A Pocket of One’s Own

From ages 7 to let’s say 10 but honestly it was older than 10, my at first most-prized and later on most-loved possession was my Felicity American Girl doll. Like all of the historical American G’s, Felicity had a backstory — she was from colonial Williamsburg, and her father was a shopkeeper and a revolutionary who sold chocolate instead of tea. In school, we covered the American Revolution as often as testing standards and obligation to gloss over other countries’ histories allowed, but much of what I know of that time, I owe to Felicity. For instance: in colonial Williamsburg, women’s pockets were standalone, large, floppy things attached to a sash and worn under their dresses, between their petticoat and under petticoat.

felicity_american_girl_doll_pocket

Felicity’s pocket had pretty embroidery, but, even at 6, I remember thinking that the concept of having to root through layers of fabric just to get to a spare pin or some egg money somewhat ridiculous. And yet, when they were first introduced, pockets were somewhat revolutionary themselves, for they allowed women to conduct errands of commerce and pay social calls without having to rely on the long-extant pockets of the menfolk. Women, needless to say, loved them. The Victoria and Albert Museum rounded up a number of pocket-related writings, among them a raison d’etre from the inestimable Teresa Tidy:

‘It is also expedient to carry about you a purse, a thimble, a pincushion, a pencil, a knife and a pair of scissors, which will not only be an inexpressible source of comfort and independence, by removing the necessity of borrowing, but will secure the privilege of not lending these indispensable articles.

tightlacing_lg

A pocket was not a room of one’s own, but it was a start. The reticule took it a step further. Reticules are small, netted drawstring bags — the very first handbag. They came about at the end of the eighteenth century to abet the more body-conscious restrictions of the grecian, empire-waisted-style of gown that had replaced the hoop&petticoat as the de rigeur womanswear.

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Reticules tended to be more delicate and far less spacious than the pocket, and for these offenses Teresa Tidy labeled them “ridicules” — but their feebleness led to larger, more structured handbags on the one hand, and attached pockets on the other, inventions which have endured to this day.

The English word pocket can be traced through Old North French poche to Proto-Germanic *puk without a change in meaning, though its original Proto-Indo-European root *beu means “to swell.” Reticule, meanwhile, comes first from the French réticule, aka a hair net, but fancy. Reticule comes from the Latin reticulum, meaning a little net, from rete, which is just plain net. Rete itself comes from the Proto-Indo-European *ere, which means to separate. And this is quite fun because you can think of a reticule as a separate piece that brought women peace, or at least a bit of convenience. First comes reticules, then comes suffrage, as the saying goes.

I don’t see many reticules today, though antique shops sometimes have lovely beaded ones. But, if you want to say something has a webbed or netlike appearance, you can say it is reticulated, which is how Anthony Doerr described a dome in All The Light We Cannot See, and how I got onto this topic in the first place.

A Pocket of One’s Own

Bradykinesia, Infinite Jest, and The End of the Tour

I haven’t seen The End of the Tour yet, though the first fumbling, bandana’ed seconds of the trailer sold me. I liked Jason Segal in Forgetting Sarah Marshal; he brought a earnest, kind pathos to a role lesser comedic actors would have made merely whinging and pathetic. From the End of the Tour trailer, it seems the earnestness and the kindness — and certainly, the pathos — are on full bore in Segal’s portrayal of David Foster Wallace, which makes the late, mostly-revered author seem appealing rather than intimidating.

By some accounts, including Mary Karr’s, David Foster Wallace was intimidating — intimidatingly brilliant/moody/prickly/verbose/manic/lumbering/out of control. And certainly, Infinite Jest, the novel Foster Wallace is touring for in the film, feels intimidating. There’s a hesitance, even among my bluest stockinged friends, to discuss his work, for fear of coming off as pretentious. But that’s a shame, honestly, because his writing is a cracking cat o’nine or else a cat on a hot in roof or else the cheshire cat: it’s unspooling and sardonic and frenetically observant and there really isn’t anything else like it, which means it’s prime for discussion. And instead, it’s in the clutches of the humble braggers who paint it as some TOWERINGLY INSURMOUNTABLE WORK OF INFINITE GENIUS and thus, avoided by everyone else.

If you haven’t read Infinite Jest, don’t believe the humble braggers. It’s a dense plot, sure, and stocked with little-known and occasionally made-up words, and those footnotes, some of which have their own footnotes — but at the same time, this is no Finnegan’s Wake. If you like rapier-smart and detached teenage protagonists trying to solve the mysteries of their shadowy parents, and/or if you like gritty-yet-reverential, minutely-detailed depictions of addicts and A.A., and/or if you like semi-corpordystopias set in the murkily near future, and/or if you live in Inman Square or Brighton, check it out. At the very least, you’ll learn a lot of words, and come away with a jaded take on video conferencing.

I read Infinite Jest a few years ago, on a Kindle, during a period of my life that occasioned a lot of 4 hour bus trips between Boston and New York. On a Kindle, Infinite Jest is no larger than any other book, and there’s a built-in Oxford English Dictionary, and you can jump to and from footnotes easily.* I liked it enough to finish it, though I didn’t devour it the way I did The Corrections (that cruise dinner party scene!), and a quick glance at its Wikipedia page reveals I’d largely forgotten whole hunks of its plot (e.g. the entire Arizona conversation. Stream of conscience dialogue is not so much my thing.**)

I came away from Infinite Jest with a handful of images and threads: a boy flying on a bike down Comm Ave, a cold, sexually rapacious mother, violence in Inman Square, tough recovering addicts in leather jackets drinking grubby coffee, a killer video, years named after corporations, toxic, Underworld-style waste, a woman in a head scarf, a psychic radio show, the aforementioned video conferencing and lots and lots of new words. Some of them were architectural, like “lintel,” some were perfectly suited for describing teenage boys, like “cambering” and “fantods,” and some were medical, like “thrush,” and “bradykinesia,” the latter of which stuck in my head because I had just started dating (and riding Chinatown buses in order to see) a man named whose first name was was, and is, the first half of that pathology.

Bradykinesia means “slowness of movement,” from the greek bradys, “slow,” and kinesis, “movement.” It’s one of the “cardinal manifestations of Parkinson’s Disease,” though you don’t have to have Parkinson’s to be bradykinetic. In the book, one of the narrator’s brothers is bradykinetic, in addition to having an oblong head and a crab-like, tilted walk and possibly other maladies I cannot remember. My now-husband is, it should be said, NOT bradykinetic, though he is very measured, and certainly not frenetic. When I first came upon this word, I looked it up, gloated, wondered if Brady’s and my relationship was advanced enough to text him the meaning of his name, and decided it was.

“My name is Irish,” he texted me back.

Sheknows.com says the name Brady means “spirited” in Irish or “from the broad island” in English. Behindthename.com says it stems from a last name that means “large-chested,” a definition with which Wikipedia agrees and offers an alternative: “thievish.” “Spirited” is a much better descriptor of my husband than “slow,” “large-chested” is … perhaps slightly better? “Thievish”… not so much. In Massachusetts, where I’m from, “Brady” means “god,” but my husband is from Southern Connecticut, Giant’s-land.

Anyways. In Greek, bradys indisputably means “slow,” and I know that thanks to David Foster Wallace. Read Infinite Jest. Or read the Pale King, which is engrossing enough for a book set at the IRS, but also truly depressing and doesn’t have an ending. Or don’t read either, and read “Consider the Lobster,” which is absolutely fantastic and rocks the footnotes.

*Or, shhh, skip them.

**If it’s not yours, skip these chapters too!

Bradykinesia, Infinite Jest, and The End of the Tour

For Osme, With Love and Squalor (and Skeptikós)

An-Allegory-of-the-Sense-of-Smell-xx-Nicolaes-Maes
The fall of my senior year of high school, I lost my sense of smell. It happened gradually, perhaps, or perhaps it didn’t. Before I lost it, I was not the sort of person who exclaims over how good things smell, or how bad, though there were scents that made me feel happy and sprightly, like pine sap, or dangerously zippy, like gasoline. Now that I can’t smell, I see my smelling life as one that blundered along a bland path whose borders teamed with scents I never bothered to notice.

The medical name for not being able to smell is anosmia, literally “no smell,” from the Greek an and osme.  Anosmia has many causes, some of them temporary, like the common cold or the flu, some visible, like polyps and tumors, and some linked to blunt traumas, or diseases, like Alzheimer’s, which damage the olfactory pathway — the path that connects the nerves in our noses to receptors in our brains. In my case, the cause isn’t clear. The doctor who examined me found no tumors or polyps or signs of nasal tissue damage; it was as though my brain had simply stopped talking to my nose one day and decided, thereafter, that she didn’t need the company.

sense-of-smell

My own, unfounded, hypothesis involves massive amounts of chlorine and a small amount of bleach: my senior year, I was swimming for three to five hours a day. When I dyed my hair platinum, half of it fell out, and maybe my nose did as well. I like to think of it that way, lying clean and pristine on the white tiled floor, watching the long forms and wavelets of the freestylers up above.

If I were given a choice of which sense to lose, I’d pick the one I was dealt, as I think many people would. But the caveat with losing your sense of smell is the accompaniments you purportedly lose with it: your taste and your memories. Indeed, the first thing most people ask when they find out I can’t smell is some variation of “so, does that mean you can’t taste?” The answer is that at first, I couldn’t, which lent me an ability, much admired in my freshman dorm, to glug double shots of cheap vodka without wincing. Over time, though, my taste came back, and today I’d like to think it’s not so different from my smelling taste, though my love of texture and tolerance for spice and salt have remained high.

bananas

As far as memory goes, mine seems pretty solid, but when I rifle back to my teens and childhood, none of the memories are scented, except one, in which I am barefoot in my little garden, and I find a dusky red tomato tucked among the leaves, and when I snap it and hold it in my hand, it smells of warm, powdery dirt.

To live without smelling in New York City is to not live in New York City at all, as my mother says. And it is true that, apart from the crowds, I do not mind the subway in summer; apart from the grime, I can stand my own in public bathrooms and among the durians of Grand Street. I do mind that I have never smelled a cherry blossom.

Cherry_blossom_by_VforVieslav

There is one full dimension and other fractional dimensions missing from my anosmic life — but whereas before I barely noticed smells, I’m now obsessed with their shadow selves. Absence makes presence, or something like that. My husband is forever having to describe for me the scents of things I suspect might be beautiful or interesting or horrid — the horrid ones in particular I have a paranoid mania about. I worry that my dog smells when I drop her off at a friend’s; I worry that our apartment smells after I’ve made a muddled mess of burnt beans. Most of all I worry that I myself smell, though unlike the beans, my husband has yet to confirm this latter fear.

anosmia_paint

There isn’t a medical cure for anosmia; sometimes, it vanishes on its own, but if it’s a byproduct of damaged olfactory nerves, it’s typically there to stay. Ten years in, damaged olfactory nerves are likely what’s plaguing me, and yet, I’m not sure there’s no hope. A few months ago, I was walking down Henry Street in Cobble Hill, and wham, magnolia. And then I inhaled again, and it was gone. Last week, the same thing happened with hot dogs. “I don’t smell any hotdogs,” my friend said. So maybe it was phantasmorgia. But maybe, just maybe, it might have been my brain, finally accepting my nose’s long ignored messages.

For Osme, With Love and Squalor (and Skeptikós)

These Days, My Berry Picking Happens Within Plastic Containers

bramble

Mostly, my fingers shrink from mold and squooshy, caterpillar-like guts. But when I was little, I used to pick big knobbly blackberries and the rare black raspberry from the overgrown bramble that separated the end of our front lawn from the private road we called “the slow road.” Even as a kid, and certainly as an adult, the a sudden, albeit leafily hidden, glut of free, limitless fruit never failed to stir up rapacious, crazy-fisted delight. Or, as Seamus Heany puts it:

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking.
These Days, My Berry Picking Happens Within Plastic Containers

The Farrago of Infinitely Polar Bear

polarbear

Farrago is a synonym for hodgepodge — “a confused mix,” per the dictionary. Today, we went to see Infinitely Polar Bear, a biopic of sorts about a bipolar Bostonian and the eighteen months he spent caring for his two young daughters while their mother went to business school, in New York. The movie itself is not a farrago, but Cameron Forbes, its titular bear, certainly is. In the beginning of the movie, he’s full-blown manic, pulling his daughters out of school for a woodsy gambol after being fired for a job he’d only briefly held, then ripping the ignition switch out of the family car wearing only a red speedo while his wife and daughters tremble — in winter coats — in the backseat. Most of the film is him attempting to keep a lid on the mania; his daughters help with this quest by demanding structure and new sponges and flamenco skirts and scolding him for his spiraling piles of old telephones and bicycle parts and his guilessly outgoing behavior, which tended to send neighbors scuttling in the opposite direction.

Farrago comes part and parcel from Latin, where it meant a “mix of grains for animals.” (Far is the latin word for grain, hence farro and barley.) The Forbes family is very much a mix: Cameron is the nutty scion of one of Boston’s richest, Brahmin-iest families (evident in his shetlands and tam-o-shanters and inability to replace the old and worn out and broke-down); his wife, Maggie, is a midwestern African American, a fiercely driven steel magnolia of a woman who rose to a breadwinning challenge she hadn’t wanted, and then surpassed it, getting her MBA from Columbia and landing a brokerage job at E.F Hutton. One of Cameron and Maggie’s daughters (who are both fantastically, spitfiringly played) looks white, the other looks black, though race is addressed far less in Polar Bear than sex.

Infinitely Polar Bear is, above all, a tribute to Cameron, whom Mark Ruffalo plays with characteristic shambolic charm and a lot of searing, thrashing frustration. It is a tribute to Cam and also to Maggie and a testament, really, to how good their parenting really was, despite Cam’s erratic moods and Maggie’s physical absence.

Polar Bear takes place between 1978-9; nearly forty years later, the Forbes’ are still perhaps a farrago, but mostly in a good way: China, the older daughter, is the lead singer of the jazzy, smoky pop band Pink Martini; Maya, the younger daughter, is an accomplished screenwriter and directed Polar Bear, and Maya’s own daughter, Imogene, plays Maya (called Faith) in the film. Cameron, however spent many of his later years at McLean, before passing away, of pancreatic caner, in 1998.

The Farrago of Infinitely Polar Bear

Etymology: Ruckus/Rumpus

wild-rumpus

A friend, in a fundraising email for a summer camp, wrote that the camp’s mission statement contains the line: “To create a youthful ruckus of adventure and spirit where souls are ripened and freedom is discovered.” First of all, that is fantastic, and exactly what all camps should be, rather than the dull monotony of soccer balls and flip turns and missed slap shots that were my lot each summer until I was finally old enough to work. Second of all, I have a general fondness for words that begin with “rump” or “ruck,” e.g. rumpled, rucksack, and my favorite, rumpus, as vividly, roaringly rendered by Maurice Sendak.

Generally, “ruckus” is used to soften the blow of a negative situation, a bar fight, say, or the actions of a small mob of angry youths. Sometimes, it is used as a synonym for “hubbub,” or “fuss,” as in “I don’t see what all the ruckus was about.” I loved that the summer camp took the boisterous fun road, the rumpus road, as it were. Indeed, the etymological roads are likely interwined: best guesses point to ruckus being an American fin de siecle-era portmanteau of rumpus and ruction, a colloquial term for disturbance. The earliest usage I found was in the the February 24th, 1882 edition of Oklahoma’s Cherokee Advocate: “It is but right that they should know how the matter stands, and have fair warning to avoid a ‘pending’ rucus of some sort.”

As for rumpus itself, the OED hedges its formation as probably “fanciful,” and “possibly an alteration of robustious,” a mid-eighteenth century word meaning “boisterous, noisy.” LexiconDaily points out another origin possibility: romp, from the Old French ramper “to rear, rise up.” (Ahem, ramparts.)

Originally, rumpus, like ruckus, was a fighting descriptor, but eventually a more playful connotation snuck in, until, in 1950s suburbia, the rumpus room was generally accepted term for playroom, the one part of the house that didn’t need to be kept tidy.

Etymology: Ruckus/Rumpus

Etymology: Picnic

Apart from thermoses of Progresso Chicken Noodle and stacks of Pad Thai in bending foil containers, scarfed in intervals during summer swim meets, picnics were not a regular occurrence in my household. We ate too fast, for one thing; for another, the schedules of four/sometimes six/sometimes seven kids didn’t leave much time for lolling about on blanks, whacking away hunks of brie.

As an adult, I like a picnic — who doesn’t? We’ve had a spate of them on Central Park’s Great Lawn recently, nice, sprawling affairs that go from noon to dusk, when the need for more beer chases us out. The food isn’t really the point at these picnics — last time I brought a pretty diesel greek salad; kumatos and limpid Bulgarian feta and kalamatas and no iceberg never gross, and it was maybe 1/5 eaten when it was time to pack up.

Greek salad, for all its citrusy texture melds and ability to hold up for hours in the sun, is not particularly easy to eat, which goes against the word picnic’s original definition. Our English picnic comes from the French pique-nique: pique from the verb picquer, “to pick,” and nique meaning “small thing.” (You can see more evidence of nique in knickknack.) Originally, a pique-nique was the French version of a potluck; by the mid-19th century, it acquired its outdoor aspect, though the potluck principle of BYO generally holds true.

Definition here, etymology here.

Etymology: Picnic