Object Permanence

Love fades away. But things? Things are forever.

– Tom Haverford

I’ll tell it to you straight: I live in a city that can experience all four seasons in a single day. I spent a lot of time in a college town, where my core group of friends rotated based on who was in town for break. I move to a new apartment every nine months, and I’ve never had a boy hold my hand and tell me he loves me.

Change and upheaval have been ubiquitous in my early 20s, but I am stubborn as a mule. I swallowed the stones of constancy a long time ago, hoping they would grind this perpetual uncertainty into something easily digestible. I’d rather drown with my heels dug into the sand than relax my limbs, tilt my head back to the sun, and let the waves wash me ashore. I do not adjust well.

I’m making this post because I’m about to turn 25 years old, and I’ve been feeling a bit swept away. It’s not a bad thing. As a rational adult, I know that change can be good. It can mean a new job, a better home, friends who care, happiness. As a somewhat less rational adult, I’m terrified and convinced it will all go wrong. Everything. Nothing will be good. Anger and sadness. The feline inside takes over, and all I want to do is hiss and claw my way back to the familiar, even if the familiar means being unhappy.

(I may or may not have been a cat in another life. This may also explain my affinity for knocking things off shelves and head massages.)

Now, I’m not really a person who cares about things. Every time I talk to my mom about moving, I tell her I don’t want anything. I don’t want an adult bed with a solid oak headboard that weighs 2,000,000 pounds. I don’t want a couch that can’t be taken apart. I don’t want to put my posters in frames or to own more than one lamp. I want to keep my six-year-old glasses and this pillowcase from the 1970s. I’ll take people’s old clothes, but I won’t buy new ones for myself. I hate things.

But, as I’m about to get older, I’ve been thinking a lot about the things I do own. I may not be able to count on the sun coming out in the morning (thanks, Lake Erie), but most of the things I own are things that keep me feeling rooted. Through every move and every heartbreak–in sickness and in health–these things have been with me. When I hold them, I know certainty. When I hold them, I know strength. When I hold them, I know myself. This is a tribute to those things that, even when I cannot see it, remind me that I can (and will) pull through.

—

My baby blanket. There is a gray pile of knotted yarn sitting on the bed next to me. Too delicate to be washed regularly, it smells more human than I do with all my shampoo and perfume. It is rough–full of holes and lumps–but every few moments, I pause typing to run the fabric through my fingers. Only I know how this feels. Only I know the inexplicable comfort this action can bring…

I’ve had this blanket since I was born. That’s the excuse I give as I fail to articulate its importance. For reasons unknown to me, I chose it to be mine, and, for reasons unknown to me, I’ve been compelled to keep it. I’ve carried it with me for 25 years, and it has seen the world. I can’t even begin to list the adventures it we’ve shared. Six trips to Europe, a decade of Girl Scout camp, four years of college, spring break trips, bus rides, train rides–even caving! It has sat through every episode of Parks & Rec, every tearful phone call, every all-nighter, every head cold… If I had to describe my soul, it would be this blanket: knotted, faded, worn, but full of love and an unbreakable spirit of adventure.

I’m not an infant or an idiot. This blanket ceased to have a name when I became a teenager. It lost its gender when I graduated high school. When men stay the night, I kick it to the bottom of the bed, and I no longer bring it outside my room. But, until it has completely unraveled to nothing, I will continue to diligently tie its frayed ends together. I will continue running its edges between my fingers. And I will continue loving it as it has loved me.

—

My ring. I have worn this ring on my right hand every day for the past four years. I purchased it only a week before I left Ireland because it was the cheapest one I could find. It didn’t mean much, to be quite honest. I thought it was funny when Irish boys came up with clever excuses to look at my hand to see if I was single or not, but that was about it. It wasn’t until I left the place I’d called home for half a year and set off for a scary adventure all on my own that I found it had any meaning at all.

When I was alone on the train from Berlin to Dresden, feeling lousy, I happened to look down at my hand. In that shiny silver heart, I saw rolling green hills and sheep in the pasture. I saw my friends smiling up at me–Irish, German, American, Portuguese, Austrian. I saw crystal blue harbors and rainbow store fronts. I smelled the grassy rain and heard the music of my soul. I took a deep breath and looked out the window, content.

I lost my ring for four days in Dresden. I anxiously stammered something in German to the hostel owner and then ran upstairs to frantically tear apart my room, looking. My hand felt wrong. I couldn’t even turn the pages in my book. I unpacked my whole bag over and over again until, crying, I called my mom and asked her what I should do. I was distraught. I was sure I’d never be able to use my right hand again.

A few days later, as I arrived at a friend’s house in Frankfurt and loosened the detachable front pouch on my backpack, I found the ring stuck on a string behind the pouch. For four days, that little silver circle had held onto that unreliable piece of string. It had held onto that string through multiple train rides and several panicked searches. It was a close call, but I hadn’t lost it. I breathed a sigh of relief and slipped it back onto my finger. Ireland–and all I loved about it–was with me again.

It’s difficult to explain, because I bought this ring as a gimmick. It’s just what you do when you visit Ireland, but, the thing is: I didn’t just visit Ireland. I lived there and studied there. I laughed and cried there. I flirted with my first boy in a pub on Sea Road. I joined clubs and practiced Irish with old men at bars. I introduced my dance shoes to their homeland, and I saw the world from the top of a mountain (or what Austrians would call a “hill”). It’s just a plain silver thing, but, when I look at it, especially when I’m sad, I remember that I did all that, and I can do it again.

—

My Oberlin afghan(s). I’ve said it time and time again, so I won’t bore you with too much repetition: my time at Oberlin was weird. Completely enamored with the history of the place, I was also incredibly depressed and broken for most of my time there. One of my close high school friends died my freshman year, and I took to wandering alone in the early morning. I closed myself off from any potential friends in my new home, and my isolation deepened. I buried myself in my schoolwork to distract from a life that wasn’t at all what I had anticipated when I received my acceptance letter. I struggled with disordered eating, and I fell in love with the wrong person. I left a proud graduate and ran full steam into a heartbreak that would take years to heal.

But, here’s the thing. The whole time I was losing myself at Oberlin, I was also finding myself. I found a strength and a determination I didn’t know I had. I learned about social justice and humanism. I opened my mind to histories I never knew existed. I connected with the stars and the earth. I discovered new passions and tried new foods, and I eventually did make friends. Despite all the hardship, those are things I wouldn’t trade for the world.

I have two Oberlin afghans. One was given to me before I graduated. The Oberlin College seal (designed by a woman!) is emblazoned across the front in crimson and gold, and the motto, “Learning and Labor,” is embroidered in strong, bold letters. The other was a gift from the Oberlin Heritage Center when I completed my year of Americorps service there. It’s a simple white and red and depicts historic buildings and events in the town.

When I moved to Cleveland, one of the hardest changes was to no longer feel connected to the place where I lived. I had been in Oberlin so long–I had lived for its history so long–that I could barely cope with how displaced I felt in Cleveland. These afghans are my way of keeping that sense of place alive, that sense of belonging. Both represent a different experience I’ve had in Oberlin–as a student and a resident. Both remind me of the things I’ve overcome, of the lessons I’ve learned, and the people I’ve loved in a town I will never, ever forget.

—

I don’t own a lot of things, and I don’t want a lot of things, but I do love the things I have. If I did an inventory of my room right now–of every single mug, trinket, and article of clothing–every single thing would have a story. That’s just how I like it. I have individual socks that have a story just as long as the ones I sketched above. But I’m stopping here, because it’s late, and I want you all to still be my friends after you read this.

My life as a young person has been a transient one. My nests have been necessarily small. As the years go by, I will probably live in more cities than I ever dreamed as a child, and it might be years before one of those cities truly becomes home. I’m facing another birthday, another move, and grad school applications. With all the craziness, it’s easy to forget who I am and where I’ve been. Ownership is a bizarre concept, but I’m grateful the things I love are mine. They hold my memories (my entire life!) and keep my roots portable. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be.

könig des mondes, der märchen

Today, when I introduce myself to people, I say I graduated from Oberlin with an honors degree in early U.S. history, with a focus on women’s history. When I was in high school, I hated the idea of specializing in anything. I was a sporty kid who loved reading classic literature, playing the viola, studying every history, speaking German, learning about the natural world, and knowing everything about figure skating. If you looked on the sidebar of my LiveJournal, you would see that I admired Bobby Kennedy and Henry IV of France. I enjoyed Sir Thomas Moore’s story as much as I enjoyed reading about Mikhail Gorbachev. I loved the Age of Exploration as much as I loved the Meiji Restoration. There was no rhyme or reason to my historical exploits. Perhaps it was childish, but I loved everything.

Flash forward today. If you asked me who my favorite historical figure was, I’d be torn between Mercy Otis Warren and Lucy Stone. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I actually needed Google to confirm that Henry Navarre was indeed Henry IV of France. The point I’m trying to make isn’t that I’m ashamed of this. To some extent, we all miss something of the sheer joy of uncontrolled intellectual exploration. It’s a part of growing up. The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve lost a lot of that random knowledge, especially as far as history is concerned. Which is why my fascination with Ludwig II of Bavaria is so astounding.

I first encountered dear old Ludwig (or Luddy, as my friends and I called him way back when) as a freshman in high school. Like most people, it was his three fairytale castles that impressed me. Like the hook to a senior thesis, the castles were an easy, eye-catching entrance to a somewhat confounding story. I toured Neuschwanstein, Linderhof, and Herrenchiemsee. Then, wanting more, I read websites, biographies, and architecture journals. As my mastery of the German language grew, so, too, did my fascination with this young king. It all reached a rather exciting climax my junior year of college, when I took a month to explore Europe by myself after my study abroad program in Ireland.

I revisited Neuschwanstein during a torrential downpour. I’d decided to skip a reprise of Linderhof so that I would be sure to have enough in my budget to visit Herrenchiemsee, the only castle I’d yet to see at the time. Being by myself, it was all a mystery to me how I was actually going to get there, but my ability to hold a competent conversation in German pulled me through most of the confusion. I got on a train; I got off at the right stop; I managed to find the docks; I just barely caught the last ferry to the island; I got off the boat at the right island; I found the ticket booth and ordered a tour pass; I went on a tour in German; I even visited a special exhibit on the life of Ludwig II, called Götterdämmerung; and, somehow, I made it back in time to catch a train to Salzburg.

The Herrenchiemsee experience was monumental in my career as a German-speaker. Not only had I successfully navigated different types of public transportation, I had understood nearly every word on a full-length German tour, and read museum cards in German as well. The Götterdämmerung exhibit also helped clarify my fascination with Ludwig II. He may be a rich, white, European king–quite different from the American women I study now–but he had a few traits I consistently find attractive in male historical figures. If you look at my track record, you’ll see this quite clearly.

1) He was a child.  At the very entrance of the Götterdämmerung exhibit, there was an amazing quote from him that literally gave me chills. It went something like this: I am as sensitive as photo paper–every image, every experience leaves an impression that will last a lifetime…*  When his father died, he was five years younger than I am now, still only discovering himself.  He was wrenched out of this world of safety and experimentation and unexpectedly made king of Bavaria.  I guess the peoples’ reaction to their new king was a little like how the US felt when JFK was elected.  Here was this youthful, bashful, handsome, intelligent boy being crowned your leader–like any teenager, the nation begins to feel invincible and anything seems possible.  And that, I guess, fit in with Ludwig’s image of himself as well.  It was all a fantasy–where heroes triumph and evil is left to dust.  He hated, despised, abhorred warfare because it interrupted these fantasies–it was cruel, expensive, and deflated morale.  I think that’s what Wagner meant to Ludwig.  Through his operas, Ludwig was able to escape to the murals of his mother’s castle at Hohenschwangau, where heroes existed and damsels in distress awaited rescuing.  Everyone has fantasies.  The only difference is that not everyone has the luxury of living them even after they’re older.

*the German word he used was ‘das Innere’ and I didn’t translate it well–it has so much more of an internal quality than simply being–maybe “my soul” would have been better than “I am…”

2) He was a paradox, and historians love a good contradiction.  Here was a young boy, tossed into a situation beyond his years, in an age of increasing republicanism, who desperately wanted to be a divine, absolutist ruler like Louis XIV.  In an age of technology, he wanted to believe in magic.  “I don’t want to know how it works,” he said of technology, “I just want to see it work.”  He had outdated beliefs about kingship, yet he remained popular with his people for a surprisingly long time.  He had some of the most technologically advanced castles in the world with electricity, multi-colored lights, heating, running water, and yet he didn’t seem really to care how it functioned.  Torn between two worlds and aging (in an older man such eccentric, childish delusions are no longer accepted by society), he tried to keep his world united and remain forever young.  And, as if we needed one more piece of irony to complete this point, two months after his death, his noble family made the decision to open the castles to the public against his last wishes in the hope that it would further convince the Bavarian public that their king had been a total nutjob.  In fact, it did quite the opposite, and he remains beloved–if even more so now than before.

3) He was an artist.  So many kings and princes want to seem cultured, and they pour their treasuries into commissions and parties, to which they will try to entice the leading artists of the day. Ludwig II poured a great deal of his funds, impressively, into his own art.  Everything he created was a symbol, a work of genius.  He wrote poetry, designed buildings, made drawings… He seemed to do it all. His fascination with art was an escape for his imagination that, rather than fading with age, only increased.  Near the end of the exhibit, there was a satire played out between Ludwig II and Wagner, where two actors argued the question of whether either of them could have existed without the other.  Ludwig starts by talking about the opera house he wanted to build, which pops up as a bubble above his head.  But then he gets distracted and more and more bubbles begin to pop up until the screen is full of his ideas.  And then, just like that, they all shatter.  When the people walked through the glittering sanctuaries of their king ,they of course saw an eccentric, but, what’s more, they saw an artistic genius.  Instead of condemning him as the nobles and wished, his castles ensured him a spot in the historical memory of Bavaria, probably forever.

Why the sudden historical musings? Well, I’ve been thinking about Ludwig II a lot lately, mostly because I saw the film Ludwig II. at the Cleveland International Film Festival last Friday. While it is most assuredly a fictional account, and somewhat dramatized, I do wonder how much drama actually had to be added. Ludwig lived in a fantasy world, and it only follows that the film would be equally fantastical. At some points, it was even so unworldly as to be off-putting, but, again, that was Ludwig’s life. His daydreams endeared him to generations of people across the globe, but they also distanced him from his family, his friends, and his people. Eventually, there could be no bridge to him–he was lost and unrelatable, even to the point of his mandating that no one could look upon his naked face nor he theirs. The film does a splendid job emphasizing this fact as the tragedy of his life.