Cue the music, Frank.
Okay, Sammy, Here we go.
I’m 50 now. I was sad and then happy. I am like this on my birthday. I can talk about it now because it happened a few days ago. It’s no big deal. I’m fine. No, really. Because according to the algorithms, I will now read more books, travel more, enjoy birding, cook fish, try any and all products to look younger than I am, be a tad more forgetful, and exercise with a weighted vest because I’m getting a lil chubby. Conversely, I will not drink alcohol or eat cookies, spaghetti sandwiches (left over spaghetti and meatballs on a warm baguette), or anything with any kind of sugar that might dare to bring me pleasure. What’s not to love about turning 50?
Let the sugar-free suffering begin!
But first another slice of this delicious carrot cake untainted by my mortal enemy, the loathsome walnut (seriously, this recipe is sofa-king good).
The algorithms aren’t totally wrong. I did travel a little bit in November.
On my travels, I read. Oh, how I read. November and my narcissism about turning 50 led to one of my most immersive reading experiences of my adult life. I read three books back to back in less than two weeks. Don’t snort, I’m dyslexic. I know this is no big thing for some of you, but for me it’s a reallllly big deal.
Book 1: I devoured—wild animal style (think of a hungry lioness and a very unfortunate antelope on the Serengeti)—an advance copy of Ron Currie Jr.’s upcoming book, The Savage, Noble Death of Babs Dionne, which I am pretty sure was written just for me—though, strangely, my name does not appear in the dedication.
I really loved Lori— she’s the book’s engine and Bab’s daughter. Plot follows her around like a loyal dog. Let’s just say she’s got some addiction issues and she talks to the ghosts of dead people. Who doesn’t? Though, I’d call what I do more of an invocation, if you want to get technical. My ghosts are run-of-the-mill ghosts—a grandmother, the babes I’ve lost, and my own silly shadow. I talk to my shadow just about every time I see it. “I have a little shadow…” I say, repeating that old nursery rhyme in my head. I like to minimize my shadow, so she doesn’t get too big.
You know the poem?
My Shadow
Robert Louis Stevenson
1850 –1894 [Damn, he only made it to 44]
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.
He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see;
I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Seriously, what can be the use of her?
Book 2: In a brief spell between travels, I came home to a book I’d pre-ordered and forgotten about, so I was surprised to see it on my stairs. Kind of like when you text yourself and are surprised when your phone buzzes… maybe that never happens to you. IDK. Anyway, I was surprised to receive Haruki Murakami’s hardcover of The City and Its Uncertain Walls even though I’d ordered it—a perk of forgetfulness. Did I say that already?
As usual, Murakami’s story is about that eternal human problem of integrating one’s internal world with the world on the outside. Murakami gives the internal world shape and form as though it’s another inhabitable place (the “City” referenced in the title) and then splits the main character (written in first person) into two characters: a physical self and his shadow. Two worlds, two mes. As you read, you’ll ask yourself: Will me and my shadow ever live in the real world together if we’re always playing hide and seek in two different dimensions?
Yeah, this story is abstract. There are confusing moments in the text where it’s hard to tell if “I” am in the real world or the internal world— and if “I” am the real me or the shadow me. Each time this happened, I thought, Ahhh, such is life! or Who the hell am “I” right now?—both of which seemed apropos to the text and this twisted conundrum of existence. In these moments, when my frustration began to rise, it seemed as if the book was saying, Ahh, perhaps integration of worlds and selves is what we all truly want, isn’t it?
Book 3: The Saint of Bright Doors by Vajra Chandrasekera starts out with the protagonist being separated from his shadow by a garrote (What is up with all of these shadows as characters?).
This book is wildly referential to the modern times (plague, politics, tradition, culture, race, faith) while being other worldly at the same time. Chandrasekera’s naming conventions within the story are genius: characters named “Mother of Glory” and “The Perfect and Kind” spiked the narrative tension each time they were repeated (I can’t wait to try this). Clearly, the names alone were worth the ride for me, but the long discussion of life without a shadow…after coming out of my Murakami Haze (that should be the name of a marijuana strain), got me thinking about how one of my sad, so sad, all-too-realistic stories that has become too sad for me to continue writing. I thought, Ghosts and shadows aren’t just for Halloween, or horror, or fantasy— ghosts and shadows are for everyone. I need to add a shadow or a ghost to my sad, sad story.
Why?
Because every good trauma has some level of disassociation and an opportunity for hope.
I am traveling with my family, so, of course I forget this idea I have for my character about a millisecond after I think of it. I forget that I have made a big decision about my story because I am underslept, and figuring out the Tube, and doing delightful touristy things with underslept and underfed people.
We catch that match where all the Southampton fans thought they had a chance of beating Liverpool. Also Southampton fans really do not like Virgil van Dijk. Every time he got the ball, there was a chorus of boos throughout the stadium. The frenzy and peer pressure to join in must have been what it felt like during the witch trials. I almost forgot I was a van Dijk fan. I felt moved to join the haters’ chorus of boos, the thousands of boo-ers. Such was my notion, until the mighty chants from the Liverpool section banished all the new found hatred from my heart. What lungs they had. I did not burn the witch!
And wait, what was that idea I had for my book?
The next day our dear friends Kay and Steve took us on a mini tour of the Cotswolds and Blenheim Castle (the location for the show, Bridgerton). Damn, that is some pretty countryside.
According to Kay, each year they (IDK who they is) decorate the castle for the holiday season. The theme this year is Peter Pan in honor of J.M. Barrie, the Scottish playwright.
Kay couldn’t recall the story of Peter Pan, and being a family of devotees we were more than willing to fill in the blanks as we went from scene to scene. The first room we went into was the Darling nursery, where there were three beds for Wendy, John, and Michael.
“Peter would visit the Darling children's nursery to listen to Mrs. Darling’s bedtime stories. During one visit, Peter gets startled and tries to escape through the window, and his Peter’s shadow gets caught on the sill and and tears off as the window slams shut.”
At this point, I have that feeling that I’m about to remember something, but what?
“So Mrs. Darling finds the shadow and folds it carefully, placing it in a drawer for safekeeping.”
“Later, Peter returns to the nursery with Tinker Bell to retrieve his shadow. He finds the shadow in the drawer and tries using soap to reattach his shadow, but this fails. In the commotion, Wendy Darling wakes up and sees Peter struggling. She offers to help him and uses a needle and thread to sew Peter’s shadow back onto his feet. This is how they end up all going to Neverland together… second star to the right and straight on til…”
And there it is. I’m looking up at this ceiling and I remember. I remember that my hopeless character, who even I have stopped rooting for, needs another way to be seen. At this point, I let the kids take over the narration of the different scenes and my only thoughts are of my character Everett and his shadow…
I really won’t forget this time.
Ciao,
Nina
One day, music will play when you open my Substack. Each post will have a soundtrack. This post is singing “Me and My Shadow.” I think Murakami would love this feature. He’d play Thelonius Monk or Shubert or the Beatles on his posts.