Hello, fellow residents of our beautiful planet! I am writing this blog post from a cute Danish cafe in London. Here is a photo I took from my seat in the cafe. If you know me at least a bit, and if you look closely at the photo, you may be able to guess my favorite part of it. However, as that detail is rather inconsequential, let me tell you something of greater importance. Let me tell you how I got here.

Oops! How I got here is inconsequential, too. I flew. (That last sentence was a clue, RE the detail in the photo!) It was a long flight—at least for a travelphobe like me. I finished a book. Exciting! I love finishing books. But in the scheme of things, that was not so exciting, really, so let me please get to my point. Let me tell you why I got here.

Four months ago, as I explained in my post from January 25 called Dreams, I had a dream. I dream vividly most nights; but only the rare dream manifests as a sort of lesson-cum-guidepost, express from my unconscious mind.

In the dream, I bought a flight to London. I bought the ticket amidst a group of friends, as part of a special discount rate; but each of us was traveling separately, and I would be traveling alone. Once I arrived in London, I discovered that my family was staying in nearby rooms. However, I decided to ignore them, since they wanted to do things that I didn’t. What I really wanted to do while in London was see a performance at the Paris Opera House; and that’s what I was making plans to do when I woke up.

Strangely enough, this relates to the book I finished on the plane. I’ll be writing previews of that book shortly. This story about my dream and how it influenced my life will perhaps be useful as we try to piece together the central philosophical problem laid out in that book. But I am getting off track again! So here’s what happened next.

Upon waking, I understood that the dream was important, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. In full—that is, partial—disclosure, there was also a segment of the dream that pertained to my love life. I would not like to share the details; I would merely like to note that the dream had multiple significances to me. (A multiple significance, in case you were wondering, is somewhat similar to a multiple orgasm, except that it’s not just for women; but I am getting off track again!) And so, realizing that my unconscious mind may have been trying to tell my conscious mind something, I kept thinking about the dream.

Within a few days, I was astonished to realize that I wanted to take a solo trip to London and Paris. This might not seem like such an astonishing wish to you; lots of people want to go to London and Paris. It was shocking to me, however, because I have always been a travelphobe.

There were so many things about travel that frightened me. I was scared my plane would crash. I was scared I would get irredeemably lost in trying to navigate public transportation. I was scared I would lose my passport or get beaten or harrassed or raped. I was scared I would spend a ridiculous amount of money, only to instantly get homesick for my garden and birds (that was another clue!). I was scared I would be obliged to do something touristy that I didn’t want to do.

But most of all, I was scared that the jostling and angled sunshine and lack of sleep that are inherent to travel would trigger a migraine. As I explained in my post from December 26 called Medical Mysteries (Part 2), I have suffered from periodic migraines for my whole life. They always last exactly ten days. They are debilitating, involving level-10 pain, aversion to light and noise, expulsion of stomach contents, and much moaning and rolling around amidst bedsheets.

As I explained in that post from last December, I had been unexpectedly rescued by magnesium in an easily absorbable form. I had not experienced a ten-day migraine since beginning my vitamin supplement regimen; and that happy streak continues to this day.

A miracle! Was it a god of travel—perhaps Hermes, a.k.a. Mercury—who had come to my aid?! But I will stay on track with this story, I promise.

The point is, my unconscious mind had realized, long before the “I” that I’m better acquainted with did, that my recent deliverance from periodic migraine hell opened up the door for me to travel. It further realized that my dilapidated and largely nonexistent love life would be a boon to me while traveling, for I would not have to compromise on how I would spend my time. Moreover, it realized that London was a perfect destination for doing things I love to do—namely, enjoying literature and music. Finally, it realized that the Paris Opera House is not that far from London, in the global scheme of things; and what, it mused, is the point of middle age, if not to fulfill fantasies you had while 12 or 13 years old?

Yes—in my youth, I had an obsession with The Phantom of the Opera, both the book and the musical. So I am going to go see that old building where some of the events depicted really occurred (and where some, being romantic exaggerations, did not). And I’m going to do many other literary- and musical-type activities in Paris; and I’m going to attempt to say something comprehensible in the language, and to understand something someone says to me. Because my adult, conscious mind has realized that the Paris Opera House is merely a sentimental excuse to force me to venture very far outside of my comfort zone. To experience something that, sure, lots of people experienced at a much younger age, but I have not yet: to be alone in a faraway culture of people who speak a language that’s foreign to me.

Speaking of language—I have been enjoying hearing British accents all around me. This is not a “pigeon” English, but the genuine article. (That was your third and final clue! If you have not solved the puzzle by now, I fear there is no hope for you . . . though perhaps the answer will come to you in a dream.)

But back to the point. The point is that the human brain has both conscious and unconscious parts. Managing the interplay between the two of them, in my experience, is key to living wisely. To be solely led by one or the other is a grievous mistake. In conclusion, here is a view of the interior of the Danish cafe, behind me. There are no hidden secrets in this photo . . . at least not that I know of. Those are elsewhere. Has your unconscious mind spoken to you lately?

During the past few weeks, I attempted, with minimal success, to read two books in French. One was Olivier Bourdeaut’s playful novel Waiting for Bojangles, a recent international bestseller. The other was Samuel Beckett’s haunting play Endgame, which premiered in 1957 and is a literary classic.

And so I was surprised, and a little weirded out, to learn that my pairing of these two works is more apropos than I had realized. According to this World Literature Today article, the title Waiting for Bojangles (in French, En attendant Bojangles) is an allusion to another famous and classic play by Beckett. Here’s what the article says about Waiting for Bojangles:

“With its irreverent reference to Samuel Beckett’s En attendant Godot (1952), the novel’s title is a call to be mindful of the futility of endlessly waiting for fun, love, or fulfillment.”

Waiting for Godot is not a play I have read. However, rumor has it that Godot never arrives. If Waiting for Godot is anything like Endgame, it’s a bleak and beautiful masterpiece that is likely to shuttle one into an existential depression, if one isn’t careful.

In contrast, Mr. Bojangles does arrive in Waiting for Bojangles—in sound and spirit, if not in the actual flesh. And while the story has its sad moments, it never falls into melancholy. And it definitely never descends into grim philosophical musings about the meaningless of existence.*

In the novel, the boy’s parents love to dance to the song “Mr. Bojangles” as sung by Nina Simone. But when the song’s not on, it’s not like the characters are moping around waiting for it to play again. No, they’re finding other ways to live it up. They’re dancing to other music, making up stories, throwing parties, and doing various outlandish things, all in the name of whimsical pleasure.

In this household, there’s no waiting around for joy to magically show up. No matter how horrible their circumstances get, the characters insist on enjoying life. And they insist on altering their circumstances to make life maximally enjoyable. They even insist on enjoying life to the very detriment of living. If they were in the play Waiting for Godot, I’m pretty sure they would be calling up Godot and harassing him with jokes and enticements and crazy stories until he gave up and made an appearance. He might arrive delighted, or he might arrive enraged—but you can bet that he would arrive.

Is the title Waiting for Bojangles, then, misleading? Since the characters aren’t exactly sitting around looking at their watches, waiting for something fun to happen, is the title more paradoxical than descriptive?

Not so fast. The French phrase en attendant can be translated as “waiting for”; but that is not the only translation. Other translations include “while waiting for,” “pending the arrival of,” and “in anticipation of.”

The alternate titles While Waiting for Bojangles, Pending the Arrival of Bojangles, and In Anticipation of Bojangles strike me as more precisely true to the story. The boy’s mom and dad are always looking forward to dancing to the song. This is their best bliss. But in the meantime (which is another translation of en attendant), they are living it up in grandly wonderful ways.

Of course, the title as given is the best choice. It’s the most concise and lovely. And it refers back to Beckett’s play. But I find it fascinating that it has connotations in French that do not translate into English.

Are you sitting around looking at your watch, as you wait for Godot or Mr. Bojangles or whomever or whatever to show up? Waiting is a reality of life. The important question is, what are you doing in the meantime?

*This is merely to state a fact. I have no bias against bleak works of literature that question the meaning of existence. Actually, I like them. A lot.

The memoir A Mind Unraveled, by Kurt Eichenwald, is astonishing in so many ways.

Anyone can run up against health problems and other major life difficulties, but Eichenwald’s story is uniquely interesting and instructive because of his attitude toward his struggles, as well as his phenomenal ability to analyze situations and make wise and brave decisions in even the worst of them.

His struggles were great. For years, doctors were unable to help him control his epileptic seizures. He could have one anywhere. When he had a seizure, people would often react with fear, ignorance about how to help, or hostility. Some of his college peers did not want to be his friend. Some of his college administrators did not want him to stay enrolled at the university. Some of his employers did not want him to remain working for them. One of his doctors told him that he should avoid stress by giving up on his education and career goals.

Fortunately, Eichenwald had an epiphany one day, while lying in a hospital bed:

“If I faced people who feared me or denied me work, I could control whether I gave up or tried to change their minds. I couldn’t force someone to hire me, but I could work hard, assembling a strong enough résumé to prove that I was a candidate worth considering. I couldn’t make someone love me, but I could be a person worthy of love. . . . I possessed more control than I had believed. Healthy people didn’t always understand the scope of how much could be overcome. I certainly never had before I got sick. As for what I didn’t control—the seizures, how others reacted to me—to hell with it. I could control how I reacted to the uncontrollable.”

Within this section, Eichenwald compares life to someone in an elevator. He notes that you can control whether you push a button, but you can’t control when, or whether, you will arrive. I like this metaphor a lot. I would like to offer another one, though, because life is so much more continuous and complicated than an elevator with its choice of maybe a dozen (or several dozen) buttons.

Life is being the dude or dudette sitting behind the audio mixer (a.k.a. mixing console) at a wild and large musical event. Your job is to control what the audio sounds like when it’s projected from the speakers.

There’s a lot you can control. The vast number of different buttons and levers before you would definitely baffle someone with less experience and intelligence than you. In fact, they baffle and overwhelm you at times. But if you concentrate on your task, you can create a good mix of musical sound.

There’s a lot you can’t control, though. If one of the musicians is playing off key, you can fiddle with the controls for that input, but you can’t change the fact that the musician is playing off key. If someone at that wild, live event knocks over a speaker and breaks it, you can’t control when or whether it will be replaced or fixed; you’ll simply have to proceed in broadcasting from just the working speakers.

I have read and experienced many times the truth, which Eichenwald also states, about the value of enduring hard times. When things are running smoothly, it’s tempting to sit back and enjoy the show, even if it’s not that great. But when things are going haywire? What, half of the musicians are drunk, and half of the speakers are malfunctioning? Then you’re faced with a choice. You can give up; or you can make some serious efforts to refine those controls to try to achieve the best outcome you can.

And, do you know what? Often times, the dude or dudette who’s putting the most, and most prolonged, effort into fiddling with the controls is the one who achieves the most awesome sound, regardless of the number and intensity of obstacles.

Is your life going smoothly? Or is something slightly off key? Or is everything totally haywire? No matter how easy or difficult your life is, you have the power to control many (though certainly not all) things. Are you fiddling with the buttons and levers of your audio mixer to try to maximize the quality of your sound?

I

In a play I saw recently, the heroine first appears onstage wearing a red dress . . . with her head bowed and turned away, due to social anxiety. The contrast is striking. There’s something about a red dress that shouts, “Look at me!” To see one on a young woman who so plainly wants to be invisible is painful.

II

Why is it so obvious that “the lady in red” (from Chris de Burgh’s 1986 hit song) projects confidence on the dance floor—even though the lyrics say nothing about how she carries herself?

III

“She caught a glimpse of herself in a glass . . . and wished that she had not worn red.”

—from The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

This passage is from a scene in which the shy protagonist attends a fancy party.

She has recently decided to open a bookshop in a small, rural, and insular town by the sea. The people do not think their town has any particular need for a bookshop. They think that a townsperson—particularly a woman—who would open a bookshop must be uncommonly bold.

The woman herself does not feel or act bold, while wearing her red dress.

IV

Q: Should I wear this red dress to the party?
A: No.

Q: It’s a costume party.
A: Oh, then that’s all right.

Q: Kidding, it’s a normal party. But I spent a lot of money on this dress. It would be a shame not to wear it. It looked fabulous on me in the fitting room!
A: Are you a model, or do you play one on TV?

Q: No.
A: Then no.

Q: I’ve decided to wear the red dress! What’s the best way to wear it: with what jewelry; with hosiery or without; with which shoes?
A: Confidently.

Q: Are you sure about all this?
A: Since I happen to be wearing a red dress right now, I’m going to say YES!

V

Would a lady in blue need as much confidence as “the lady in red” has, to pull off the scene described in the 1986 hit song?

VI

“‘Why are you wearing red this evening?’ he asked.
“‘It isn’t red! It’s garnet, or deep rust!'”

—from The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

In 1987, Michael Jackson’s album Bad was released. Shortly thereafter, I acquired the vinyl record and listened to it over and over, with rapture, watching the record spin on the player in my bedroom and gaping at the sounds coming out of it.

Even as a girl who hadn’t yet graduated from elementary school, I had strong opinions about that album—namely, that it was great. There are no loser songs there. I still think that today, more than 30 years later.

In those pre-Internet days when it was difficult to preview music before buying it, I acquired many other albums that I would not describe as, shall we say, thrillers. Perhaps you, like me, remember hearing a song on the radio and buying the full album, only to be disappointed by every song recorded by the artist other than the one that initially charmed you into a purchase.

In other words, one hit does not a true artist make. I’ve found—not just in music but also in books, clothing brands, cliques of people, and card games—that one article is not enough for one to make a judgement call on the entire set, regarding either type or quality.

Have you ever shown up at a party where you know no one but the host, only to realize that you can’t stand any of the host’s friends, even though he or she is one of your favorite people in the world?

I don’t know Ottessa Moshfegh, but I think she has a cool name—which has been popping up a lot lately in the literary-type magazines I read. According to Wikipedia, she is from Boston, her mom is from Croatia, and her dad is Jewish and from Iran. I greatly enjoyed her novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation; I found it unique and interesting.

As this is the one and only work by her that I have read, I am having trouble conceptualizing her as an artist. Does she usually write about young, troubled women, circa 2000, who try extremely hard to sleep their lives away? I checked out all of her other books from the library. They are sitting right here: in a nice little stack. I would like to tear through them; but then, I have several other stacks of books lying around that are equally enticing, and I would like to tear through those, too. And then there are all the other things I need and want to do in life.

What good and bad experiences have you had in encountering a one and only representative—and then getting to know its fellows?