Amy C Collins

book review: Slouching Towards Bethlehem: Essays

Slouching Towards Bethlehem: Essays by Joan Didion
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I can't remember how I came across this collection of essays but I picked it up because the contemporary pieces were written in the 1960s and I'd been furiously watching Mad Men, also set in the 1960s, and I felt a little something intellectual might balance my rare obsession with a television series, though I still wave the flag for the show, gently cerebral in its own right.

This is the first of Didion's work I've read. She covers the 60s counter-culture, mostly in California, writing about Howard Hughes and Joan Baez's School of Non-Violence, American film and the backward sliding of Hollywood. She reveals in the collection-titled "Slouching Towards Bethlehem", Haight Street for the sloppy drugged-out scene it was; lost souls dubiously parading for change but buried in a thick mud self-deception. Her passages are expert and perfectly executed, her language an occasional challenge that had me reaching for the dictionary, another aspect I love to find in author's work, that desire to use every bit of our extensive language.

The second section of essays are of a personal nature and my favorites. In "On Self-Respect," which I've read four times, at least, she writes, "although to be driven back on oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect." Didion was roughly my age when she wrote these pieces between 1961 and 1967, all published in magazines now out of print, save for "The Saturday Evening Post."

The final essay, "Goodbye to All That," lights on her eight years spent living in New York, sentiments for which I am very familiar. Funny, I've been thinking a lot about writing on New York lately, of course, in total honesty, I have thought about doing that all along. Perhaps, in Didion's shadow, a simple essay would suffice instead of the again-submerged collection of perspectives I keep dreaming about. We both spent our twenties in the Enchanted City , youth and energy and the unwavering belief that opportunity waits around every corner may not be specific to New York living, maybe it's only a city thing, maybe it's simply grander in that city. Or maybe it's simply, as Didion writes, "one of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before." In any case, she's got me wanting to write more, and that's always worth five stars.

There is a darkness, a sadness that pervades every piece, an element of anxiety about the future, which will hold me from rushing into reading more of her work, though a copy of The Year of Magical Thinking sits presently on my shelf. Her sober stare into reality, one reality, has me thinking and considering - bravo. But life is short and I prefer it sweet, so I will savor these few essays for a time before moving further into Didion's oeuvre.

View all my reviews

with a box of tissues and a heap of faith

Disclaimer: I'm really, really congested today, even my ears feel like they're going to explode, so if my musings make little sense, forgive me, please. I'm living under mud, a mere hollow reed connecting me to the oxygenated world. 

 

As the written word tends to elude, I've lost the beautiful thread that weaved through my mind downstairs just moments ago while I waited for my Gypsy Cold Care tea to brew and now I have nothing but a complaint and a head full of mucus. I got a cold for Christmas - no infection, no fever, mind you, a mere flesh wound and a constant desire to lie down. On one side of my tea bag's tag the all-caps slogan reads, YOUR CHOICES WILL CHANGE THE WORLD. To lie down, or not to lie down? Is that a call to test character or what?

And this is how I endure a cold: I rationalize it's existence.

Two days ago I was feeling low and tired, which I attributed to my stressed out emotional state. I'd been thinking too much on a subject I couldn't solve and as a result, and as a cause, I'd made myself very angry, which rides shotgun with depression, of course. So I blamed my low energy on the matter and asked the universe for help, because I could not quit picking the scab on my own. As soon as I believed I was helpless, relief came. And then I got sick.

With the subtlest onset of symptoms I told myself they would clear up in a day. As the symptoms grew stronger I told myself it was my fault, that I had been focusing on the wrong matter lately, that I wasn't putting enough joy into the world, that I wasn't spending enough time creating. As I began to make amends with my frustration and anger I could see that I was smaller than the issue, smaller than the larger world and certainly not larger than my perceived opponent, mute and deaf to my private battle. I was humbled to realize again what little control I had and it seemed the humbling had been bestowed very physically (and not a teeny bit un-metaphorically) by debilitating my senses at one of the most inopportune times of the year; I hope there is still cake when I can again taste. I am smaller than this cold. There is not much I can do to change it. As my in-house physician says, "a treated cold lasts fourteen days and an untreated cold lasts two weeks." 

It may seem an odd way to re-discover my faith, through a common cold, but here it is, the distinct parallel I see. I know I caught cold because I breathed in or touched someone else's cold germs. Where and who and when I can not say. All the better for it, I suppose. It's just a cold; it just is. Wrong place and wrong time have nothing to do with it, though I can see a possible arrow pointing toward such an argument, that easy wisp of things just are is tempting and not entirely un-excercised in my personal journey. Maybe there's no reason for the cold, or my existence. It happened and here I am and I can only make the best of it, so I drink my tea and take baths with essential oils my loving sister lovingly made and drink plenty of juice and water and rest and try not to complain. I know it will end, that it's not forever, that I will get better. I know this not because I have a crystal ball but because I have faith in what I know about colds. 

There has been a lot of talk about atheism in my corner of the world lately, and probably a broader circle than that considering the death of Christopher Hitchens earlier this month. I've been a sometime reader of his column, a copy ofNotes to a Young Contrarian sits unread on my shelf, "looking much smarter than me" and his recent work God is Not Great impressed me very little, the usual arguments for atheism were not written for me - I've considered them already. His public personality, in any case, appeared ready and resigned to death, which is more than I can say for a lot of "believers" and there's no discounting a lifetime of work, of creating, which he did expertly. I was atheist for a time in my twenties. I was also very lost and lonely and largely unhappy. The two are connected but I won't venture to pick apart "how" here. Instead I'd like to muse on the freedom believing has given me, the freedom of my own burdens, ofmyself, in not having to carry the full weight andresponsibility.

I'm a relaxed Type A personality, or that's how I see myself anyway. A friend recently told me, "your tone is laid back, but in your mind it's pretty intense." Control is a thing I work constantly to release (no pun intended). Believing, knowing, everything is going to be alright is the sweetest release from that need to control. Recognizing I am smaller than the world, the universe, this cold, that I don't get to dictate completely the way life unfolds or how people behave is the best argument against atheism I have yet uncovered. This is not an argument for Him or an organization or The Book. I am an unaffiliated subscriber to an energy much, much larger than my tiny, self-absorbed world. And because I know that, because my faith tells me there's something greater, I can, on increasing occasion, release myself from my burdens and enjoy the gift of being without the pain of controlling it. I can ask for help when I need it, and I can sleep at night, trusting it will all work out. 

Christmas is a national federal holiday, with Madison Avenue at the helm. I love the food and gifts and family and traditions, the forced pause one day of the year. But what better time to consider the bigger picture, whether you include Christ or not, of our gift and trouble of existence, a faith that everything will turn out okay, that my cold will get better, with some time and help. I'll do all I can to heal it, all science directs me to do, but it's my faith and positive attitude that will make the trip, however miserable at times, worth being here.

 

 

let's make some good ones...

Every Christmas morning as a child I would creep downstairs in the wee hours to explore the riches left beneath the tree. Santa was always very good to us, boxes and packages wrapped in lovely designs, divided into three distinct sections: Amy, Catherine, Caroline. And there were always gifts unwrapped, sitting in plain sight, an invitation, a hint of what was to come.

One year, before Santa's cover had been blown, I discovered under my sister's section of the tree, a fabulous, musical gadget, long and rounded like a wand and decorated in colored buttons, each emitting a different note when pressed. I was instantly mesmerized and thought it should be mine. Now, I wonder if somewhere in my subconscious I had already considered there was no Santa Claus, because I can remember a distinct feeling of dishonesty and risk. With the toy tucked neatly under my arm, I sneaked down the hall, gently pushed open my parents bedroom door and stood at my mother's side. 

"Mom, Santa came!"

As she opened her eyes, after a few short hours of sleep, no doubt, I brandished the prize in front of her. "And look what he brought me!"

This must have been a test; the anticipation of a response lingered heavy between us. She looked into my little face and said with a direct tone, "I think Santa left that for Catherine." 

"Oh," I said. "I'll put it back."

This anecdote feels like a confession, an admittance of a lesser past self, one who valued getting more than giving. A child, yes, but Amy all the same. Joan Didion wrote an essay in 1966 titled "On Keeping a Notebook", an exploration of her old notes, overheard conversations, glimpses of people she met or encountered, tiny pieces of reality meant to evoke a memory of who she was then, whether she liked that person or not, they were all her selves. When we put aside the over-consumerism of the season, slough off the stress of parties, cards, gifts and baking, get still and reflect, nostalgia surfaces, parallel with the 2,000 year old birthday celebration this is all supposed to be. 

 

"The palest ink is better than the best memory"

- Chinese Proverb

 

Our memories are faulted, intertwined with perception and emotion when created and subject to the same mental imperfections, though likely altered in details, when recalled. Tradition is rooted in memory. How closely tied to memories, to our past selves is how connected we are to tradition. Breaking the tradition may re-write future memories.

There are several holidays in my memory spent alone, away from family, friends on the periphery only. They aren't sad memories, per se, as much uneventful, like any other day, indistinctive from the majority.

This year I'll be cooking Christmas Eve dinner for my family, though sadly without my youngest sister. I'll be in PJs and sipping a mimosa Christmas morning, lounging all afternoon. And I'm giving hand-made gifts (said the artist). We're not exactly breaking tradition at our house but we are creating good memories, where we spend time together laughing and relaxing and enjoying each other's company, and one where I don't try to steal my sister's gift. After all, December 21st 2011 begins the one-year countdown to doomsday, according to some readings of the Mayan calendar. Ladies and Gentlemen, this could be the Last Christmas. Let's make it a good one, eh? And make some notes, too.

 

- Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, love & joy, and wonderful new memories. 

 

 

mable returns

Last winter I launched another element to this blog; Cartoon Friday. Mable, feature character, wedged herself between column posts, anchoring the work-week and shuffling us into the weekend with her cute, snarky attitude toward the world. 

I've shown Mable, prints and cards I had made last Spring, in a few shows over the last six months and the reception she received has been so strong I decided to take a cue from the universe and re-launch Mable with her very own blog, Facebook page, Twitter account and Etsy shop. I am pleased to announce today, December 12, 2011, the official return of Mable, Brave Mable. 

 

You can make a quick jump to her site, here. 

 

The Build

When I left New York in January 2008 I'd sold all of my furniture, given away my stereo, my dishes, pots and pans, heaps of clothing, some artwork and tossed out all my CD cases, opting instead for the easier-to-pack travel cases. Everything I owned had to fit in the back of a rented Ford Explorer, which, despite the guarantee, was not the car presented to me on New Year's Day when I went to collect it on the East side of Manhattan. Minor panic and light negotiation got me the vehicle I needed, significantly larger than what they insisted would be large enough (how could the sales reps have possibly known what I was attempting to accomplish?) But I digress. 'Tis the season for nostalgia, no? 

During the subsequent year in Buenos Aires I took a screen printing class, covering various techniques and mediums with which to print. It was the t-shirt project where Mable showed up, a girl in black dress, head full of curly black hair, and striped stockings. She faced away from me and held a single flower behind her back, right leg crossed behind the left. I printed her between the shoulder blades on racer-back tank tops, black on white and white on bright red. I have no idea where she came from. She just showed up. It was later, back in the United States, that her snarky attitude surfaced and her melo-dramatic leanings offered some personal sanity-preserving medicine. 

I was living then in a bedroom packed with over-large furniture, purple wall paint and floral, smothering, trim abutting the ceiling and boxes and piles of stuff not belonging to me. I was living in someone else's life and I, a minimalist - if there isn't a proper place for an item, the item goes - worked hard to see the generous benefit of where I'd landed. After all, it was my choice to leave a solid income job, liquidate my belongings and skip town (make that, country) on little more than a whim, trusting, always, that things were going to work out, and work out for the better. This is when Mable again appeared.

In that sweet, lavendar room, I hung a calendar meant for my youngest sister that Christmas, featuring month after month of kitties. Caroline loves cats and all things cats. I suppose we are a cat family, always had them growing up. I'm perfectly fond of our six-toed Patches, though I would not say I am cat-crazy. Not even close. Cute cat calendars are great, on someone else's wall. So I drew cartoons, featuring this Mable character, whoever she was, and pasted the humor over the cat photos, making my own calendar, instituing some of myself in the borrowed bedroom, and unknowingly following a lead, without expectation.

And here we are today, following another lead, without (much) expectation. I'm keeping my goals low, but I have a number in mind, a monetary value on Mable's head, the other side of my Etsy shop. 

 

The Philosophy

Can a cartoon have a philosophy? Can a turtle, or an earth worm? I can't possibly explain why Mable's friends are animals. And a rock. I don't know where those ideas came from, they just arrived. The creative process is largely mystery, reflective, in essence, of life itself. 

Many of these cartoons descend directly from real-life conversations. Many are visual, slanted expressions of the conversations in my head. And many, well, I honestly don't know where they come from. They just arrive. But, nearing cliche, the practiced hand, the readied hand, receives the prompting. I find the more creative I am, the more creative I am. 

I've loved hearing how much people enjoy Mable's perspective on life, her humor. I love the sound of laughter. Life is difficult, period. No one truly has it easy. Money and circumstance aside, we all have ourselves to contend with, our weaknesses, our insecurities, flaws and demons. That's one universal binder. The other? Laughter. As Tim says, often, if we create our lives, which we do, the big questions eternal enigmas, then why not create a good one?

 

"A day without laughter is a day wasted."

                           - Charlie Chaplin

 

The Be

I have so many ideas for Miss Mable, more cartoons, mediums for her humor...I won't even tease you with concrete goods. But know that I am so excited to have her out there, re-born into her own entity, like that calendar a few years back, it seems she has always wanted to be her own. I hope you will check her out on Etsy, LIKE her page on Facebook, and peruse new and old favorite cartoons on her blog. Most of all, I hope you get a chuckle, a feel good vibe, a simple smile from Brave Mable. She feels it is her destiny to provide it. We don't know where we're going, but we might as well have fun getting there.

 

mad men, aren't we all

So I'm only four years behind, but I've finally discovered Mad Men, and I am hooked. Thank you, Netflix for finally streaming the AMC series that has won the Emmy for Best Drama four years in a row. I'm obsessed.

Why I love this show:

Phenomenal writing, excellent casting, a historical fiction of a time before me, and unarguably pivotal in setting the stage for 'my time', for fearlessly exploring the depths of the human condition, and because the writers unveil characters and plot like a visual literary work, a Jonathon Franzen novel on screen. 

In case you are unfamiliar with Mad Men - it's set in the late 1960's in New York City, centered around an advertising firm on Madison Avenue. The advertising executives are referred to as Mad Men, a nickname they gave themselves.

The show has introduced me to a world I find fascinating and jarring, a recent era of American history that's just history enough to seem like a foreign land to my generation. The sexism of the late 1960's, the drinking (two martini lunches, cocktails in the office at four), the smoking - my God everyone smokes, especially mothers and pregnant women - an office behavior that no longer exists, not remotely, not without considerable consequences, are so different from my adult experiences that a make-believe element of fiction prevails, wound around factual elements, allowing me to become completely gripped by the show. I finished watching season 1 last night, and lacking discipline, stayed up late again and watched the first two episodes of season 2. I'm seriously considering clearing my week so I can keep watching until the end. 

And of course I have a serious crush on Don Draper. Who is John Galt? Who is Don Draper? Handsome, sexy, cool, witty, clever, unfaithful, fallible, and incredibly mysterious. But we discover little by little who Don Draper is, and on the side, we learn about several other characters as well, where they come from, who their families are, what motivates them to make the decisions they make. Like following Jay Gatsby and Larry Darrell, we read (or in this case, watch) to understand who the man is by where he came from and who the man will be by where he's going. A quote from a an episode I saw last night, an old Japanese saying - "a man is whatever room he is in."

We are who we are today, not yesterday. Our conditions change, we change.

Novelists have been trying to describe the human condition for centuries. Every short story represents some tiny piece of the puzzle, a glimpse. Each poem alights on a feeling of existence, a polaroid of the human experience. 17,000 years ago humans painted the inside walls of caves with animals and symbols and figures, conveying what life was like on planet earth then. I love Mad Men because of it's beautifully executed display of the human condition in that pivotal decade. 

What does it mean to be human? Our basic needs haven't changed - food, shelter, clothing, relative security, a desire to love and be loved, a sense of purpose. But certainly the conditions of our condition has changed. In the last 17,000 years? We have so little information to make any relative comparisons. From 1968 to today? Still modern with modern ailments - alcohol abuse, ignorance in the face of persuasion (are advertisements our enemy?), unfaithfulness in marriage, general lack of character. But our attitudes have changed so much that the human condition has changed, in particulars. 

Sexism is no longer tolerated. No one smokes without the distinct awareness that it's just about the most harmful vice, this side of meth, one can carry - and we don't smoke in the office. Most people get fired for showing up to work drunk. Men don't wear hats. Women wear slacks. It's no longer taboo to divorce. In a recentAtlantic Monthly issue, an article on the single American woman states that only 22 percent of females of the Millennial generation are married (compared to 1960 when more than half of 18 to 29 year olds had already wedded), outlines reasons why, and an argument for, remaining single. That idea seems to have just been emerging in the sixties. Not all the secretaries on the show are working in the city in order to find a husband.

But does the change in cultural attitude really change the circumstances of the human condition? Are our basic needs so easily met that our goals and desires have evolved? Or devolved? Peggy, one of the more complicated characters, though all Mad Men characters are complex, faulted characters, true humans with dark human battles, says on a date with an old friend from Bay Ridge Brooklyn, "those people, in Manhattan, they are better than us, because they want things they've never even seen." 

That is New York. That is the modern American condition. 

In early 1968 Kenny Rogers and the First Edition released the single, "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)". Our consciousness changes daily, by the hour. Our condition is interdependent on our perspective and perception of the events and environment around us. The cultural changes in this country in the last forty years has collectively changed our consciousness. And our human condition. With television like Mad Men, we can see what life, the condition, was like then. With novels like Franzen's The Corrections, infants and yet-to-be's can read what it was like to be an adult today. And somewhere buried in the dialogue and stage directions are clues on how to live, how to get along, how to be happy, how to be, or not to be, human.