Century #11: Time, Despair, and a Summer Storm

Posted on August 30, 2011 by randomyriad

From the Journal of Martin Way

August 20, 1935

Does time exist? I can’t remember which one, but one of the Greek philosophers said he was not sure. Here outside my little shack at sunset. I know time is different than the time I spent anywhere else. I know it is just my perception, but what else exists for me? Sheep and grass. I have run out of light which tells me the earth continues to spin. Is this time?

August 21, 1935

At the soup kitchen today a drunk disheveled and dusty man staggered down the stairs, bumping into a group of women and children. He tipped his hat and bowed almost toppling into them again. Myra, the hostess and cook, grabbed my arm and whispered, “Martin, git that bum outta here. He can eat outside.” I grabbed a bowl and spoon, ladled some soup, and grabbed a piece of bread, dropped it in the soup. I maneuvered through some other patrons.

“Can I help you up the stairs, sir?” I said putting an arm under his elbow.

 “Wha?” he said blinking and swaying.

“I have your soup. Let’s go outside.”

“Oh, I see this place is too good for old Mac. I useta own this town!”

“Well, now you’re drunk. You can tell me all about it outside, sir.”

“You gotta lotta nerve. I could teach you somethin’.  Jes a young pup like you thinkin’ you  can push me around.” He tore his arm away and staggered back into the wall.

“I got my orders, sir.” I said quietly glancing back at Myra who was busy serving, “We can go up and have a nice lunch, and you can tell me all about how you came to this. Or I can put this soup down and throw you out.”

“Now, now, no need to get surly young man.” He nodded at Myra, and straightening his suit, wobbled up the stairs. I followed with a hand on his back and one carrying the bowl of soup.

I settled him on the steps in front of the little church and went back for my soup. I sat with him while we ate. I could only understand a little of what he said. He talked about being a big man and owning several businesses.

“Then it all went away, bit by bit, slipped away.”

He was silent for a while.

“What the hell happened anyway?  I was a big man around here.”

In his eyes there was a wonder, like someone seeing something immense stretching out, the ocean or a vast stretch of sand, or mountain that’s peak is shrouded in clouds. It was not fear but wonder and a pathetic sense of helplessness in the face of overwhelming nature.

I am sure that there are many people these days that feel the same way, probably hundreds in this small town. Now he is an unpleasant fellow, but once he was respected and prosperous. Was he unpleasant then and people just put up with him because of his standing in the community? Does circumstance change people that much? This man has been shaken to the core of his being, but it does not seem to make him more humble. I have nothing and no prospects, and yet I feel I could never sink so low. How does a man come to this? I have been drunk, and I know that it leads a person to do things he would not ordinarily do. I have done things when I was drunk that would shock my parents and even now I feel shame, but to give all the way into it. How does it happen? Does he still feel shame, regret? I am sure he does, but why then is he unable to change his behavior?

Myra thanked me and gave me nickel for my trouble. I went to buy some bread. She also gave me some soap and a basin and cloth to take home with me for washing up.

“I can tell you have a good upbringing. You look to be a decent young man, and you should smell like one as well.”

She is a woman who says what she thinks and follows her conscience.

August 22, 1935

Black sky, storming flashes and rumbles in the distance, clouds piling over ahead of a hot wind. The rain came. My little shack only leaks in one corner. Viola brought me a pale to catch the water, and invited me to share their supper. I accepted politely, but only ate a little. I fear taking too much from her and the boys. I am starting to feel truly hungry for the first time in my life. I have always been well fed and housed, taken care of. I can always go home, but not yet. I have so much more to learn and think about.

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Century #10: Mistakes

Posted on August 29, 2011 by randomyriad

From the journal of Lita Hopkins

London, England

July 8, 1928

My journal is so small I fill the pages rapidly, but I can write anywhere. It is inconspicuous and goes unnoticed even at my usual table at Vincent’s this morning. I am writing as jotting in my itinerary. Nobody has come to join me this morning.

July 9, 1928

Hunter and Charlotte played for us this evening. I even joined in on the piano for two pieces. I am not good, because I do not practice. They play so beautifully. Hunter is so full of musical ideas. He fills the room with music and words and has even poor tired Charles smiling and nodding. Charlotte is quiet, but plays her cello with eyes closed as if dreaming the music. I play straining and stumbling along trying to keep my place. Hunter says I have a natural feel for music and should relax. “Make more mistakes!” He laughs, “it won’t kill you!” I wonder at his ease with life. Charlotte, who is still learning English, often makes mistakes when speaking. Hunter smiles and gently corrects her. He holds her with his eyes like a delicate tropical blossom. She is out of place here in England, but never when he is present.

July 15, 1928

I have been bad about writing, only little notes to myself. So much has happened. We have been swamped with social engagements, dinners, brunches and teas, all around the starting of the new press. Authors, critics, and intellectuals of all sorts have been parading through our modest apartments, and we have been all over London. Charles has been working nonstop for the last two weeks. But, soon they will have it all sorted out and set up, and we will be able to get away for a few days.

Charles has reluctantly agreed to let Hunter teach me to drive a motorcar. He finds it amusing and wonders why with so many ways to get around London, I would want to drive. I don’t want to drive in London but out of it into the country which we do every now and then. It is the only time we use the car. Really I don’t know why we have a car most of the time.

I have often asked Charles to bicycle with me when we are vacationing by the sea or in the north when he has business and takes me with him, but he just shakes his head and says, ” Me on one of those contraptions. I would probably end in a ditch, and there you would be, my dear, left to deal with my broken head.” I laugh, of course. Charles is not a physical man. He is all words and heart. I cannot live in books and must be active and moving. Hunter loves Charles, but often chides him on his monkish nature. He is a devoted to his older brother though, and they see eye to eye on most things. Charles is also devoted to Hunter and me, and tries his best to accommodate our idiosyncrasies.  I love Charles because he has a big heart and tries so hard to be good. But, I cannot shut my life into a box for him, nor does he expect me to. I must be out in the world doing things.

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Century #9: Expectations

Posted on August 28, 2011 by randomyriad

From the journal of Martin Way

August 18, 1935

Until recently I expected more from people than they could give and still keep themselves whole. What happened with Estelle is a good example. I wanted her to be interested in what I was doing and be interesting to me, which meant she had to make me her passion instead of the pursuits she was engaged in before we became a couple. The more we became entangled the more I lost interest in her. She became my shadow, always there in a passive way. But a driven woman like Estelle will not put up with that for long. So before I could adjust she was pulling away into new projects. I felt betrayed, but it was I who should have moved into her life at least part way.

I always expected my parents to always make things better for me. They are just human and have 2 other children. But I remember even recently asking them to give me some extra money for something I did not need. I expected my friends to sacrifice their time to my restless ideas. Why do they do it? Just because they do does not mean I am not to blame, and will end up with shallow friends who avoid me instead of trusting me to look for what they might need. People are drawn to me without a lot of effort on my part. I see where it might be easy to live a life counting on that, but I also see how easy it would be to slip into a life that was easy enough, but without substance. I just am not sure what I want, but I feel the need to separate myself from easiness and open my mind to more of the world.

I am realizing I have to be by myself for a while without support to see who I am. I  wonder how long it will take to feel the solitude. So far it is like a long breath after being underwater for a long time.

I talked with the woman who owns the shack. Her name is Viola. She says I can stay as long as I will help her keep an eye on her 2 boys and the sheep. Why do people trust me? I do not have as much faith in myself as other people have in me. She does not have any extra food as her husband disappeared about a year ago without word. She is really quite courageous, the way she goes about running the farm without help.

August 19, 1935

I went into town to see about a job or anything I could do for food. I found a little church that does a soup kitchen every other day in the basement. I told the woman working there I would come early next time to help cook or clean or whatever needs to be done. I am beginning to see how hard the world is, and how hard people work just to eat and have a place to sleep. I am sleeping on the floor on a couple of blankets, Viola lent to me. The weather is warm so I can sleep on top of them. I swept and scrubbed the floors like a monk, and cleaned the little window and walls. It is a nice little cell. At night I can hear small animals moving here and there over the planks, but having no light and cannot see them.

Maybe something will come from all this deprivation. Nothing I do is planned. I have brought no books, and don’t miss them yet.  I have enough paper and pencils for a while. I am drawing the sheep and trees. The boys, Bradley and Baxter, are curious and watch me closely as I sharpen my pencils using my pocket knife. They don’t say much being very young and naturally shy.

I am trying now to expect very little from people and everything from myself. So far I am amazed at the tiny miracles that come without being looked for.

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Century #8: Lita Begins Unraveling

Posted on August 27, 2011 by randomyriad

From the Journal of Lita Hopkins

London, England

July 7, 1928

After talking with Hunter last night I have decided to start writing down some of my thoughts. He says I shouldn’t lock myself up inside the prison of my mind. Charles will listen to me only so long, but then he has such a lot of work. Hunter is a good friend and lends his ear to my prattle. He even says I have an original point of view. Most women just don’t think beyond the immediate according to him. I have known many women who do, but who would listen to them?

I am starting this as a secret journal so as to avoid prying eyes. Maybe later I will share it with Hunter. I don’t think it would much interest Charles. He would not disapprove. In fact he might encourage me to get my ideas on paper. He is very sweet, but so harassed with work at the press. I want to write freely without worrying about hurt feelings or misunderstandings. I have such odd and perilous thoughts sometimes. I don’t even understand them all.

 Charles says, “Life is hard, but giving in to discontent makes it harder.” He is mostly right of course. We should make ourselves as good as possible. Right now, I feel so restless it is difficult for me to settle into my tasks. My body and mind wander constantly in search of experiences like I have been frozen and am at last thawing or a dormant seed pushing out toward sunlight. Too fast, I feel I will hurt someone with the speed of it.

I am beginning to believe I am not a normal woman. Something is not right.  I feel so selfish at times. I have tried to do things properly as a wife and daughter and friend. But it is too stifling. I am tense with anticipation of the next moment and ready for anything. I used to feel satisfied when I did the right things, behaved in the proper way. Now I only look for ways to stay awake to sensations and experiences.

 Am I still a good person? I have become surly and find it hard to submit to all that is expected of me. This journal is my honest quest for the woman I am. I have many roles to play –wife, daughter, hostess, and supervisor for the servants. I am hoping to uncover new layers of me that I have been afraid to see, but I fear that I may be baser and more on the beastly side than I am comfortable with. I want to be true to those who count on me. I don’t want to cause uneasiness or offend anyone, but I have a feeling of being wrapped in layers of musty linen like a mummy. I am not dead but decaying inside and must unravel to breathe. This all makes me nervous. What if I start to pull at a thread and the whole of my life ends in a pile on the floor and I am left exposed, naked. But to find out who I am also excited and intrigues me, to find who Lita Hopkins is and hidden places I am living. I have been hiding from myself. Now I am seeking.  I cannot stop pulling at these dangling threads now that I see them.

    

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Century #7: Escape from Academia

Posted on August 26, 2011 by randomyriad

From the journal of Martin Way

Blytheville, Pennsylvania

August 16, 1935

I have come to the conclusion that mere words cannot explain the human condition. Too much of the study of philosophy is grounded in a lineage of semantics. You have to learn German and French to read the original thoughts of people that learned from people who wrote in Greek. You have to learn dead languages to figure out what a human life means. I think that by studying living people and how they navigate this present world, you would find out more in a single day than all of the reading of musty tomes in some back room of the Penn State Library.

Every cell in my body cries out with a separate life. How can I even claim I have integrity as a single being when I am the consensus of all these voices? I have desires, but what is that but a conglomeration of needs expressed by my biological functions fed through a filter of my cultural indoctrination. How can I know what is right or wrong given the complexity of the world and each organism and object? How can anyone know enough to solve the maze of meaning? If there is a meaning to life, any one life, why are only a few able or have the desire to look beyond just the mere act of going through life living it.

How can some lives be so lived in the darkness of poverty and ignorance through no fault or choice? If there is meaning why is it only for those who have the privilege of intelligence, affluence, and ability to navigate academia who decide what being human is? I have been in the halls of that temple and I know that most of the men who inhabit them know nothing of what it is to survive in the world outside those walls. They either never had the opportunity to be poor or have forgotten it or romanticized it into a time of passion and freedom. I have chosen poverty in order to be free of the ideas of privilege that overwhelm and inundate the consciousness of the society of the learned. They have isolated themselves from life in a fortress of the past and put up clean walls of logic and reason against the chaos and noise and constant motion of the world. You learn a lot about who you are if you go through a day of trying to find a few bites of food or bits of coal to stay warm. The other students, mostly from affluent or middle class families, look at the poverty of student life as a necessary trial. We were housed and fed comfortably there. Some had money from parents, most had pocket change for weekend socializing, and some just enough to get through their classes and buy books. But in comparison to that poverty, what I have begun here in this town as a stranger. I grew up 50 miles to the east and stopped here on a whim as I made my way home, flagging rides from the few passing cars. My parents think I am at the university getting ready to begin my junior year. This will be hard for them to understand. They have worked so hard to give me this opportunity, and I worked hard to get scholarships as well. Maybe I can save them the money for my brother. He will be an engineer and take care of them. I am not suited to a substantial life that is the framework of sustenance for others. I cannot see myself locked into a career, going to meetings, making big plans for making money. Maybe someday I will find a profession that inspires me to work long hours on projects of import, but for now I sit here in the failing light in a one-room shack on the edge of a unfamiliar town. What will I find here? How will I explain this to those who love me and those who count on me? I need time to reason it out so I can tell them in a way that makes sense to me and them. I want to be honest and clear, that is my first challenge. I have to figure out what I am doing before I can explain it.

August 17, 1935

The newspaper is full of the death of Will Rogers. Everyone says he was the kind of man who spoke from the heart of experience. How did he gain such notoriety with such a soft voice? I only know about him from newsreels and radio. He is a man that many revere as honest and fair. Why? What is it about him that inspired such feelings? How many people actually knew him, spent time around him, and were a part of his everyday life? That is the only way to know someone if that is possible. Why do people think they know famous people? Why do they grieve their passing? Radio and movies, newspapers and magazines all build famous people into images that are easily framed. I cannot even get a handle on who I am or my friends and family are. Why do people miss people who they have never met? I cannot think of a single famous person that I would mourn. I have heard many educated people talk so negatively about the cult of personality while they worship some intellectual whose works they have studied but never made any personal contact with. There are ideas out in the world. There are people who discover them and put them into words. The ideas have value beyond the person. The person has a life separate from the ideas. He has a body and lives in a place. You cannot know him at least until you spend some time in his life with him. Those ideas may be discussed, but there will be real context with them. Not just words on a page.

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