dog eared tuesday: the unspeakable, meghan daum

This morning I read a piece over at Brain Pickings, and my innards are still stirring. Mostly because I feel as though it was directed right at me, and I was about as unprepared as a deer prancing across the highway in the middle of the night (sorry for the visual – deer in headlights is about as apt an image I have for myself right now). Maria Popova, the writer (or perhaps literary waitress) who served me a side of wisdom, reality, and unexpected saudade this morning to accompany my comparably innocent looking slices of french toast, couldn’t have possibly known that I’ve been bent on coming to terms with death lately. Death has a split-personality disorder, in my mind. It keeps showing up, right in front of me, slurring the words that one day everything that I love is going to go down with me, into some sort of intangible abyss of rotting organs (sorry). Or, there it is, legs crossed with a rather serene look about it, nodding over to me that spending time with death isn’t so bad. By the time your meeting rolls around, you’ll be ready for the kind of contemplative discourse I pose, she promises. Surrendering the remainder of your time won’t be so bad, especially if you believe that your lover, parents, and siblings are sitting cross legged right behind me. I have yet to figure out who she (he? it?) really is.

Meghan Daum introduced this line of thinking to me, with excerpts from her collection of personal essays, The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion. She elucidates how our minds, our past and future selves, adapt to aging, and how we have this tendency to constantly reshape our opinion of our past selves so that we are on “nodding terms” with them. After all, our past self is always a part of us, whether we like it or not, and it’s much easier to enjoy this past self than wish to be rid of it. She also confronts us with the idea that we may never attain that idealized older version of ourselves. In fact, it doesn’t seem to be just an idea – it seems an inevitable reality. Just as she says we romanticize our past selves, I think it’s safe to say that this older self we dream up in so many different ways, dependent upon the day, hour, situation, is romanticized to the same scale, if not more – the limits to the potential of this older self are unbounding. I could fill up whole novels on just one route my life could go; can you imagine how many trees I’d kill if I contemplated each and every route with just as much fervency?

Please, dig your teeth into a round of Popova’s concise, reflective review on Daum’s The Unspeakable. Your Tuesday morning deserves a little introspection; we’re hardly in that state enough. Let’s become comfortable in it together.

How We Become Who We Are: Meghan Daum on Nostalgia, Aging, and Why We Romanticize Our Imperfect Younger Selves

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“Life is mostly an exercise in being something other than what we used to be while remaining fundamentally—and sometimes maddeningly—who we are.”

In her mind-bending meditation on what makes you and your young self the same person despite a lifetime of changes, philosopher Rebecca Goldstein pondered the philosophical conundrum of our “integrity of identity that persists over time, undergoing changes and yet still continuing to be.” Psychologists, meanwhile, have demonstrated that we’re woefully flawed at predicting the priorities of our future selves. Even so, Joan Didion was right to counsel in her classic essay on keeping a notebook that “we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.” But the most confounding thing about our relationship with the evolution of our own selves is that we tend to romanticize our youth even if we don’t find the versions of ourselves that inhabited it “attractive company” at all.

This conundrum is one of the many human perplexities Meghan Daum, one of the finest essayists of our time, explores in The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion (public library | IndieBound) — a magnificent collection of personal essays examining “the tension between primal reactions and public decorum” and aiming at “a larger discussion about the way human experiences too often come with preassigned emotional responses,” driven by a valiant effort to unbridle those messy, complex experiences from the simplistic templates with which we address them, both privately and publicly.

Meghan Daum (Photograph: Laura Kleinhenz)

In the introduction, Daum echoes Zadie Smith’s piercing critique of our platitudes-paved road to self-actualization and laments the hijacking of our darker, more disquieting emotions by the happiness industrial complex:

For all the lip service we pay to “getting real,” we remain a culture whose discourse is largely rooted in platitudes. We are told — and in turn tell others — that illness and suffering isn’t a ruthless injustice, but a journey of hope. Finding disappointment in places where we’re supposed to find joy isn’t a sign of having different priorities as much as having an insufficiently healthy outlook. We love redemption stories and silver linings. We believe in overcoming adversity, in putting the past behind us, in everyday miracles. We like the idea that everything happens for a reason. When confronted with the suggestion that life is random or that suffering is not always transcendent we’re apt to not only accuse the suggester of rudeness but also pity him for his negative worldview. To reject sentimentality, or even question it, isn’t just uncivilized, it’s practically un-American.

In one of the collection’s most pause-giving essays, titled “Not What It Used to Be,” Daum reflects on the conflicted, paradoxical nostalgia we tend to place on our youth — nostalgia woven of an openness of longing, as the infinite possibilities of life stretch ahead, but also of many misplaced longings for the wrong things, the dangerous things, the dangerously safe things. Daum writes:

Most of us have unconscious disbeliefs about our lives, facts that we accept at face value but that still cause us to gasp just a little when they pass through our minds at certain angles. Mine are these: that my mother is dead, that the Vatican actually had it in itself to select a pope like Pope Francis, and that I am now older than the characters onthirtysomething. That last one is especially upending. How is it that the people who were, for me, the very embodiment of adulthood, who, with their dinner parties and marital spats and career angst represented the place in life I’d like to get to but surely never will, are on average six to eight years my junior? How did I get to be middle-aged without actually growing up?

Illustration by Lisbeth Zwerger from a rare edition of ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ Click image for more.

In a sentiment that calls to mind Maya Angelou’s unforgettable words on growing up, Daum adds:

Luckily, even some of the most confounding questions have soothingly prosaic answers. On the subject of growing up, or feeling that you have succeeded in doing so, I’m pretty sure the consensus is that it’s an illusion. Probably no one ever really feels grown-up, except for certain high school math teachers or members of Congress. I suspect that most members of AARP go around feeling in many ways just as confused and fraudulent as most middle school students. You might even be able to make a case that not feeling grown-up is a sign that you actually are, much as worrying that you’re crazy supposedly means you’re not.

Daum’s astonishment is especially resonant for those of us who compounded our dissatisfying college experience with the culturally inflicted guilt of feeling like not finding satisfaction there was a profound personal failure:

I managed to have such a mediocre time at a place that is pretty much custom designed for delivering the best years of your life. I’d like to say that I wasn’t the same person back then that I later became and now am. But the truth is that I was the exact same person. I was more myself then than at any other time in my life. I was an extreme version of myself. Everything I’ve always felt I felt more intensely. Everything I’ve always wanted, I wanted more. Everything I currently dislike, I downright hated back then. People who think I’m judgmental, impatient, and obsessed with real estate now should have seen me in college. I was bored by many of my classmates and irked by the contrived mischief and floundering sexual intrigues of dormitory life. I couldn’t wait to get out and rent my own apartment, preferably one in a grand Edwardian building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. In that sense, I guess my college experience was just as intense as my husband’s. I just view that intensity negatively rather than nostalgically, which perhaps is its own form of nostalgia.

To illuminate that curious misplacing of nostalgia, Daum invokes an imaginary encounter between her present self and her older self — the concept behind an emboldening old favorite of letters by luminaries to their younger selves — in which Older Self ambushes Younger Self “like a goon sent in to settle a debt”:

At first, Younger Self is frightened and irritated (Older Self speaks harshly to her) but a feeling of calm quickly sets in over the encounter. Younger Self sits there rapt, as though receiving the wisdom of Yoda or of some musician she idolizes, such as Joni Mitchell. But Older Self is no Yoda. Older Self is stern and sharp. Older Self has adopted the emphatic, no-nonsense speaking style of formidable women with whom she worked in countless New York City offices before deciding she never again wanted to work anywhere but her own home (a place where, over the years, she has lost a certain amount of people skills and has been known to begin conversations as though slamming a cleaver into a side of raw beef). Older Self begins her sentences with “Listen” and “Look.” She says, “Listen, what you’re into right now isn’t working for you.” She says, “Look, do yourself a favor and get out of this situation right now. All of it. The whole situation. Leave this college. Forget about this boy you’re sleeping with but not actually dating. Stop pretending you did the reading for your Chaucer seminar when you didn’t and never will.”

To which Younger Self will ask, “Okay, then what should I do?” And of course Older Self has no answer, because Older Self did not leave the college, did not drop the boy, did not stop pretending to have read Chaucer. And the cumulative effect of all those failures (or missed opportunities, blown chances, fuckups, whatever) is sitting right here, administering a tongue-lashing to her younger self (which is to say herself) about actions or inactions that were never going to be anything other than what they were. And at that point the younger and older selves merge into some kind of floating blob of unfortunate yet inevitable life choices, at which point I stop the little game and nudge my mind back into real time and try to think about other things, such as what I might have for dinner that night or what might happen when I die. Such is the pendulum of my post-forty thoughts.

And yet the most paradoxical, most endearingly human thing is that most of us invariably fail to see our Younger Self as part of that amalgamated blob and instead romanticize it as the counterpoint to those “unfortunate yet inevitable life choices,” as our highest potentiality at a point before crumbling into the reality of necessary concessions and mediocrities. For all its cluelessness, for all its complicity in the making of our present dissatisfactions, we continue to worship youth — especially our own.

Reflecting on the disorienting fact — because that fact is always disorienting to those of whom it becomes factual — that nothing she ever does will ever be preceded by the word young again, Daum writes:

Any traces of precocity I ever had are long forgotten. I am not and will never again be a young writer, a young homeowner, a young teacher. I was never a young wife. The only thing I could do now for which my youth would be a truly notable feature would be to die. If I died now, I’d die young. Everything else, I’m doing middle-aged.

I am nostalgic for my twenties (most of them, anyway; twenty and twenty-one were squandered at college; twenty-four was kind of a wash, too) but I can tell you for sure that they weren’t as great as I now crack them up to be. I was always broke, I was often lonely, and I had some really terrible clothes. But my life was shiny and unblemished. Everything was ahead of me. I walked around with an abiding feeling that, at any given time, anything could go in any direction. And it was often true.

The read is not over, but please continue it over on Brain Pickings (I certainly wouldn’t want to wrongfully snag a reader away from its many gems). Who knows what else could pick your brain this morning?

*m

ps. feature image from Lisbeth Zwerger for a rare edition of Alice in Wonderland. I do not own them. (But I do really love them!)

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Lingering upon Alice Gao’s creativity

Today, I thank the world for photography. Correction, Alice Gao. Because, unfortunately, under the realm of photography is the likes of selfies, and so I can’t say I thank the whole world.

But I’m just gonna come clean and say it – selfies are such a gift. Come on, they’re super liberating. You have all the power in the world to be as pleased as you like with your photo, rather than having your face’s fate quivering in the hands of that stranger at the party who snapped you and a friend out of the blue, leaving you like a couple of deer in headlights with excessive makeup on. (What an image. I enjoy it.)

So on second thought, yes, I thank the world for photography and selfies.

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Alice Gao, though, really must be the reigning queen of this world. Or at least for me, on this day, and since I’ve found her. For example, I can’t decide whether or not I’d like to hang the finished painting alone or the photo itself of the painting still dripping from the creative process. As in, with the palette still fresh and the bottles looking as if they have given every last drop of their creative juices to the canvas at hand. And the strips of moody navy, slowly peaking towards the colour the artist was looking for. She makes her photo a piece of art, when it is itself featuring a piece of art. Now that’s ingenuity.

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And here, although these flowers look as though they’re fit for a palace or among tight circles serving high tea, the griminess of the sink and the crossing strips of metal on the window serve as a humble stage for the royally strewn stems.

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Caught mid-packaging, I see every bit of the efforts we take in creating something beautiful from head to toe for a recipient we care about. Cut string, labels messied about from choosing just the right one, stamps even. It’s as if Gao is floating in and out of our lives and pauses these moments in the most unexpected lights.

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Ah. This I adore. The composition has allowed for an immense dark sky to hover over the vibrancy of the flowers, the normalcy of morning tea. But this colour to me is not laden with grief or gloom, but blanketing comfort, lifted just enough so that we can see the light she has captured.

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I almost feel as though I’m viewing more so a portrait of a portrait than a scene of an apartment. The framing of this portrait, however asymmetrical, focuses the lady staring right back at us. The to-die-for gold and marble end table elevates her to a point of eye-level, as if we’re about to enter into an enlightening conversation with the woman before us (who I have no doubt has some bad-ass stories to tell).

ps. white brick wall alert. yes, i am swooning.

And oh my golly gee willickers, I just found her blog, Lingered Uponand I did a helluva lot more than just linger. I think I just moved in unannounced. Here’s a sneak peek of her posts, slash justification of my rudeness:

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Just everything about this outfit makes me feel like a savvy, stylin’, successful photographer.

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And just everything about this makes me want to just be her for a day. Those boots. That espresso. That style.

*m

A true heartbreaker

Everything about coffee is comforting. Its smell, its inherently soothing quality at any time of day, and the mugs we curl our hands around. Especially if said mugs are polka-dotted, just sayin’. I don’t drink it anymore, otherwise I turn into a frazzled, anxious, monster of procrastination. I call myself a monster because suddenly I start opening four tabs every minute and scrolling through tumblr as if I were at gunpoint. So, yes, I did plenty of experimenting in first year.

But now I’ve discovered the beauty of heartbreak coffee, who from their own establishment in Long Beach, CA, captures that comfort and delivers it promptly to my instagram feed. It was love at first sight as I perused through their photos, each as well lit and charmingly rustic as the last.

Samples of brilliance. 
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Heartbreak Coffee doesn’t seem to be a heartbreaker to me at all. In fact, I think it’s meant for the heartbreaks – a cup of coffee that looks good can soothe our hearts any day. The only heartbreak I have to deal with is the fact that I’m on the other side of the country from them… one day.

p.s. inspired me to follow a gaggle of beautiful instagrams. Mayhaps some peaks are coming in the near future. 😉

*m

Music For Yo Fine Earz

To be frank, my week has been hella chill, yo. The program I’m in isn’t entirely centered around what those around me call midterms. We do, howeva, have some majour research papers and projects coming up in the near future so don’t think this is a slacking deal. And even though my week has been deemed chill, my weeks in general seem to go by faster and faster. Honestly, it’s slightly disturbing how quickly it all goes by. 
One minute I’m waving to that dreary figure called Monday slumping towards me and then the next I’m running after Friday in his disco clothes whizzing past. I need more hours in the day! Mother Nature, I’m snapping my fingers! Make that sun last a little bit longer puh-leeze. 

What’s been helping me actually get out of bed in the morning though, before I’m caffeinated and superficially wired for my first class, is some new musica that’s been injecting some rhythm into my toes. 
First, tumblr tabs to inspire a beautiful fresh start to next week’s Monday morning. 
C’est parfait. Ce cappuccino est art à moi. 
(go google translator, buddy ol pal)
Attics have always had such a haunted reputation. Put in a window, let that glorious light in, paint the walls milky white, and suddenly the attic of that supposed family of ghosts is your most beloved sanctuary.
I used to be convinced that this type of layout of a kitchen was the most absurdly cramped idea for a realistic family. Now that I’m confined to the size of a closet for a bedroom, and have fallen quite in love with its quaint coziness, there’s much more appeal to living small. This is almost like a more formal alternative to an island, and who doesn’t like a hint of well hidden fanciness here and there?

Abstract Numbers:

Small Rooms:

Alvhem Makleri:

Abstract Numbers:

Abstract Numbers:

Abstract Numbers (can you guess I’m a fan?):

Alvhem Makleri:

Alvhem Makleri:

Now my lovelies, onto some music I’ve been digging.

And by digging, I mean obsessed with. Alex Clare is the most dreamy combination of foot tapping goodness and hip swinging grooves and actually poignant lyrics.

Alright, this next song may not be for everyone (it includes *gasp* swear words!). But I can’t deny the catchiness. Slash it’s quite the hypnotic tune. Next three are for them techno-dub lovers.
If girliness ever overwhelms you, and you’re in your footy pajamas with a cup of tea by your side, put this on and you will be in a small pocket of heaven. 
This song was stuck in my head for honestly days, if not weeks. It’s haunting. It’s beautiful. It’s addictive.
Cheerio! Hope the weather wherever you are is not as gloomy as the view I’m looking at. 
*m