in exile had a romantic relationship with Joseph Roth, whereas I am a shy, far less assured woman with nothing compiled or published in book form (my self-published efforts don't to my mind count) whose passion is reserved for reading...and reading...and finding (to me) new voices, new books; there's no emotionality left for any significant other.
What a sad state of affairs, you might say, but my affairs (of the heart) are quite in order thank you. For nothing fires me up or warms my soul anywhere near as much as gaining knowledge, sometimes useless knowledge but nonetheless knowledge. About peoples, about feelings and perspectives, and about worlds I haven't known and can only come to know through another's research or experience.
This love of words sustains me like nothing else can. Or is ever likely to, for I'm athirst for this nourishment whereas other desires are either fleeting or easily satisfied. Words accompany me from the moment I wake to the moment I bed-down which seems an obvious statement to make as aren't we all surrounded by words in various tongues in such a way? Yet how many of us are alert, really alert to this inescapable fact? Or are led by words – in the reading of them, the hearing of them, and putting them to use – as if they're the teacher guiding the student when really it's the author or speaker doing that job through verbal or written means, who furthermore don't know the people they're reaching, specifically who, in what numbers or what effect their structuring of them will have. Some of these figures reach out from beyond the grave or have been resurrected (by another) to give a different perspective of their life, their character, or to give them the recognition they deserved.
There's always something new to discover, about yourself, about another – known or public – and words are the best method in which to educate and be educated. Pictures have their place but often they need a linguistic context or a descriptive background which naturally words provide. Pictures too can be created in the mind by words - of a time, a place, a land – whereas the reverse, I find, is harder and mainly conjecture.
But then as I remarked at the beginning I have a tendency to question (and doubt) absolutely everything, including at times my own imagination when it's not asking questions of others to which they like myself don't know the answers. Because unlike Irmgard Keun of whom this was written I'm not as sharp-witted though I can be just as headstrong: motivated to know and quick to critique.
I have an opinion and it's mine and that's all that matters which doesn't mean that it won't change or even that I'll share it; or that having gained knowledge or being in possession of facts I'll be able to form one. Sometimes there are no camps in which you feel strongly enough to align yourself with; sometimes there's nothing for you personally to be opposed to but that doesn't mean your interest or learning has no significance. The interest, the almost childish curiosity is the point. Without it, life itself is uncomfortable, especially for those afflicted by such thirst because for them it's not enough to just live and go through the conventional motions. That would be suicide in thought alone if not in deed, though too often it's where these intellectual types wind up, and usually after trying to do the very thing that chafes. The modern world is the enemy, regardless of whether it contains more friends than actual foes.
The present-day, the history that's being made or advancing towards us, can overpower or seem in its pettiness uncalled-for, so much so that I prefer to dive into the past, just like some of the writers in 1936 who in a Belgian seaside town chose to pen works concerning ages past rather than confront what had happened, what was happening. History, removed many steps from you, bears no threat.

Picture credit: Plague Here, Plague There, Plague Everywhere, 1888, James Ensor, Royal Academy of Arts

From the Foot of the Mountain...

In very basic layman's terms Sisyphus was the mortal who as punishment was given the task of rolling a boulder repeatedly to the top of a mountain, where almost there it falls back of its own weight; thus Sisyphus returns, discharged from strain, down the slope to once again position himself against the boulder.
The modern-day equivalent would be I guess skiing or tobogganing or sliding down a bannister, except the purpose of these largely pointless activities is fun and the going down is more exhilarating; the appeal lasting only as long as the body is willing to exert itself. Sisyphus, unfortunately, doesn't have that freedom. His task is simple but ceaseless. And the rewards are few, if any.
I refuse to say there were none because of the manner in which we now perceive rewards: as being greater in value than the task set or the punishment dealt out to us. Residing in a more material world than Sisyphus could ever have imagined we expect rewards to be, at the very least, visible or realizable as in concrete; few anticipate, or would accept, for example, reward in thought alone. That would almost be religious, romantic or cissy.
And yet I think Sisyphus must have found some rewards of this sort in his labour. Which, I gather, some prisoners do (or used to be able to) if they dug deep whilst confined to a cell, a solitary cell, though with overcrowding and the noise that accompanies such conditions I guess rumination is far less likely. How do you atone when you don't get the chance to be alone with your thoughts? For many that would be their idea of Hell for the mind can torment you like nothing else can. But if remorse comes of it and a realisation of what's been committed then that truth is inescapable and justice is served. The guilt eternal, the stain on one's character permanent.
Is that not how it should be? Am I saying that second chances or forgiveness are not permissible? Yes, to the former, and no, not at all to the latter. The crime has to be proven beyond reasonable doubt, the punishment deserved. Second chances have to be earned, they are not, if someone's committed a wrong, an automatic human right. Remorse is not (or it shouldn't be) a tick box exercise, and those affected by the actions or decisions of another shouldn't be forced to forgive. However, on a self-serving note, holding onto anger is not healthy, unless it's goal-directed and may, in the long-run, assist others.
Sisyphus' misdeeds were not those of today and accounts of these vary, as does the opinion of them, but the report of the punishment is always the same: the mountain, the huge rock, the roll and push upwards, the rush of the rock downwards and Sisyphus' trudge after it. A repetitive labour not unlike the rhythms of life itself – at home and in work.
It's the punishment itself and not why it was given that has been made much of by those philosophically-minded because of what it suggests: that either this existence is wholly wretched or it engages the mind and body in such a way that in rare moments lucidity follows. The former would bring only laments and sorrow, but the latter could bring joy.
Therefore the details surrounding this myth are of no concern to me because what interests me, as it does in Albert Camus' essay, is the pause: Sisyphus' pivot and descent to the plain. I don't believe the labour he performs is repetitiously futile and hopeless. An effort, yes, where strength and stamina are both called for and where frustration weighs heavy because the aim – for the rock to sit on the summit – seems more impossible the more it's attempted. Failures as guaranteed as the disappointment in their aftermath. But I, like Albert Camus, want to believe Sisyphus found contentment in this task. That in its enactment rare moments to reflect and be thankful for occurred. That the descent was also looked forward to, for the body could then relax and the mind could use the space to think on other matters. That the spirit too might have relished the fresh air or marvelled at the beauty of nature, so that at the foot of the mountain Sisyphus, as a mere mortal, felt not only repentant but revived.

Picture credit: Sisyphus, 1548-1549, Titian

Compassionate Precision

My dentist informed me laughingly on a routine visit I had a teenage mouth. I laughed along whilst thinking: my outward appearance is more questionable, just like Jane Fennel in Philip Larkin's A Girl in Winter who could easily be mistaken for twelve when she's twenty-five. And like her, that sullen, bored girl is still present. Although why I was ever bored I cannot really say. Bored isn't really the right term either for what I felt in holidays; it was more of a weighty restlessness that I carried around with me and which I'm occasionally still burdened by. It sits on my shoulders and causes my brow to furrow as if a tractor's been ploughed along it. Back then I was never short of things to do and yet even in the doing that feeling was there, no matter my surroundings or company, because time seemed endless and futile. At least that's what I suppose because reflection – a looking down the years - alters such remembrances a little. That feeling hasn't gone away, but I don't know that it's the same.
I think Philip Larkin's Jane is the closest I've come to a self-understanding and feeling understood by a character, not because we're similar or one-dimensional (though I'm sure one or two of my few acquaintances if they know the novel might say both are true), but because she says stuff my thoughts have echoed. Her predicament, pre her marriage proposal, is my own: Just because I don't see the point in doing anything, it doesn't mean I see any point in doing nothing.” I don't, I have never, however, thought that for me marriage would be the solution. Always for me it comes back to an earlier point: “What about women that don't want careers?”
Marriage surely falls into that bracket: it's work of a sort that you might not want, that might not fulfil you, that make actually make you more dissatisfied, and which if you exclude divorce you have less of a release from – it's easier to leave a paid job or be sacked. Of course, everything I've just expressed is more in line with dated views where marriage offered escape as well as security; still, even today I say there's a relevancy as it would be better if marriage was not gone into to put to bed another dilemma which has gone unvoiced yet presses the mind all the same to take dubious actions.
Flitting from job to job is tiresome, but feeling inadequate in one is an esteem destroyer. That view too could be applied to relationships, as well as people's perceived notions of what you are and what you're about. Life, as they say (who? I don't know), never works out quite as you pictured it. I had wanted a career, I just never found out what it should be in. Ultimately. And I didn't have the mettle to reach the final level of any ideas I did chase, not that I didn't try; it's just I was never one to compromise my ideals.
University failed me and not I it because of the lifestyle you would have had to partake in, and where the first year would have been a repeat of my final year at college. I saw that for what it was immediately though the decision to bail left a lump in my throat for a very long time. I've committed and then realised nobody values loyalty. I've performed over and above my duty and been taken for granted. I've shown competence and ended up with more responsibility and no reward for my trouble; presumably the reward is the position of trust, yet the added stress soon exceeds that initial inflation of ego.
Everything eventually hits sour notes like a tune I've lost patience in playing for a thousandth time, or deliberately play carelessly because I don't hold the same (or any) hopes as I did before when inexperience made me strive for perfection.
I've cut, I've snipped a little more and then kept on snipping because to my eye the line is crooked. But the questions others put to you, as Katherine Lind does to Jane, in a helpful spirit are discouraging because not being in it they cannot grasp the true awfulness of the situation – that these avenues they're suggesting have been considered, even tested, and all have been found wanting in one regard or another. Sometimes their incomprehension feels insulting, although they like you are feeling their way and haven't got a mind to make up.

Picture credit: Philip Larkin statue, sculptor Martin Jennings