The second dose of the covid vaccine mid-week rendered us pretty sluggish until Friday, although we still managed our daily walks, if a bit more slowly than usual.
The Karamazov reading group called an unplanned break, which was fortuitous for me: Over the weekend, I read Book Ten in anticipation of our next meeting and may end up finishing the book this week, as it has become harder to set aside.
My music practice routine took a hit — every bone in my body seemed to ache on Thursday— but because I am not participating in the upcoming recital, I cut myself some slack. I could blame the shot, but really, this was just a sit and stare week. And that’s okay.
We planted daffodil bulbs years ago, but I think these are the first blooms. Ordinarily, I don’t care for this variety, but today they seem simply splendid.
Attendance in the book group picked up after the holiday weekend, so I am hopeful that at least five readers (maybe more?) will make it the end of this journey. This week, we will discuss Book IX.
Book V: Pro and Contra Chapter III: The Brothers Make Friends Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is honest and straightforward. I’ve led the conversation to my despair, and the more stupidly I have presented it, the better for me.
Book VI: The Russian Monk Chapter I: Father Zossima and His Visitors The thing is so simple that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words, for fear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is! One who does not believe in God will not believe in God’s people. He who believes in God’s people will see His Holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our atheists, who have torn themselves away from their native soil.
Chapter II: The Duel He had said, “Mother, my little heart, in truth we are each responsible to all for all, it’s only that men don’t know this. If they knew it, the world would be a paradise at once.”
My reading month is not going exactly as I had planned: I signed up for three book talks after the month was already underway, and two library holds came in. That’s all right; change is fine.
By the time we finished our chores, errands, and late lunch on Saturday, it was raining steadily, so we had the two-mile loop at the state park to ourselves — unheard of on the weekend. We saw cormorants, a teal, an American coot, a great blue heron, and several sandhill cranes.
This weekend, I plan to finish Joyce Carol Oates’ latest short story collection and Book Eight of The Brothers Karamazov. (Book group participation has been dwindling, but this week’s meeting, the seventh, was jarring: For the first fifteen minutes, it was only the two moderators and yours truly. Eventually, two other readers logged in, but one left early.) I have pulled a few other books from the shelves, but I’m not yet ready to commit to a plan.
Between March 14 and the end of the month, I read eleven books, bringing my year-to-date total to fifty-nine.
As part of my effort to reread all of Shakespeare’s plays in 2021, I tackled:
■ Love’s Labour’s Lost (William Shakespeare; 1598. Drama.) ■ Romeo and Juliet (William Shakespeare; 1597. Drama.) RFS ■ A Midsummer Night’s Dream (William Shakespeare; 1596. Drama.) This time through I was struck by the rages into which Capulet and Egeus fly when confronted with the preferences of their respective daughters. Apparently, each would prefer a dead daughter to one with agency.
CAPULET: But, as you will not wed, I’ll pardon you: Graze where you will you shall not house with me: Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend; And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good: Trust to’t, bethink you; I’ll not be forsworn.
EGEUS: Full of vexation come I, with complaint Against my child, my daughter Hermia. Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, This man hath my consent to marry her. Stand forth, Lysander: and my gracious duke, This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child; Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes, And interchanged love-tokens with my child: Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung, With feigning voice verses of feigning love, And stolen the impression of her fantasy With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits, Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth: With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart, Turn’d her obedience, which is due to me, To stubborn harshness: and, my gracious duke, Be it so she; will not here before your grace Consent to marry with Demetrius, I beg the ancient privilege of Athens, As she is mine, I may dispose of her: Which shall be either to this gentleman Or to her death, according to our law Immediately provided in that case.
■ The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (Sherman Alexie; 2007. Fiction.) Following Tommy Orange’s excellent There There, I browsed my shelves for other works by Native American writers.
■ Octavia Butler’s Kindred: A Graphic Novel Adaptation (Damian Duffy; 2017. Fiction.) A follow-up to Butler’s novel.
■ The Memory Police (Yoko Ogawa; 2019 (1994). Fiction.) Years ago, I read and loved Ogawa’s The Housekeeper and the Professor, which is also concerned with the nature of memory. This is just as wonderful. Reviews here and here.
■ Olive, Again (Elizabeth Strout; 2019. Fiction.) No, it is not as good as Olive Kitteridge, but it is a terrific book.
■ Pursuit (Joyce Carol Oates; 2019. Fiction.) While awaiting my copy of The (Other) You, I pulled this slim thriller from the Oates collection. The Chicago Humanities Festival hosted a talk with the author on March 25, archived here.
■ The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Kate DiCamillo; 2006. Fiction.) Gorgeously illustrated by Bagram Ibatoulline, this was a lovely, if bittersweet, story.
■ Drawing Lines: An Anthology of Women Cartoonists (2021. (First published in 2006, as Sexy Chix.) Graphic fiction.) Picked it up for the JCO content.
■ Being Logical: A Guide to Good Thinking (D.Q. McInerny May; 2004. Non-fiction.) Think The Elements of Style for logic.
When the last gray-white mounds melted, we swapped snow shovels for yard tools in order to rake and dethatch the lawn, pull leaves from beneath bushes, scrub squirrel baffles, and scrape winter seed from beneath the feeders. The house wash team scheduled our roof and hardscape cleaning, taking advantage of the sun and warm temperatures earlier this month. Later this year, the house will be painted. The color selection process, which began in earnest just after the winter holiday, alternately interested and irritated me, so our painter paired us with a knowledgeable consultant, after which, I promptly selected the color I had chosen back in January. I do not recall my parents or the parents of my friends washing their roofs or agonizing over shades of paint. Did they? I was a terrifyingly observant child who grew into an adult with a terrifyingly reliable memory. I do not think they did. They didn’t wash roofs. And while they may have debated light or dark blue, green or gray, they were not confronted with an infinite crayon box of shades. They had their troubles, our parents did, but roof washing and “greige” were not among them.
Why haven’t I been reading more? Between walks in the neighborhood, exercise videos, and the stationary bike, I move two or more hours daily. Previously, I read while on the bike, though, and lately, I’ve been talking with my daughters, listening to the news, or watching a show (recently, Olive Kitteridge and Allen v. Farrow).
And it’s not just reading. My flute practice schedule has also been somewhat inconsistent. My plan calls for 90 to 100 minutes daily; I have been doing 60. My current selections are wonderful, and my tone quality has improved markedly over the last six months. I’m nearly ready to record my contribution to the virtual spring recital, Joachim Andersen’s Scherzino. But I feel I’ve done enough once I’ve prepared for my weekly lesson.
It’s something about March, I think. A restlessness, maybe. The sort that leads to misguided romance — or spring cleaning. Washing the windows and screens. Scouring the woodwork. Scrubbing the bathroom walls. Reviewing the budget. Determining garden purchases.
March also lends itself to more standing and staring than, say, June or November.
When I stand and stare, I think about what L. asked in the last meeting of our book group — How do we gauge the sincerity of Fyodor’s various pronouncements about his own character? — and my own comments about the role of women in this complicated novel. (Dostoyevsky’s is not a particularly charitable view, is it?) I remember the rituals and rhythms that were the hallmarks of Marches past, like ordering praying mantis egg cases and looking for signs of spring in the neighborhood and nearby conservation areas. I recall that March signals the conclusion of winter swim season, a cycle that defined our family’s calendar from 2004 until 2016. No evening practices, no weekends at meets for nearly two months. Bliss. I watch the dog across the street. Does the neighbor know he’s having hip trouble? I notice the juncos whose arrival each fall and departure each spring inspires a blend of sorrow and delight that is a close cousin to the caressing ache I experience when looking at baby photos of my children. What is that feeling? The acknowledgment of time’s passage, yes, but I taste a pinch of something else. Is that… regret? No, not exactly. Fear? No. It’s… what is it? I consider my daughter’s observation that the tone of the piece she will illustrate is not quite right. How will I rewrite it? I’ve been stymied for months. Is this how creative projects die? I play scales in my head; rather, I say them in my head, around the circle and back. Again. Again. Again. And again. Learning music as an adult is hard work: repetition until it becomes (if it ever becomes) part of you.
Nerdishly 