Author Archives: Christene

Ainsel

I am working on how I will teach American Gods. I am rereading Chapter 10.

How easy it is to reconstruct the self from nothing. Everything in this book is dependent upon previous knowledge of various myths, fairytales, biblical stories, etc. Every character fulfills the task they were bid to do in antiquity. Sometimes you are given names, other times just descriptions and it is up to you to figure out what is going on.

In this chapter the main character takes on the pseudonym Ainsel, relying on the Northumbrian fairytale of the same name (and a perfect parallel with the story of the meeting between Odysseus and Polyphemus). It would be an easy task to skip the inconsequential day to day of the chapter and head right into what Ainsel is there to do, completing the story as the townsfolk cry out against “no one”having done anything to them. But that would just create another parallel story, humorous as it may be.

The fascinating part is the way in which Ainsel creates himself. He is no one, but quickly builds his character and assimilates into the town. The mundane takes on a whole new importance. As he is telling his story (page 240), he reflects on how easily the narrative comes out, as he imprints his “history” onto a blank slate, one of the few characters in the novel that does not rely upon a loaded background, but rather fabricates himself as the story progresses and as he sees fit. He is given the chance to become that which he has always wanted, but could never before escape the reality of his life.

He tells the townspeople what they want to hear, and in the process creates the image of his true self. His real name is Shadow, derived from the Jungian shadow that encompasses the collective unconscious, much like he becomes everything to everyone in the town. Unlike for Freud, for Jung the shadow has the possibility to be either good or bad, even if usually leaning towards the negative. Shadow, in his real life is in fact mostly negative (despite all of his good intentions… but you know what they say about good intentions…). Here, as Ainsel, he can invert the self into the positive. And the Ainsel story becomes secondary. The focus is not on the outcome of this section where Ainsel, “no one” betrays and/or tricks those who trusted him, but rather on the lead up to the end, the process of becoming.

Gaiman, in writing this section, writes a story within a story. In researching the main character’s taken name (as by now in the novel it has become obvious that without name research very little makes sense), a new avenue opens up where narratives collide creating a far more intricate web of histories. There is a third narrative also taking place here. Can you figure out which one?

Driving and Stuff

My mom and I took the kids to the beach today. She was sitting next to me while I drove and asked why I hold the gear shift while driving. I haven’t driven a stick shift in many years, but it was the way I learned how to drive and I still drive in the same position. I am actually not even sure I could drive a stick again since it has been so long. I would probably stall the car.

I remembered learning to drive. My dad and my first husband took turns teaching me. I guess for them it was a bonding experience over my driving inexperience. For me, it was stressful. I would try to change lanes on a busy street, and my dad would shout “don’t ever do it like that! Your mirrors don’t show you everything! You need to turn, all the way, and look! Really look! What if someone was in your blind spot? What if the car in the other lane was driving faster than you saw in the mirror? Then what?” Changing lanes became terrifying.

Then, later in the evening I would go out driving with my husband. I would change lanes carefully, looking in all directions, making sure I missed nothing. “What are you doing? Don’t take your eyes away from the road for that long! That is what you have mirrors for!”

It is a miracle I ever learned to drive at all.

Although several people may argue that I still don’t know how to drive. Eh.

In a few days it will be my first ex husband’s birthday. He is turning fifty so I feel like I should send him something. I am not sure what. I have a beautiful copy of Coleridge with some very well done illustrations. I could send him that. But I haven’t spoken to him in about five years. I wouldn’t even know where to send it. He sends me emails once in while. Usually links to things. Maybe I will send him a link to something for his birthday. Maybe just an email.

Last time I heard from some mutual friends he had gotten back together with his first wife. I don’t remember much about her except that she hated me. When I first got with him she kept trying to get in touch with me. After a few months I finally called her. We had a long conversation in which, even in my youth, I realized she was crazy.

After we got married she started sending me little “gifts.” They were usually baby items… onesies, rattles, baby books. Obviously a reminder of the child we could never have. They came in intervals, usually around my birthday. Maybe she meant them as Christmas gifts, but since my birthday is so close they generally arrived around then. On my twenty first birthday she sent me a clock. Implying time was running out? I don’t know. I never replied to any of her packages. Received them and threw them away. Except for the clock. It looked very nice in the living room. She kept this up for almost six years. Like I said, crazy.

I should have kept the onesies and dressed my children in them. Who’s laughing now? Well, I guess she is. I guess I could retaliate and send her a few things too. But there is nothing wrong with *my* head. At least not like that.

At the beach today, seeing me in a bikini my mother noticed I have gained weight in a good way. I think I have gained around five or six pounds. For the last year I had lost so much weight, it was a little disconcerting. I was under a lot of stress and for me, stress eating leads to weight loss. I haven’t been eating very much lately so my body stopped burning everything. But I have gained weight in all the right places. I love it.

My mom and I talked about a lot of things. The kids were asleep in the back seat and she just let me talk. I think I rambled on for about an hour. I can’t even remember everything I said, but it felt good.

Newest Brand of Masochism

I think I have invented the newest brand of masochism. It is a rare strain where I think about the man I want to be with twenty times a day for no other reason than to slowly torture myself fully knowing I will never see him again. Every time I see something, read something, go somewhere that I think would interest him, I not only think about it, but then take it one step further and begin thinking about how nice it would be if we could talk about it. No, fleeting images and memories are not enough, not for the true masochist. This special brand of masochism comes complete with tearful what-if moments and scenarios.

What better way to spend the middle of the night than thinking of all the joys we could have brought each other and how I screwed it all up.

I should go into business with this sort of thing. You need something screwed up? Just send it over. “But is it absolutely perfect” you say. No, no, just send it over, I will take care of it for you. Won’t be perfect when I am done with it.

I guess my problem has always been my criteria. I was never compatible with my ex husband, even when we really wanted each other. Then the man that followed didn’t want me the same way I want him. Well, not in the end anyway.

So I have decided from now on, if I ever choose another man, I will use Skip-Bo as a determining factor. The rules of Skip-Bo are not terribly complicated, it is the strategy that gets everyone. Just like sudoku, all you need are basic counting skills, but the logic involved can get pretty intense. The way I see it, if a man is dedicated enough to me to learn the game and figure out how to beat me, not only has he proven devotion, but also high intelligence, and therefore is worthy of my time.

Not to mention a game of Skip-Bo takes forever, so that will give us plenty of time to talk, and for me to weed out any incompatibility issues.

In the meantime I will do the only thing I seem to know how to do, and fantasize about what I had with him, and what might have been. Then maybe I will go to sleep.