A life of the mind...

So, as you may or may not know, February, at least for me, is something of a mortal enemy... For years, it has constantly and consistently sucked the joy from my outlook, stamped down my energy, and in various ways preyed upon my mind... It's cold grayness goes far beyond any sort of SAD sort of disarrangement (or perhaps, derangement)... February has been soul crushing in a way that makes other things I've been through - death of loved ones, divorce, distance from dear friends, postponement of dreams - pale by comparison... And perhaps the most baffling aspect of this soul-crushing is that I don't even know why; why I feel as though February is a living, devious, being, one that hates me... And this year was no different, February came and I wanted to curl up and hide until it had passed...


I give this explanation, so that it might be understood just how crucial the timing of this post and the events (some, largely mental) that led up to it are.


Leading up... In November, I had settled into Korea well enough to turn my mind to writing - thinking about projects I wanted to start, work on, or possibly complete. Then my computer died, necessitating a great reduction in the time spent on my computer, as I was running from my backup drive until I could comfortably afford the purchase of a new one... and as a devotee of Apple, that took a few months... This break threw me off track of any sort of creative process - my computer is largely the way I communicate with my family and friends, the scholarly and literary communities I follow - the connections that sustain me in a very real way, despite their virtual nature... Towards the end of January, I knew I would be getting a new computer soon, and those thoughts of writing began to return...


But then February happened... cold, gray, soul-crunching February... it made me want to sleep constantly, while preventing me from sleeping most nights... that is the daemon that is February...


So, Friday night I was up anyway, unable to keep my attention on my novel, having blown through my rss reader, and too enmeshed in the blahs to find other distraction on the internet, when my calendar reminded me that it was time for the live stream of the Exemplaria Symposium of Surface, Symptom, and the State of Critique... Not something I had read or prepared for in anyway other than reading Jeffrey Cohen's handout on In The Middle... In fact, until that late moment, I hadn't even looked at the schedule beyond glancing and noting it on my calendar. After all, Korea is a long way from Texas, and distance and time meant I would probably not see it anyway. So thanks, February... this is all your fault...


On opening the live stream, I was immediately swept under (pardon the pun). I had little context, beyond foundational literary theories, for the thoughts the presenters were raising and responding to, yet I was immediately fascinated - so much so that I, couldn't sleep through the next panel, or the next - when I tried to sleep between them my brain kept waking me up, wondering what I was missing. The symposium brought my brain to life - in a somewhat uncomfortable fashion, even. So, now I have pages of notes, and an extended reading list on a topic I had not really considered at all - at least not in a conscious matter (though anyone associated with the Popular Romance Studies field will confirm that how and why we read is never far beneath the scholarship, due to a frequent necessity to defend what we read and study).


Now my brain is so filled with new (to me) thinking about reading, scholarship, and creative generalization that it has pushed out of February's hold... The symposium has cost me quite a bit of sleep, but has re-affirmed my deep, integral need for a life of the mind... 


Now, I only hope that this thinking will lead to writing, and maintain the pressure keeping February at bay...

A Mary Oliver Moment for February

Heavy

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel,
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it -
books, bricks, grief -
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled -
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

~Mary Oliver, Thirst