The Fountainhead

Both men disliked Roark. He was usually disliked, from the first sight of his face, anywhere he went. His face was closed like the door of a safety vault; things locked in safety vaults are valuable; men did not care to feel that. He was a cold, disquieting presence in the room; his presence had a strange quality: it made itself felt and yet it made them feel that he was not there; or perhaps that he was and they weren't (52). 

Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Love the simile of Roark's face to the door of a safety vault. You would need a key to open it, or you would need to break the door. 

My goal is to get to page 315 where Jack left off. It's the last fold in the book. I'm on page 61. 

Summer: It just wasn't me that you were right about.

500 Days of Summer

Jane Addams

I do not believe that women are better than men. We have not wrecked railroads, nor corrupted legislature, nor done many unholy things that men have done; but then we must remember that we have not had the chance.

Jane Addams

For Chris

Where has that old friend gone
Lost in a February song
Tell him it won't be long
Til he opens his eyes, opens his eyes

Where is that simple day
Before colors broke into shades
And how did I ever fade
Into this life, into this life

And I never want to let you down
Forgive me if I slip away
When all that I've known is lost and found
I promise you I, I'll come back to you one day

Morning is waking up
And sometimes it's more than just enough
When all that you need to love
Is in front of your eyes
It's in front of your eyes

And I never want to let you down
Forgive me if I slip away
Sometimes it's hard to find the ground
Cause I keep on falling as I try to get away
From this crazy world

And I never want to let you down
Forgive me if I slip away
When all that I've known is lost and found
I promise you I, I'll come back to you one day

Where has that old friend gone
Lost in a February song
Tell him it won't be long
Til he opens his eyes
Opens his eyes

Josh Groban, "February Song"

I knew what it meant when I heard it. When I read the words. When I told daddy, Daddy,  this song is for someone lost. He must have died in February. And then last year when I lost Chris in February I understood what it meant for real.

Dear Chris, this is the day I cried for you in the car and on the bed staring into the ceiling until I fell asleep and when I woke up, nothing felt different because you were still dead and I was still alive. But I want to wake up with a dream of you. An uncalled memory of you. You were really the only close guy friend I had. I don't know what I meant to you, but you mean so much to me. Thank you for being in my life. I am fortunate to have known you for the few years I knew you. And I know this is a letter without an address. And I know you can't read a letter without an address, but Chris, I want to revive you in this ink. Can I? Annie Dillard said, "write as if you're dying." For the life of you will I write to my death. I remember you showing your Notre Dame letter to me in the science wing hallway and you were smiling with this happiness I would only come to know a year later when I would get my own. Thank you for sharing your smile with me. I could go on and tell you too late of the things I should have thanked you for. I have no picture of us together. I didn't give you much save for the hugs and laughter. You have given me so much--tears, yes, in thinking of you, in missing you--but you have given me gratitude for the little things in life that matter. I wish I could write better than this for you. It'll sound so strange but I am thankful for your death as much as your life. I don't know--I don't know if you or anyone would understand what I just wrote. But it's true. That Thursday when I saw you last, I wish I spent more time with you. I wish I hugged you longer. If I had known, I wanted to say, "Please don't die." I wish I could have stopped that train for you. Do you know what is stranger? Yesterday at the memorial service I didn't cry. I don't know if that was right or brave. Perhaps it was wrong and cowardly. Or even indifferent. But Chris, this is my fear. I am afraid that I am forgetting the fear of forgetting you. Because I don't want to forget you. I am afraid I moved on too fast. I want to hold on to the tears for you. I know it's okay to cry. I don't know if it's okay not to. I want you to come back, come to school tomorrow as an alum. Call my name at the end of the hallway so I can turn around and see you, run to you and give you a flying hug. Please? Because I would like to call your name back at the end of the hallway for the sake that you are standing there. Instead here I am, standing for you. 

500 Days of Summer

Summer: I just... I just woke up one day and I knew.

Tom: Knew what?

Summer: What I was never sure of with you. 

Watched 500 Days of Summer last night again. It's such a lovely film that beautifully escapes cliche. I wish it were a book. 

I suddenly remembered the time you had cheerios. You helped me carry something to Field and I gave you a high five. That was last year. I forgot to thank you.

Sun, Jan 23, 2011 at 6:26 PM, Me

I only walked you to the dorms carrying your books because you made it seem like I had to, I was in a good mood, and I had nothing to do. But if you were to ask me to help you with your books right now, I'd do it because I want to. 

Sun, Jan 23, 2011 at 6:56 PM, David

That's so sweet of you David. I should ask you to carry my books sometimes. And I should continue to offer you cookies. 

Sun, Jan 23, 2011 at 9:35 PM, Me

Sweet. If girls think it's sweet when people say things like that, I should say more stuff like that to girls.
Some day I'll take your cookie.

Sun, Jan 23, 2011 at 9:57 PM, David

Say, "I'd do it because I want to" to girls and they will believe you sweet. But David, I said that because it's true. You're sweet in a childish way like Paul. I love Paul. I want to marry him if I could. I want him to walk out of the page, forget his wife, and we can have a lovely life overlooking the lake sipping tea and talking. Except I would have to make Paul talk because he doesn't talk very much.

Sun, Jan 23, 2011 at 10:52 PM, Me

Great! I'll put that down in my list of things to say to a girl. Thank you.
You should find a dude like Paul and marry him. Or just marry Jack so things are a lot easier. Less searching. 

Sun, Jan 23, 2011 at 11:16 PM, David

All this in one day. 

Sat, Jan 22, 2011 at 11:40 PM, David

The girl who almost gave me a heart attack probably thinks I'm a stalker. 
There was that one time at lunch she was sitting at a very far table. She was facing away from me. I was looking at the back of her head. 
Eventually, her friend who was sitting across from her told her to turn around, and she saw me. 
I quickly looked away, but I'm sure it didn't work. 

Sat, Jan 22, 2011 at 11:40 PM, David

Sun, Jan 16, 2011 at 2:16 PM, Me

“The geography of the brain ought to be taught in school, like the countries of the world. The deeply folded cortex forms the outer layer. There are the twin hemispheres, right brain and left brain. (We may be of two minds.) There are the four lobes: frontal in front, occipital (visual cortex) in back, parietal (motor cortex) on top, and temporal behind the ears. There’s the limbic system (seat of emotion and memory) at the center. There’s the brain stem, whose structures keep us awake (required for consciousness) or put us to sleep (required for regeneration of neurotransmitters).” --Priscilla Long, “My Brain on My Mind,” The American Scholar

Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 10:41 PM, Email from David

No I don't think I wrote about her in my journal. I didn't want to because I don't trust the world with thoughts that I put down on paper. I kept it all in my head. It's safer there. 
And no you cannot ask her name. 

Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 10:41 PM, David

The fear of having your thoughts read by someone else is the risk you have to take when you write them down. The reason I write in my journal is because thoughts contained inside my head are not safe there; I might forget. To me, it is this fear of forgetting that compels me to write. 

Can I ask her initials? 

Fri, Jan 14, 2011 at 9:00 PM, Me

No you cannot ask her initials. ...
Maybe I'll tell you some time later.

Fri, Jan 14, 2011 at 10:13 PM, David

Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 6:49 PM, Email from David

Summer was alright. I don't know what it is about her that is just not that attractive to me. 
Maybe it's because she's an actress. There was this girl at Northwestern's music camp thing last summer with dark hair and blue eyes. It was really really amazing. Whenever I see her, I could feel adrenaline rush through my body and my heart would start pounding. It was ridiculous. 
She plays the piano. 
On the first day, my mother asked her where the library was, and later than day when my mother left, she asked me if I found the library. I told her "that was my mom" but it didn't really make much sense. She acted like it made sense. We had this short 4 sentence conversation outside the girl dorm door. She kept pulling on the door while she was talking to me but it didn't open because you're supposed to scan your key thing on the sensor to unlock it. I took out my key thing and scanned it on the sensor to unlock it for her. She laughed and called herself an idiot jokingly. 

I stalked her a lot. Whenever I'm in my friend Andrew's room, I would look out the window. 
There was this one day she was walking outside his window. She was wearing a white dress. It was awesome.

She sat in the seat across from me once during lunch. I ended up finishing my food very quickly and leaving because it was just too much for me to handle. 
If I stayed I'd probably get a heart attack. 

Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 6:49 PM, Email from David

I'm going to publish you. Please grant me the permission to publish what you wrote about the girl who almost gave you a heart attack.

Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 7:44 PM, My reply to David

Wed, Jan 12, 2011 at 10:27 PM, Email from David

If you practice something and it sounds good, it means you're not doing it right. 
Practice is supposed to sound terrible, and once you sound terrible long enough, you start sounding good, and then your piece becomes ready.

Wed, Jan 12, 2011 at 10:27 PM, Email from David

I love the part when you talked about practice. I should quote you in my journal. I wrote about you in my journal. I wrote about Paul. I wrote to Paul even though I knew he doesn't exist but David he's there inside my head and hence he's real. You're the impression of Paul. And you're really real. Mr. Lewis liked my short story about Paul. He liked the part about his eidetic, detailed memory. After my reading last summer the audience asked me if you (David) were in the room, would he know that Paul is like you in a way? I said I don't think so. But I think I lied. Emily was there. At some point when I was answering questions, I looked right into her eyes and said, "so it's different, but the same." And we smiled at each other across the threshold and it was a very good feeling. I should have invited Jack because then he could have said it himself and he could have got the joke.

Wed, Jan 12, 2011 at 11:21 PM, My reply to David

There's Nothing I Wouldn't Do

I want to lick your stamps
I want to squeeze your fruit
I want to copy your keys
I want to polish your skis
I want to dry clean your suit
I long to renew your passport
I want to walk your collie
Get you Nova Scotia salmon you can put on your bialy
'Cause baby, when it comes to you,
There's nothing I wouldn't do
I wouldn't do

"There's Nothing I Wouldn't Do"

Music by Marcy Heisler, words by Zina Goldrich

When I first heard it at the concert last night, it made me laugh so hard right on beat. The words are so thoughtful and funny and the nouns are unexpected. I want to write like that. 

Oh, How I Loved You

I could think about the unimpressive way you said goodbye
Relief and immaturity combined
I could recollect the nothing that you made of what we shared
Chalk it up to being young and scared and blind
I could summon all the grace inside me, surely,
And maturely I could leave the past behind
But when I think about you
And I think about you
There's only one small thing that comes to mind

Oh, how I loved you
Oh, how I loved you
Strange and unfamiliar
Ridiculous and true
Oh how I loved you

And you can look at me and tell me I am crazy
It's true I can be crazy now and then
And I can take advantage of the comfort, and believe me,
There is comfort in the arms of other men
On the wall there is a China's worth of writing
And it's citing all the reasons we should part
I can put the past behind me
It's behind me
Save for one small thing that lingers in my heart

Oh, how I loved you
Oh, how I loved you
Dumb and unrelenting
And as the sky is blue
Oh how I loved you

Seasonless and reasonless and infinite and strong
Frightening, enlightening and pure
Cautionless and logicless and limitless and long
Wondrous, all-consuming
And impossible

I could think of your rejection, how it shook me to the core
How your unexpected exit broke my heart
How I learned that love you lose feels like a gently slamming door
A door you keep a lock on if you're smart
I could look into the mirror, and could rightly place some blame
On the histrionic games I love to win
But if I write the story
And I will write the story
I know just how the story will begin

Oh, how I loved you
Oh, how I loved you
Sweet and unbelievable
And if you only knew
Oh, how I loved you

"Oh, How I Loved You"

Words by Marcy Heisler, music by Zina Goldrich

Met Marcy and Zina yesterday and today. During our master class, Zina told us this is her favorite song. 

I love her adjectives, her rhymes, her simile of love to door. How this is a song and yet a poem in itself. 

Afterword

Because a great many otherwise admirable men do not read books American women write, I wanted to use a decidedly male pseudonym. ... Still i intended to publish the book as A. Dillard, hoping--as we all hope, and hope in vain--someone might notice only the text, not considering its jacket, its picture, or the advertising; and not remembering someone else's impression of the book, or its writer, or its other readers; and not knowing the writer's gender, or age, or nationality--just read the book, starting cold with the first sentence.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Chapter 15: The Waters of Separation, Revisited

Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

I will. 

Chapter 15: The Waters of Separation

"For the Heavenly Father desires that we should see," said Ruysbroeck, "and that is why He is ever saying to our inmost spirit one deep unfathomable word and nothing else." But what is that word? ... A cast-iron bell hung from the arch of my rib cage; when I stirred it rang, or it tolled, a long syllable pulsing ripples up my lungs and down the gritty sap inside my bones...

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

"Pulsing ripples up my lungs and down the gritty sap inside my bones"--that's how you say "up and down my spine" in Dillard. 

Chapter 14: Northing

One entomologist says that walking sticks, along with monarch butterflies, are able to feign death--although I don't know ho you could determine if a walking stick was feigning death or twigginess.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

The word is funny--twigginess. The idea is funnier. That's what makes me laugh. Even in her poetic, meditative prose, Dillard can make me laugh, make me write "funny" and "cute" in the margins. 

Chapter 13: The Horns of the Altar

"We are all of us clocks," says Eddington, "whose faces tell the passing years." The young man proudly names his scars for his lover; the old man alone before a mirror erases his scars with his eyes and sees himself whole.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Don't you just love Dillard? I had to read the last sentence twice to fully appreciate it. The imagery is solidary, lovely, and--my favorite word I learned from Dillard--eidetic. Because I see an old man. Because I see the young man through the old man's eyes. And I see myself, countless times before a mirror, erasing away my scars and tears weather-beaten by the passing years. Then you're perfect, aren't you, to yourself and no one else, in that unselfish self-consciousness. 

Chapter 12: Nightwatch

A bobwhite who is still calling in summer is lorn; he has never found a mate. When I first read this piece of information, every bobwhite call I heard sounded tinged with desperation, suicidally miserable. But now I am somehow cheered on my way by that solitary signal. The bobwhite's very helplessness, his obstinate Johnny-two-notedness, takes on an aura of dogged pluck. God knows what he is thinking in those pendant silences between calls. God knows what I am. But: bobwhite.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

In the margin I had written, "a sad, scientific truth." But as I type Dillard here, I think again. Sadness is no longer; hope replaces sadness. I imagine a bobwhite singing, singing, singing for his love and when he is not, he is hoping, hoping, hoping. You still sing because of hope. Without it you would stop singing altogether. (And you'd be called bobblack or bobbrown or bobguacamole or some other bob-hopelessness.) But what extra breath and chance you're taking to sing-- with that "dogged pluck"! 

Chapter 11: Stalking Part III

Rather, we know now for sure that there is no knowing. ... physicists are saying that they cannot study nature per se, but only their own investigation of nature.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Dillard's response to Werner Heisenberg's Principle of Indeterminacy: "you cannot know both a particle's velocity and position." I've been looking for this idea for some time, trying to recall whose it was, for I only remembered what he said. (It's funny how one day a name came to me and that was Bohr.) But Heisenberg--when he was only twenty-six!