Fragment: Tatouage

I can't stop thinking about tattoos. I can still smell the ink, even though my newest one is a few months old. My industrial-size jar of Aquaphor sits in the bathroom and leers at me. My favorite artists' business cards live on my fridge, and wink every time I go out the door. Any kind of buzzing noise evokes a tattoo shop for me. (There are electric saws and lawnmowers outside my window as I write that both pull out the feeling. The quickening pulse, the impending sensation, the scent of ink.)

Healing Sources

From my horoscope email: "What are the sources that heal and nourish you? Where do you go to renew yourself? Who are the people and animals that treat you the best and are most likely to boost your energy? I suggest that in the coming week you give special attention to these founts of love and beauty. Treat them with the respect and reverence they deserve. Express your gratitude and bestow blessings on them." 

 I am nourished by strenuous movement, most of the time, but also, sometimes, by being still. Touch heals me, and laughter. Really good words put in a wonderful order. Really good notes and sounds and voices. 

What are your healing sources?

Scarlett O'Hara, Grief Counselor

I wrote this before going to my mom's to tackle the house. Now that we're in the during/after phase, I've got more thoughts, but I wanted to share this.

*

Now that I am staring down the packing up of my dead mother's things and the selling of her house, a task that's petrified me since the beginning of her illness, The house tasks glom together into what feels like an insurmountable mass, and that mass sometimes shines, mirage-like and as falsely, as worse than her death.

It's not.

Nothing in my life has been worse than her death, except the fact of the wall it put her behind, and the fact that I can't break it down.

But it's a hard task. It'll be like cleaning out her office times who knows what. I don't really want to think about it. So I'm not. Like the formerly unseen grief counselor Scarlett O'Hara, I'll think about it tomorrow. Another day.

Dwelling on it won't really help me handle it better, I don't think. I'm sure I dwelled the last time we went there, and that time, I utterly fell apart. I fell apart in a way I didn't in the days after her death. It felt like the house itself was suffocating me. Being there without her was worse than being haunted - it was utterly empty, except when it wasn't, and those two feelings alternated with me between them like a buffeted sapling.

There's no sense in being buffered more than you already are if you can avoid it.

Not thinking about things was a tactic I used when she was sick, too, though sometimes I'm not sure I realized it. Looking back at it now, I didn't spend a ton of time worrying about what would happen (or at least not putting the fear into thoughts or words). I focused on hoping, and when I wasn't focused on hoping, I was focused on doing. Taking buses to be with her. Living in yoga pants in her room in the ICU. Being forced by well-meaning nurses and family and sometimes Mom herself to go outside.

I thought about everything else another day. Today, and tomorrow.

Beauty Wellness Wisdom (Out of the Mouths of Babes)

Last week I was honored to represent a teacher of mine at a really interesting event that's gotten my thoughts churning and creativity flowing. Twice a year, ABC Carpet and Home does a Beauty, Wellness, and Wisdom event that "celebrate[s] holistic beauty, health, wellbeing, wisdom, and wonder — always relevant topics, but particularly apropos in the context of the season of renewal." I offered a writing workshop centered on the concept of felt sense. Felt sense, rooted in the work of psychotherapist Eugene Gendlin, is complex and fascinating way of accessing the deeper parts of creativity. My professor and mentor, Sondra Perl, developed a series of writing guidelines out of Gendlin's work, and I'm currently adapting it for a creativity and movement context.

The most powerful moment of the afternoon came right at the end. I had also been asked, in my capacity as a yoga teacher, to lead a yogic meditation to close out the day. I knew the space would be filled with chairs, so I had a series of open standing poses planned, and some dharma talk at the ready. Just as I was taking the stage, a small boy appeared at my elbow, and the producer said, "This is F. Is it okay if he comes with you? He'd like to demonstrate the poses." The only possible answer was yes - I love kids, and I was excited to see how his energy would affect the energy in the room. I wasn't prepared for how much.

F stood next to me and carefully mimicked my movements, holding his mic just as I held mine. We moved the group through a gentle series of asana, from half moon to forward fold and back up again to take it to the other side. Dharma talking is one of my favorite parts of teaching yoga, and I started mine with the intention to close out the session on the notes the whole day had been tapping: beauty, wisdom, wellness, wholeness, love, integrity.

Then F looked up at me and asked, "Can I say something?" He asked everyone to hold out their arms like wings, and led them through one of the more powerful guided meditations I've had the pleasure to hear. It was affecting and beautiful, and I am very proud of myself for not sobbing in front of everyone.

Thank you, F.

(More From A) Real Brooklynite on Girls: Whitewashing and Books

You may have seen my thoughts on "Girls" before. I have many more thoughts that I am trying to tie together into some sort of narrative coherent enough for at least an article. I suspect that Hannah's impending move will provide lots more thought fodder next season. (What details will the show get wrong, one wonders?)

"Girls" is set in an otherworldly Brooklyn. The borough has been fictionalized out of its multi-cultural, socioeconomically diverse reality, (seemingly) solely populated by white, trust funded hipsters. Much has been written on these dynamics and their validity, and, indeed, they underpin the organizing principle of this volume. I started watching the show really angry about the lack of diversity until I realized what story Dunham is trying to tell: tales of a very inward-focused tribe. The main Girls aren't afraid of people of color. They don't know any. They aren't really interested in other white people, either - they're the navel-gazingest characters I've seen on TV since, I don't know, Seinfeld. In connection with this, what interests me is how these and other identity-focused questions impact the curious literary sensibility of the show, one that molds itself out of odd social dynamics, tribal modes of discourse, and an almost bookless world.

Midway through the third season, in a trajectory marked by increasing vapidity and hostility among the Brooklyn trust fund hipsters, Hannah and Shoshanna evoke literature and literary thinking in the middle of a drag-out fight. In response to being called "unstimulating" by Hannah, Shoshanna snorts, "What is this, a Jane Austen novel?" (She goes on to snort, "I'm so fucking sick of all of you.") The context of the argument is (fictional) years of resentment (played out in actual seasons), and it comes out in the fight in different versions of what each character says another "always does." Writing becomes a device on the show - the characters love hearing themselves put words together in a formalized speech.

I am interested in considering representations of literature and thinking on the show. How does the trope of the high culture novel (and maybe other literary tropes) pushes back against the "lower culture" aspects of the girls' lives? How does the show's depiction of life impact its art and art appreciation? How do the girls work out their own anxieties relating to thought and education and reading? How does the trope of the Jane Austen novel both articulate and press back against the world Dunham and her actors are creating? (Preliminary answers: through class/privilege, and through race.)

The Economy of Adaptation (Scattered Thoughts in Death in Venice)

One could write a whole paper on the economics of adaptations, but I'm interested in the other meaning of the word - how do adaptations get transferred from original text to adapted text and in that, how is the original "meaning" (a concept I'll problematize later) transferred?

I think that novellas, in their economy of style, could seem to require more of their content to be included in an adaptation. Part of that is due to how we read: it's easier to hold onto descriptive phrases and small details in a book that has fewer of them (or even fewer words). Sparer prose is easier to remember but harder to film, in part, I'd like to suggest, because each word's role is deeper (not more important) than those in a longer work. By deeper, I mean that the overall sheen of a short work is more impacted by a given word than in a longer work.

Let's take some phrases from Mann's Death in Venice (trans. Michael Henry Heim). His lengthy description of Aschenbach at the beginning of the book is easily cast: just find (or adapt, through makeup and camera angles) an actor who looks the part and can also play it. However, take a detail like one about the hotel manager: "a short, quiet, obsequiously courteous man"(42). Short is easily cast. Obsequiously courteous may not be so easily directed, especially for such a small role. (I can imagine it being overdone, but it's harder to imagine it being as subtly struck as Mann's description.) Maybe I'd have an easier time of this if I were a better actor myself?) Even more complex is this description of the gondolier: " A "lightweight" outfit (52) is more easily portrayed than a "washable" one (ibid.).

This is a text of introspection more than action. There isn't even any dialogue until a third of the way through. In that vein and in contrast to what I've been arguing, the beach scene on 54-55 is written like a painting. It's easily reproduced, almost as through Mann were himself a set dresser, until Aschenbach starts musing on the sea and the "deep-seated reasons" that he loves it (55). I'm not sure that a voiceover would do any of the musings justice, although that's the easy solution to the problem I'm setting up.

One other complication that Mann's book throws in is that of translation. Michael Cunningham's introduction to the Heim translated edition (Ecco, 2004) foregrounds the issue of translation right away. He says that fiction in particular in "an ongoing process of translation" (vii) -- and his point that Aschenbach changes in the new Heim translation.

Mann himself offers something of an answer to my conundrum. In describing Tadzio and Aschenbach's preoccupation with watching him, Mann has Aschenbach say, "What discipline, what precision of thought was conveyed by that tall, youthfully perfect physique!" (81) and "he longed to work in Tadzio's presence, to model his writing on the boy's physique" (85).

A Tattoo Meditation

I got my fourth tattoo this weekend. It was my largest (size of a face), longest (two hours), most complexly designed (lots of little lines running over differently sized curves), and most intense (on ribs and touching hips).

Getting a tattoo is so meditative, despite its intensity (and I don't call the feeling pain - it doesn't operate on me the way that pain does). I kept very still, didn't clench my toes or fists, and barely had any muscle spasms (something that did happen with my first hip tattoo). I breathed into any discomfort, and tried to still my thoughts. I imagined my body moving up to the needle instead of it moving down into me - when I mentioned it, my artist concurred that that really works. I turned on my yoga teaching mindset and thought about which bandhas I was engaging. I traced the sensations like a map across my hip and rips, trying to determine where it felt better (I think my back ribs felt best, with hip and front ribs coming in as more intense). I also noticed the times when I was wrong about where the needle actually was. I bathed in the buzz and the smell of the ink.

I didn't think twice about wandering through the shop with my shirt hiked up (which, to be fair, I don't think twice about in kickboxing, either). I walked barefoot (same). What I said, when the artist and my friend asked about how I felt, was that I was okay. And I was. When it got tough, that moment ended, often replaced by a good moment. Sometimes just letting my gaze unravel its focus was helpful. Sometimes I curled one set of toes. I though about my mom, my ex-boyfriends, my friends, my cat, my homework. I got Writing Ideas. I thought about all the things the tat and I would experience together. I took in as much of the experience as I could, and when I left, I felt a high like the one I got after my first (fifteen minute) tat.