Moving Backward to Go Forward

There is similar irony in the two poles of social interaction: altruism will forever be latently accompanied with self-fulfillment, as hedonism with ennui. And it is in the later where Ivan Ilyich finds himself in so much agony; on his deathbed, he realizes “his professional duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of his family, and all his social and official interests”, his entire raison d’être was “false”, meaningless in the way he defined and pursued them. But, following in this paradoxical pattern, it is his brokenness in this understanding that enables him to find true contentment. Through divine revelation and Christ symbolism, Tolstoy is able to portray Ivan Ilyich’s deathbed conversion as directly attributable to his admission of powerlessness and acceptance of God’s divine will.

On the surface level, Tolstoy’s palpable use of Ivan Ilyich as a Christ figure highlights what Ivan is converting to, and also what Tolstoy advocates for as the story’s practical application. However, when heeding that these references are all pertaining to death and the Jesus’ physical and emotional struggle with it, it is apparent that Tolstoy is adding a wrinkle to the standard symbolism. With these specific references, the focus is not merely on the suffering, but how the subject views the suffering, namely whether they try to fight it or submit to it.  The first instance occurs with Ivan yelling out "why hast Thou done all this? Why hast Thou brought me here? Why, why dost Thou torment me so terribly”, a clear paraphrase of Matthew 27:46- “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” Similarly, there is a parallel between Ivan’s post-communion exclamation "To live! I want to live!" and Jesus’ post-last supper fervent prayer that “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me” (Mark 14:35-36). It is in this anguish we see the humanity in Christ and Ivan, and thus we are able to empathize with him, and the aversion to blind servitude that is faith.

But without this suffering for Christ, are sins would not be absolved, and similarly, Ivan is not able to change his depraved ways until he is faced with the ghastly results of his selfishness. For Christ, it was merely his willing participation in God’s plan for the absolving of our sins, but that was because Christ was without sin. For Ivan, as for all of mankind, his repentance was a prerequisite for him to escape death. In direct contrast to all the pain and anguish he has gone through in realizing this, his unglamorous admission that “Yes, it was not the right thing” is all that is needed for him to find fulfillment. He is reborn with “no fear because there was no death. In place of death there was light.”

Tolstoy hammers home the sincerity of this conversion with his most blatant, and most poignant instance of symbolism. At the announcement of Ivan’s passing from an ambiguous character- the omission of identity apropos of this final selfless moment- it is a reiteration of John 19:30, and it is indeed “finished."

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            “That kid,” my coach keeps his finger pointed at a pixilated, curly haired youth on the monitor but turns his gaze to meet mine, “He reminded me, today, of why I live track”

            The speakers crackle out the roar of thousands of fans, track die-hards whipped into a frenzy by the 3200m relay’s anchor leg of the Penn relays. Celebrating it’s 116^th year, it is the longest-running track event in the United States. On this day, everything inside Franklin Field is a celebration of accomplishment and innovation, of history and it’s upheaval.

            The stadium is an amalgam- its ancient, scholastic spires and stadium on the north end bordered by it’s state-of-the-art stadium seating- in the same way each athlete is: age-old blood and sinews straining symbiotically with gaudy apparel and footwear. Blood and sweat wicked away by nike-swooshed Dri–FIT jerseys and speedsuits (62 percent cotton, 34 percent polyester and 4 percent spandex), lower extremities pumping like pistons, propelled by spike-plated, fly-wire, glove-type-fit footwear with spectacular arches.

            At this level, all distance athletes’ quads (a term which is misleading, as they are optically construed as more of a muscular triumvirate) look similarly ropy: so finely-toned that the vastus lateralis plateaus out over the meaty vastus intermedius, butting up to the slightly-cantilevered vastus medialis, forming an arroyo of sweat, double-helixing with the Sartorius and spilling out over the knee cap in steady rivulets. These hypertrophic quads look comical on the otherwise-ectomorphic greyhounds, and are not dissimilar to the dominant arms of their raquet-weilding counterparts. 

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           There are certain forgotten knick-knacks strewn about Shane’s deli that go largely unnoticed by customer and employee alike. There is a miniature Spiderman action figure dangling daringly above the chip rack, a similarly spandexed action figure propped on the catering-order clip, and a frayed, wicker dream-catcher-esque ornament hanging directly above the register. A palpable layer of dust and grime gives each of these objects an archaic air, seeming like holdovers from the old Cock Robin regime, decades earlier. It wasn’t until months into my employment that I first saw these little doodads, and it is fascinating to me that the only people who ever do see them are the children that come in with their parents. Countless times, a kid tugs incessantly at the hem of his mother’s sweater, gesticulating upward and yelling incoherently of Spiderman this, Spiderman that, to which the parental reply is invariable disregard- no sweetie, you left Spiderman in the car, remember? I realize it is likely the disparity in height that enables these young ones to have a clearer perspective of Spiderman and friends, but I prefer to think of it as a metaphor for the ironic wisdom of children, the inheritors-of-the-kingdom type of primacy. 

           A recent Spiderman-sighting that caught my attention. A pudgy, blonde-haired kid- his cheeks so chubby, I was amazed his toothy grin could even lift them- accompanied his mother on her daily errands, and as she rooted through a cornucopia of change and coupons in her over-sized purse at the register, his eyes ignited at the discovery of the arachnid hero. The excitable little guy began the standard freak-out, but then, to the surprise of both his mother and myself, he collected himself and imparted this impossibly sage insight: “Spiderman would be nothing without a villain, though.” His mother and I shared a befuddled chuckle, and she acknowledged this statement the same as if he had just successfully recited his recently-mastered addition and subtraction tables.

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            I toss up my bare feet on the adjacent couch, its grainy surface making the skin on my calves and hamstrings itch. I’ve always hated this couch, a beige, maroon, and forest green plaid aberration in a living room that is already kitsch-ily decorated, to put it lightly. It is so hot in the room that whenever I shift my glance, it’s in that slow, exaggerated swivel where your eyes close for a good couple seconds between the embarking and ending angles, trying to conserve even the infinitesimal energy it takes to keep your eyelids open. A sense of mild, yet effective perturbation is implicit in this movement, and this look seems particularly a propos as Dustin just made some especially snarky comment I’m choosing to ignore.

            “ I said,” he insists a bit louder, sitting across from me in a questionable ensemble of long argyle socks, pin-stripe shorts, and brown felt oxfords, “it looks like you have fucking trench foot”

            I try to hide my amusement, affecting an air of placidity as I walk over to my open MacBook, pronating terribly, and discreetly google trench foot. A shiver xylophones the length of my spine and I feel my breakfast lurch in revolt. The image results look like giant, microwaved candy corn. Scrolling further down, there is a significantly less severe case that actually bears a minor resemblance to my left foot, beleaguered by a blister that starts at the crown of the big toe and stretches through the entire forefoot into the incipient curvature of the arch, roughly the length of my index finger.

            Its geographical likeness to the state of Michigan is uncanny; geologically it is more reminiscent of Chernobyl. The ribbed, blistered skin has ripped off in strips and reveals an infant-purple lower layer underneath, a flushed hue and perfectly smooth- save for the spider-webs cracks of dry skin at the creases of the toe. I neglect to show Dustin the picture, and also withhold from him that the blister in question has been, on several occasions, much worse.

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We make moves in stage coaches 
Rah Digga likes the roaches 
If anyone approaches 
We be like noches, buenos 
And I compose a poem for the many gun-slingers 
R & B singers, perpetrating guns with two fingers. 

My style is perhaps one of the foulest 
I inhale large clouds of smoke through my chalice. 
(Buckin' at stars) and write rhymes for hours 
The ghetto missy, drinkin' whiskey sours. 

Bust this scenario, can't no other niggas in the barrio 
(From Newark to Ontario), bust us when we in stereo. 
Cause me and Rashida rock the battles 
It's apparent, you're no talent, cause your blazin' in your saddle. 

Watch these rap bitches get all up in your pockets 
Then bounce with accountants that give me good stock tips 
Cause props is up, Digga's through the roof 
Burnin' niggas like I'm 90 proof. 

And for all you head beaters 
The lead eaters, the cheaters soon to be retreaters 
While mamasitas carry real heaters. 

I rock the Dooby and 
L rocks the Nubian twists 
96 
Muthafuckas gettin' dissed 

        There is no air conditioning at 804 N Washington Street. There are, however, several rows of single-hung, sash-and-case windows stretching along the perimeter of the north, south, and east walls, whose lead counter-weights in the glazed frames are exceptionally finicky, with a couple being so iron-willed that they snapped the ropy pulley system during overly exuberant attempts to dislodge them. Even after carefully manipulating- con amor, amigo, con amor!- these windows up the warped, sooty grooves, only a select few have screens, leaving one to pick their poison of hot-box heat or an insectile swarming of biblical proportions.

            So now, with the just the screened windows open, I bake, wearing only sweat-starched running shorts that are little more than tattered wisps of cotton and elastic. The late morning sun pours in through the windows, and since the muntins on the top panes are split and splayed off at incongruous angles, running neither parallel nor perpendicular to the paint-chip mullions, they cast colliding, helter-skelter shadows over the main room. The smell that wafts from various epidermal crevices is pungent.

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Relatively Unappreciative

It’s been a minute since my last post, so I think I’m going to mix it up a little bit. Keep things not so long-winded, and hopefully adding the slightest element of spontaneity to my otherwise overly-calculated day-to-day.

           

Ushering in the first days of June, the Chicago humidity diffuses (from where I can only assume is Hades itself) and sits oppressively, us suburbanites personae non gratae of the Great Lakes breezy respites. The heat settles in interminably like an unwanted relative, of whose unforgiving suitcase brims with stuffy car-air, crimson plumages of sunburn, and sweaty nether-regions. And this is all kicked of with perverse pomp and circumstance by high school graduations, and their dreaded commencements. Packed like cattle into troublingly-malleable folding chairs- I spent a good chunk of the ceremony staring, spellbound, at their creaking support of the most corpulent grandparents- I’m forced to celebrate something that 8 out of every 10 Americans accomplish, the kind of ubiquity rivaled only by relative obesity and porn consumption. Anyone who truly feels that they’ve merited something more than a handshake or pat on the back by making it through high school is about to get a rude awakening by the long, uncircumcised dick of the real world.

I started Super Sad True Love Story today, the first book of the Odd Future Book Club Kill Them All (title pending finalization), and got a good third through during the A-Z’s. Not crazy about it yet, but I’m starting to get drawn into it. Immortality is a torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, especially after sitting next to the senility and varicosity that essentially comprises my mother’s mother. At one point, said grandmother, a staunch fundamentalist/prohibitionist/racist/awful person, leans over to me and ask if the crosses next to some of the graduates names in the program* (denoting Nation Honor Status) signify their religious affiliation as a Christian. I wish I could simply ignore the heaping scoop of crazy** sitting next to me, but she helps foot the bill for my college education, so I have to answer her unbelievably condescending and ignorant statements with I dunno Nanny, maybe so. Is it selling out? Because I feel dirtier than a crack whore

* Which she of course cannot read because she refuses any sort of optical assistance, risking the lives of any vehicle passengers or fellow drivers- or pedestrians and houses without significant parkways for that matter- for the sound rationale that glasses are for ”old people”, says she of eighty-two years.

** Also important to mention is her conversation with me the day prior, in which she felt it necessary to describe to me (with not one, but two examples) the concept of Time Zones, as in Collin, you see, if it is 12 here, that means that it is 10 on the west coast. 

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