atavism

Crouched in the broken shadow with the sun at his back and holding the trap at eyelevel against the morning sky he looked to be trusting some older, more subtler instrument.  Astrolab or sextant.  Like a man bent at fixing himself in someway in the world.  Bent on trying by arc or chord the space between his being and the world that was.

--Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing

Merchants, observations

1. how men respond to a woman holding a glass of red wine

2. the way women smile at each other when entering and exiting public bathroom

INT: Tell me, was there a real Big Ben and a Lion?

WF:  Yes.  There used to be a bear like Big Ben in our county when I was a boy.  He'd gotten one paw caught in a trap, and 'cause of that, folks used to call him Reel Foot, 'cause of the way he walked.  He got killed too, though not so spectacularly as I killed him in the story of course...(drawing on pope reflectively.)  I took Hogganbeck from a fella that worked for my father.  He was about thirty, but had the mind of a fourteen-year-old.  I was about eight or nine.  'Course, me being the boss's son, we always did what I wanted to do.  It's a wonder we survived, some of the things we got into.  It's a wonder..."

A couple nights ago Adrienne was at Sean's, so Sailor and I had the bed to ourselves.  It was a cold and overcast, and around 8 I became incredibly sad for no apparent reason.  I blamed my feelings on the weather and went to bed early.  Sailor came and lay next to me.  For the next five hours I suffered through this strange tripped-out half-sleep that was balanced perfectly between sleep and wakefulness.  I was also conscious of Sailor the entire time, and I kept turning and looking at him, to find him watching me with half-closed eyes.  I woke up fully at 4:30 and went to the kitchen to get something to eat.  I felt so unsettled that I began to worry that something was wrong, somewhere--The first person who came to mind, of course, was the DSO.  

While we were walking to his house the next night he told me about how suddenly unhappy he had become the night before.  Sad and angry.  Later he dreamt that I was upset; Sailor had gone missing & I was running around in his dream, looking for my sweet cat.

***

I have been thinking about consciousness and how it's so easy for me to feel empathy and to care for someone who I am automatically atuned to.  Elena and I spoke about this recently when she confessed how concerned she was that she could only feel a sense of caring for certain people; others strike her cold.  Strange to hear because she is, perhaps, the most caring person I know, though maybe I think this only because she is able to care so much for me.

The other night a friend came over, drunk and upset almost to the point of tears.  This is the most emotional I have ever seen him.  For the past two weeks he has been racially trageted by a group of town men.  They drive down Isaacs and throw things or yell at him.  They've started coming to his house.  Throwing rock through the windows (my friend & his beta friends dented the side of their car--these guys' anger is fueled by property damage as well as racism).  While he was talking to me I acted concerned.  I felt slightly concerned, and a little uncomfortable. How much this puzzled me!  I knew that if he were the DSO (who, frankly, does NOT even deserve the moniker) or Elena, I would have gone out of my mind with worry.  In this case, though, I felt emotionally detached.  And my friend is one who I have been intimate with in a number of different contexts.  

He stayed the night for safety, and I slept huddled flat against the side of the wall.  Despite the distance between us, however, I dreamt that we were running from something together.  The dream wasn't terrifying or anxious, either; it was deeply adventurous, and I remember thinking at a point in it, finally a good dream!  

***

Elena finally went to her philosophy major advisor and asked him to tell her about desire.  He gave her a book.  "Read this."

It makes sense to me that we both practice a kind of practical, utilitarian humanism.  Elena is by no means an open-hearted watershed of love.  She is critical, practical, creative, purposeful. And: judgmental.  She is discriminating and rational--but it offends her sense of logic that she can sit across from a sobbing person whose experience of pain is similar to her own, and not feel moved.  She thinks, I am a human being, you are a human being.  Our experiences/emotions are similar, so why don't they flow more easily between us?"  It also makes sense that she would accept the help of a book for clear-cut, immediate answers.

For me, 'a kind of' selective caring contradicts my rational sense of justice.  Why do I care about N when C's actions are more deserving of recognition?  (Well, maybe I think N needs the care more, but is that my own projection, and is that even a legitimate reason?)

***

In the end, maybe all our musings are ridiculous speculation.  Nothing beats an open heart, and an open heart is totally contingent upon sincere selflessness.  Selflessness means non-attachment, and non-attachment means taking a major step back from personal feelings about justice and even that age-old 'humanist' desire to treat others well so that kindness will be reciprocated.  

I mean, in matters of love/caring reason is the red herring.

I was flipping through Orion this morning while waiting for the sauna to warm up, and I came across this gem of a recipe, created by Roger Pinckney.

"To swinge a possum, impale the entire animal lengthwise on a sharpened green stick, preferably hickory. Build a fire in the yard. Sit by the fire on a concrete block and drink whiskey. Rotate possum slowly over coals until well charred. Let cool. The hair and skin will peel off easily. Remove the entrails, cut off the head, feet, but not tail. Rinse thoroughly. Rinse again. Hang possum by tail overnight from the eave of your porch, preferably in frosty weather. Parboil about one hour in salty water, quarter, and lay in a well-greased cast iron pot with tight-fitting lid. Dust with salt, pepper, and brown sugar. Put four whole sweet potatoes and one sliced apple atop the possum. Cover and bake at 350. Possum is done when potatoes are done. Serve with homemade biscuits, butter, and cane syrup."

mm, possum.  Good meat, that.

And speaking of Pinckney, he has actually written a book titled Reefer Moon.