AND PEOPLE MUST HAVE PUDDINGS

AND PEOPLE MUST HAVE PUDDINGS. "Emily Dickinson's Letters", by Thomas Wentworth Higginson -- (pg.9), text pub. Atlantic Monthly, October, 1891:

[...] At last, after many postponements, on August 16, 1870, I found myself face to face with my hitherto unseen correspondent. It was at her father’s house, one of those large, square, brick mansions so familiar in our older New England towns, surrounded by trees and blossoming shrubs without, and within exquisitely neat, cool, spacious, and fragrant with flowers. After a little delay, I heard an extremely faint and pattering footstep like that of a child, in the hall, and in glided, almost noiselessly, a plain, shy little person, the face without a single good feature, but with eyes, as she herself said, "like the sherry the guest leaves in the glass," and with smooth bands of reddish chestnut hair. She had a quaint and nun-like look, as if she might be a German canoness of some religious order, whose prescribed garb was white piqué, with a blue net worsted shawl. She came toward me with two day-lilies, which she put in a childlike way into my hand, saying softly, under her breath, "These are my introduction," and adding, also, under her breath, in childlike fashion, "Forgive me if I am frightened; I never see strangers, and hardly know what I say." But soon she began to talk, and thenceforward continued almost constantly; pausing sometimes to beg that I would talk instead, but readily recommencing when I evaded. There was not a trace of affectation in all this; she seemed to speak absolutely for her own relief, and wholly without watching its effect on her hearer. Led on by me, she told much about her early life [...] After the first book she thought in ecstasy, "This, then, is a book, and there are more of them." But she did not find so many as she expected, for she afterwards said to me, "When I lost the use of my eyes, it was a comfort to think that there were so few real books that I could easily find one to read me all of them." Afterwards, when she regained her eyes, she read Shakespeare, and thought to herself, "Why is any other book needed?"

She went on talking constantly and saying, in the midst of narrative, things quaint and aphoristic. "Is it oblivion or absorption when things pass from our minds?" "Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it." "I find ecstacy in living; the mere sense of living is joy enough." When I asked her if she never felt any want of employment, not going off the grounds and rarely seeing a visitor, she answered, "I never thought of conceiving that I could ever have the slightest approach to such a want in all future time;" and then added, after a pause, "I feel that I have not expressed myself strongly enough," although it seemed to me that she had. She told me of her household occupations, that she made all their bread, because her father liked only hers; then saying shyly, "And people must have puddings," this very timidly and suggestively, as if they were meteors or comets. Interspersed with these confidences came phrases so emphasized as to seem the very wantonness of over-statement, as if she pleased herself with putting into words what the most extravagant might possibly think without saying, as thus: "How do most people live without any thoughts? There are many people in the world, -- you must have noticed them in the street, -- how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?" Or this crowning extravaganza: "If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?"

I have tried to describe her just as she was, with the aid of notes taken at the time; but this interview left our relation very much what it was before; -- on my side an interest that was strong and even affectionate, but not based on any thorough comprehension; and on her side a hope, always rather baffled, that I should afford some aid in solving her abstruse problem of life.

The impression undoubtedly made on me was that of an excess of tension, and of an abnormal life. Perhaps in time I could have got beyond that somewhat overstrained relation which not my will, but her needs, had forced upon us. Certainly I should have been most glad to bring it down to the level of simple truth and every-day comradeship; but it was not altogether easy. She was much too enigmatical a being for me to solve in an hour’s interview, and an instinct told me that the slightest attempt at direct cross-examination would make her withdraw into her shell; I could only sit still and watch, as one does in the woods; I must name my bird without a gun, as recommended by Emerson. Under this necessity I had no opportunity to see that human and humorous side of her which is strongly emphasized by her nearer friends, and which shows itself in her quaint and unique description of a rural burglary, contained in the volume of her poems. Hence, even her letters to me show her mainly on her exaltée side; and should a volume of her correspondence ever be printed, it is very desirable that it should contain some of her letters to friends of closer and more familiar intimacy.

I've read thousands of cover letters, which is only a fraction of what anyone who has worked as a real editor consistently over the years has seen, but not one quite like Emily Dickinson's:

[...] It seems to be the opinion of those who have examined her accessible correspondence most widely, that no other letters bring us quite so intimately near to the peculiar quality and aroma of her nature; and it has been urged upon me very strongly that her readers have the right to know something more of this gifted and most interesting woman.

On April 16, 1862, I took from the post-office in Worcester, Mass., where I was then living, the following letter: --

MR. HIGGINSON, -- Are you too deeply occupied to say if my verse is alive?

The mind is so near itself it cannot see distinctly, and I have none to ask.

Should you think it breathed, and had you the leisure to tell me, I should feel quick gratitude.

If I make the mistake, that you dared to tell me would give me sincerer honor toward you.

I inclose my name, asking you, if you please, sir, to tell me what is true?

That you will not betray me it is needless to ask, since honor is it's own pawn.

Now that's an interesting cover letter.

Not an approach I'd recommend to you if you're not Emily Dickinson, mind, but.

Read The Rest Scale: 5 out of 5 for beauty and truth, which are always timely.

On an even more poetic note: since people have asked, I made this appointment, the soonest they could give me, last Monday:

Appointment Details:
Office: OAKLAND
Location: 5300 CLAREMONT AVE
OAKLAND, CA
Date: Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Time: 3:00 PM
Purpose: Apply for, replace or renew a driver license, identification card or instruction permit. Written exams will NOT be administered after 4:30 PM.
Name(s): GARY FARBER

Interesting to see the California budget SNAFU play out in front of one's eyes.

Colorado, North Carolina, and NY, in my experience in the last twenty years, have gotten me in and out the door for a State ID (I don't drive, remember? Born New Yorker and Brooklynite, not to mention too broke to ever own a car), walk in, walk out, no appointment, in between ten to fifteeen minutes each time.

It's not as if these are states without their own fiscal problems, be it TABOR, or huge budget cuts, or the dysfunction of the New York State legislature.

But it's what I expected from California government, alas. Nowadays.

No matter, but it's the sort of bottleneck that bottlenecks. It's difficult to get medical treatment without proving you're a resident, and in some cases they want a picture official ID, not just a piece of mail you've received.

Wished I'd remembered to register to vote, when I got my Berkeley library card (even though I live one half block into Oakland, legally, but not according to most maps!), on my first day out, but momentarily forgot; turns out you can't register to vote online here, either: you have to print out the PDF on your non-existent printer, and snail mail it. Jeepers, how 20th.

Oh, and this is the first state, unless I'm misremembering, which is entirely possible, I've ever been in where they demand A FINGERPRINT.

At least it isn't RFIDed.

I think.

Now, from Facebook -- and, yes, I know we've gone all personal journally of late, but, hey, life is change, and I hope to get back to more familiar blogging of externalities Real Soon Now -- this, for all my adoring fans:

Bestest day yet as Californian!

Allegory leaps into lap to share fireplace inspection; Shackleton joins. Ally drapes my left leg and arm, facing the fire; Ton, diagonally, half over my lap and right arm, resting his ass on Ally's rear end, also a good warmer. 1/2 hr. Then: Racoon Defense!

Later, Ally visits my room, and now *she's* asleep on my bed. Photos! Success! Win Win Win!

I haz catz that can share.

And:

Admittedly, to achieve the latter, I had to shut my door so Ally and I could have Alone Time, otherwise Ton, the 4 year-old boy would have come in, being the alpha cat, and more traumatized 14-year-old Ally would have skedaddled immediately.

But I got Ally comfy immediately, and thus.

After enough time, I opened the door, and sure enough, Ton came in shortly after, to take what he believes is his bed.

But Ally now has three separate improvised cat beds in her, well, two favorite locations; the other was an option we'll see if she makes use of.

Eventually, Racoon Story.

And:

The cats are happy, more has been unpacked, and sorted, I have two decent hoodies now, and one raggedy one, the house is neater and cleaner than when I got here, I'm now totally comfortable inside the house as I'm going to be, absent some reconstruction, and achieved feeling realy Safe inside in the past week.

It took me until early this week to finally get used to having Eternal Girl staring at her computer, facing her window, facing the kitchen windows here, where there are no blinds or drapes, so that one is on display almost whenever in the kitchen, because Eternal Girl is almost always there, but I'm finally now not just comfy with it, but amused.

It's like having free television, once I got comfortable with the notion, and realized all I had to do was act like I was on an urban street: we polite ignore the fact that we're not making eye contact, despite being something like 30 feet away, and she's directly staring at her computer and this kitchen, whenever she's in her room.

Which, incidentally, she also leaves the light on for all day and all night when she does go out. Tsk.

As I said: free televison.

But the cats are endlessly more entertaining. It's been great to finally have a chance to study their movements almost as much as I want, within my mobility limits.

I've always found it curious that a lot of people think cats can't be trained; it's perfectly easy, really, if the cat hasn't been psychotically traumatized. All it takes is enough time, care, attention, and some knowledge of elementary psychology, as a rule.

To be sure, I'm no expert, and am probably vastly over-generalizing to a degree I can't support.

I probably shouldn't have found B. F. Skinner so fascinating when I was 7-9 or so.

But the end result seems to be pretty happy cats. I have video of a bit, and will have more, eventually. (Mostly now I'm leaving selecting photos and editing and posting video for The Future -- but I've been taking some.)

I did sound checks myself to verify how loud music could or couldn't be heard from either downstairs' sound system, and the speakers in my bedroom, at all points outside the house, finally, only a couple of days ago, the first time I could really make it fully around the outside of the house and backyard, and the answer is: pretty loudly.

I was trying to remember the last time I felt remotely comfortable using speakers, rather than headphones, and it was 2001. And those were shitty little computer speakers.

Before that, I'd play speakers low in my own NYC apartments, but only sporadically, and quietly.

Much to rediscover, or do for the first time.

I kinda hope the ObWi happening happens, and I can make it, as I'm really looking forward to the chance to be more social, within my current limits, and I'm really looking forward to whatever will be my third gathering with more than a single person since 1999.

Regardless, I'm sure there will be many other opportunities, one way or another.

I think I'll write up a list of what I can and can't do, subject to revision as necessary, though, as boilerplate; it seems it's apt to save time, at least on my part.

Perhaps to come: more Eternal Girl. Studies In Cats. Oh, the thrills.

(Doug warned me of the racoons; major precautions designed into the system. But my team was bravehearted and stout, and showed no fear whatever!)

But also, not eternally in the distance, back to policy, politics, science, sociology, neurology, history, and the rest of the package that changes, yet stays the same, yet changes.

Always more to come. That's the good part.

ADDENDUM, 12/06/10, 7:55 a.m.: Another $5 subscription cancelled. 4 are currently in broken condition, which will either be fixed or not, past experience teaches; probably 2-3 out of 4 will be cancellations.

I'm fine financially for the moment, if you count still needing to spend a couple of hundred bucks or more, and wanting my bank account to recover at least another $500 or so, to get back to where it was when I left Raleigh.

I still have no idea where I'll be living after August, or how other than subscriptions and donations, so far. Updates to come, as always. I'll have more idea by April, May, and June, I should hope. First option will be to try to find a tolerable place to rent near here. Whether that's possible: ? But that's a future problem, for now.

Not the far future.

UPDATE, 12.06.10, 7:40 p.m.: Sometime between ~2 p.m. and 5 p.m. EG put up a curtain/drape over her window. I guess she wasn't used to it, either.

Also, if you want to reach me, be sure to use the gary underscore farber at yahoo dot com address. I don't make any guarantees as to how frequently I'll be checking it, beyond every few days (though probably more frequently, but maybe not), and no guarantees as to responding.

Specifically, don't count on reaching me via Facebook, expecting me to see what you read on Facebook, or that I'm checking Facebook in the slightest, until I tell you otherwise here.

You might be able to. That's all I would say. I wouldn't count on that, if I were you.

Use my real email address, or if you prefer and have it, my gmail address.

If possible, I truly prefer plain text email.

And right now that makes a significant difference to me.

Thanks.

Addendum, 12.07.10, 3:37 a.m.: Thanks, Laurie Toby Edison and Debbie Notkin. Smart and wise as ever.

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