On "Boundaries in Dating" by Cloud + Townsend

As I flipped through this one in the bookstore, my guard automatically went up because it is a Christian dating book. You really have to be careful with these, because the genre is full of disappointing gimmicks that rise quickly to popularity, and then fade to make room for the next fad. That said, I think I have found a classic.

Cloud and Townsend, with many years of experience as Christian counselors, have co-authored a very popular series of books centered around the idea of knowing one's boundaries. When I picked up Boundaries in Dating, my initial curiosity quickly turned into self-deprecating cynicism. Apparently I've managed to make nearly all of the mistakes the book warns against. One example of the advice it offers is to examine your own dating history (rather than ignoring it) to learn from your mistakes. I decided to buy the book so I could have an easier and more thorough record of my mistakes than any list I could make myself.

For a long time I flipped through it casually, esteeming the book no higher than a popular magazine article. These quick overviews confirmed my opinion that it had nothing new to say, and nothing very valuable to offer, because it all sounded familiar. I had heard it all before. But when I realized I needed these reminders, I started reading more carefully, and I dropped my defensive stance. I circled and highlighted certain passages, noting helpful explanations and examples of my own past mistakes. It seems they are pretty common, so I'm not as uniquely stupid as I'd feared -- just human.

This book is great because it lists common dating pitfalls, breaks them down to discuss different aspects of each, and analyzes the emotional and spiritual implications very well. All of it is written in a way that is very easy to understand. Accessibility is unfortunately rare, because a lot of psychologists and counselors are weak in this area as authors. There are many references to relevant biblical passages, but not so many that it becomes distracting.

My only criticism regards the tone, in certain places where the authors advise you to stay away from certain kinds of people. They repeatedly distinguish between "safe" and "unsafe" people, always providing lots of examples in each chapter, and many refinements of this distinction. Unsafe people are broken, unhealthy, and inevitably have disastrous relationships, so you should avoid dating them. Instead, surround yourself with safe people who will help you grow, and date only safe people.

This is good advice, but sometimes it sounds like there is no redemption for these poor unsafe people. There could have been a more sensitive approach at these points, perhaps directly addressing this low caste of dregs in the dating pool to assure them they may find healing from God. Honestly, this is why I'd felt resistant to this book for several months-- because I wasn't sure even a close reading would help me figure out how to change, or that I even could. I was just unsafe, and that would be the end of it. It was kind of hurtful. Sometimes I hate oversimplified categories.

I'll continue to read it closely to learn as much as I can, despite these limitations. It's hard to read about such a personal subject sometimes, because it can hurt if I let myself be open to it. It was far easier to maintain my distance by dismissing its validity altogether.

For those who are not Christian, this book may still be useful to some degree. If you can approach it in the generous, open-minded spirit of an anthropologist studying another culture, then this can be thought-provoking. If you don't find it ridiculous or patronizing, you might find some valuable advice, despite your disagreement with Christianity.

On Paul Auster's "New York Trilogy"

I was humbled again by the reminder that I have absolutely no original ideas. I just synthesize ideas and information in my own way, and that's all I can do. That helps me to relax and just write, instead of thinking I always have to come up with great, inventive insights no one else has ever expressed before. I've wasted so much time letting that unnecessary pressure keep me from writing.

This most recent reminder came about during my re-reading of the New York Trilogy:

"Even if it is not significant, it has the potential to be so...The world of the book comes to life, seething with possibilities, with secrets and contradictions....nothing must be overlooked." (Auster 9)

Compare this to my own poetic statement, which is included in my book. The ideas must have stayed with me, burrowed deep into my mind, and re-emerged when I was writing. So Auster is one of the main influences for my work, along with Susan Howe, T.S. Eliot, and the Bible.

The New York Trilogy totally changed the way I view identity. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Be careful, though: if you think about it too long, and identify yourself with it too closely, it can make you start to feel somewhat detached from reality.

Auster's ideas and themes are very provocative and thought-provoking. The New York Trilogy gives us a disturbingly vivid, dystopian image of the self, identity, and relationships. Normally "dystopia" brings to mind 1984 and Brave New World, and involves a critique of a nightmarish society along with commentary on how it affects individuals. However, if every protagonist loses his identity, and eventually loses touch with reality, then this loss of control seems inevitable, which is arguably much more frightening than fictional totalitarian societies.

Using dime store mystery novels as a starting point, Auster creates a mystery more disturbing and compelling than any other I've ever encountered. One character begins a casual investigation of another, becomes drawn into and consumed by the investigation, and ultimately his sense of identity is lost. The self becomes the other, the other replaces the self, the two are interchangeable, they merge, fuse and split, and the self disappears as if it were an illusion.

It's very effective on a visceral level as well, not because it simply draws the reader into the mystery, but it enacts the very thing it is talking about. It creates a frightening sense of confusion and displacement, and causes you to question what identity means. When reading, I felt like I was always a few steps behind. At the beginning there is a relatively "normal" setting, maintained just long enough that you feel comfortable with it, and then it shifts radically so many times that you cannot reorient yourself. Auster's world does not let you reassert any sense of order or normalcy.

The way we structure things in our minds allows us to process large amounts of information and function normally, at the cost of ignoring many irrelevant details. Auster asks that you consider every detail as potentially important, but this task seems practically impossible when you're accustomed to using your schemata to navigate the world.

Auster blurs the line between author and character, even making an appearance in the first story himself, but he does not explicitly delve into the relationship between the reader and the characters. As I read the second story, Ghosts, I had to wonder about my role as an observer of two fictional characters who were observing one another. I think it may have effectively made me the ghost in the story.

After you're done reading, you'll be afraid of spending too much time writing and isolating yourself in an urban apartment.

uncomfortable tensions.

I need to clear the cobwebs from my brain, so I grabbed the nearest book within reach. It's Kierkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death.

Have you ever felt that a book holds in store for you an inevitable, possibly painful reckoning which you would rather avoid, and consequently you avoid reading the book? All the while, you know in the back of your mind that you must read it, or you must find some way to deal with what's coming. I haven't felt this way until now. I have been dreading this the way I'm sure a child must dread meeting a schoolyard bully after class is over.

The first blow is Kierkegaard's assertion that a person in despair continually brings the despair upon himself at every moment. Unlike a normal illness, where the continuation of the illness is not the sufferer's fault, despair can constantly be attributed to the self; at every moment the despairing person actively tries to throw away either the eternal, himself, or both, without success. (17) I hope my paraphrasing is more or less right.

An image comes to mind, of someone trying to erase an error on a page made in black ink. The error is just smeared all over the page, and all over the rubber eraser, which then becomes unable to erase lead markings. What a mess.

I also think of a drowning person whose attempts to swim only ensnare him deeper into a dangerous undercurrent. This is so grave and serious that you should not misread Kierkegaard as saying, "Toughen up, kid, and take responsibility for your despair, because it's your fault." It is your own fault, but it's a mess you can't get yourself out of.

I wonder if there's any way I can depict this poetically. I'll have to think about it more.

Meanwhile, here's an addendum to my earlier poetic statement:

I'm interested in exploring the uncomfortable tension we all experience as creatures caught between the temporal and eternal. This tension is so difficult to navigate that most of us settle at one end, dogmatically opposing the existence or veracity of the other. This may be why (as it seems to me) popular and even scientific opinion swings back and forth like a pendulum between two opposite perspectives, with any truly moderate approaches denounced from both sides.

Many people are unable or unwilling to hold in mind two extreme perspectives at once, granting a fair chance to both, and realizing that the truth lies somewhere in between. I think most truths are nestled somewhere in this elusive tension. It requires bravery to venture from your outpost at one end of the spectrum to investigate the no-man's-land in between. It's so hard for people to admit they might be wrong that they might prefer to risk actually being wrong, if only to avoid that admission.

In my work, and in my life, I want to take this risk. People already think I'm weird and different. I never fit in anyway. So I will venture out toward the unresolvable tension and embrace it.

hellish despair.

Kierkegaard's descriptions of despair are as terrifying as the concept of hell itself; in fact, it may be the most believable definition of hell I have ever read. If you scoff at fire and brimstone, consider how terrible it would be to hate yourself so much that your foremost desire is to eradicate yourself, but you can't. You eternally engage in an "impotent self-consuming" that feels like dying at every single moment, yet without the peaceful relief of death's nonexistence. The process is a torment that takes on its own "gnawing life" in not allowing you to die. (18)

I guess some of my most intense anxiety and depression has felt like this, but he is talking about a condition of the soul. I doubt Prozac can do anything about this.

new purposes

I just switched my blog URL.

The newly born Dash Dash needed a more fitting one. It is now at http://dashdashexperiments.blogspot.com.

This one, on the other hand, will actually be scraps and Post-it notes. I'll get to it in a couple of weeks when I'm back in town and have time to breathe. First I have to finish a paper, a poetry portfolio, and a poetry reading; I must then graduate, move, do seminary interviews, hang out in Florida, and come home.

This summer is going to be fun!