The Beviad–musings, mutterings and myths

Went to see my rhumatologist yesterday. After waiting an hour and a half (luckily I had both the new People magazine and the Gazette crosswords to pass the time), I was called in. What followed was a very sympathetic interview of fifteen minutes. (I almost cried at his sympathy, in fact, since I am used to the ‘Well, you’ll just have to find new strategies for coping, won’t you?” type of response from doctors; maybe it’s best not to get sympathy after all.) He ended by giving me a prescription for a painkiller with codeine, a referral to an orthopedic surgeon re getting a knee replacement and one for getting my knees x-rayed.

I am still not particularly cheered. The last doc I saw about knee replacement frankly said that he only recommende such surgery when the patient could no longer walk. Then, he said, when the patient experienced the usual pain after surgery, but at least could walk, the patient felt grateful that at least he/she could walk. This of course made it sound as if the pain after knee surgery was horrible, which was very discouraging. I would expect knee surgery recovery time to be painful, but to be told that the pain would last forever was not a good thing. So now I will be getting a second opinion.

Meanwhile, I have taken the new painkiller and have to say that two hours later, I feel no effect at all. Since I’m supposed to take one pill every six hours, I suppose it could be that the effect is cumulative. I certainly hope so. Last night I couldn’t sleep for the pain in my legs, and ended up watching CSI at 3 am while sipping Morpheus tea.

But the whole situation makes me mad. I wouldn’t feel old at all if it weren’t for this. I still feel relatively ‘young’ at heart. It’s the painful limping and staggering around that makes me feel (and no doubt look) a hundred years old. I keep thinking that I’ll heal soon, the way you do when you’ve injured yourself. Yet of course, that won’t happen. Why can’t science come up with a cure for arthritis? I know, I know; no doubt there are labs all over the world filled with people trying to do so, in hopes of making a lot of money. I asked my rhumatologist if anyone knows what causes arthritis, but he says the medical establishment still doesn’t know. >P> Still, I am basically a “glass half full” type of person, so I wait for the miracle drug that will ‘cure’ my arthritis, just as cortico-steroid nasal spray and oral inhaler have ‘cured’ my asthma, or at least removed all the symptoms. I kept hope alive about that, too, and my hopes were realized. I predict that within the next five years, some pharmaceutical company will find the so-called ‘magic bullet’ for arthritis. Of course, by then, Global Warming will be destroying the planet in a big way, according to Al Gore….

We have had nothing but cool air for the last few weeks, so that it has seemed as if autumn was already here, long before Paze and John went back to work today. Yesterday, it seemed as if we had entered the monsoon season–or an old-fashioned Vancouver winter–since it poured unceasingly all day. It’s never like that in Montreal–until recently, that is; traditionally, you hardly needed an umbrella, but could just wait a few minutes until the rain stopped.

John and Paze were pacing the floor with nervousness yesterday in nervous apprehension, as usual. Both had upset stomachs. You would have thought they were going to be beheaded today rather than going back to teach. And people think that it’s only kids who don’t want to go back to school in the Fall!

I have stopped feeling guilty that I’m not going back, too. But last night I dreamed that I was worried about whether I should be back in class or not; I kept feeling a nagging feeling that I was, and had to keep telling myself that I was retired. In the meantime I was getting on buses, finding myself on the wrong bus, getting off, getting on another, and so on.

I still have teaching anxiety dreams, in which I’m trying to teach a class under bad conditions—usually without a proper classroom. My students and I wander from room to room, sometimes even out of doors, looking for a place for them to sit down. Meanwhile, I keep losing some students and gaining new ones. Often I have no text book and neither do they, and I’m desperately trying to figure out what I can teach them in such a situation. These dreams come close to some experiences I actually had while teaching for 32 years; there were terms when the textbooks didn’t come in on time, and I had to print stuff for the students. And times when the printing wasn’t ready in time for class, and I had to do something with them anyway (usually show a movie). And when the movie tape broke or the machine broke, and I was stuck with nothing and had to dismiss them. And there were times when the classroom situation was so bad that I thought I’d go mad. One year I was assigned a classroom with plastic, foldable walls on each side, so that the three small rooms could be turned into a large room if necessary. Classes were being taught in the rooms on each side of me. And, as luck would have it, on one side of us there was a course in something concerning sex being taught, and the teacher’s fluting voice carried right through the plastic wall as she explained about penis and vagina matters. And my students were all leaning in that direction, paying me no heed at all. Or the teacher on the other side was showing a film. Arrrg! In Fall 1988 I had one class of 37 students in what had been a storeroom but had been turned into a classroom at the last moment. It had no windows, and was so tightly packed with chairs that it would have been quite a disaster if there had been a fire in the building; students could hardly get past one another to get to their seats, and there was nothing resembling an aisle. And I did occasionally lead a class of students in search of a classroom empty at that time period, and install them there, since it was better, only to discover at exam time that it actually belonged to a Phys. Ed class which had spent most of its time in the gym and yet had been assigned a classroom better than mine.

And yet, I think I had a great career, despite all that. In that very small room, for example, I taught “Detective Fiction” to a great group of kids. We all sort of felt that we were in survival mode, and the best came out of us all. I had to sit on my desk, or lean up against it, since there was no room to move around at the top of the class, but I still enjoyed myself tremendously. I still remember standing on that desk at one point, illustrating how a character in one of our mystery novels couldn’t have hung himself. I was making a noose in the long leather belt of my favorite brown corduroy dress, then putting it around my neck….. The students were laughing riotously. And of course, at that moment, someone from the Registrar’s Office appeared at the door with papers to hand out for students who hadn’t confirmed their attendance in class. What a laugh!

Ah well. I don’t miss it, but I do look back fondly at many good moments, and am happy when I hear Paze tell of such moments in her classes today. Her course in Children’s Literature is so popular that she has 41 students this term (when there should only be about 35). And no one ever drops out, either. And Paze has unorthodox ways of teaching, too, that can make the classes fun at times for both her and her students. An d of course, she’s teaching something the students love, as I was. We both agree that the irony of the situation is that a popular teacher had more papers to mark. Yet that is preferable to teaching a bunch of bored students who seem to hate you. (I recall fellow teachers who had half their students drop out in the first week, and were teaching 20 students all term when I was teaching 47; still, I at least had fun, and felt that buoyancy that is possible when you know your students like you.)

Yes, today it’s only 14 degrees, and pouring rain so hard that you’d think we had started monsoon season. The house is cold, since the temperature went down to 11 degrees last night. John lit a fire in the fireplace and I have been dozing and reading in front of it all afternoon, which is one of the reasons that I like autumn: I don’t feel guilty about not going outside.

Also, of course, I love the colors of autumn, which have yet to appear. But I found a perfectly autumnal leaf on the ground in Knowlton, which we visited on Thursday when we went there to see a play at the Arts Knowlton theatre. We saw ‘Dial M for Murder’, which was very well done, and had lunch before hand at the Knowlton pub (I had a duck burger, which was delicious even if it didn’t taste much like duck, which I love and which no one in my family loves.)

Last night Devon slept over, and she and I watched ‘The King and I’, or rather, watched half of it. She loved it, especially since it didn’t have any scary bits. I had to convince her ahead of time that musicals didn’t have scary bits–just singing and dancing. In between songs, at her request, I put the DVD on pause, and we discussed slavery, which if you recall is a big aspect of the film’s story. She of course had never heard of it before.She pointed out that Cinderella is treated like a slave by her stepmother and stepsister.

That got us into a discussion this morning, in bed, about princesses (her current passion). Disney princesses, of course, which Paze has turned into role models, figuring (quite rightly) that if she is going to be passionate about them, they might as well serve as exemplum. Whenever Devon starts to whine, Paze asks her “How would Cinderella feel about this? Would she whine?” And of course, Cinderella wouldn’t, since she even sings to herself sweetly while cleaning and serving the very people who are tormenting her, with nary a whine or complaint.

Devon said that Princesses go to Princess School, where they learn very important things, such as: how to be kind to others; how to use their brains to think; how to be polite; how to share things with others; how to avoid whining; how to love. I suspect Paze had a hand in this list, too, but can see no fault in it. After all, it helps dispell the feeling that envying princesses could make Devon the kind of girl that as an adult is called a princess unflatteringly.

Still, she is fascinated with clothing, playing with the princess dolls in books with this generation’s version of paper dolls. (These have plastic clothes that stick on the doll figures.) She can play with these for hours and did so all the way to Cape Breton Island and back again this summer. She also refuses to wear jeans or shorts, and I’ve seen her when her dad comes to pick her up from our house with a change of clothes. If he brings a pair of jeans, she’ll sigh and give him a withering glance, and try to persuade him that she’s better off in her dress or skirt. Last time this happened, she said, in a withering tone that I’m sure she got from Paze, “I don’t think that Cinderella wore jeans, did she? She wore a skirt. Even when she was cleaning the house.” She then pointed out that in jeans one couldn’t whirl around and have your skirt puff out around you–a major point, it seems, in her choice of wardrobe.

I have to agree with her. Skirts are very nice, and in hot weather they are much cooler than shorts, especially in the crotch area. And there is that business about them twirling about when you turn. I’ve worn them all my life and only recently have decided that pants hide a multitude of sins, and that if I have to wear ugly orthopedic shoes, I might as well wear what my generation call ’slacks’. Lately, that’s all I’ve been wearing, in fact, after buying a brown pair and a black pair at Winners. And this has all coincided with the drop in temperatures. So, this will, I think, be my slacks period. Now, if I could just keep Oreo, my black and white cat, from shedding all over my pants every time he insists on curling up on my lap, even when I’m working on the computer….

Now, off to roast a chicken and some potatoes. That should warm the kitchen up.,.

So— I finally am registered at Concordia. I am now registered for Ancient Greek lit for Fall, and Ancient Roman Lit for Winter. But it wasn’t easy. It involved phoning Concordia and being passed around, then talking to the Techline, where some nice guy said there was no reason why I shouldn’t be able to register. He got a new password for me, signed me in easily, but said I should have no trouble. When I tried, however, I still got the ‘invalid’ answer. It was obviously my computer that was at fault. (The fact that it is 8 years old and a Mac might have had something to do with it.) Finally he gave up and said to use someone else’s computer.

So I phone Paze, who registered for me on the agreement that I would do something about our woeful computer immediately afterwards—finally.

So—I called Bell and signed up for High Speed Simpatico, as well as a new home phone number. This will involve having a new modem delivered, oddly enough, but in any case, it’s all going to happen Sept 10. I’ll believe it when I see it. Still, assuming it will work, we will then download some more advanced things, like Internet Explorer 6 instead of the 5 we have now.

All in all, a day of accomplishments. Now, I just have to go down and get a student card and pay my $26 for registration.

On the bus today, I met a 76 year old man who said he just turns up the first class of the course he wants, asks the prof if he can audit, and then does it. He says the profs are usually flattered. ANd he has none of these other problems and needn’t get into the system. Still, he said he is going to register this term so that he can get his Master’s degree. He said he wants to do this so that his wife will call him ‘master.’ Nice guy, with a good sense of humor.

I have been trying all week to register online with Concordia University for fall courses in their Senior Noncredit program. I have a student number, I have a netname, I have a password, all of which were supplied to me by Concordia itself, and yet whenever I use them, I’m told my numbers/etc are invalid. No matter how many times I type them in (or even get new passwords), I’m invalid.

It should be very easy: go to Concordia Registration, type in student number, tell them which course you want, which number it is, etc, then get either affirmation of your registration or info that the course is full. But no. You have to go to MyConcordia, then play around with passwords and net name. And even that would be okay if it worked. Unfortunately it doesn’t. And apparently, hasn’t done so for ages. They told me at the Orientation meeting that people had had trouble registering on line the month before. Carole Channer had trouble. There’s a number to call for tech. help, but I don’t have it. So tomorrow I’ll have to go down to Concordia in person and see if I can get it done that way.

I want to take a course called Classics 211, which is the literature of ancient Greece. And in Winter 2007, I want to take its sequel, Classics 212, which is Roman literature. The better to read the classical myths, I guess, and know where they come from originally. Long, long ago I took courses in History of Ancient Greece, and History of Ancient Rome. This is merely the other shoe dropping, decades later.

If you are interested in the story of Theseus, who is certainly one of the most interesting of the Greek heroes, I recommend reading “The King Must Die” by Mary Renault. It is eminently readable, and makes the myth of the Minotaur sound quite possible, as well as introducing the reader to Bronze Age Greece. The sequal to it, dealing with the business of Hippolyta, Hippolytus, and Phaedra, is “The Bull from the Sea.”

One thing Renault does is develop the idea put forward first, I think, in “The Golden Bough”, about how in ancient European societies, the king was a living symbol of the society’s strength and therefore had to be tested for that strength. Every few years, he had to present himself at a sacred tree (or in some other such sacred spot), to battle any other male who challenged him. If the other male was able to kill him, then it was all meant to be, deemed by the Three Fates, who sat somewhere marking the life-threads of the living, and cutting those threads when an individual’s life was due to end. The male who had killed the king would become the new king—until he had to face a challenger.

These novels also present us withe a look at what a matriarchy might have been like. This is a society run by women, who trace their lineage from the mother. Some archaeologist–especially, but not exclusively feminist ones–believe that before the arrival of patriarchy, where men rule and women are subservient, there was a universal period of matriarchy and matrilineality. In any case, as he travels to Athens for the first time, Theseus encounters such a society–isolated from the patriarchies around it– after killing the king in just such a challenge as mentioned above.

A few weeks ago I bought a statue of a woman, about three feet tall. She stands in a sad stance, holding a jug of something against her chest, with her eyes downcast. I put her in the garden at the edge of the patio, and immediately decided that, because of her sad appearance, she had to be named after some sad woman in Greek mythology.

Persephone, perhaps,sad because she knew that at the end of the summer she’d have to go down to the land of Hades, her husband, under the earth?

Then my husband pointed out that she really only has one breast. For some reason, probably mere convenience, the sculptor has not given her a breast under that jug she’s embracing. When you look at it, knowing there’s only one breast, you can’t help wondering why he did such a thing.

In any case, I started thinking about Hippolyta, who in some myths is the Queen of the Amazons. The Amazons, as everybody knows, were a large tribe consisting only of women warriors. They bred with captive males, then killed them. When their children arrived, they killed the males. And they cut off one breast so as to faciliate shooting with a bow and arrow, especially from horseback.

Why would Hippolyta be sad, you ask? Because she is captured by Theseus, King of Athens, and carried off by him to be his bride. And although she seems happy enough in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, where her wedding to Theseus is the occasion for the play that the rustic fools are rehearsing in the forest, in the original Greek myths she is not happy, and is rescued by her fellow Amazons in their attack on Athens.

During this attack, she and the Amazons are killed. But she leaves behind a son by Theseus called Hippolytus, who later gets mixed up with the little sister of Ariadne of Crete, the one who gave Theseus the ball of thread, or ‘clue’ that he uses to make his way through the Labyrinth to where the monstrous Minotaur is waiting. This sister is called Phaedra, and she is quite dreadful. Hippolytus dedicates himself to Artemis, the virgin goddess of the forest, and pays no attention to other women,pledging virginity himself. Phaedra, whom Theseus has married as his third wife after Hippolyta’s death, tries to lure her stepson into her bed, but he rejects her. She then cries ‘Rape’, and forces Theseus to disown his son.

So, I now have a little statue of Hippolyta standing quietly, sadly, in my garden. My husband says she should at least cheer up a bit, since after all, I rescued her from a store and gave her a place of honor in the garden.