Things I Learned This Week

Tartt, Morrison, Ishiguro, Albee, The Beatles, and Jimmy Stewart

Hello from the green swaths of Texas—at least for the next month or so. I can’t believe I only have a few more weeks of class and the first year of graduate school is over. I have a lot of writing to do this summer, but I am psyched to be without schoolwork for the next few months. Not planning any major vacation or other such money-sucking distractions, just planning to hunker down and get things done. That said, he’s what I learned this week.

Ten thumbs up on A Brief History of Seven Killings. Highly recommend it. Now my Long Novel class is moving on to the only book I will have now read three times in my life, The Secret History by Donna Tartt. (I am no longer a collector of books— read and donate is my mantra—nor am I someone who reads a single book over and over again. Too many books, so little time.) I know there are some Tartt haters around these parts, but I am not among them. I am deep into my third read now, and I still love this story. Ms. Tartt exemplifies a certain type of Gen X girl, one that I think (wish) myself among. She is the dark academia goddess to the manic Pixie dream girl, and even 33 years since my first read, this book holds up. Haters be damned. My only hope for an afterlife is being reincarnated into an alternate universe where a movie version actually got made with Ethan Hawke and Winona Ryder and other such 90s A-listers walking the halls of Hampden College. 💔

Watched Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff. I saw it a long, long time ago, before marriage or kids or adulthood, but man, oh, man does it stand the test of time. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor are major couple goals for sure. Not George and Martha, but just the idea of being with someone who you are so artistically in sync with. Taylor eats the scenery, but hot damn, she is awesome. I watched in tandem with reading the Edward Albee play, and it really made me feel a nostalgia of the time when my parents were married. My mother so often made reference to the idea of “getting the guest” that I’ve referred to the phrase again and again in my life. I’ve been there, and nothing sucks more than a host out to make an ass of you at a dinner party. Twelve thumbs up.

As for rereads, I am on the second read of these two books, Beloved and Remains of the Day—both for Form & Theory. The two Nobel-prize-winning geniuses are very different. While I admire Ishiguro’s craft and tenacity—and Remains of the Day is no doubt a great book—it’s got nothing on Morrison’s deep philosophical and psychological work that pulls at the very heartstrings of what it means to be human, and especially what it means to be Black in America. Beloved has had me thinking about motherhood and being a woman this week. As much as the book is born out of race, it’s a testament to what it means to give birth in every sense of the word. Just astounding.

Though it was a couple of weeks now, I survived Pecha Kucha. Those of you who didn’t get to see it live can now watch it on YouTube. If you have ten or so minutes to blow, you can find out how I got from there to here. There are some minor hiccups like me saying “poetry” instead of “pots” and stating I am working on a book based on my son’s youth, when really it’s my husband’s teen-hood. I can’t bring myself to watch it, so let me know if you catch any other slipups. ;)

Lastly, Reepigee finally gave up the ghost this week, something we’ve been contemplating since before Christmas. He made it through the holidays and one last spring break with my son, but he was declining fast and it was time to let him go. I looked deep into his eyes as he slipped way, and I don’t know that I have ever cried as much for an animal. My husband planted an Esperanza bush in the backyard where he rests, and now I can see outside from my office window. Good dog. So, I’ll leave you with the much maligned Martha My Dear from The White Album, written by Paul McCartney about his Old English Sheepdog. It’s a peppy tune despite the universal hate, and leaves us thinking about dogs on a high note. That said, RIP Reepigee. We loved you despite your flaws. Might we all be so lucky.

Quote of the day?

And there were nights when I’d feel him
Climb upon our bed
And lie between us,
And I’d pat his head.

And there were nights when I’d feel this stare
And I’d wake up and he’d be sitting there
And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair.
And sometimes I’d feel him sigh
and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night
And he would have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he’d be glad to have me near.

And now he’s dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he’s not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn’t so,
I’ll always love a dog named Beau.

— from the poem “Beau” by Jimmy Stewart

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)