Keeping calm

 So...it's, um, December.

The end of December.

I think I underestimated this little job of mine. And I'm not sure why; I grew up around teachers, knowing that their evenings usually consist of lesson plans and a pile of papers to grade. But somehow I neglected to consider that all my ambitious projects might become, well, too ambitious, once the school year really kicked in. Especially since the first year of teaching is supposed to be the hardest.

(And I sure hope so, because I can't imagine another year like this semester.)

December found me lying on the couch every night, pretending to do work when all I could really manage was watching TV. All my plans to research, to work on this little blog, to write, even to read for my book club: out the window. Instead I was racing to grade research papers, create lesson plans, and play handbells in the school choir (but that's another story). And I surfaced about a week ago, back home on winter break, to discover that the year is basically over.

Really, the only manageable goal for this first year of teaching seems to be: "keep calm." Or, as a poster in my coworker's office says, "Keep calm and drink coffee." (Adapted from those WWII-era Brits, who knew what was up.)

So that's what I've been doing lately: keeping calm. And drinking a lot of coffee (and tea). And one of these candles my sister gave me for Christmas has been helping, too. It makes me think I'm strolling on a windswept beach somewhere, instead of holed up with a backlog of research papers.

Like clockwork

Tagging along with me on this crazy ride of twenty-something-hood is my sister, L. I went to visit her in DC about a month ago. We wandered around Georgetown, took long walks with our cousins' puppy, and saw a silly movie.

But what I really want to share with you is a wall in her apartment.

L and her roommate live above a bookstore (this is all I needed to hear to know that this would be an awesome place). The place is tiny, like most city apartments, but it's got character coming out of its ears. The best part is below:

A giant clock face painted on the wall by the stairs! One of the previous tenants must have designed it. And if you look closely, you'll notice that the face is painted backwards. So whenever you look at it, you feel as though you're living* inside Big Ben.

I'm counting the days until I can go back.

What about you? Any particularly unique features in your apartments?

*The whole experience reminds me of The Invention of Hugo Cabret, a thoroughly original MG book by Brian Selznick. In the book, the orphaned Hugo winds the clocks in a Paris railway station and spends a lot of time behind the scenes, running through tunnels and hiding in the kinds of nooks old buildings have. I love the idea of watching the life of a railway station through the eyes of a giant, old-fashioned clock.

A complicated relationship

This morning I got sucked into the New York Times' recent series on twenty-somethings living in New York City. The articles describe how some young folk will go to any lengths to get by in the city when they could be living anywhere else in a much more comfortable manner. Then you can listen to several of these brave people discuss the "dark moments" of first moving to the city and their creative strategies for making a living.

I was fascinated partly because a few years ago that was me. I lived in Williamsburg for a year and worked in publishing for a less-than-living wage (by New York standards). I had those dark moments and worried that I would never make any friends. I holed up in one of those postage-sized apartments that once lost all water for a long weekend in January because the pipes burst in the first-floor apartment. Mostly I looked forward to escaping when the end of my year-long lease came up.

But now I miss certain things about it. Sure, I love Providence, and it's great to live in an apartment three times the size of the one in Williamsburg for a lower rent. But when I go back to visit my friends, I miss being able to wander the streets and find ten new stores or restaurants and know that we'll never be able to try them all. I miss feeling like there were endless possibilities crammed into that tiny island. Today I almost envied those folks trying to get by (didn't quite wish that I could go back and try it again, though).

Oh New York, why do you tease me?

On bread

At home in Cleveland, my dad bakes bread every few months or so, when he feels he's done enough in the yard to spend an afternoon in the kitchen. He's worked through a selection of recipes from Beard on Bread over the past 30 years, teaching himself the art of bread-baking. And his bread is delicious: crusty egg-brushed exteriors yielding into soft slices, all with a warm yeasty smell. Even our dog loved it (she notoriously stole half a loaf off our table one summer, and we still tell the story).

Dad's tried a number of recipes, but he generally turns to his old stand-bys: Cracked-Wheat and Mother's Raisin Bread. He's obsessed with the cracked-wheat, and my mom hints not-so-subtly for raisin when he's in a bread-baking mood. And when he bakes, he devotes himself to the process. Watches over the rising loaves like each one is his first-born. He's been known to sit up hours after the rest of the house has gone to sleep, as he waits for the loaves to bake to burnished perfection.

His favorite part is soaking the raisins in bourbon. (Or gin if he's feeling frisky.)

He's the one who taught me to bake bread. How to follow recipes to the letter, how to test the temperature of each liquid to avoid killing the yeast, how to knead dough until it's soft and pliable. I avoided a lot of first-time mistakes when I started baking on my own because he made them first and told me about them. But mostly I learned to associate the smell of bread and yeast with home, with family lunches around the kitchen table and plates of buttered cracked-wheat toast.

So on Sunday, with nothing but a long, lonely day of grading ahead of me, I set aside the afternoon to bake. Bread takes planning; it takes afternoons (especially when you're as slow as I am). I queued up some old Gilmore Girls episodes and got to work. And it only took 6 hours (I said it was a commitment!) before that yeasty, warm smell began to waft through the kitchen/living room and replace the stale air of my apartment. And I didn't feel so lonely anymore.

I've baked many a pastry over the past few years, but nothing fills me up more than two stout loaves of cracked-wheat bread that make any place feel like Cleveland.

New England fall

We are in the midst of comment season at school. This means frantically grading every piece of homework that's been piled up on our desks, followed by a solid weekend of writing narrative comments about each and every student's progress in our courses. Along with all our other class preparation.

Needless to say, I need a break.

So yesterday I went for a walk during a free period, just to get some fresh air. Lo and behold, fall is still beautiful in New England! My photos don't do it justice, but I wanted to give you a glimpse of early November over in my corner of the world.

Now back to the desk...

Howl, for Carl Solomon

Last weekend, J (the boyfriend) and I went to see Howl at Avon Cinema in Providence. First things first: Avon is tucked between restaurants on College Hill, with room enough to show one movie at a time on its single screen. It offers a refreshing dose of old-fashioned charm, complete with a marquee outside that lists the names and showtimes of its indie films in bold, sans-serif letters. When I was at school I would routinely swing up Thayer just to pass Avon, hoping an artsy or historical movie might be playing next. And last weekend, Howl fit the bill.

In 1956, an as-yet unknown Allen Ginsberg published his poem "Howl, for Carl Solomon," with a number of other poems through a San Francisco bookstore. The poem (and its publisher, Lawrence Ferlinghetti) were subsequently put on trial for obscenity. Granted, it's a dense, angry poem, full of vibrant language that makes me cringe. Ginsberg doesn't back down from what he wants to say and how to say it. It's easy to see how it could offend some people. But ironically, the obscenity trial essentially publicized the poem much better than Ferlinghetti's bookstore alone could, and it introduced America to the so-called Beat Generation. Howl captures this critical moment.

This is an awesome film. It's easy for a poem or a piece of literature or a saying to become entrenched in pop culture, so much so that you stop thinking about what it originally meant. Howl does the exact opposite. It breaks the poem down into animated "illuminations" (a la William Blake?), throws in a reenactment of the original reading of the poem, and shifts seamlessly between poetry, the trial, and a classic interview with Ginsberg (played here by dreamy James Franco). It completely immerses you in the world of the poem.

I first came across the Beats in high school. We had to write a major research paper for our American history class, and our textbook had allotted a whole exciting paragraph to the Beats. So I wrote my paper on "Howl." (I didn't realize when I chose it just how earthy it can get. A shock to sheltered, high-school Abby.) I met Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs and Neal Cassidy, and I read about their Benzedrine-fueled writing sessions with a sickened fascination. Part of me envied their impassioned collective, part of me felt like I was watching a car crash in slow motion. The Beats don't have a particularly savory history.

But I got to know that poem like I'd never known any piece of literature. I learned how history can influence literature and the other way around. I read about Ginsberg's youth and felt his rage leak out through the lines of the poem. It's a beautiful poem.

The movie brings that all back. It almost makes you live inside that poem. You forget you're in a darkened theater. And it feels fitting to be watching it on a single screen, with curtains on either side, a relic brought back to life for a new generation.

Read the full text of "Howl:" http://howlthemovie.com/poem/

Introductions

Hi. I'm Abby. This is my gathering of days: a collection of sights, sounds, thoughts, and stories that I'd like to share with you.

Really, the main reason I'm doing this is to start writing on a regular basis again. Like a lot of would-be writers, I let my love of words be pushed aside by other interests (in this case, American history, busy college life, and a surprising decision to learn how to teach), and for a while they were enough. But lately, I've been missing writing. Missing the feeling of losing myself in some other place and idea. So I'm starting slow, with this blog as my practice ring. I hope you'll come along for the ride.

About the Name
A Gathering of Days is most famously the title of Joan W. Blos' Newbery-winning novel, which chronicles two years in the life of a girl living in nineteenth century America. I just love the imagery of it: it makes me think of a basket full of days, kept close to sift through in quiet moments.

(And yes, all right, I'm a history nerd.)