The story of thou

This is the story of thou.

In the beginning of this language it just meant “you.” Just a single “you,” no matter if it was a child or a peasant or a king. Any more than one “you” was “you.” But if you were alone, you were “thou.”

And as is often the case, it was kings who started to ruin things. In their hubris they demanded to be plural: a royal “we,” a royal “you.” People had to pretend there were multiple sets of eyes up there on “your” throne, your majesty.

And from there, it was inevitable. If a king could be “you,” well, why not a duke? Why not a viscount? Why not a knight? Why not a merchant, a grandparent, anyone whose boots were cleaner than yours?

They all became “you” too. And you stayed “thou,” if you were lowly or young or worthy of contempt.

Dost thou see where this is going?

Before too long it was rude to say “thou,” no matter who you were talking to. It implied that you thought you were above the other person. Of course, sometimes people meant it this way. But people tend to be polite, on the whole, so to be safe everyone called everyone “you.” Especially when just about anybody could become rich, or pretend to be.

This went on until most people forgot to ever say “thou” to anybody. The Friends kept doing it, and some people in Yorkshire, and Baptists when they read from the King James Bible, and people in Shakespeare plays, and the rest of us moved on.

We were “youing” all over the place, indiscriminately. At some point we grew annoyed at the ambiguity of “you.” Did I mean one person, or many? How could I tell? Various inventive strategies arose in different places: “y’all.” “Youse.” “Y’ins.” All ways to distinguish the singular you from something else.

(We forget that we already had the technology for this, if only we were willing to return to thou.)

And by that point, people only ever heard “thou” in old-timey ways, on stage and in stuffy movies, in English class, from people in robes. It became a verbal doublet, a verbal ruff. When you wanted to resurrect the sound of something high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou, you would sprinkle in some thous. You’d add some old-timey conjugations to your words, even if it madest no senseth.

This is the story of thou. From singular to informal to rude to stuffy.

A modest proposal: returning to the office

We’re all bedraggled. And it’s time to do something about it. We need to go back to the office.

I hear you, non-office-workers: you’re tired of hearing about the fattened layabouts who haven’t been required to go into work every day for the last sixteen months. You had to truck on as normal, using an old sock as a mask last spring. Listen, I hear you, and thank you for your service, but we need to talk about office workers for a second. (Someone has to!)

Office workers: I get it. You spent twelve to twenty years in school learning how to sit down and stay quiet and network and file reports. You found a niche. You found your meeting voice (friendly, but not too friendly). You mastered your commute and your wardrobe. You had a routine of rotating lunch spots and exercise laps around the fourth floor that strategically avoided so-and-so’s cubicle. You had just framed and hung your diplomas right in that window where they could be seen from the hall. You had plans to get a standing desk. You were thriving.

Then Covid happened, and all of a sudden you were working at that rickety table in the corner of your bedroom wearing dirty sweatpants and seeing far too much of your cohabitants. You no longer have any idea what time or day it is. You don’t get to talk to Sue anymore at the printer. Life has lost most of its fragile, precious meaning.

You hate your house. It’s grim, isn’t it? The smallness. How it lacks a janitorial staff. The canteen, such as it is, is nothing like that absolute gem of a spread they had just added down on the third floor, the one with all the vending machines and with the free donuts on Fridays. How it echoed with hundreds of footsteps. How it smelled (microwaved fish and burnt popcorn, mmm). You just can’t recreate that in your own space.

And you can’t quite get your head on straight when you can just roll out of bed, do your yoga on the floor, and then fire up the email machine ten paces away. It doesn’t quite give you that rush, that charge, as it did to run out the door with coffee splashing all over your hands and then squeeze in among several hundred fragrant and restive strangers on a subway platform. That was the city, you know? Or that car commute—the way you could sit for an hour directly behind a ton or two of internal combustion engine—now that’s a morning. That’s living. This—wearing slippers past noon, staring out the window at your yard—is some pallid substitute, and it should end. Immediately.

That’s why I’m calling for an immediate return to the office. With and/or without masks and social distancing protocols. We don’t know yet; these unimportant details will surely work themselves out seamlessly. After all, in the United States, the pandemic is/is not over.

Let’s keep in mind that this going back to work is really a public health issue of its own. If I had a nickel for every employee I imagine is so bored, who works all night and all weekend until she’s literally mentally and physically a wreck because she just doesn’t know what else to do with herself! Well, I’d have a lot of imaginary nickels. These people don’t have hobbies. These people barely have personalities. They need to have a glass of wine at six o’clock to remind themselves to log off the company email, and they think constantly of work projects when they’re alone with their dull non-work thoughts.

Think how sad: a whole class of human being, so thoroughly capitalistic that they’ve forgotten what “fun” felt like, and they don’t know who they are anymore except what they do, and they do that obnoxious thing where they immediately ask any stranger “So, Dan, what is it you do?” And they know it’s a faux pas, but they don’t even remember what else there might be to talk about, because going to and from work and being at work and thinking about work truly dominates their frontal lobes.

We can’t let these fuzzy people stay home a day longer. We have to bring them back to the office to give them some boundaries. We’ll make them come in at 8 so that we can dismiss them at 5, and then they’ll get home by 6 or 7 and they’ll have less time to realize that they have nothing to live for apart from working.

It’s, and I mean this sincerely, the only solution. We must make them come back to the office. For them.

And the earth trembled

I haven’t written in a week, I think. Maybe more? Not to mention the two months I haven’t written here. (And the earth trembled at the loss!)

I’ve been in a thick haze of doing. My muscles are very tired from moving. My brain is exhausted from deciding where everything goes in this new place we live.

All this doing—it takes it out of one. It commands the energy. If allowed to metastasize, all this masculine doing/achieving/goal-crushing can elbow out any space for being, creating, intuiting, inspiration.

Times full of doing—these are the times that try women’s souls.

I used to approach creativity through doing. 500 words a day! 1000 words a day! Two posts a week! Seven posts a week! Two months to finish the draft! Schedules, agendas, checklists!

And I’m not saying I didn’t write under this particular gun. I wrote. But I also groaned under the strictures. I’m not sure that what I wrote was all that good.

At other times I’ve managed to trust that creativity will come when it wants to, if I just set myself up to receive it. This often provides very exciting results. But it’s sort of like Tinkerbell: it dies if you try to force it. You can’t capture it. (Am I thinking of sand, rather than Tinkerbell? Sand is the thing you can’t grasp too tightly. Tinkerbell is the one who dies if no one claps. I’m mixing metaphors. I’m very tired.)

Someday I’d like to write something helpful for all the people who are out there wondering how to get into the discipline of creativity, because I think they’re approaching it wrong, and no wonder—if you seek help on how to start a creative practice, you’ll be flooded with advice about how Jerry Seinfeld is a slave to the string of successful days on his calendar and how so-and-so locks himself in his attic for six hours every Saturday and cranks out four drafts a year.

Reader, I don’t recommend these approaches. If this sort of thing worked, everyone would be a novelist if they wanted.

These days it’s slow going, creatively. Until today, for weeks I’d written something like a measly 67 words, and those were stolen from bedtime. In any event most of my current draft of Book Three is probably destined for the metaphorical wood chipper (word chipper?). It’s an exercise in futility. And yet here we are, moving tiny bits of magic out of inspiration, and letting that be the only point.

And the swarm descended

I had this thought as I walked on the National Mall today:

There’s something alike in the methods and the madness of the tourists and the periodical cicadas.

Consider it: both emerge at the outset of summer, although the cicadas have the decency to stay away sixteen years out of every seventeen.

It appears that they share a survival strategy: namely, being too numerous to eliminate. Both amble in packs across streets slowly and against the light, ambling awkwardly, veering into traffic, apparently daring cars and bikes and other pedestrians to collide with them. They find safety in numbers. And that’s just the cicadas!

But there’s something optimistic about both of them. Both look to the future. The cicadas awaken to mate furiously and create enough larva to emerge once again next time. They won’t live to see it.

Meanwhile the tourists wander around with their phones out taking selfies with every statue and building and every member of their group so that they will have proof that they were here, long after their footprints on the mall dissipate in the rain under the cicada husks.

The boy in the stroller thought it was scenic.

I get grumpy sometimes on my afternoon walks when the trail is too loud and treeless in this semi-industrial place where I live. I just wish it were scenic.

But then I realize that it is scenic to some people. It’s not scenic to me because I’m an adult woman fixated on trees and quiet. I’m not that little boy in his stroller, who is fixated with his mouth agape at the big machinery moving gravel. His mother points at the forklifts and the diggers, the cranes and haulers. He stares in rapturous awe at the toys he plays with on his bedroom floor come to immense life.

It’s scenic to him.

He’d probably find a tree-lined quiet path dead boring.

Consider the cicada

I, too, long to lie down next to a tree and sleep. I, too, want to wait to emerge until 17 years later, and only then to scream a lot and make love once, then die in the grass.

(There are many ways to live a good life, and that one doesn’t sound too terrible.)

While it’s underground, does the cicada count how many times it freezes and how many times it thaws? Does it draw tick-marks on the wall of its dirt lair until it has enough, and then began digging out in a rush of adrenaline?

Does the cicada get senioritis in year 16, longing to be done with this embarrassing larval stage?

Does it remember what life was like 17 years ago when it buried itself? My neighborhood was very different then, and as a result we have few cicadas. How many millions of them went to sleep in 2004, dreaming of 2021, only to be fatally plowed under in 2015 when they dug the foundation for a new condominium?

Does 2021 look quite different to the cicada than it remembers? Does it look different than it expected? Does the cicada get nostalgic for the way things were when it was a wee larva?

Does it take a look around and wiggle its thorax to feel the sun and the breeze on its exoskeleton, basking in how short the time is?

Saturday on the beach

You walk down the beach, cold and flat, wind whipping. The flat sand is dotted sparsely with walkers and dogs who chase and dance at the seagulls. The tide is low, running rivulets down the hard-packed sand speckled with mica, oil slicks, sand dollars burrowing, sandpipers running like ladies with their skirts drawn up to their knees.

About a mile down is where you get to the trees where the county park begins. There’s no line in the sand, but as soon as you cross into the park it’s summertime. The air is thick with sunscreen and barbecue coals. Kids flail on boogie boards, surfboards, skimboards, in wetsuits and swimsuits and gooseflesh in the sea.

The sea is blue under the blue sky and gray under the gray sky. The sky scuds in its stripes. A cloud bank sits like a pillow of smoke over seal rock where the sea lions bark and yawp undisturbed. The breakwater of the rock extends along the horizon far to the south.

The waves crash jade when they’re clear and foam-laced when the foam is high. I fall in love with the jade crash but I can never seem to get a photo of it. I see a jade wave and I go wow and take my phone out but then the next one is sandy and gray or foamy and white or it crashes too fast.

That thin wall of translucent green doesn’t want to be photographed. It’s only to see and to happen and to end.

Just as the waves aren’t water they’re just energy.

The meat suit

I’ve been trying for a while to tune into this body of mine.

The problem is trying. Trying is a lot like shoulding.

Take my years-long quest for the right glasses prescription. Things still seem blurry some of the time. Or do they? I can’t really be sure. I go to the optometrist. We do the eye chart thing. She confirms I have the right prescription. But by this point I’m overthinking my vision. Everything looks bizarre. This can’t be what the world looks like, can it?

It makes me realize I’m not seeing things as they are. I never have, never can. All I can do is manipulate these organs and muscles into helping me gather enough information to stay alive, the legacy of millions of years of ancestors who developed many cells and crawled out of the sea. The picture is not perfectly crisp, even at 20/20, but it’s good enough to spot mold on the bread before I eat it and to admire a sunset.

These muscles in my face, the eyes that are the MVPs of my nervous system: they’re my only way of being here. I’m in this meat suit. I am this meat suit. But being really present in this meat suit isn’t so easy. It requires turning down the noise on everything else. And everything else loves to be noisy as hell.

To my surprise, the voice of my body is really quiet. It doesn’t withstand overthinking. Like the little voice the other day that told me to go for a walk instead of writing. I began to second-guess it, negotiate with it. It shrugged. I walked.

Listening hard enough to hear this tiny voice is such a mind shift. An example: I’m still coming to realize that nightshades (potatoes, tomatoes, eggplants especially) tend to make me feel pretty bad. Years of dieting and control will numb you into inattention, because that way of life is all in the numbers. “Health” is all about metrics, which a computer or a book or a trainer can instruct you on. A potato or a tomato becomes a number of calories, or of carbohydrate grams, or it is on or off of a list of approved foods. That’s a quick way to forget how to listen into the meat suit. Do you actually like potatoes? Do they like you? How would you know?

Ironically, a lot of us begin trying to control our bodies because something dissociates us from them in the first place, whether it be the normal dose of nonsense the culture feeds us, or actual childhood trauma. We become dissociated from our bodies’ needs because these events make it advantageous to look outside not inside. Then, because we are dissociated from our bodies’ needs, we “overeat” and can’t tell what we actually need. Then we are “obese.” Then we ask someone outside us to tell us how to stop being fat. We perpetuate, rather than solve, the problem—which is to tune into what the body needs.