Light in Fairbanks

Thursday, February 21, 2008
This morning I felt broken and covered in drowse and mold. The watch Cody gave me last summer, which I think of as a blue watch even though it’s grey, beeped at 7:45. Rachel said politely, “Your watch is going off.” She’s been working on being pleasant in the mornings—and quite obviously succeeding, this morning it was me who was the grump. The sun was already shining obliquely through our bedroom window when Rachel shook me a second time. She warmed up the shower as I lay curved in the fetal position in our bed. Glenna’s cigarette smoke still seemed to swirl under the bed and behind the television. I didn’t want to go to class.
Last night at 11:45 I finished “East of Eden.” Rachel was asleep next to me when I finally placed the book on the headboard behind me and wrapped my arms around her. I tried to cry, Steinbeck’s world seeming so hellishly honest and passive. Adam’s dieing word “temshil,” or whatever is was means, “you may choose,” but the rest of the book seemed to be saying, “You may choose, but it will all turn out bad anyway.”
In the car Rachel asked me, “Why don’t you ever cry? I mean with tears rolling down your face.”
We’re fasting today, a part of a forty day community effort to increase missionary work. I love how streamlined and efficient I feel when fasting.
The pleasant and capable bus driver told me about the lunar eclipse we missed last night. “You’re getting out at West Ridge right?”
I sunk into the square-cushioned sofa’s brownness in the lobby of the Irving building. Holding the article I should have finished this morning I read slowly and deliberately, intentionally delaying my already late entrance into the classroom. It felt good to understand the technical jargon and methods. The article was on phosphate introduction on the Kuparak River on the North Slope. “That’s where my feet got so cold I couldn’t flex my heel to get my waiders off.” I laughed aloud feeling like an old specialist in limnology.
Steinbeck’s damning descriptions, black in their inevitability and justice, create a world of vivid, endearing automatons. I want to read something less definitive. For a change in pace I picked up a French version of Camus’ “The Myth of Sisyphus.” It’s in a compilation that looks like the bible. I wonder who this text matters most to. It’s got to be someone’s favorite book.
Jay’s daughter was sick, “Class canceled” was taped on the door. I felt a burning need to write as I walked back towards Rachel’s office. I dreamed last night that we were watching a documentary on sex change operations. I also dreamed these lines of verse,
Your insistence weighs upon my joy like chocolate
On a piece of butter.
It seemed really good to me then.
Now we’re sitting together outside in an unfrequented corner on the Wood center roof. It’s 36 degrees and the sun’s out. I feel a desire to write still but the burn is gone. It’s one of the consequences of feeling so fulfilled and content with Rachel. Sometimes when we’re together, the intensity of my despair or rejoicing is dampened. She’s my muse too though.