The last two weeks I’ve been reading “The Nutmeg of Consolation,” book fourteen of twenty in the Master and Commander series by Patrick O’Brian.

I tell everybody when they ask about what I’m reading that it’s British naval fiction. I always get the same sort of response, a curled lip or the double eyebrow raised accmpanied by something along the lines of, “That sounds boring.”

In fact, I loaned book one, entitled “Master and Commander,” to one of my closest friends along with the warning that yes, while this one was very boring, one just needed to stick it out through the second book to fall in love with the characters. When I first read “Master and Commander,” I thought I might die of boredom. Wading through page after page of confusing nautical/naval terms, I didn’t see an end to the confusion and dense prose.

Well, I figured I had to keep going since I had bought book two, “Post Captain,”  along with the first one that I would have to keep reading at least that far.

And certainly, as the two main characters, Captain Jack Aubrey and (eventual) Dr. Stephen Maturin finally overcome their tensions, they become best friends. I as a reader fell in love with these characters, as well as some of the other mainstays of the series, Tom Pullings, Killick, Barret Bonden, William Babbington, etc. But it was only after total immersion in the naval jargon and after getting used to O’Brian’s style that I loved these characters despite their sometimes boring naval engagements.

And O’Brian’s style intrigues me. Sometimes he will describe major events, but I find it more fascinating when he lets them pass with no more than a nod. This happens more often than not, but the payoff comes from the characters’ reactions and references back to said event in the paragraphs just preceding the action. It’s wonderful. And this also propels you to read more and more, especially when the event occurs at the end of a book, since it leaves you with no other choice but to keep going in the series to find out what happens!

So speaking of moving forward, like I said I am on book fourteen, “The Nutmeg of Consolation,” and I wanted to post a mini-review.

This book seemed to meander quite a bit for me. Whereas many naval things happen in most of the other ones, this book focused on the now shipwrecked crew members of the Diana on an island in the south seas. Most of the first quarter of the book was devoted solely to their little island, and while I found this an interesting deviation from the rest of the books I was happier once they were back at sea.

Presently, however, there was action (chasing the Cornelie), a dull sequence once she capsized (rather anticlimactic, I thought), and then the rest of the book centered on them stopping in Australia.

The plot doesn’t fascinate me so much as the characterization does by the end of this. The turn of events provides a hilarious yet touching moment at the very end of the book; Maturin, while endeavoring to help Padeen, his old servant who was jailed and sentenced to a horrible fate at the penal colory, escape and rejoin the ship. Due to awkward circumstances while they are stopped in port, Aubrey decides against helping Maturin help Padeen, and this of course creates tension between the two friends. Indeed more than a few times in the series do the two butt heads over various things; Jack, more often than not must adhere to Naval regulations, rules, and the timing of the tides, while Stephen, always interested in the natural wonders of the world or his own fancies seems always to get the short end of the stick. The movie, for example, portrays Stephen as being angry with Jack when he reneges on a promise to stop at the Galapagos; this is a particular affront to Maturin because no other naturalist at that time would have had the oportunity to be on the island (and so the promise of new species was certain).

I digress. Needless to say, at the very end of this book, what warmed my heart and brought a smile to my face was the very horrific ordeal that Maturin goes though; he goes off to a small island to meet Padeen and along with his friend Martin chances upon two platypi, something they’ve both been waiting to see for the entire last half of the book. The payoff here is wonderful, in that respect.

Of course, Maturin being who he is, wishes to catch one and nets the male, who promptly turns and bites him. He quickly falls into something akin to a coma, completely debilitated. The book ended with Jack saying, “very gently, ‘How do you feel?’ ‘I have survived, I find,” said Stephen, taking his hand. ‘Jack, I cannot tell you how very ardently, I look forward to going home.’”

This made me so happy and relieved that I laughed out loud. Only an Aubrey-Maturin novel could amuse me so much with the simple end of the installation in a ridiculous event and a classic expression of the long friendship between these two characters. It was a characteristic O’Brian ending for the book, more like a small interlude between the serious drama, yet vital to the lives of these characters, and of course I wanted more. I closed the book warm, and happy that I have another one waiting for me at home.

I doubt if many people understand the deep appreciation I have for these books, but I think it’s for good reason. I suppose few people would actually stick out a series if it had a dull beginning, much like I think this one does. But once you’re acclimated to the dense language, the dry but poignant humor, the books open up into this vast, fascinating world fraught with wholly sympathetic and likeable characters. The payoff after finishing each one comes with a sense of satisfaction and a desire to read more. I’m not sure if I wholly agree that O’Brian is one of the world’s best novelists, but he is definitely one of my absolute favorites, whenever I need a break from ’serious’ literary works or my other favorite genres, if only for a single episode in the long life of Aubrey and Maturin.

This week is odd.

Monday a co-worker brings us naked gummy people. I get the women. I eat half the bag. Then I have a playdate online later that night after a brutal aerobics class. It’s warm.

Tuesday I wake up to torrential rain. I haven’t slept well. Didn’t dream. Lightning illuminates my room and I can see the waves of rain in the parking lot as the storm sweeps across Atlanta. I go into work and have caffeine after giving into the subtle urges my body is giving me. It is a mistake. Two things hit me at once; one not so bad, just someone wanting to come visit. The other is that I screwed up badly and wasted four days of time here. In the space of fifteen minutes I feel my thoughts fracture completely. Then someone is sitting at my table at lunch and I grudgingly march down the stairs to the next level to find somewhere to be alone. Outside the sky is dark, long expanses of dark cloud stretching out past the Georgia Dome. Aubrey and Maturin are up to their usual hijinks, and I am fascinated by the characterization in this novel, pleased by the turn of events. I feel sick after lunch. Panicky again. Just like a few years ago when I ended up driving off crazily into the day and writing an epic thesis on civilization. Tuesday night I go exercise, each punch aimed squarely into the face of everything I went through today. I can’t kick well and so my kicks aren’t as well-aimed. I meet a friend and then a new workout person. Go home. My cousin orders take out and we bicker about the internet. I talk on the phone all night and feel my heart swell again. There is possibility, there is hope.

Today I wake up early and hear giggling. He has brought someone home. I listen for a while, unable to sleep and wanting to creep to the bathroom but not wanting to disturb them. It is three o’clock in the morning. My thoughts sweep around the room and reach out to various people. I wonder if they’re thinking about me. When I fall asleep again I dream of the same things I’d been doing that night. Then I wake up much later and go to work, where the same co-worker brings us German chocolates. I have nothing to do. I am waiting for the day to churn and be over.

We are watching a movie tonight, a movie I am currently obsessed with, and then tomorrow I have another play date. Friday I am expecting something in the mail (two somethings, actually), to see a movie, and perhaps to go out. Saturday I expect the gym. After that, I don’t know.

One of my pet peeves is when women obsess over dieting and their weight and what they look like, when you could snap their wrists in half with two fingers.

Yes, I am guilty of the same thing sometimes, but then again at the moment while I am working out rigorously, it is more in the spirit of strength training and enjoying myself in class than it is to lose weight. And you know what? I really enjoy my food. A lot.

And on another note, it also bothers me when women who like to go out and drink, or like to have a couple beers every night wonder why they can’t lose weight. Um… if you’ve never looked at the calories on a beer bottle, they’re astronomical when you think about what you’re actually ingesting. Drink a glass of fucking water (no calories and it hydrates you!!!!!), or juice.

Stop bingeing on weekends and go exercise.  Stop fucking complaining that you don’t feel like going because class is too early. If you want to see your body change, then eat appropriately for your age and metabolism, eat well, and go to the fucking gym. If it’s too hard and you quit, then be prepared to love your body for the fat it puts on. Or in that case cut back your caloric intake slowly so you adjust properly. Good God. Just stop complaining that nothing ever changes because you don’t want to put in effort. It’s a life habit you’ll be developing, and one that will probably keep you alive a lot longer.

Really.

End rant.

Sometimes there isn’t anything better than waking up on a clear Sunday with no one around to pressure you and nothing really on your mind. The slow trickle of the fish tank in the background, the furnace clicking on and off. And then later, sitting in the sun on a back porch with nothing but a t-shirt and jeans on, the dog barking and running through the yard, the kids playing, I felt mostly content.

Restless today. Headache.

Wake up and it’s dark. Steady drumming rain pounds off the roof. Wet tires slice by on the road just outside. The alarm breaks the quiet of the morning. Apparently my cousin’s already left, but I don’t know this. So I tiptoe around the apartment, shower, and crack the window a bit. Later when I come back, it’s open wide, and so I think again. Ahh. He’s home.

Go to work in a daze. Traffic is clogged for a mile behind my exit, and a mile in front of it. Fucking 75. Miraculously it clears. Still have the headache though. Then there’s the city in front of me, invisible. The skyscrapers are stained dark and grungy with rain, the rest of the horizon disappearing into white cloud.

It’s Friday, almost the weekend. Haven’t got much planned. First solitary weekend after all, so I suppose we’ll see how it goes.

I keep cycling between varying degrees of complete contentment and despair. Granted, the periods of happiness are getting longer but their sometimes rapid disappearance is always followed by the low greyness that I often have a hard time breaking out of.

I was in one of those lulls last night even during the gym. We had a sub and this irritated me even though the class turned out pretty good and I walked out tired and sweating. I’d had a good chat with some of the girls there and had promised to come to dance class the next day, something I rarely do (since I’m a terrible dancer. I suppose I’ll just grin and bear it).

But this morning seems to be bringing a better day with it; I was surprised by the appearance of my cousin/roommate, who threw open his door at seven-thirty and growled, “Why the fuck is it four degrees in here?”

The ludicrous circumstances in which he’d appeared–he had of course left no evidence that he was home, except for the low murmur of his voice (talking in his sleep?) that I’d heard but which I’d been convinced was the neighbors across the way–made me laugh and drop the toothpaste on the floor.

“Want to go to Cancun today?” he asked a few minutes later. Hands over his head, he wandered around the apartment while talking, pacing, looking out the window and then jumping up and down. It is cold, and I do suspect they’ll have to replace the furnace, but I’d been getting along all weekend curled up in bed, or out and about in the city.

“You’d have to take off work,” he said, “but we could do it. It’s eighty degrees there today.”

Tempting, I told him, but no. Unfortunately. Although I felt an itch as I drove into the city, the pang of missed opportunity and wondered if I should have just called in sick and gone, flown down and out of the country for the day to sleep on a beach and drink fruity cocktails.

Cancun or not, I guess, like I’ve always said it’s the little things that make the day better. Like accompanying a co-worker to get coffee (although I’d secretly promised myself I would abstain for the day thanks to how I felt yesterday, all jacked up on Chai and feeling as though I’d just been running. The whole day) and chatting about relationships, what we like. Do you like to be the big spoon or little spoon? I said, and laughed at the inappropriate context of the statement. Giggling, we stood in line at Starbucks. I didn’t care who stared.  It should be like that more often.

Ouch.

I mean, I knew before what I should do but was willing to entertain the possibility that things might just work out, depending on his choice.

Well, that last conversation hurt just a little bit more than I had thought. Yeah. I think I ruined things last time we were together, for sure. What a stupid but so very typical mistake. Anyway, between pressuring him for an answer one way or the other and then pretending like I don’t care which one he gives, I’m running a little low on self-esteem today. Getting tired of holding onto the illusion of being just fine. I mean, I’m doing well with the whole moving thing and all, and I’m surprisingly not very cut up about that boy, just this one.

It’ll be for the best though, which ever decision he makes. I see that. I’m not silly all the time.

I’ll write about the weekend a little later.

I should just move on.

When I get back from possibly the most ideal date ever, it’s cold and late. Ten o’clock. I’ve been driving while chatting on the phone. Still warm from the residual heat in the car and the night I’ve had and the quiet voice chatting in my ear, I walk upstairs and open the door.

The apartment is dark and cold, quiet. For a change there are no roaches when I flip on the light and inspect the kitchen floor. I nod, hang up the phone, and then lay down on my bed.

Too soon though, the heat has left my body and even under two comforters, a knit blanket, two shirts, pants, and socks, I shiver. All I can think about is the cold in the place, which apparently has no heat. I should have caught it sooner I know, even as I walk to the thermostat, but I sometimes overlook small things like this.

Instead of calling Emergency Maintenance like I should have (because not having heat when it is less than fifty degrees outside qualifies as an ‘emergency’), I pull on shoes and go down to my car. Sit there for a while until the engine warms up and is blasting heat into my hands, and then pull out onto the road.

It’s dark. It’s late. The lights from the grocery store are dimmed, closed. Everything is closed. I go into the grocery store and look around desperately. I settle on several candles and some lighters, hoping for anything.  I end up driving by the hospital, and there is a 24-hour CVS. I go in and am one of the few people. I wander the aisles looking, searching, but there’s nothing. Some fans. The man behind the counter tries to help me, but we come up empty-handed. He asks where my boyfriend is, the one who’s supposed to be keeping me warm?

You’d think, right? I tell him. Well, he does not exist any longer. The man smiles. His teeth have wide spaces between them, like a white fence, and he scratches his nose with an index finger. I grab my electric heat pad (for injuries more than keeping a person warm), Butterfinger bar, and new Burt’s Bees chapstick off the counter, but he grabs my wrist.

Hold on! he says. I’m going to give you something.

He then palms me a piece of crumpled register tape with his number. Call me if you need someone to keep you warm, he says.

I smile sickly. All right, I mumble, and walk quickly out into the cold. It’s a pathetically short drive back to my freezing apartment, but I see no roaches (the cold has driven them out, since being inside provides no relief?), and I lay on the heating pad with blankets gathered around me, warmer at last. Quite an evening.  Tomorrow, I think while feeling the heat creeping back into my skin,  will be even better. Tomorrow, another visitor, and then the weekend stretching out ahead of me, slow but productive days. A lost weekend, a free weekend.

We’re lifting the television, and it’s all easy until the weight finally settles on my hand, my good hand, the bottom grate of the monstrous thing cutting into the flesh in my palm.

I need to put it down, I gasp, and we settle it on the concrete step just before the door. In two pushes, it is close enough for us to lift it again while my cousin props the door open. I hate not being as strong as I think I should be, but I suppose it’s something to work towards. By the time we wrestle the television up the stairs, we’re both out of breath. He sets it down on my foot, but I ignore it.  While we rest the thing teeters on the stairs. If I take my weight off its screen, it will topple backwards and possibly kill my cousin and damage a whole lot of the stairs in between. And wake up the neighbors. So I keep my throbbing arm firmly on top.

When we’re done shifting it around on the small tv stand we have, my cousin plugs it in. The screen is black, then grey, and then flickers to life with a static hum and shows a brilliant picture.

“There you go!” he says to me, and grins. It is the same old grin that he’s always had ever since we were kids and he figured out how to make the VCR work when I couldn’t.

Then much later it’s dark in my kitchen since one of our track lights is out. I am sitting at the table and pretending to eat while really thinking about how much things seem to change even if they don’t. Outside it is raining again. I grind lettuce in my teeth, and feel as though I’ve come a moderate circle around in my life, and now here I am, twenty-two and seven all over again, talking with my cousin as though fifteen years hasn’t passed. Only now we’re in a different state and know different people, and have jobs now, real jobs.  But we’re still laughing and telling jokes until late at night and he even still has some of the stuffed animals I used to see in his room. It’s the same smiles and comical pauses but now we understand them more. I understand more.

Well, it just seems lately that the best way to put the present into the past is to cut some major ties and just keep going.  Otherwise it feels cyclical, and I’m definitely tired of that endless circle, tired of chasing myself around and around and never quite catching up.