An Obsession With the Past
My awesome, equally bookworm sister gave me the new David Sedaris book, "When You Are Engulfed in Flames," for my birthday. The first time I heard about Sedaris was when someone name-dropped "Barrel Fever," his collection that includes the stories about him working as a department-store elf at a major NYC location during the holidays, while I was a student at Columbia College, and I read it and was alternately laughing and despairing over human nature. I love him. The new book seems rather uneven. The first three essays really knocked me out and seemed to rank among the best he's ever written--I found myself laughing out loud and empathizing frequently. The rest of the book, however, I've been slogging through--I still enjoy tidbits here and there, though.
One of the early passages I related to far too much was this one, from "Keeping Up." I even have the significant other who strides paces ahead of me to compare to Sedaris when he writes this rationalization for his inability to keep up:
"...I'm still afraid of everything and everyone. A child sits beside me on the plane and I make conversation, thinking how stupid I must sound. The downstairs neighbors invite me to a party and, after claiming that I have a previous engagement, I spend the entire evening confined to my bed, afraid to walk around because they might hear footsteps."
Sedaris's naked honesty here rings true, as it does in his confessions on how he can't fix anything, deal with financial mail, or cook. This passage in particular brought to mind how easily I revert to solitude by habit--and one evening in particular. I had noticed a posting in my apartment building in D.C. about five years ago near the height of my solitude, advertising a sort of mingling party among building neighbors. I thought about how nice it might be to get to know my neighbors since my fiance worked until midnight most nights and I didn't know anybody in D.C. and didn't usually have a vehicle to use, making after-work socialization a challenge. Even knowing all this, on the appointed evening I decided to avoid the party in favor of watching the Netflix disc of Godard's "Alphaville," which had just arrived in my mailbox that evening (Netflix, Greencine, and the local branch of the D.C. Public Library across the street became my Godsend during this time period). Perhaps even sadder, afterward I thought to myself how good the movie was and how much more I had enjoyed watching it than I would have struggling to make conversation with people I probably wouldn't connect with anyway. I also should note that I often think, while making small talk before my children's programs start at the library (which I am really bad at, BTW---the small talk, I mean) "God, these kids must think I'm such an idiot!"
Perhaps my favorite essay in this book is "This Old House," about Sedaris's failed attempt to live in the past, wearing vintage clothes, living in shabby buildings, and craving antiques. Sedaris talks about how he moved into a ramshackle building filled with genuine old articles, and how the proprietor's daughter and mother eventually moved in, and she didn't have the time to keep up appearances---she resorted to leaving iced tea cans out in the open among the old-fashioned lamps and Victrola.
At one point in my life, it occurred to me that I went to school in a building that looked like this:
and I worked in a building that looked like this:
.
Not to mention, I lived in a ramshackle building dating from the 1920s myself, with sadly deteriorating features. I could have lived a weirdo lifestyle where I dressed up only in vintage clothing, listened only to big band music from the past. and etc., but it would have required too much effort...the whole schtick would have been blown the first time I went to eat at Taco Bell or shop at Target (which happens all too often).
One of the early passages I related to far too much was this one, from "Keeping Up." I even have the significant other who strides paces ahead of me to compare to Sedaris when he writes this rationalization for his inability to keep up:
"...I'm still afraid of everything and everyone. A child sits beside me on the plane and I make conversation, thinking how stupid I must sound. The downstairs neighbors invite me to a party and, after claiming that I have a previous engagement, I spend the entire evening confined to my bed, afraid to walk around because they might hear footsteps."
Sedaris's naked honesty here rings true, as it does in his confessions on how he can't fix anything, deal with financial mail, or cook. This passage in particular brought to mind how easily I revert to solitude by habit--and one evening in particular. I had noticed a posting in my apartment building in D.C. about five years ago near the height of my solitude, advertising a sort of mingling party among building neighbors. I thought about how nice it might be to get to know my neighbors since my fiance worked until midnight most nights and I didn't know anybody in D.C. and didn't usually have a vehicle to use, making after-work socialization a challenge. Even knowing all this, on the appointed evening I decided to avoid the party in favor of watching the Netflix disc of Godard's "Alphaville," which had just arrived in my mailbox that evening (Netflix, Greencine, and the local branch of the D.C. Public Library across the street became my Godsend during this time period). Perhaps even sadder, afterward I thought to myself how good the movie was and how much more I had enjoyed watching it than I would have struggling to make conversation with people I probably wouldn't connect with anyway. I also should note that I often think, while making small talk before my children's programs start at the library (which I am really bad at, BTW---the small talk, I mean) "God, these kids must think I'm such an idiot!"
Perhaps my favorite essay in this book is "This Old House," about Sedaris's failed attempt to live in the past, wearing vintage clothes, living in shabby buildings, and craving antiques. Sedaris talks about how he moved into a ramshackle building filled with genuine old articles, and how the proprietor's daughter and mother eventually moved in, and she didn't have the time to keep up appearances---she resorted to leaving iced tea cans out in the open among the old-fashioned lamps and Victrola.
At one point in my life, it occurred to me that I went to school in a building that looked like this:
and I worked in a building that looked like this:
.
Not to mention, I lived in a ramshackle building dating from the 1920s myself, with sadly deteriorating features. I could have lived a weirdo lifestyle where I dressed up only in vintage clothing, listened only to big band music from the past. and etc., but it would have required too much effort...the whole schtick would have been blown the first time I went to eat at Taco Bell or shop at Target (which happens all too often).