Charcut Vol. 19

October this year...

The month has been a delight and now it’s almost over. I haven’t read much if I’m being honest, but I still have something to offer you.

Like Ghost Pains by Jessie Jezewska Stevens for example, which I diligently read up to the second to last story. I’ll finish it, but I haven’t yet. I thought it might be good for the season. Not ghost stories, but at least ghost something. It’s no fault of Stevens’s. I like her voice and sense of humor. I like that though the whole thing glitters with discontent, there’s pleasure in it too.

A few of the stories really captivated me. The first, which opens with the irresistible, “The party was a failure. I can’t even tell you what a failure it was. There are no words,” and goes on to describe a party that seemed just fine.

Then the titular “Ghost Pains” about a woman who years ago got a nipple piercing in an effort to be a certain type that she wasn’t really, only for it to plague her with intermittent pain and demanding care requirements years later. She runs into the man she kind of got the piercing for in the first place while at a work conference in Europe. It’s a strange but strong story.

My favorite was probably Rumpel—set in a dystopian near future defined by a massive tech company’s addicting VR creation. It begins with an accidental hole in the wall between two apartments and becomes a love story and adventure.

As I said, I will finish the collection because I do like Stevens’s writing. Maybe one of the last two stories will really hit me and make it all make sense and I’ll have to report back and say I loved this book. But I just have a hard time with short story collections. It’s not my preferred medium for pleasure reading I don’t think, though I’m willing to be proven wrong.

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I think I’m reading less because I’m running more. I ran eight miles and change last weekend, and it took me some amount of time because I'm slow. I’ve said before and do believe that it’s hard to write anything interesting about running. But at the same time, I can’t help but feel that there’s something interesting about my running.

It hurts my body to do it, but I’m kind of addicted to the pain? Particularly after when my muscles are tired and creaky and my hips feel like they need to be oiled. But it takes work to make the pain good pain instead of bad pain. I have to do my little calf raises and my little stretches, and I have to roll out my calves, which I’m only beginning to tolerate.

In reality, I’d rather not, but still I do, and I do to remind myself that I don’t yet know who I’ll become. None of us really do. You can spend a long time making something a central element of your personality—or if not your personality, then your outward presentation. Among those who know me, I was an exercise hater for years. And then one day, I just decided to stop being that. I actually didn’t even actively decide. It just happened. I don't understand the exact alchemy behind it, but now I’m a runner. Even if my thirteen year old brother says that long distance running isn’t running it's just jogging.

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I won’t get on my soapbox about learning to love vegetables, even though I’ve created the perfect segue. I’ll only say that I recently made my first chicken soup of the season, and that it remains to me a sure sign of God’s existence.

I will be making this soup next, courtesy of

the sunday stack

.

And then some beans or maybe some lentils, courtesy of

This Plate Will Save Your Life

.

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In other news, I continue to be addicted to the geese. Driving to Virginia, they were flying overhead at dusk in their haphazardly perfect Vs. I will never not be the person who says look at the geese. I will say it every time. They fly low over the Hudson in the evenings as well, and I say to myself, look at the geese.

I say look at the moon. And the moon this month was really something to write home about. It actually had me all in a pretzel, like the tides going the wrong direction or too strong or something. And not sleeping well and crying more than usual which is already quite enough.

Before it was full, on our drive to Virginia it looked like a lounge chair to me and I rested on it with my arm hanging down over the edge. Kathryn thought organge slice. As we carried on down the road it careened across the sky on an invisible track. And for a few perfect moments it wad framed by the highway trees just above the horizon. I had already said look at the moon so many times, so I just looked at the moon.

After it was full, it rose like a big fat egg stage right at Forest Hills while Sturgil Simpson played. My lover turned to me and said look at the moon and I did and I was amazed.

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I read this piece on literature in translation by

Regan

and was quite moved by the following footnote, which is a quote from an interview with Norwegian author Vigdis Hjorth:

I read a lot of the existential philosopher Søren Kierkegaard. He insists that to be an ordinary, mortal human being is a gift and a vote of confidence from the higher powers, so it is both a task and an adventure. The adventure is not to travel around the world, to have a lot of erotic affairs, to be famous, or to be the president of the United States. The adventure is to be exactly the human being you are, exactly where you are. He writes that so many people are living in the basement, the garage, the doghouse of themselves, even though they could live in the penthouse apartment of themselves, where the view is huge. I try to get my characters, my main characters, up from the basement. I try to follow them as they become more responsible, more grateful, and take themselves more seriously – not because they are particularly special people, but because being a human being is serious, and you should be so glad that you are alive on Earth. Once, I was standing alone in a little stone church, and I was lighting a candle for all of the people that I love. I saw the flame begin to waver, and then it was still, and then I saw it shake again. I thought, “Is there wind coming from somewhere?” and then I understood that it was my breath. Just by breathing, I understood, I make things move.

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I also read the Guardian interview with Sally Rooney that everyone was bouncing around this month, and I too found her words about her husband quite touching. I’m almost talked into Intermezzo. I just think I’ll wait until it comes out in paperback.

I’ve only read Normal People and almost couldn’t tolerate it for its intensity. It made me feel sick to my stomach like dejavu or like being inside some past version of myself, which is of course a testament to her skill. But I couldn’t figure out by the end if I liked the sickness or wanted to occupy it. Maybe now I would want to.

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via Ars Poetica

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