Theodora Goss

Several days ago, I was on the telephone with a friend of mine. We were talking about his daughter, who had caught some sort of cold. She had been coughing for several days. He needed to get cough medicine. We discussed cough medicine. At some point I said something like, this is a scintillating topic, isn’t it?

But later in that conversation I said, you know why we talk about such ordinary things, sometimes? Because our lives aren’t ordinary.

I am writing this sitting on a bus to New York City. I think I’m somewhere in Connecticut? I was up late last night packing, because I’d had a lot to do yesterday: it was, for me, the last day of the semester. This morning I got on a bus at 9:00, slept for a while on the bus, and then started working. Thank goodness for Wifi.

I’m going to New York this weekend to see my father and his wife, who are in New York because he was presenting research at a conference in North Carolina and decided to visit New York as well to see two of his daughters – my sister Johanna and me. The last time I saw him was for Johanna’s graduation from a design program at Columbia, and he was headed to Cairo the next day for another conference. This summer I will be visiting them in Debrecen, partly so I can drop off their granddaughter before I go to London. I’m going to London to see friends, but mostly to research the Mad Scientist’s Daughter novel.

I feel as though I’m living an extraordinary life. I know, some people are race car drivers. Some climb Mount Everest. Some cure rare diseases. But I get to travel, to create art. To meet and interact with some extraordinary people. And I feel incredibly privileged to be doing these things. But it can also be a tiring life, and so I find that I hold on to ordinary things. My favorite things are quite ordinary.

A hot bath, for example.

Or a bed with comfortable pillows.

Or a castle.

Just kidding about the castle. (But if anyone wants to give me a castle, I’ll take it, of course. I’ll just make sure that it has a good bathtub and hot, hot water. And a bed piled high with pillows.)

I’ll be in New York in about an hour. Once there, I’ll find myself a good cup of coffee, which is another one of those ordinary things. I love living an extraordinary life, but there’s a comfort in the ordinary that nothing else can give. In Christmas trees, and a cat curled in an armchair, and your favorite book. Even in cough medicine. (After all, where would we be without cough medicine?)

And my friend? About an hour ago, he sent me a text: “This is the largest funeral I have ever been to. Over 500 people. Standing room only and all in Haitian French.”

So I think he gets it.

“The definition of beauty is easy; it’s what leads you to desperation.” Paul Valery

I think we need two words for beauty, as the Greeks have two words for love: eros and agape. Eros is romantic love; agape is spiritual love. I want to divide beauty into two categories as well, because it seems to me as though there are two kinds. In On the Sublime and Beautiful, Edmund Burke describes beauty as what pleases and attracts us, as something small, gentle, comfortable. Of course, he defines women as beautiful, as opposed to the more sublime men (and the Alps, men are like the Alps). Or so I remember, from taking a class on aesthetic theory years ago. And it seems to me that we still talk about beauty that way: scientists have shown that we are more attracted to symmetrical faces, for example. To faces that tend toward an average.

But surely that’s only one sense of the beautiful? Nothing about that average, symmetrical face would lead us to desperation. The small, gentle, and comfortable does not launch a thousand ships or burn the topless towers of Ilium. So there has to be something else. I think there is, I think there’s something more to beauty, something that is dangerous, like a dark river winding through a forest. The women I think are beautiful have something about them that is dark in that way, as though there were something underneath the surface. I’ve chosen three women that I think are beautiful in the second sense I mean. They may not be the women you think are beautiful, but that may be because when you think of beauty, you are being a Burkean.

The first of them is Tilda Swinton, here in Orlando.

The second of them is Cate Blanchett, here in Elizabeth.

The third of them is Helena Bonham Carter, here in Merlin.

I’ve chosen photographs of them that are relatively feminine, with long hair. They look gentler in these photographs than they do on the red carpet, for example, and they can each also look uncanny or grotesque, or masculine, depending on the movie and makeup. They have versatile faces. But even when make up as relatively conventionally beautiful women, there is something unusual in their faces, a particular angularity, a strange proportion. (Poe said something about that, about true beauty having a strangeness in the proportion, in “Ligeia.”)

I suppose for me, that is the sort of beauty Valery was talking about. It has a sort of despair at its heart. It speaks of death. And yet at the same time, it transcends both, because you know that having once existed, it will never cease to exist. Didn’t some poet say that?

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

That’s Keats, of course. A funny thing happened as I was copying that stanza, which is only the first of the poem. A pop-up ad appeared for a movie starring Kate Winslet. Who is another one of those beautiful women, here in Titanic.

I just remembered why I was thinking about this today. On the newsstand, I saw the edition of People Magazine that lists the most beautiful people in the world. And I thought, but I don’t agree. Those are not who I would pick as the most beautiful people. They are attractive, yes, but they lack that darkness, that danger. The thing that leads you to desperation. The thing Poe and Valery were talking about.

Today is May Day, and I should be dancing in flowers. As we should all.

But it’s also the end of the semester, so all I’m dancing in is papers. And today was wet with one of those chill, soaking rains that we get in spring, in Boston. There was no dancing.

What does one do on a May Day like that? What I’m going to do is give you some things that seem, to me, very May. First, a girl standing among blossoms, dressed the way I wish I could have been dressed today (in a romantic summer dress, rather than a jacket and scarf).

Second, almond blossoms by Vincent Van Gogh, who understood trees in a way I don’t think anyone else has or will.

Third, clocks, because summer is coming when there will be more time, but at the same time, it is passing – time is passing as it always does, and the question we have to ask ourselves is, are we spending it well? (I hope to spend it well.)

And finally, one of my favorite poems by A.E. Housman, who understood both spring and time. He is one of the greats, like Van Gogh.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

That’s all I have for you tonight, because I have to go back to dancing among papers. But those pictures, that poem, symbolize the life I want to create: beautiful, magical. I can’t wait for summer.

I was so disappointed last weekend: I was sick, sick, sick, and couldn’t go to New York to meet with my writing group, the Injustice League. We were workshopping a new novel by Delia Sherman that I can tell you is going to be absolutely wonderful. So on Friday night, instead of sitting on a bus to New York, I was in bed, coughing and aching.

But I couldn’t sleep.

So what did I do? I did what I always do when I’m sick or tired or even simply bored. I created something. In this case, I created a tumblr account. A student of mine had asked me if I had a tumblr account, and I had said no, and she said I should create one – which wasn’t why I created one, but the suggestion stuck in my head. So that’s what I did on Friday night.

Would you like to see it? Here it is: Living a Magical Life. It already has twenty-four followers, which I think is pretty good for two days! I thought of it as a place to put all the beautiful things I want to gather together, to not lose. The pictures, poems, quotations. In case you’re interested, I’ll show you a few of the sorts of things I mean. Here you go, beautiful things:

“Every day we have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss.” Paolo Coelho

In the end, I wasn’t as disappointed as I could have been, because I was able to skype into the workshop. There is nothing quite like talking about a novel that is in the process of being written, when it’s not quite firm yet – sort of like dough that has not yet taken its final form or been put into the oven. It made me want to work on my own novel. I’m going back to it as soon as the semester is over, although it looks as though I’ll have trips to New York and Florida as soon as the teaching is done. But I can write on buses and planes. I look forward to getting back to it . . .

Because even when I’m sick, sick, sick, I create beautiful things. It’s just what I do.

I have absolutely no energy to write a blog post tonight, so instead I’m going to play a game of Let’s Pretend.

Let’s Pretend that we live in a magical house. The house looks something like this:

Why are we living in this magical house?

1. Our wealthy but mysterious uncle left it to us.
2. It was rented to us very cheaply because there’s supposed to be a ghost.
3. We were hired as caretakers by a lawyer with a strange, lopsided walk named Mr. Pan.

When we walked into the front hall, we were awed, but to be honest, it gets creepy at night. Making our way down those long corridors in the darkness. We are trying to get to the kitchen, because we want to make ourselves a cup of tea, and we’re pretty sure there are some cookies left.

On the other hand, we are enchanted with our bedroom, which has a feather bed and  stars on the ceiling. If only we didn’t keep having that strange dream.

You know the one I mean. With the bed that is also a boat. Do you think it means something? Dreams usually mean something. Does this one mean that we are stranded? Or that we are about to set out on a journey? We’re just not sure.

I think there’s only one thing to be done. First, we’re going to have some breakfast. (Hot buttered toast with orange marmalade, the tea that we never made last night because we were too nervous at the thought of walking along those dark corridors.)

And then we’re going to go out into the garden. It’s early summer, and still cool although the sun is starting to warm the stones. Our ankles are wet with dew.

But we know that if we’re going to find an answer, it’s going to be in the woods. Haven’t the woods been there even longer than the house? And haven’t they been calling to us the entire time?

What will we find in the woods?

1. The answers we’re looking for.
2. Creatures we never imagined.
3. An adventure.

Or maybe all of the above. (You know it’s all of the above, right?)

If you’re wondering, these images are from one of my favorite blogs, The Hanging Garden. I don’t know if all writers are as visual as I am, but pictures always suggest stories to me – or perhaps what I mean is that I seek out pictures that suggest stories, and those become my favorites. So here is a little story for you, on a cold and soggy Thursday. Start in the magical house, and write the rest. And I may try to as well, although not until the semester is over . . .

I’m very, very busy, so tonight I will give you a poem by Mary Oliver. Here it is:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

I’ve always liked this poem. I suppose because it’s about how to live in the world, which is a very Taoist way: you do not have to repent, you do not have to despair, you do not have to curse or beg from the Fates. You just have to live. You can talk about your despair, but meanwhile the world goes on: the trees grow new leaves in spring, the roses bloom again, the wild geese fly north. Life continues, and if you stop, if you listen, you can hear it. You can participate in it.

Of course I’m writing this on very little sleep, in the middle of the end of the semester when I’m so completely swamped with work that I can barely breathe. I’m not living a particularly Taoist life at the moment! And this weekend I’m supposed to be in New York for a meeting of my writing group (The Injustice League: Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman, Catherynne Valente, Lev Grossman, Kathleen Howard, and Claire Cooney). And I’m trying to plan for the trip this summer (Budapest and London). So perhaps I’m reading this poem and responding to it because it’s exactly not what I’m doing right now. I’m not listening. I haven’t stopped. (Wild geese? What wild geese?)

But to be honest, I’m excited. I’ll be traveling most of the summer, researching and working on the novel, and there’s so much happening, so many changes to come. I just have to remind myself to, when I can, stop and listen.  Even if the wild geese I listen to are winging their way over Hungary.

I have a new computer, which I’ve been getting used to. One way I get used to things like new computers is to decorate them, which in this case means that I’ve chosen a lovely desktop image. Here it is:

It’s inspired my blog post for today, which is yet another round of imaginary Etsy shopping. At this point in the semester, all I’m doing is continually meeting with students and grading papers, so to be honest, I have nothing left in my head to write about. There’s simply nothing there, no ideas, no source of inspiration. Imaginary shopping is the best I can do. So here we go. I call this round of shopping “Into the Green,” and it’s inspired by the image above and the fact that it’s spring, although at the moment a cold and soggy one.

The first item I’m going to imaginary buy is this green vase by Suzanne’s Pottery Farm. Isn’t it beautiful? I’ll put it on a dresser or low table.

Then, I think perhaps this print called “Looking Forward” by Shirae. I like how the little girl is looking into the distance, into what I think is probably the sunset. I like how she’s holding her doll, exactly the way little girls do hold their dolls, and how the mushrooms match her dress.

I’ve fallen in love with this – is it a scarf or a necklace? – from The Faerie Market. I just love the pretty pinkish-reddish flower. I honestly don’t know what I would do with something like this, but it’s romantic and imaginative. Perhaps I would have one of my characters wear it. It’s the sort of thing Thea would wear, for instance.

Rowan DeVoe Arts gives us this photographic print called “Ophelia Siren Child.” This is the sort of image I might have over my desk, actually. It’s dreamy and inspiring. I don’t think of her as dead but as a sort of dreaming siren who is also Ophelia, in a watery womb, waiting to be reborn.

And finally, this is for us to wear if we want to be as romantic as all of these items, the vase and scarf and prints: a green gypsy skirt from Fashion Dress 6. I wouldn’t wear it like this, not with a tank top and flip-flops, which makes it look too ordinary, but with a filmy white blouse and ballet flats. It’s a skirt that deserves better, and needs to be twirled around in.

The next two weeks are going to be crazy, as I’ve written. I’m going to try to keep updating here, but my posts will be like this one. They’ll be about dreams rather than reality, because that’s how I’m sustaining myself right now.