Reading the Immoralist was a ride. I have a better understanding of how artists like Matisse play an important role in modernist literature. While I was reading the story, I couldn't help but see another discipline outside liberal arts that would easily welcome Gide's work: Psychiatry. The male character, Michel is a precise basket case, with more male-tenacity than one can believe. I didn't know males were capable of fluctuating, showing sensitivity to hot and cold in an useful way, loving and then not--the water faucet effect, and other emotions that are usually associated with women. I loved him!! In fact the majority of my classmates did; there were a few who hated him for his contradicting nature and other unreliable behavioral stuff--probably his most notable cutting characteristic...his lies and deception where Marceline (his wife) is concerned. I wondered under my breath how much the few who dislike Michel might have to do with current recent current numerous events of male infidelity....? I dared not put my classmates on the spot in asking that question. Despite his selfishness, Michel does try....what do I mean by try...you'll have to read it for yourself if you haven't already.
It's May 2012 and nothing has changed since November.11. I am all smiles at my relationship and myself. My honey and I continue to amaze each other on a daily basis. We're still ever so 'in' with each other. I completed my MA in literature last May and I'm teaching four college English courses to really smart students. I am hopeful to enter a doctorate program soon. This way, I can run out.All is scary good.
upon hearing your voice life again expands like moon crest like pomegranates swell to the sun and you are patient because god calls
when he came for you this morning you were bent into the flower bed singing black hymns so he left you alone until this third afternoon but even then he found you elbow deep in jewel weed with a mouthful of figs from a nearby tree again he waited because each time seemed to him an inconvenience and a wrong moment
and it was your persistent humming that drove him up and back until he could get his timing perfect he waited another day or so until
your gardening tools rest into porch corners your paring knife shines deeply into a drawer your hair comb lies slanted in a shoebox your wedding band hides in the mattress your fishing rod stays stolen
the sound of your voice desires to sing or hum but this time is perfect he has covered you like lavender-colored silence but he has also added streaks of olive green and pink because this is what the other soul-folk has told him to do and he has become tired in the process and therefore begins to rush sonances of your body he finds you the least complex when you are not outdoors digging in that garden, humming hymns and thriving and for a moment he questions his own timing its perfection and everything goes accordingly until he finds you have buried fruit peels and wandering jew petals underneath your back this does not anger him but it tilts his agility to deliver you and in his own questioning and presence of smells that he cannot privilege all this over powers his choice all this reels his otherwise perfection into letting you go
when i see you sitting in the plush squares of limitless St. Augustine your eyes are lit like crystal warmed soil releases from each of your hands
how did i get to this point this point of knowing you for you are nearly a century old