Pride

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Fermata (1994)

  Rarely, I take short walks. I eat lunch and dinner and go to bed exactly as I would were time in effect, and yet I have a whole stilled writing day funded with early-morning qualities of light that help me concentrate. After a “night’s” sleep, I wake the world with a second snap and have a shower and go to my continuing temp assignment at MassBank. It is not such a good thing for me to be spending half my life in the Fold, doubling my rate of aging, but I only plan to keep up this alternating schedule until I finish a little more of my autobiography. An unexpected benefit of the regimen is that real life, the life I spend in time’s flow, feels not unpleasantly elongated, as if I were ten years old again; my privately interpolated “yesterdays” push real events of only two or three days ago into the middle-distant past. Am I an alienated person? Some who have read this far might say so—some might say that a man who comes onto an unknown woman’s ecstatically squinting orgasm-face without her being aware of it is definitely an alienated person—or worse. And temps are prima facie alienated by virtue of their vocational rootlessness. But I don’t see that nasal, sociological-sounding word applying in any useful way to me. I get along well with people. I haven’t perhaps done such a good job of establishing my sanity in this sketch of my life, since I have had to concentrate on the episodes of temporal distortion that make my experience unique, and they almost always embrace the controlled mental disorder known as sexual arousal, but I’m not by any means a crazy person. I don’t have a flat affect. I’m friendly and likable. I go out on the occasional date. I have several male friends, even. I have had long-term relationships with three women, Rhody being the most recent. The only major difference between me and any number of residents of the greater Boston area is that I have been able to invent and make use of several sorts of chronoclutch. No, there is a difference, I think: I’m arrogant enough to believe, at least to believe sometimes, that the reason that I have been chosen over any other contemporary human to receive and develop this chronanistic ability (if there is indeed some supernatural temp agency doing the choosing) is maybe that I can be trusted with it—trusted at least not to do any real harm. Morals depend in part on consequence; consequence on time; and since my amoralities flourish and expire entirely in momentary pico-states of timeless inconsequence, the usual rules just don’t have the same prohibitive force. Nobody else should be entitled to take off women’s clothes at will, at the snap of a finger or the flip of a switch, but I think I should be, because, for one thing, my curiosity has more love and tolerance in it than other men’s does.

• From A Theology for the Social Gospel (1918)

  Every forward step in the historical evolution of re- ligion has been marked by a closer union of religion and ethics and by the elimination of non-ethical religious per- formances. This union of religion and ethics reached its highest perfection in the life and mind of Jesus. Af- ter him Christianity quickly dropped back to the pre- christian stage. Ceremonial actions and orthodox beliefs became indispensable to salvation; they had a value of their own, quite apart from their bearing on conduct. Theology had the task of defending and inculcating these non-ethical ingredients of religion, and that pulled the- ology down. It is clear that our Christianity is most Christian when religion and ethics are viewed as insepa- rable elements of the same single-minded and whole- hearted life, in which the consciousness of God and the consciousness of humanity blend completely. Any new movement in theology which emphatically asserts the DIFFICULTIES OF THEOLOGICAL READJUSTMENT 1 5 union of religion and ethics is likely to be a wholesome and christianizing force in Christian thought. The social gospel is of that nature. It plainly con- centrates religious interest on the great ethical problems of social life. It scorns the tithing of mint, anise and cummin, at which the Pharisees are still busy, and insists on getting down to the weightier matters of God's law, to justice and mercy. It ties up religion not only with duty, but with big duty that stirs the soul with religious feeling and throws it back on God for help. The non-ethical practices and beliefs in historical Christianity nearly all centre on the winning of heaven and immortality. On the other hand, the Kingdom of God can be established by nothing except righteous life and action. There is nothing in social Christianity which is likely to breed or reinforce superstition. The more the social gospel en- gages and inspires theological thought, the more will re- ligion be concentrated on ethical righteousness. The so- cial gospel is bound to be a reformatory and christianiz- ing force inside of theology. Theology is the esoteric thought of the Church. Some of its problems are unknown and unintelligible except where the Church keeps an interest in them alive. Even the terminology of theology is difficult for anyone to un- derstand unless he has lived under church influence for years. Jesus and his followers were laymen. The peo- ple felt that his teaching was different from the argu- ments of their theologians, less ponderous and more mov- ing. When Christianity worked its way from the lower to the higher classes, its social sympathies became less 1 6 A THEOLOGY FOR THE SOCIAL GOSPEL

• From The Fermata (1994)

  People are somewhat puzzled by me when I first show up at their office—What is this unyoung man, this thirty-five-year-old man, doing temping? Maybe he has a criminal past, or maybe he’s lost a decade to drugs, or: Maybe He’s an Artist? But after a day or two, they adjust, since I am a fairly efficient and good-natured typist, familiar with most of the commonly used kinds of software (and some of the forgotten kinds too, like nroff, Lanier, and NBI, and the good old dedicated DEC systems with the gold key), and I am unusually good at reading difficult handwriting and supplying punctuation for dictators who in their creative excitement forget. Once in a great while I use my Fold-powers to amaze everyone with my apparent typing speed, transcribing a two-hour tape in one hour and that kind of thing. But I’m careful not to amaze too often and become a temp legend, since this is my great secret and I don’t want to imperil it—this is the one thing that makes my life worth living. When some of the more intelligent people in a given office ask little probingly polite questions to try to figure me out, I often lie and tell them that I’m a writer. It is almost funny to see how relieved they are to have a way of explaining my lowly work status to themselves. Nor is it so much of a lie, because if I had not wasted so much of my life waiting for the next Fermata-phase to come along I would very likely have written some sort of a book by now. And I have written a few shorter things. I’m typing this on a portable electronic typewriter because I don’t want to risk putting any of it on the bank’s LAN. Local area networks behave erratically in the Fold. When my carpal-tunnel problem gets bad, I use a manual for my private writing; it seems to help. But I don’t have to: batteries and electricity do function in the Fold—in fact, all the laws of physics still obtain, as far as I can tell, but only to the extent that I reawaken them. The best way to describe it is that right now, because I have snapped my fingers, every event everywhere is in a state of gel-like suspension. I can move, and the air molecules part to let me through, but they do it resistingly, reluctantly, and the farther that objects are from me, the more thoroughly they are paused. If someone was riding a motorcycle down a hill before I stopped time “half an hour” ago, the rider will remain motionless on his vehicle unless I walk up to him and give him a push—in which case he will fall down, but somewhat more slowly than if he fell in an unpaused universe.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  It seems that I must take you home and rid you of it. Now, who will ride with us to Felicity Place, to catch the sport ...’There was a ripple around the room. Maria rose at once, and reached for her walking-cane. ‘Tantivy, tantivy!’ she cried. Then: ‘Ho, Satin!’ I heard a yelp, and from beneath her chair there came - what I had not seen before, as it lay dozing behind the curtain of her skirts - a handsome little whippet, on a pig-skin leash.Dickie and Evelyn rose too, then. Diana inclined her head to Miss Bruce, and I made her a deeper bow. All eyes had been upon us as we made our entrance; all eyes were on us still, as we headed for the exit. I heard Miss Bruce return to her seat, and someone call, ‘Quite right, Vanessa!’ But another lady held my gaze as I passed her, and winked; and from a table near the door a woman rose to say to Diana that she hoped that Miss King’s trousers had not been too desperately singed...The trousers were rather spoiled; back at Felicity Place, Diana had me walk and bend before Maria and Evelyn and Dickie, in order to decide it. She said she would order me another pair, just the same.‘What a find, Diana!’ said Maria, as Evelyn patted the cloth. She said it as she might say it about a statue or a clock that Diana had picked up for a song in some grim market. She didn’t care whether I overheard or not. Why should it matter that I did? She meant it, she meant it! There was admiration in her eyes. And being admired, by tasteful ladies - well, I knew it wasn’t being loved. But it was something. And I was good at it.Who would ever have thought I should be so good at it!‘Take off your shirt, Nancy,’ said Diana then, ‘and let the ladies see your linen.’I did so, and Maria cried again, ‘What a find!’ Chapter 13 [image "018" file=wate_9781101078198_oeb_018_r1.jpg] Diana’s wider circle of friends, I believe, thought our union a fantastic one. I would sometimes see them look between us, then overhear their murmurs - ‘Diana’s caprice,’ they called me, as if I were an enthusiasm for a wonderful food, that a sensitive palate would tire of. Diana herself, however, once having found me, seemed only increasingly disinclined to let me go. With that one brief visit to the Cavendish Club she had launched me on my new career as her permanent companion. Now came more excursions, more visits, more trips; and more suits for me to make them in. I grew complacent.

• From Bold Move

  The point being, failure is necessary from time to time. As a final reminder: we first Shift our perspective and look at the world from new angles. Then we Approach , moving toward and through the discomfort. Finally, we Align each of our actions toward our values. When done repeatedly and in various situations, these three moves will allow us to move like water even in the most challenging moments of our lives. Being the water and not the rock is an alternative definition of living a bold life. If you look at the most amazing figures in history, like Martin Luther King Jr. or Thomas Edison, you will see individuals who flowed through their times, finding ways to keep going while being driven by a mission and a purpose. For them, being the rock stuck in place while change happened elsewhere was not an option. This water versus rock approach to a bold life can gracefully be summarized in the words of Oprah Winfrey: “When you meet obstacles with gratitude, your perception starts to shift, resistance loses its power, and grace finds a home within you.” So, here we are at the end of our time together. For me, the question remains: Am I enough? And when I ask myself this, I am inspired by Michelle Obama’s memoir Becoming , in which she writes: “Am I good enough? Yes I am!” And so, even if my brain wants to think otherwise, I end my journey with you by affirming this to myself: YES I AM! As for you, from here on, you are in charge. I hope some of the lessons in this book will remain with you for the rest of your days, giving you guidance and focus when hard times come. If I may be so bold, I’d like to offer you some final words of wisdom. First: life is hard and challenges are real. I wish I could say that you, dear reader, will be the first in human history to avoid a difficult time or two, but sure as the sun rises, Old Man Trouble has a way of finding us. But to this I say, fantastic. Difficult times shape us, and we can use them to our advantage. Avoidance is the enemy, so keep a close eye out for it. Finally, be bold by following the words from my sage grandmother: be the water, not the rock. Flow past the obstacles you face, and never stop moving toward your values. When in doubt, your values will never fail you. I’d like to thank you for taking this ride with me, and to wish you a bold, beautiful life. Go get it! GratitudeEvery morning my son, Diego, wakes up and runs to my office. I can hear his little footsteps pounding on the floor as he rushes in to meet the day.

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  Can you hear the boldness, confidence, and joy in his tone? He wasn’t apologetic. He didn’t grovel. He was convinced of God’s love and power toward His people, and he was passionate about convincing others of it too. Here’s what I’ve noticed. Paul, Jesus, and many other heroes of the faith prayed from, not for. From God’s forgiveness, not for His forgiveness. From God’s acceptance, not for His acceptance. From God’s approval, not for His approval. From God’s blessing, not for His blessing. From God’s love, not for His love. Your middle school teacher was right. Prepositions matter. When it comes to prayer, from and for are worlds apart. The premise of Jesus, Paul, and many others was that God was on their side. They believed they were accepted and loved and valuable to God, and those beliefs imbued their prayers, words, and actions with divine confidence. Prayer helps establish and strengthen those same premises in us. When we pray, we affirm who we are in Christ and how much we mean to God. We see God’s love in a deeper way. We discover His purposes for us. We grow in faith that His power will work through us. Prayer done right will keep us in a place of healthy self-worth and godly self- confidence. A positive view of self is vital. Dr. Albert Bandura, a psychologist who is highly regarded for his work on self-confidence, coined the term “self-efficacy” to describe our belief that we can (or can’t) do something. I wrote about his theory in more detail in my book Help! I Work with People. Based on his extensive research, Bandura said, “When beset with difficulties people who entertain serious doubts about their capabilities slacken their efforts or give up altogether, whereas those who have a strong sense of efficacy exert greater effort to master the challenges.” 1 In other words, what we believe we are capable of will determine how hard we work—or how quickly we give up when we face obstacles. Our brains have

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  To sum up, when we feel awkward we’re quick to blame our skills. And while sometimes our skills seem to escape us, it’s inhibition that gets in our way, but that can be changed. In an old study from 1976, researchers asked forty socially anxious undergrads to role-play situations where they had to be assertive, like asking for a raise or requesting a neighbor turn down their stereo. Half the participants were instructed to respond as they would in real life, while the other half were asked to respond as assertively as they believed the most assertive person would. (Stage whisper: Hey, that sounds like playing a role from chapter 8.) Participants were able to improve their performance on demand, turning their assertiveness up and down like a dimmer switch. Again, counter to the myth of I have lousy social skills, we don’t need more skills, we just need less inhibition. But guess what? You already know what to do to lower your inhibition: Like the assertive study participants, play a role—give yourself a mission. Dare to be average. Fake it until you are it. And finally, drop your safety behaviors. Step away from the body spray. * * * Looking back, Derrick realized the new gym wasn’t full on opening day for the simple reason that businesses don’t get up to speed overnight. After a while, he also realized business success wasn’t just a cult of personality, as he had assumed. His father’s success wasn’t due only to his social skills. Instead, it was a combination of location, marketing, hard work, time, and luck. The problem wasn’t Derrick’s social skills at all. If anything held him back, it was his anxiety, which kept him from accessing his skills. A year or so after the empty opening, Derrick surveyed the no-longer-new gym one Saturday morning. The place was packed. Guys in long athletic shorts drubbed the punching bags. Two blond women, one with pink gloves, sparred nearby. A dozen people gathered in the central ring for the start of a fundamentals class. The kids’ class Derrick had started was under way. The kids’ program was Derrick’s pride and joy. “Shy kids learn confidence. Cocky kids learn to tone it down. There’s a wait list for this class.” Just then a prospective member walked up to the desk, and Derrick went over to greet him. Derrick didn’t try to be his father. He didn’t try to have someone else’s skills. He could be himself. As Derrick discovered, he already had it in him. 15 The Myth of Hope in a Bottle

• From The Fermata (1994)

  Frankenstein, and a thousand more recent horror heroes, all master some quasi-supernatural power and are punished for it, worn out by it, destroyed by it. How false and wearisome this outcome is. Why should a life with some unusual metaphysical feature built into it inevitably end in unhappiness and early death? Why should all the heroes have some fatal flaw that causes them to overreach and hence to self-destruct? It’s too convenient. Even the two quieter (and surprisingly similar, one to another) literary artifacts that treat conditions of temporal halt which resemble my own private Foldouts—I am speaking here of Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” and Borges’s “The Secret Miracle”—both punish their heroes severely: they end with military executions. I read these two stories in high school with a sense of deep personal dissatisfaction. Is this all a writer thinks a Fold-drop could be about? Putting off death at the last minute? Where are the supervenient hebephrenias? Where is the life? Where are the tits? In reality, I’m here to report, people very often get away with things. I have not been caught and imprisoned for what I have done; and besides, I am not Dr. Jekyll or Dr. Frankenstein and don’t deserve torments and agonies. Even if I publish this memoir as a book, and someone recognizes herself in it and prosecutes me for a relevant sex-offense (I have gone through the manuscript, by the way, and altered a few names and fudged a few dates to decrease the possibility of this happening, but it still might), my life will still seem to me to have been a good life and I will seem to myself to have been a man who wanted to do no harm and who in fact did no harm. In part I am self-righteous-minded at the moment because of some recent developments having to do with the all-important Joyce Collier, Joyce of the love-inspiring black pubic hair, whom I had to abandon early in these pages in my eagerness to get as much of my past interlife recorded as I could without new preoccupying interruptions. On a Friday at work two real-weeks ago, about the general time I was starting to write about taking my watch off for Rhody in the Thai restaurant, I looked over at the head of a certain squash-playing loan officer named Paul at MassBank and suddenly felt that I wouldn’t be able to stand going to work that coming Monday; moreover, I felt I wouldn’t be able to stand going to work at all until I had finished a good deal more of this memoir. I called my coordinator and asked her for a whole week off from the bank.

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  Put yourself firstWhen you board an airplane, the flight attendant reminds you that in the event of an emergency, passengers should put their own oxygen masks on first. Women everywhere need to be reminded of this when it comes to our sexual health and needs. Putting ourselves first isn’t easy, especially since women seem raised to think of others before themselves. However, the more you do this, the more you will realize that when you feel happy, healthy, satisfied, and well-rested, the people around you will thrive from your positive presence. Your sexuality is an important part of who you are. If you don’t allow it to flourish, you are doing a great disservice to yourself and your loved ones. Grow with your partnerUnderstanding your partner within the context of your relationship is part of a great sex life. Men and women are equal, but we are still unique when it comes to our thoughts, feelings, hormones, and socialization. These differences are reflected in our relationships and our sex lives—each partner has their own needs in the bedroom. Celebrating these differences and embracing the way they play out in our relationships is the first step in creating great communication and sizzling intimacy. Embrace your sexualityA great sex life begins with great self-knowledge. From self-love to sexploration with a partner, discovering our own sexual needs is a crucial step on the journey to self-awareness, both sexually and otherwise. By overcoming your inhibitions and championing your own sexuality, you will discover a new-found bravery in all other parts of your life. You will also find deeper intimacy and passion in your relationship with your partner. Here’s to breaking out of our uncomfortable cocoons and blossoming into the beautiful, unique, and sexual women that we were born to be. ResourcesCreating a vibrant, healthy sex life doesn’t happen overnight. Luckily, there are many great resources that women can use to guide them on their journey to fulfilling, joyous sex lives. As you continue to grow and discover your particular sexual tastes and pleasures, these resources can answer your questions, assuage your fears, and help you unleash your inhibitions. From books to websites to erotic toy stores, here is a comprehensive guide to the best sexual health tools for women. [image file=image_rsrc3E4.jpg] BooksFor Women Onlyby Jennifer Berman and Laura Berman (Henry Holt and Company, 2001) Contains medical information and case studies to help women understand and enjoy their sexuality, with information on drugs, products, and treatments. Passion Prescriptionby Laura Berman (Hyperion, 2006) This book is a must-read for all women who want to learn more about their emotional, medical, physical, and social ties to sex. The Five Love Languagesby Gary Chapman (Northfield Publishing, 2004) Like a couples’ counseling session, this book shows how to talk and share love with your partner in a way that he or she will understand and give back. Conscious Lovingby Gay Hendricks and Kathlyn Hendricks (Bantam, 1990)

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  Share your successIf your man’s self-esteem is low, you can boost it by spending time together doing activities that give you shared goals—such as hiking or bike riding. The exercise will also improve his mental outlook and lead to good bedroom vibes. Notice his achievements. Men don’t always toot their own horn when they have had a good day at work. Ask for the details and applaud his efforts. This will boost his ego and encourage him to continue being successful. If he feels happy and appreciated, he is more likely to want to celebrate with you in bed. Give him timeJust as your partner doesn’t always fill you in when he’s had a good day, he might also be inclined to hide his emotions about a bad one. Don’t push him for details, but offer your support by letting him know that you’re there for him. Be patient, since he might take a little while to come out of his shell. While you are waiting, a spot of quiet time can be therapeutic for both of you. Private playtimeIf you want to help de-stress your lover, invite him to the bedroom for some adult playtime. Any sexual activity is a great way to unwind together—and your invitation will boost his self-esteem. Get yourselves in the mood with some simple silliness. Play around taking pictures of your lover, challenge him to a pillow fight, or tell each other jokes and funny stories while lying naked in bed. Demand a private viewing Pay your partner the ultimate compliment and ask him to perform a strip show for the camera. Make it fun, admire his body, and offer thoughtful compliments. When he feels confident in his body, he is more likely to reward you with some esteem-boosting activity between the sheets. [image file=image_rsrc3AC.jpg] Sex DriveA person’s libido, otherwise known as sexual desire, is often simply defined as their interest in sex. This interest in sex is governed by a number of different factors, such as your physiological urges, emotional impulses, and psychological needs. A healthy libido is also dependent on our other basic needs being met, which usually means that food, sleep, and rest come first. But once they are satisfied, the mood for emotional and physical intimacy comes on strong. The power of the libidoA woman with a strong libido has satisfied all her basic needs so she is able to focus on the more pleasurable parts of life, such as sex and her relationships. Libido also affects more than your sex life—it is a powerful mood enhancer and will enable you to embrace other aspects of your life, including your emotional and creative energy. [image file=image_rsrc3AD.jpg] Not in the moodEven a strong libido has off days. Normally you’d be ready to rip off your partner’s shirt, but there are times—if you’ve had a bad day, for instance, or if you are tired and stressed—when you might just not be in the mood for sex.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  My sexuality is still very much in flux. But I would say that about us all. The limits we put on our own sexual development and exploration are partly cultural scripts and partly our own hopes and fears playing out skin stories. In other words, sexuality is always undergoing transition - just like our bodies and minds and souls and energies - always in flux. So to be married might mean for some people that they shut down their sexual journey, or that they follow a wife/mother storyline, but I remain interested in explorations in between those things, at the edges, or beyond the regular orbits. I do still think that culturally speaking there is a very narrow bandwidth available for women in terms of sexual development. Wife, mother, lover, other. Men too, of course, but I have lived the limits more in terms of women and girls. But if psycho-sexual development and corporeal development is lifelong, then I consider it part of my job in life to journey right up until the last. Even if I’m a dried up old raisin. Because I think bodies are about the coolest thing in … ever. Your body. Mine. All the different kinds. What a glory bodies are. I hope to write a book about bodies in the near future. Your scholastic achievements are admirable, especially given that you accomplished them without support from your parents and despite the emotional chaos of your younger life. What drove you to do this? Survival. Pure and simple. I discovered early on that mobility for a woman in this culture is crucial. The ability to live and work on your own if you have to is vital. The ability to pursue the life of the mind is vital. The ability to journey the body’s full story is vital. Volition. If you can find that in yourself you are going to be okay. I have a picture of myself running away from home for the first time. I’m three. I have a small plastic suitcase and a big scary looking doll. My cat “spice” is in the foreground, probably wondering where I’m going. My sister is in the background, nearly out of the frame, in the most glorious red dress. I went to the edge of the yard and sat on the curb for about 30 minutes. The house is near Stinson Beach near San Francisco, where I was born. The yard was filled with fruit trees. The house was filled with anger. My sister and I were terrified most of our childhoods. My father bred fear into the bodies of his daughters. And yet, in that moment of the picture, taken by my mother who no doubt thought it looked cute, like mothers do, I knew what to do. Volition. There is art in that.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I had once sat drooping on her parlour chair, expecting her to send me home with a sovereign. Now, when the ladies whispered of ‘this freak of Diana Lethaby’s’, I brushed the lint from the sleeve of my coat, drew my monogrammed hankie from my pocket, and smiled. When the autumn of 1892 became the winter, and then the spring of ’93, and still I kept my favoured place at Diana’s side, the ladies’ whispers faded. I became at last not Diana’s caprice; but simply, her boy.‘Come to supper, Diana.’‘Come for breakfast, Diana.’‘Come at nine, Diana; and bring the boy.’For it was always as a boy that I travelled with her now, even when we ventured into the public world, the ordinary world beyond the circle of Cavendish Sapphists, the world of shops and supper-rooms and drives in the park. To anyone who asked after me, she would boldly introduce me as ‘My ward, Neville King’; she had several requests for introductions, I believe, from ladies with eligible daughters. These she turned aside: ‘He’s an Anglo-Catholic, ma’am,’ she’d whisper, ‘and destined for the Church. This is his final Season, before taking Holy Orders ...’It was with Diana that I returned to the theatre again - flinching to find her lead me to a box beside the foot-lights, flinching again as the chandeliers were dimmed. But they were terribly grand, the theatres she preferred. They were lit with electricity rather than gas; and the crowd sat hushed. I could not see the pleasure in it. The plays I liked well enough; but I would more often turn my gaze to the audience - and there was always plenty of eyes and glasses, of course, that were lifted from the stage and fastened on me. I saw several faces that I knew from my old renter days. One time I stood washing my hands in the lavatory of a theatre and felt a gent look me over - he didn’t know that he had had my lips on him already, in an alley off Jermyn Street; later I saw him in the audience, with his wife. One time, too, I saw Sweet Alice, the mary-anne who had been so kind to me in Leicester Square. He also sat in a box; and when he recognised me, he blew a kiss. He was with two gents: I raised my brows, he rolled his eyes.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  I won a prize. Like she had as a young woman-a story she’d tucked into a shoebox with old photographs and a drawing of a redbird my father made when they first met. My photo was in the paper. The day they took the picture my mother took me to get a haircut. My mother and I went to the 7-Eleven to get the newspaper the day the story was supposed to come out. We sat in the car and stared at the picture of me and read the small story about the “writers” who had won prizes. My mother said I looked like a woman. When I looked at the image of myself I looked … like a woman I’d never met. The story I wrote was about a child who had witnessed a crime in a city park-a pedophile has been stealing and molesting children. The only other witness is a blind man on a bench. The blind man has no children. No wife. Just a gentle man. The child and the blind man have to piece the story together to help catch the pedophile. When called upon by authorities to speak, because she is afraid, the child loses her voice. But she is able to talk to the blind man when they are alone together. Each without a sense, they make a story that saves children. The police find out that before the pedophile defiles the child, he whips them on the bare bottom with a belt. The police are able to catch him when they hear the thwack. In the newspaper the judge of the writing contest remarked on how mature my story content was. My mother and father took me out to dinner at the Brown Derby. We didn’t talk. We ate. It was the first story I ever wrote. About Hair and Skin THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT HAIR AND SKIN. In a beautiful wooden box, I have the hair of people I love. I have my sister’s. My own when I was a kid. My son’s. My dead infant’s almost hair. The hair of my best friend in high school. In college. I have Kathy Acker’s hair. Ken Kesey’s hair. My first husband’s hair. The hair of a longtime woman lover - several different colors of it. My second husband’s hair. My third husband’s hair. The hair of two of the dogs I owned. The hair of cats. The hair of- and this one is kind of random - my high school English teacher - who was over the top Christian - so I have Christian hair. I have Buddhist hair. I have atheist hair. Gay hair, straight hair, the hair of a post-op tranny who used to be a Scientologist. The hair of a white wolf. Seriously. I have my mother’s hair. What? I can’t help it. When I get the chance to own the hair of someone important to me, I leap forward a little too zealously.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  When I’m with him now, if any of the kids playing around in the pool near us who look like they were born fucking seals even GLANCE at him I shoot them a death look so sharp it slicks their hair back, reddens their smug little faces and … well. Let’s just say something a lot worse than water going into your brain. They’re lucky to have brains at all after I shoot them the look. It’s a look from my father. Still, at my son’s age, I was a racer. You know those little plastic wind-up bathtub things - contraptions with small flippers or limbs attached to internal rubber bands which, when wound, rotate at alarming speeds? Sending a little dolphin or boat or shark shooting across the tub? That’s what seven year old girl racers look like. Heads down. Twenty-five meters. Maybe one breath. Maybe. Whoever we were on land, once freed in water, we grew dangerously alive. My son’s been in swimming lessons - level A - three times now. At the end of the lessons they always hand me the green card that says mamma of Miles, your son can barely float, he’ll only hold his breath above the water, if he’s in the water without supervision he’ll sink to the bottom like a tire, and they smile, and I smile, and Miles beams, and then we go home and eat OREOS and I give him another one of my trophies. When I work with him alone in the pool, he clings to me like a little sea monkey until I let him put his full regalia back on. It’s his head. He doesn’t want to put his head in. When I ask him why, he answers incredulously, “Because the water will go in my nose and ears and go into my brain. Duh.” I look at him for a long minute. He doesn’t back down. “I see,” I said. “ Where’d you get that idea?” Quite convincingly, he responds. “Harry Potter.” Harry Potter. Goddamn that little bespectacled twit. I instantly know which Harry Potter scene he is talking about. It’s the one from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, where the five students have to compete in the Tri-Wizard’s Cup. One of the trials is an ocean dive to save trapped friends and loved ones who have been suspended underwater by strange little sea witches with pitchforks. Each student must figure out a magical way to breathe underwater, or they’ll die, and all their loved ones trapped underwater will die, water will go up all the noses and flood all their ears and drown all their brains unless they have special underwater gear. Total kid death fest if they don’t find a way to breathe underwater. Neville Longbottom, the buck-toothed nerd kid interested in animals and botany and ichthyology, gives Harry Potter magic Gillyworms. Then he grows temporary gills and webbed hands and feet. Christ. Why does anyone become a mother?

• From The Fermata (1994)

  She considered a Thanksgiving serving platter but didn’t like the idea of its breaking; she pondered a small plastic plate left over from a premium frozen dinner, but it wasn’t heavy enough. Finally she went into her dining room and took the tea service off of her grandmother’s brass tray. The tea service itself was undistinguished, but the tray was a Viennese beauty, chased with circles of bouquets and thick-scaled fish and pine-cones and mythical panthery creatures in high relief. In the middle was a very stylized sun—it looked like a fried egg—and this proved to be the perfect surface on which to fix a dildo’s suction cup. The famed male dancer at the Golden Banana, Armande Klockhammer, Jr., had only once in his distinguished career consented to have a lost-wax mold made of the trilogy-in-flesh that had opened so many doors for him. Along the underside of the slightly upcurved and alarmingly lifelike high-grade silicone cock-stalk, Armande’s own signature, taken directly from the licensing contract, ran, in such a way that the two bas-relief m’s of his surname appeared right over what would have been, had this been his actual dick, its most sensitive part. Marian arranged her virgin Armande Klockhammer Signature Model, along with many of its veteran colleagues, on a linen napkin unfolded on her brass tray and bore them out into the garden. She put the tray down in the thick grass in the chosen spot, leaving room on either side for her to plant her feet. There was a slight haze in the sky, so that it was sunny, but not uncomfortably so. When she moved the napkin aside, the light glinted on the tray’s ancient pattern, and, once she had squirted copious Astroglide over its head, on the surface of her chosen dildo as well—which looked opulently nasty poking up from that heirloom. Then, playing hard-to-get now that she knew she had Armande where she wanted him, she went for a blithe little walk. She was wearing a jumper printed with big loose flowers and nothing underneath.

• From The Fermata (1994)

  I doubt that this fact of my birth has anything to do with my later chronanisms, but I will put it down here just in case it does. I am proud of having set immediately to work art-nouveauing the functional furnishings of my intrauterine deanery. Somehow I was able to form a loop and then swim right through it. I tied a knot in myself . Like many child prodigies, however, I fizzled early. The Fermata, first unfolding itself for me in fourth grade, has been a lifelong distraction. I have wanted to keep it a secret, and as a result it has swallowed up large chunks of my personality. But I hope that will change now. Once, following a long lull, I found a way to get back into the Fold five or six times after I smashed my head into a parking meter in Philadelphia. I was thirteen or fourteen. We were staying at the Barclay Hotel; as a treat I was allowed to drink some watered-down wine with lunch. I drank more of it than the adults knew and found myself acting wild and flaily on the street during our afternoon walk. I ran ahead, hid between two cars, intending to spring out on everyone. I sprang, shouting, “Boo!” But my mouth and the side of my face met a parking meter that I had forgotten was there. The collision made an enormous bony sound in my head. The meter had only a minute or two left, I noticed, staggering; the red thought-balloon saying EXPIRED was just about to dawn. I saw a pattern of squirming diamonds that would have made very nice Wiener Werkstatte wrapping paper. Twenty minutes later, as the bed made sloppy figure eights around the hotel room (where I had been left to convalesce), I pinched my swollen lip and noticed that all traffic noise stopped. I realized I was in the Fold. I walked downstairs to the motionless hotel bar and back to the kitchen and ate two huge shrimp that a motionless cook or cook’s helper held as he arranged a shrimp cocktail. I was amazed at how good the cocktail sauce tasted. I sucked on a piece of lime and threw it out in a can behind the bar. I felt steadied.

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  Record your thoughtsIf you are struggling to let go of negative sexual encounters or want to uncover your views on sex, try keeping a journal. Make a list of goals, such as “I want to be more uninhibited.” Then list the things that are preventing you from reaching your goals, such as “I need to feel comfortable naked.” Once you realize what action you need to take, you can address them alone or with your partner. If you still find yourself struggling to enjoy sex, a sex therapist can help you work through your feelings about your sexuality. [image file=image_rsrc3AA.jpg] Self-esteem and your Sex LifeA woman with good self-esteem is confident and uninhibited in the bedroom. Her outlook on life is positive and she is motivated to attain a happy and fulfilling sex life. Why? Because if you feel good about yourself, you are more likely to be adventurous and try new things. If you are confident, you appreciate yourself as a woman and make your sexual needs a priority. And if you feel fantastic and sexually satisfied in body and mind, you walk down the street with a smile and a sway in your hips. Identify the obstacles to self-esteemFeeling unattractive, unappreciated, stressed, and anxious can lead to negative self-esteem. Ill health, aging, fertility problems, and even family disagreements can also leave you feeling uncertain and unhappy. On the other hand, if you are contented, fulfilled, and relaxed you are more likely to find sexual satisfaction. Think and act yourself happySelf-esteem and happiness depend on self-acceptance. Look in the mirror every day, and repeat this mantra until it becomes part of your being: “I am in charge of my actions. I control my own happiness. I accept and love myself.” Saying these words on a regular basis will boost your self-esteem and put you on a path that acknowledges you are worthy of self-respect and love. Combat negative feelings about yourself by embracing your potential. Take up a sport, such as jogging, volleyball, tennis, or even walking. Push yourself—you might be surprised at just how strong you are. And try it with your partner: you will get an endorphin rush from working out together, which is bound to create sexual sparks later on in the bedroom. Create your personal spaceSpend time alone. Browse in a bookstore, or just sit and watch the world go by. This allows you to free your mind and think about your life. Rest and relaxation are vital to improving your state of mind, and let you review your sexual relationship.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  And had she family, in Kent, and when did she see them? She had none at all, she said, since her grandmother died. Mother tut-tutted over that, and said it was a shame; Davy said she could help herself to some of our relations, if she liked, for we had more than we knew what to do with.‘Oh yes?’ said Kitty.‘Yes,’ said Davy. ‘You must have heard the song:‘There’s her uncle, and her brother, and her sister, and her mother,And her auntie, and another, who is cousin to her mother...’No sooner had he finished the verse, indeed, than there was the sound of our street-door opening, and a shout up the stairs; and three of our cousins themselves appeared, followed by Uncle Joe and Aunt Rosina - all got up in their Sunday best, and all just popped in, they said, for a ‘peek’ at Miss Butler, if Miss Butler had no objection.More chairs were brought up, and more cups; a fresh round of introductions was made, and the little room grew stuffy with heat and smoke and laughter. Somebody said what a shame it was we had no piano for Miss Butler to give us a song; then George - my eldest cousin - said, ‘Would a harmonica serve the purpose?’ and produced one from his jacket pocket. Kitty blushed, and said she couldn’t; and everyone cried, ‘Oh please, Miss Butler, do!’‘What do you think, Nan,’ she said to me, ‘should I shame myself?’‘You know you won’t,’ I said, pleased that she had turned to me at the last, and used my special name before them all.‘Very well, then,’ she said. A little space was cleared for her, and Rhoda ran down to her house, to fetch her sisters to come and watch.She sang ‘The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery’, and ‘The Coffee Shop Girl’ - then ‘The Boy’ again for Rhoda’s sisters, who had just arrived. Then she whispered to George and to me, and I fetched her a hat of Father’s and a walking-cane, and she sang us a couple of masher songs, and ended with the ballad with which she finished her set at the Palace, about the sweetheart and the rose.We cheered her then, and she had her hand shaken, and her back slapped, ten times over. She looked very flushed and hot at the end of it all, and rather tired. Davy said, ‘How about a song from you now, Nance?’ I gave him a look.‘No,’ I said. I wouldn’t sing for them with Kitty there, for anything.Kitty looked at me curiously. ‘Do you sing, then?’ she said.‘Nancy’s got the prettiest voice, Miss Butler,’ said one of the cousins, ‘you ever heard.’‘Yes, go on, Nance, be a sport!’ said another.‘No, no, no!’ I cried again - so firmly that Mother frowned, and the others laughed.Uncle Joe said, ‘Well, that’s a shame, that is.

• From The Fermata (1994)

  Originally published in hardcover by Random House, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1994. The fictional product names in this book are the property of the author and may not be used as names for real products or services without his prior written permission. The Library of Congress has cataloged the Random House edition as follows: Baker, Nicholson The Fermata / Nicholson Baker p. cm. eISBN: 978-0-307-80749-6 I Title. PS3552.A4325F47 1994 813′.54–dc20 93-26492 v3.1 The Fermata FOR MY FATHER The Fermata Contents Cover About the Author Other Books by This Author Title Page Copyright Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 The Fermata 1 I AM GOING TO CALL MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY THE FERMATA , EVEN though “fermata” is only one of the many names I have for the Fold. “Fold” is, obviously, another. Every so often, usually in the fall (perhaps mundanely because my hormone-flows are at their highest then), I discover that I have the power to drop into the Fold. A Fold-drop is a period of time of variable length during which I am alive and ambulatory and thinking and looking, while the rest of the world is stopped, or paused. Over the years, I have had to come up with various techniques to trigger the pause, some of which have made use of rocker-switches, rubber bands, sewing needles, fingernail clippers, and other hardware, some of which have not. The power seems ultimately to come from within me, grandiose as that sounds, but as I invoke it I have to believe that it is external for it to work properly. I don’t inquire into origins very often, fearing that too close a scrutiny will damage whatever interior states have given rise to it, since it is the most important ongoing adventure of my life. I’m in the Fold right now, as a matter of fact. I want first to type out my name—it’s Arnold Strine. I prefer Arno to the full Arnold. Putting my own name down is loin-girding somehow—it helps me go ahead with this. I’m thirty-five. I’m seated in an office chair whose four wide black casters roll silently over the carpeting, on the sixth floor of the MassBank building in downtown Boston. I’m looking up at a woman named Joyce, whose clothes I have rearranged somewhat, although I have not actually removed any of them.

• From Wild (2012)

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I stammered. “Being a hobo and being a hiker are two entirely different things.” I looped my wrist into the pink strap of my ski pole and scraped the dirt with the tip, making a line that went nowhere. “I’m not a hiker in the way you might think of a hiker,” I explained. “I’m more like an expert hiker. I hike fifteen to twenty miles a day, day after day, up and down mountains, far away from roads or people or anything, often going days without seeing another person. Maybe you should do a story on that instead.” He glanced up at me from his notebook, his hair blowing extravagantly across his pale face. He seemed like so many people I knew. I wondered if I seemed that way to him. “I hardly ever meet hobo women,” he half whispered, as if confiding a secret, “so this is fucking cool.” “I’m not a hobo!” I insisted more vehemently this time. “Hobo women are hard to find,” he persisted. I told him that this was because women were too oppressed to be hobos. That most likely all the women who wanted to be hobos were holed up in some house with a gaggle of children to raise. Children who’d been fathered by hobo men who’d hit the road. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You’re a feminist, then.” “Yes,” I said. It felt good to agree on something. “My favorite,” he said, and wrote in his notebook without saying his favorite what. “But none of this matters!” I exclaimed. “Because I myself am not a hobo. This is totally legit, you know. What I’m doing. I’m not the only one hiking the PCT. People do this. Have you ever heard of the Appalachian Trail? It’s like that. Only out west.” I stood watching him write what seemed like more words than I’d spoken. “I’d like to get a picture of you,” Jimmy Carter said. He reached into his car and pulled out a camera. “That’s a cool shirt, by the way. I love Bob Marley. And I like your bracelet too. A lot of hobos are Nam vets, you know.” I looked down at William J. Crockett’s name on my wrist. “Smile,” he said, and snapped a shot. He told me to look for his piece on me in the fall issue of the Hobo Times, as if I were a regular reader. “Articles have been excerpted in Harper’s,” he added. “Harper’s?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Yeah, it’s this magazine that—” “I know what Harper’s is,” I interrupted sharply. “And I don’t want to be in Harper’s. Or rather, I really want to be in Harper’s, but not because I’m a hobo.” “I thought you weren’t a hobo,” he said, and turned to open the trunk of his car. “Well, I’m not, so it would be a really bad idea to be in Harper’s, which means you probably shouldn’t even write the article because—”