Hey, man, Ezra Pound was a pretty cool dude.
I mean, just look at him:
I'd write a poem about his coolness only that would be dorky... well, maybe I will:
Ezra Pound was a swell guy,
even if he was a commie.
Or perhaps because he was?
He was a lover of...
languages: mmm,
the romance ones,
to be precise.
Sometimes Ezra went a little nutty,
or maybe just that one time
when he got locked up
for his Fascist politics.
Robert Frost liked him,
it's true.
better than he liked me
or you.
Um. right. The whole point of that fiasco was the share the fact that Ezra Pound, despite sounding like being right on the brink, was only 35 when he wrote this poem. When I was 16, 35 seemed way old, man, but now that I'm 26? That's not so old... nuh uh!
"I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me / Some strange old lust for deeds."
Basically I see the poem "In the Old Age of the Soul" by Ezra Pound as that of an old dude thinking about all the great stuff that he used to do in the past, but now that's he's all old and shit, he doesn't have the energy to *do* all the stuff he used to do so instead he just sits around and thinks about it.
He wants to keep on keepin' on and would much rather be able to keep on doing the same old stuff - note especially the imagery of an aging solider remembering his fierce battles. All he has now are his memories, memories that spurn him to action - or at least to wanting to get out there again (Mid-life crisis, anyone?). His final flame before death is a fierce desire to be young again.
Ah, sweet, another poem with a twin towers over the George Washington Bridge - this be the Brooklyn Bridge, matey! Also, this poem is decidely more reverent in tone than David Lehman's poem.
That's good, I'd think, considering that this seems to be a prayer directed "To Brooklyn Bridge" (by Hart Crane). Words like "forsake" , "multitudes" , "foretold" , "Accolade" , "altar", "prophet" , and "immaculate" struck me immediately with their religiosity! (Am I secretly a religious obsessive? What is it with me and the religious stuff?)
Some of the words I had to look up:
Belamite - A mentally ill person
Parapet - Basically, a protective railing.
ahhh... now I see the imagery of some nut job leaping into the bay!
Acetylene - an explosive gas
Guerdon - a reward
I was also curious about when the Brooklyn Bridge was built: 1883. I wonder if this poem was written specifically for the 50th anniversary? I mean, that would make sense...
Finally, I like the reference in the first stanza: "Over the chained bay waters Liberty---" If you've seen the Brooklyn Bridge, you know that the bridge basically separates the bay from the ocean, spanning from Staten Island to Brooklyn (forgive me, please, if my geography is inaccurate. I am an English major after all.) Anyway, the chain imagery is apt to me and the Statue of Liberty does sit pretty and green smack dab in the middle. (Do you realize that the people in New Jersey are constantly looking at Liberty's arse?)
"When it went up I talked it down..."
My first thought was that David Lehman's "The World Trade Center" was going to be a poem about September 11th. When I got to the line "Until that Friday afternoon in February" I realised something was amiss with that idea. Sure, the 1996 date at the top of the page shoulda given me a hint but hey!
So, of course, I wanted to know about the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993. In 1993, I was... um, well... a lot younger than I am now - I was a freshman in high school and, honestly, pretty darn oblivious to all but what the kid behind was whispering (or not) about me. I vaguely remembered a bombing but was that in Oklahoma or the New York one? Who knows... so I turned to my friend google and asked the question:
1993: World Trade Center bomb terrorises New York
I suppose you could call this boming WTC #1 - maybe design a pretty graphic, get a monotone annoucer to talk about it ad nauseam, get some chicks in tight American flag t-shirts to bounce around and BOOM you have a multi-million dollar something_or_other. Basically, some non-American dudes (what -is- non-American anyway? non-puritanical? I'm not sure...) drove a van into the WTC and blew some shit up. Cool! No. Not cool, I'm afraid, because People Died. This is not good when People Die.
"The site of the blast became one of the largest crime scenes in NYPD history. Estimates showed property damage in excess of one-half billion dollars. The sense of fear and panic in the city was palpable."
The fear, my friends was palpable. Hmm...
Okay, about the poem (about time, I know!):
This poem consists of 4 stanzas and 4 sentences. The first sentence is simply setting the tone: "I never liked the World Trade Center." Okay, buddy, ya gonna tell me why? Ah, but, of course... First, the WTC is a big ugly building with absolutely no character - they practically pollute the view. The WTC used to be a symbol of all that was wrong in America (at least, architecturally speaking) but now they serve as a symbol of America. Hmm... Where did the wrong go, I wonder?
I didn't get the Hitchcock reference, I'm afraid, so back to google I go for this one:
"We see the climax from 'Saboteur', in which Norman Lloyd (the baddie) dangles from the Statue of Liberty whilst Robert Cummings (the goodie) tries to save him. "I'll clear ya," says Lloyd desperately to Cummings, while Robertson's narration explains that Cummings has been accused of Lloyd's crimes, and Cummings must save Lloyd in order to clear himself. If Lloyd falls to his death (which he does), Cummings will remain a fugitive. That's inaccurate and misleading: at this point in the movie, the authorities are already convinced of Cummings's innocence. "
At the end of the poem, the author's attitude changes - rather than hate these buildings, he has grown to accept them, perhaps even like 'em a little, at least for the way they seem to disappear into the heavens - an image of eternity.
I had the pleasure of seeing Point Park University's production of "Anything Goes" yesterday. It was the last show and my friend and I slide in 2 minutes after the show started. Luckily for us, I have a hook-up who not only secured us fantastic seats in the balcony but waived the ticket fee! Ahh yeah! I have to say that of the plays I've seen at the Pittsburgh Playhouse over the last year, "Anything Goes" was absolutely the best!
Anything Goes originally opened at the Alvin Theatre on November 21, 1934 and turned out to be the fourth longest running musical of the 30s.
Anything Goes is a musical featuring music by Cole Porter. It was vibrant and full of energy - dancing, singing, and an amazing interaction between the sweeping star of the show Candi Boyd and the others around her. There was a tap number that I swear was breathtaking in its execution and the vocalists were absolutely stunning!
Anything Goes got spectacular reviews: Pittsburgh Post Gazette &
a review by City Paper columnist Ted Hoover who raves:
It’s always funny to me when people who don’t like musicals complain about their artificiality. “Strangers don’t suddenly break into song together in the middle of the street and run through intricate dance routines.”Brushing aside the fact that maybe the world would be a much better place if strangers did, such complaints are usually lodged by people who lap up Hollywood action films in which an overpaid movie star can run through a firestorm of bullets and bombs and emerge without a scratch. So don’t talk to me about artificial -- at least in musicals the dancers are doing their own stunts.
I agree - people should burst into random songs more frequently! And, personally, I'd like to see more choreographed dance movements as I walk down the street...
My mind is getting quite the workout in American Literature this semester!
Earlier this term, reading of Fitzgerald's "Bernice Bobs Her Hair" had me pondering transcendentalism of teenaged resentment:
"What teenager doesn't think that about her mother?? The case is probably more so in this story due to the cultural changes taking place, but I think the idea of a teenage girl thinking her mother is the most dreadful bore is a pretty common concept even today."
From haircuts to ... murder?
Our next story, Glaspell's "A Jury of Her Peers" had me thinking about gender differences:
"It's funny that the women are able to piece together the truth of the night in question because the clues exist in the kitchen and the sewing room, both areas that are the woman's domain. To the men, the kitchen being messy is just a sign of a bad housewive. To the women, to Mrs. Hale especially, the messy kitchen says a lot."
Part of the *fun* this semester lay in figuring out the connections between one piece to another. With Elmer Rice's The Adding Machine and Treadwell's Machinal this connection was not hard to see! Both feature characters trapped in a machine-like, automated society. Two academic articles on the subject helped clarify the issues.
My favorite reading, by far, was that of Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby - I loved it not so much for the story itself but for Great conversations that resulted. Best of all, I liked the idea of Gatsby as God which ended up being my most recent paper topic. Heck, we even read an article about the symbolism of eggs!
I had fun blogging my (admittedly bizarre) ideas about The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, ideas that were inspired by a conversation in another class on the same topic. But that wasn't the only poem we read this semester! We read poetry by Sylvia Plath, e.e. cummings, and Robert Frost (a post which inspired this one), with all of whom I was previously familiar. A new one to me was Ezra Pound, of whom I had heard but never read. Reading Mr. Pound's biography inspired me to write some (bad) poetry of my own! I was also happy to read two poems starring New York City which is my newest favorite place! Sweet!
In Intro to Literary Study we are discussing Shakespeare's The Tempest. We read two articles this week: one which is a blasting critique of the New Historisism movement; the other that seems to support the concept.
I'm not sure that I fully followed the point being made by Paul Cantor in "Shakespeare -- 'For all time?'." It seemed very political in intent, comparing New Historicism with Marxism blasting both in the process, all the while complaining about the politicalism of Shakespeare. I just kept thinking, "You are doing the same thing!" and getting irritated. Maybe I was just feeling feisty that day?
Leslie writes, "The contemporary teachings of Shakespeare are scrutinized in this article as being sometimes radical as they are taught by "radical" professors. This has a lot to do with the idea of teaching opinions rather than fact. There is no doubt going to be a skewed view presented about an issue if it is taught by a certain type of person. Ideally a professor or teacher should present an unbiased view but this simply isn't the case."
Teachers are people, too. Right? Or maybe! Maybe teachers are really just android robots designed by the head-honcho of the New Historicism movement in order to spread the evil word of Marxism into the nubile young minds of America? Um. Ignore me.
This article did, however, inspire me to learn more about Marxism (which I'm quite certain was not the author's intent!):
The Wikipedia entry on the subject states:
Marxism is the political practice and social theory based on the works of Karl Marx, a 19th century philosopher, economist, journalist, and revolutionary, along with Friedrich Engels.
...
Since Marx's death in 1883, various groups around the world have appealed to Marxism as the intellectual basis for their politics and policies, which can be dramatically different and conflicting. (Hmm... couldn't you argue the same thing about religious beliefs?)
...
Class analysis
Marxists believe that capitalist society is divided into two powerful social classes:
Marx predicted that the petty bourgeoisie would eventually be destroyed by the constant reinvention of the means of production and the result of this would be the force movement of the vast majority of the petty bourgeoisie to the proletariat. An example of this would be many small business giving way to fewer larger ones. (like Wal-Mart perhaps?)
--------
Marx's Theory of Alienation is an interesting one.
--------
Now, I'm not saying that I'm about to run off and become a socialist, but I think this is all very interesting. I mean, socialism seems to be anti-capitalism, which is a-okay with me. Maybe one day I'll be inspired to learn more... but today is not that day.
If you're more curious than me: Socialist Party USA
Which Came First: The Chicken or the Egg?
My initial reaction to Chikako Kumamto's article on The Great Gatsby was "Huh! That's interesting!" followed closely by "How the heck did s/he write a whole article on EGG SYMBOLISM in The Great Gatsby?" But then I started thinking about it - we've got East Egg and West Egg, right? Maybe there were more mentions of eggs that I just didn't notice because I was too busy trying to figure out if Gatsby is God or not.
As I continued reading I understood: eggs = chickens! Well isn't that clever!
This article compared Gatsby's parties (where eggs were a center of the feast! who knew?) to Roman feasts back in the day when everyone cared about "the visual sumptuousness of the food." [ back then people liked toga parties, bacchus, and bath houses, too. woohoo! ]
The article also discusses the different "idiomatic meanings" of the word "chicken" - including "chicken" as a coward or as a symbol of prosperity "a chicken in every pot" both of which are quite apt for The Great Gatsby.
Basically this article makes me realize -why- we are constantly analyzing and ripping apart texts in our literature classes: there is so much in a piece of writing, ideas that simmer and stew beneath the surface of a text waiting for the right person to come along and find its hidden meaning. What used to be a chore and kind of boring in high school English classes:
Teacher: Now, Moira, what do you suppose the chicken in this scene represents?
Me: Um, maybe the author had some Kentucky Fried for lunch?)
Teacher: No! Bad Moira! The chicken represents the character's deep longing to form intimate connections with poultry! Duh!
Has now transformed itself into something utterly fascinating, an act of close reading EVERYTHING searching for deeper meanings and illuminations that reveal not just information about the text itself but deeper insight into myself: What do I see when I look into a text? What does that say about me?
Although I felt that "woah, baby, this is right over my head!" I did enjoy reading an excerpt from Dr. Jerz's Technology in American Drama because it helped solidify and clarify my thoughts on two recent texts that we've read in American Literature: Elmer Rice's The Adding Machine and, more recently, Sophie Treadwell's Machinal.
I did notice the connection between the two immediately upon reading the first sentence of the introduction; however, I couldn't quite put my finger on exactly what the difference between the two main characters. Dr. Jerz writes, "By contrast, Treadwell supplies her Young Woman with an understated motive but an overabundance of soul."
It was interesting to read some of the background information of Ruth Snyder as it relates to Machinal. It was also interesting to note that Treadwell is commended as solving one of the problems seen in The Adding Machine: "how to get drama out of an inarticulate character." (I would really love to see a production of this play!)
Dr. Jerz writes, "The sound also implies that by producing a child, the Young Woman has now become a wheel in the social machine that she finds so unbearable." Interestingly, this is also the scene where religion comes into play and continues throughout the rest of the play - it starts with the writing of the prescription in Latin.
It was interesting to note that Treadwell left the rights for Machinal to the Roman Catholic Church in Tuscon. I had been wondering about Sophie Treadwell's relationship to catholicism and, boom, there it was! I had originally thought that Treadwell had a problem with the Catholic Church but upon reading that passage and going back to look at choice parts in the play, I realize that the play was more in support of Catholic ideology.
Okay, I swear, I'm going to dig in and start doing *real* homework instead of pissing away my time making silly graphics in photoshop and surfin' the blogosphere. But first this:
Top 10 Odd College Courses
An article published by MSN Encarta discusses the top 10 weirdest college courses out there. One of the courses is Georgetown University's "Philosophy and Star Trek." Being a naturally inquisitive geek and not wishing to spend my Saturday night reading Chaucer, even though I should, I decide to check it out:
From the Georgetown University Course Catalog:
Star Trek is very philosophical. What better way, then, to learn philosophy, than to watch Star Trek, read philosophy, and hash it all out in class? That's the plan. This course is basically an introduction to certain topics in metaphysics and epistemology philosophy, centered around major philosophical questions that come up again and again in Star Trek.
...
The questions that we will wrestle with include:
1. Is time travel possible? Could we go back and kill our grandmothers? What is the nature of time?
--------------
Wow! So it -is- a real class! Awesome! The reference to killing grandmothers worries me, but hey! I'll let it slide this time.
I guess it's not -that- weird: I was once registered for a music class at Youngstown State University called "Rock and Roll to Rock" (The course description reads "An historical survey of the evolution of Rock 'n Roll into Rock with emphasis on the interrelationships of the music and social and political influences and the interaction of Rock with other forms of music.") The class included history and theory, as well as required listening of rock music. The course was legendary among YSU students because of its magical ability to fulfill the music requirement as well as be a fun course.
Anyway, if you want to know more about the fun classes offered at college that aren't Seton Hill University (not that i'm saying we don't have fun classes, mind you... I've heard the rumors about tap class) or you just don't wanna do homework ... check it out:
Evan coined a term that applies to me the other day:
Drive-By Blogging n. The act of getting all of your weekly blogging done in an unusally short time span, consisting of posting entries, commenting on other blogs, and generally blog madness. Usage: Dude, that Moira chick was Drive-By Blogging like mad the other night! Doesn't she have anything better to do?
The answer, my friends, is in fact "YES! YES, I have a million and one things that I could be doing besides blogging. This is why I seem to always do all of my blogging in huge chunks because free time in the life of Moira is quite sparce and usually filled with spending time with loved ones and staring off into space lamenting my lack of free time."
Tonight, however, is a different story: I'm just blogging because I don't want to read Chaucer. So there. Hah!
Bring a small cactus to class with you. Raise your hand, and when you're called on, say that the cactus has a question. Turn and look at the cactus, as if you're waiting for it to say something. After a few moments, shrug, and wait for your professor to move on. Do this once a day, and become increasingly irritated with the cactus every time, sighing heavily and giving it evil looks when it fails to "speak." When you leave the room after class, start yelling at the cactus, "I can't believe you embarrassed me AGAIN...."
NOTE: This is from a random email from a friend, but I liked it so stole it for my own personal use. Muhahaha!)
What are the implications of the religious references in Sophie Treadwell's "Machinal" ? It seems to me as if this play is offering a critique of the Catholic Church. Religion doesn't come into play until the end of Episode Four, after the birth of Helen's child - the religious dialogue within the play starts with the prescription written by the doctor in Latin.
On my first read of the play, I noticed the stage directions saying that the doctor wrote in Latin (p.30) and it stuck out to me because I thought it strange: why would the author mention specifically that the prescription was written in Latin? I mean... you wouldn't be able to see what the doctor was writing from the audience so why bother specifying?
It didn't really strike me until later when I went through the play a second time: Latin is the language of the Church. Up until this point there is no mention of God or other aspects of religion. It's as if, in some capacity, after the birth of her child, Helen found religion (only that's not exactly what I mean).
Episode Four ends with Helen's soliquoy which contains several religious references:
"heaven - golden stairs"
"everybody loves God - they've got to - got to - got to love God - God is love - even if he's bad they got to love him"
"God Mary Mary God Mary - Virgin Mary - Mary had one - the Holy Ghost - the Holy Ghost"
the act ends with the statements:
"I'll not submit any more - I'll not submit - I'll not submit -"
The next episode :
Prohibited seems almost to be a type of purgatory: It is in this act that Helen makes her decision - the one that can lead her to heaven or to hell.
One thing I found interesting is that the Second Man keeps saying "Oh, for the love of Mike." until the ladies show up and then it changes to "God." Why do you suppose that is??
Next the "aging fairy" says, "This Purgatory of noise! I brought you here to give you pleasure - let you taste pleasure." Ahh.. the joys of sin?
It's interesting: Here's what's going on -
Table 1 - Man is convincing Woman to have an Abortion. Major Catholic no no!
Table 2 - Man is trying to convince Boy to get it on with him: Homosexuality is also another major Catholic bad deed.
Table 3 - Ah the joys of Adultery and sex without marriage (or, more specifically, sex outside of the marriages).
Mix this up with some serious Drinking, discussion of Murder, and, woah baby, you've got yourself some serious trouble with the big guy. Helen is initially an innocent in the situation (First Man: "An angel. Just like an angel.") but then the angel falls and transgresses: she goes home with the man.
Henry Adams sensed the impending doom that the new technology in the 1900's presented to American society. Adams didn't understand the new technology, but he certainly felt the force thereof. He recognized the inherent power in the "occult mechanism" of the new science: "Before the end, one began to pray to it; inherited instinct taught the natural expression of man before silent and infinite force."
I find the comparison between religion and technology to be interesting - humanity always has to be worshipping something, right? The religious instinct is innate. Adams writes, "The forces were interchangeable if not reversible, but he could see only an absolute fiat in electricity as in faith." The phrase "absolute fiat" seems a bit oxymoronic - a fiat is an arbitrary order or decree. So the power of electricity is absolute but arbitrary. Hmm.
Adams writes: "The force of the Virgin was still felt at Lourdes, and seeemd to be as potent as X-rays; but in America neither Venus nor Virgin ever had value as force - at most as sentiment. No American had ever been truly afraid of either." In other words, the feminine aspects of divinity had never held much force in American culture. Interestingly, the Spanish and French words for "Machine" are feminine in both languages.
Although I haven't yet finished my reading, the very first thing I noticed about Sophie Treadwell's "Machinal" is the connection to Rice's "The Adding Machine:" "Machinal was first performed in Great Britain as The Life Machine in 1931."
The introduction mentions reviews of Machinal comparing its technique to that using by Rice. The opening scene takes place in an office setting with the sounds of typing and clicking filling the air - one of the characters is using an adding machine. The key difference, I think, will be the intent of the characters: Zero enjoyed (or, at least, tolerated well) his job. The young woman in this play definitely does not.
The next thing I noted was that the filing clerk used the phrase "hot dog!" 15 times in the Episode One. Yes, I counted. I mean, if you care... There was a lot of other repitition throughout as well which served to add to the chaotic feel of the environment... kind of makes me think of office small talk today - everyone talking about the same dull things over and over again. Sigh...
Next, this section from Episode One sets up the scene for the rest of the play pretty nicely:
"TELEPHONE GIRL: Why did you flinch, kid?
YOUNG WOMAN: Flinch?
TELEPHONE GIRL: Did he pinch?
YOUNG WOMAN: No!
TELEPHONE GIRL: Then what?
YOUNG WOMAN: Nothing! - Just his hand."
At this, the telephone girl urges the young woman to tell Mr. Jones no to which the others tell her she'll lose her job if she does. At this point, the young woman is basically trapped. At the end of Episode One, when she is considering her options in her monologue, it is clear that her choice is not a choice at all: she can marry her boss, whom she doesn't love and who actually repulses her, or she can keep working at her crappy job. As her thoughts turn to the idea of her sleeping in, it becomes clear which path she will choose. Of course, I'll have to keep reading in order to be sure...
I read T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" earlier this term for Intro to Literary Study. I enjoyed the poem, but all I could keep thinking was: "For a *love* poem, this is pretty darn creepy!"
This is what I wrote about the poem earlier this month:
"I have to say that I'm pretty glad for the lady in question that J. Alfred decided not to ask his lady friend the dreaded question because J. Alfred is kinda creepy. Some lines to back this up:
"Like a patient etherised on a table"
"There will be time to murder and create,"
"I know the voices dying with a dying fall"
"spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways"
"Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress?"
"ragged claws" "malingers"
"I have seen my head ... brought in on a platter,"
"Till the human voices wake us, and we drown."
As we were talking about the poem in class, all I could think was "JACK THE RIPPER!" Yes, J. Alfred is -that- creepy! I mean, he wanders deserted streets in October at night watching people through their windows obsessing about the ladies. I think old J. Alfred is asking the question "Should I kill her?" as evidenced by the lines:
"There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create."
.....
"And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?' "
.....
"Do I dare
Disturb the universe?"
Maybe he's thinking about "love" or maybe he's thinking about murder. Would it be reading too much into the text to suspect J. Alfred Prufrock of being a potential serial killer? It's hard to say, isn't it? I thought it would be interesting to research Jack the Ripper and I did find out some interesting stuff:
1) The sensational Jack the Ripper murders took place in 1888 during the months of August and November. The series consisted of 5 brutal murders of London prostitutes by a person who is still not identified.
Prufrock wanders the streets in October. T.S. Eliot was born in 1888.
My conjecture? T.S. Eliot would have certainly heard about the murderous streak, still unresolved and still hotly investigated and debated in his time period. I bet he would have felt intrigued by the event since it took place in the year of his birth.
2) One of the more recent suspected killers is a British poet named Francis Thompson (1859 - 1907).
Although T.S. Eliot was born in St. Louis, he later moved to England and became a citizen. He wouldn't have come in contact with Mr. Thompson but he -may- have come across his work and certainly would have heard about his accusation.
Again, as a poet, T.S. Eliot's imagination may have been captured by the idea of a poet turned serial killer. It's just an interesting idea and it's pure conjecture... but it's still a neat idea! Can you see the J. Alfred Prufrock - Jack the Ripper connection when you read the piece?
I just read David Beauregard's "New Light on Shakespeare's Catholicism: Prospero's Epilogue in The Tempest." This article should serve to illustrate the importance of word choice in writing: Just a few lines from a Shakespearan play are subject to being the center of a debate over whether or not Shakespeare was a Catholic.
Beauregard writes, "What I shall argue is that The Tempest, most pointedly in Prospero's epilogue, contains a peculiar series of references to sin, grace, and pardon that are the expressions of a sensibility rooted in Roman Catholic doctrine."
The author then proceeds to analyze the play The Tempest keeping in mind the ideas of Catholic doctrine in order to reach his conclusion that Shakespeare was Catholic.
He offers one primary piece of textual evidence, "And that is the final couplet of Prospero's epilogue in The Tempest: 'As you from crimes would pardoned be, / Let your indulgence set me free'."
Although the idea seems a bit of a stretch to me, that is the joy of literature, is it not?
Mr. B himself says, "Understandably, Shakespeare's references to Catholic doctrines are nonexplicit, a discreet practice, or perhaps an inadvertent lapse" leading me to wonder if perhaps any Catholic tendencies displayed in Shakespeare's works are unconscious acts. Or maybe Evan is right when he suggests, "I feel this epilogue is an appeal to the whole audience, but more specifically--and subtly--the Catholic audience."
Have you guys seen the movie Love Actually? It's my new favorite movie of the week. I've watched it two and a half times in the last three days! I bought it because I thought my friend April had told me that she'd seen it and liked it and because Hugh Grant, the ultimate British hottie, is one of the major players. And he dances.
Well, it turns out April hadn't actually seen the movie but luckily it was fab. I was thrilled that Colin Firth was in the movie, since he's the cutie from Bridget Jones' Diary. I will admit, however, that I watched for Bridget the whole movie, like she'd suddenly stick her head around the corner or something. I'm sad to say that she didn't put in an appearance.
Here's what I liked best about the movie:
1) Natalie (Martine McCutcheon), Hugh Grant's love interest in the flick, is totally cute!
2) The Prime Minister (um, Hugh again) going door to door looking for Natalie.
3) Lobsters and Octopi in a Christmas pageant? Kids with British accents singin' Christmas tunes? Sweet!
4) The whole "Temptation in the Garden of Eden" theme - damn you, lit. classes! (j/k) Actually, though, it was pretty interesting: the character being tempted played an angel in Dogma so I kept thinking of him in that role. Later, when the temptress shows up at a Christmas party dressed as a devil (wait a minute... no one else was in costume! weird!)... well it was wild!
5) The fact that the movie portrays love in all possible different aspects: the love of a parent for a child and vica versa, romantic love, fading love, sexual love, innocent love, love at first sight, etc.
&
6) The best part had to be the whole "love is a language" angle when the failed writer (Colin Firth) falls in love with the Porteguese house cleaner (Lucia Moniz). Neither of them speaks the others language and yet love manages to bring them together. It was -so- romantickal.
You know, I really should have watched this movie on V-Day! Well, at least I got to watch it with someone I love, right? ;c) If you haven't seen Love Actually, I highly recommend it. And for you lovers of Bridget Jones out there, this movie is made by the same folks! Super!
Woah baby big ass storm is on the way
Bunch of dudes wand'ring around an island
Thy art art smart and strong and stuff, master
of island festivities Prospero
is in the house! with Spirit Ariel
and bringing up the rear mixing it up.
to my delight.
only it's kind of dull,
I mean, for Shakespearean entertainment,
it's kind of a let down, shake down and I'm mad
but lo I cannot complain anymore
for the rhythm sures put mine to shame. Sigh.
This is getting out of hand. I guess I just can't think of anything nice to say about The Tempest I mean, I guess I don't hate it or anything, Oh! You know what? I do have a nice thought:
This line inspired me:
"Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame begger, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian" (The Tempest, Act II, Scene II lines 28 - 34). I think this line is a nice reflection of the outer culture during Shakespeare's time: it's chilling! But it's inspiring because hey, people have always been crappy even during Shakespeare's time! So don't worry about it! I like that.
Oh, and I had a question:
There's a line: "She lov'd not the savour of tar nor of pitch," (followed closely by "Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch.") that I'm curious about: What the heck does that mean? I mean, I know what tar is and pitch is a simliar substance and could also be taken as a euphemism for an erection, and I'm certain that this is a dirty Shakespeare joke (or I just have a really dirty mind), but I don't really -get- the joke. Suggestions?
When my friend saw the title of the play I was reading this week, he said, "Tempest! That's a cool word. We should bring back tempest!"
I, of course, immediately agreed vowing that the next foul weather would hear me spewing epithets about foul tempests and graven images and ... stuff.
So, wonder'st thou'st, what -is- a tempest... symbolically speaking of course?
tem·pest
n.
A violent windstorm, frequently accompanied by rain, snow, or hail.
or
Furious agitation, commotion, or tumult; an uproar: “The tempest in my mind/Doth from my senses take all feeling” (Shakespeare).
Ah, yes, the tempest in my mind doth tell me this is true! So, I guess you could say that a tempest is a woah baby big shake up. Shit is going to go down, if you know what I'm saying: ah yeah. chaos is in the air. my favorite.
It's never just rain, remember... it's a cleansing, a rebirth, a new beginning. The Tempest is a convenient plot technique, if you're lookin', because it allows the author (in this case Shakespeare) to bring to together a strange mix of characters, all of whom who are imperative for the advancement of the plot (except for maybe Franscisco, but screw him!).
"Rain is also restorative", says Foster, author of "How to Read Literature Like A Professor" and in the case of The Tempest rain allows Prospero with his Art to restore the natural balance of things.
An alternate meaning of tempest is it use as a verb:
tr.v. tem·pest·ed, tem·pest·ing, tem·pests
To cause a tempest around or in.
In this case, we can consider both Ariel and Prospero to be tempesting about the island, just frolicking happy as larks and mixing it up.
Finally, tempest is presented as an idiom: tempest in a teacup/teapot - a great disturbance or uproar over a matter of little or no importance.
I'll take that interpretation too because at the end of The Tempest I found myself feeling disappointed: what was the point of that? I mean, I understood what happened - and they all lived happily ever after blah blah blah. I just don't think it was the best Shakespeare I've ever read... I mean, it was interesting but there wasn't much spark. I found it slightly hohum! I do, however, enjoy the idea of fairies. I <3 fairies!
A few things stood out to me from this week's reading of Foster's "How to Read Literature Like A Professor." Other than the implications of disfigurement discussed by Vanessa, I noticed the idea initially proposed by Vladimir Propp in Morphology of the Folktale that the hero of a fairy tale is always *marked* in some way - this is generally in the form of some sort of disfigurement that sets him apart from everyone else. Heck, even my friend's toddler can understand how Harry Potter's scar makes him different!
What I like about this book is that it gives me different things to think about as I read a text. Basically, all my literature classes are *ruining* the fine art of reading a book just for the fun of it! Now, I can help but to analyze EVERYTHING I read for deeper significances and meanings. I'm not saying this is a bad thing, of course, I'm in college to learn stuff, right? It's just interesting how it relates to my life outside of college.
For instance, last week I watched The Terminal starring Tom Hanks. As I watching the movie, I found myself A) analyzing the movie for deeper significances by paying close attention to the details B) comparing the movie to Castaway C) remembering the kickass cultural anthropology class I took last spring at WCCC with Dr. Finn the first week of which consisted of watching Castaway and not a WORD spoken by the professor until the second week of class and D) thinking about how it all tied together! Iiiieee! I had to watch the movie twice!
Foster mentions again my favorite concept of intertextuality. Connections, baby, that's what it's all about. I always try to examine my school work on the level of "how the heck does this relate to my *real* life?" I find that making connections with things I am already familiar with both deepens my understanding of new concepts and broadens my own interpretation of events in my life. I know I'm a dork but: oooh! that's so neat!
And my enthusiasm is contagious: Dear Arts & Humanities Folks, I think I have found us a new recruit! He used to think math and science was the way to go but I've convinced him otherwise! Do I get a prize? See, I knew he was sold when he said, "All I want to do is stay in bed all day and read!" To which I answered, "Um, have you ever considering being an English major?" Aww yeah.
A blog of insight lost in Shakespeare's time?
No, Just a girl with mission failing so,
so miserably to write some blank verse
for literary purposes. She says,
"My apologies to Mr. Shakespeare
for the blatant disregard of rhyme!"
i wish i could write poetry to delight
such genius iambic pentameter
i fear i would stay up all night to write
and still be struggl'ng by the morning light
devoid of poems in my mind tonight
so instead i struggle and try to write
a verse of skill, not total crapola.
a strain upon th' ear are my foul verses
oh, Shakespeare tosses and turns in his grave!
Yum! After a lovely stress-relieving afternoon of babysitting a toddler and spending time with my most-precious loved ones yesterday,
[and, yes, I did just write that babysitting my favorite three-year-old was stress-relieving! Man, I definitely needed an afternoon of hanging out with my best friend's son!
i presented him with a glowing spinning Nemo toy that delighted him for both the theme-character and the dangerous buzzing light show. next, when I felt his interest may be dwindling in that toy, I told him to close his eyes as I placed a lightning bolt sticker ala Harry Potter on his forehead. Then I held him up to the mirror and showed him his "Harry Potter scar."
Yes. Although I am culturally-inobservant of *grown-up* culture - ask me about a kid's show and, woah baby, I'll know what you are talking about!
Later, after *editing* my friend's English paper, I came out into the living room to see (to my delight!) legos, legos everywhere and two boys (one little, one bigger. grin) on the carpet building robots. joy. so, yes, whilst some babysitting sessions have left me shivering and shaking in the corner... this one was relaxing]
anyway, back to my point: after spending the afternoon in Pittsburgh, my friend and I went to my favorite Greek restaurant: Bubba Darius in Irwin. We ordered the hummus, a monstrous plate of flat bread with a bowl of the best hummus ever in the center.
After we ordered, the waitress came back to our table and said, "They want me to ask if we can take your picture for our website." Well, I'll be honest: I was flattered. I figured the fine folks at Bubba Darius recognized our natural shining beauty! Sweet!
Later, when we got our food, which I realized would be the best plate of hummus ever since it had to look beautiful for the shot, I chastened to realize that the photograph was not so much concerned with our smiles of joy but the hummus on our table. Oh well.
We sat stiffly as the cook snapped the pictures of our food, giving each other looks and making snide comments out of the corner of our lips. I resisted the urge to reach out and grab a hunk of bread and dig in. Soon, though, the photographer grew tired of our posturing and left. The attention from the other diners dwindled as they realised the food on their table held much more interest than we two beautiful strangers. We were able to tuck in to our dinner - *kisses fingers* perfectismo!
Pavlina Havoca writes, "As a common thread through the works of Coleridge, there is the theme of life and death." Um... isn't that pretty much the theme of everything? Life and death is a pretty broad subject range. I could write a poem about my sneakers and somehow relate it to life and/or death! As I continued reading, however, I started to understand what Pavlina was shooting for: relating to the theme of life and death, Coleridge is fond of using dialectical pairs.
Dialectical - "The process ... of arriving at the truth by stating a thesis, developing a contradictory antithesis, and combining and resolving them into a coherent synthesis. "
Okay, cool. The article mentions the dialectical pair of the raven with the rose, but, um, try as I might, I couldn't find mention of a rose anywhere in the poem. I did, however, decide that the pair in "The Raven" is the raven and the acorn. The raven is representative of death and despair. The acorn, on the otherhand, represents life and rebirth.
This article also mentions "the intertwining circles of life and death" evident in "The Raven." That is something that I had noticed in my initial reading of the piece: the poem starts with the destruction of the first oak tree, cycles through life and ends with the destruction of the second oak tree.
You know what I was just thinking? How long do freakin' ravens live anyway? I mean, trees don't grow particularly fast. So, being the dork I am, I did some research:
"The typical development of the tree includes a period of quite rapid growth for around 80-120 years, followed by a gradual slowing down.
The oak comes into leaf very late, often not until mid May. Acorns are not produced until the tree is about 40 years old with seed production reaching a maximum between 80-120 years. Oaks tend to fruit very abundantly only in mast years, which occur every 4-7 years. In other years, fewer acorns are produced, and in some none at all."
-------------
And then I found this:
"In captivity, both crows and ravens have been known to live for about thirty years - tops. In the wild, the average life span of a crow is 7-8 years."
---------------
Ah, well, you can't fault Sammy too much. He didn't have google. ;c)
Shall I compare thee to a Winter's eve?
You are certainly meaner and not nice.
Cold snow, fierce winds, HEY! why won't you just leave?
Your love is bitter, full of stinkin' ice...
Sometimes I imagine you growing old,
leathery skin, creaking joints, and a slump,
and woah baby it turns my blood so cold
to think of you aging and growing a hump!
I'd love to say I'll love you forever
Only, babe, you know I don't like promises
in fact, truth be told, i'll love you never
not even for a million dollar-ises.
Maybe you should move to Alaska. Now.
Cuz I'll never love you, no way, no how.
okay. I am -definitely- not Moira Shakespeare. It's just that I just read "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?" and I was trying to imagine the exact opposite of this sonnet, the jist of which would basically be: "Hey, you are okay. but as soon as you get old, man, I am soooo outta here! Lata."
Well, for as slow as the first six chapters of The Great Gatsby seemed to be, those last three chapters certainly packed a punch. Chapter seven seemed dreamlike and sweltering, definitely conveying the heat of the summer sun striking down upon our fair characters. Karissa agrees when she writes: "The intensity of the plot grows as the weather becomes more unbearable. Chapter seven practically perspires with references to the heat."
My question is thus: Was justice served? Or better yet: how could justice have been better served? What would have happened if Gatsby hadn't died?
I enjoyed the irony of Daisy being the driver of the car that ran over Myrtle Wilson; however, I think justice would have been better served, perhaps, if Tom were the victim instead. It was also interesting that both Tom and Mr. Wilson found out about their wives infidelities (or thoughts thereof) around the same time.
Poor Gatsby, man. Dude just fell in love with the wrong girl - he should have known from the beginning that it would never work out: she was a materialistic little rich girl and he was a poor boy from out west. Somehow, as people in love are wont to do, Gatsby managed to twist the whole thing around into a sick fantasy of love turned sour that still had the possibilty of being resolved.
The question, however, was sealed well before he got lost in the game: Daisy had a choice - she could have love, in the form of the adoration from our man Gatsby or you could have money, in the form of Tom Buchanan. Daisy made her choice, or maybe for Daisy it was never a choice: Daisy lived and breathed money from the moment of her conception - the idea of a live without was never a real possibility.
So... love or money? Which would you choose?
"Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds" by Shakespeare
Well, it's true, you know, that the bard is always with us, and what always strikes me about Shakespeare's writing is the fact that even today in the year 2005, his poems can still hit close to home:
Mushy as it might seem, I definitely agree with Shakespeare's interpretation of love in this sonnet - love is unbendable, unchangable, and unshakable. I believe that when you love someone, when you really love someone, you never stop loving that person, regardless of what situations in your life conspire to pull you apart, be it death, break-ups, or changing life circumstances.
The lines:
"Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom."
Definitely strike a chord with me... who hasn't continued to love someone who is all wrong for them? Or, someone who doesn't feel the same way? Wives stay with husbands who beat them, husbands with wives who belittle them, and for what? Oh, foul love, ye evil tendency!
Okay... I must be still dazed from all the chocolate yesterday or something!
One more comment is that I noticed both Shakespeare sonnets this week had the same: ABABCDCDEFEFGG rhyme scheme. Fabulous. Also, Willie stretches the rhyming a little bit, but I suppose, since he's Shakespeare, it's forgivable... but I bet if I tried that for my Intro to Lit assignment... ;c)
Hey, Death, you aren't so hot, you know? I mean, just because you eventually kill off all of your adversaries doesn't mean squat. Cuz, yeah, you take people with you and eventually even the best of us has our number called, but hah! we can kill ourselves too, you know, what with poisons, and wars, and diseases.
You aren't so hot because you, too, are subject to the whims of kings and desperate men. You are still subject to King Fate and his sweet queen Chance. So what are you so proud about, Death? Cuz after we die, your power ceases because we wake into eternity where death doesn't exist and then, har har har, Death, you are dead. So take that! Schizzzam!
The poem "Death, be not proud" by John Donne initially seems like a dark dreary poem, in actuality it has a nice message for those of use still subject to the whims of death: yes, as mortal creatures we will one day die, but... and here's the good part: after we die, we don't have to worry about dying anymore! Sweet!
Seriously though, Donne makes a good point: we spend our days fretting about death, or trying desperately not to fret about it, but what are we so worked up about? There -is- life after death.
I mean, obviously, you can argue until you are blue in the face about the existence of an afterlife, but the way I figure it is thus: if so many people have been insisting on its existence for centuries and so many people have had experiences that can only be explanation through supernatural means, why not just believe it? There must be something to all the hullaboo, right?
And, as Donne says much more poetically:
once yous dead, yous as dead as yous gunna get.
Super.
Sweet.
I just finished reading Coleridge's "The Raven." This was a lovely dreary poem. Perfect, I'm sure, for Valentine's Day. :c)
First of all, a little symbolism:
The Raven - traditionally viewed as the trickster in American Indian mythology, the raven is also associated with transformation, changes in consciousness, and shape shifting.
Swine - the beginning of the poem starts with swine eating everything in sight, which I found odd. Swine are traditionally viewed as unclean animals, so much so that certain religious groups won't eat the animals. Did Coleridge intentially start this poem with the imagery of the unclean animals?
"He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy."
mel·an·chol·y
n.
Sadness or depression of the spirits; gloom.
Pensive reflection or contemplation.
An emotional state characterized by sullenness and outbreaks of violent anger, believed to arise from black bile.
So... right off the bat, we know this isn't going to be a happy poem. The poems starts off with a bunch of pigs eating everything in sight, save one little acorn, that the raven plants in the riverbed. Then, the raven flies off to live his life and when he comes back to the oak tree with his lady-raven-friend, I was initially fooled into thinking this might be a sweet little poem after all, but oh no, because here comes the woodcutter to ruin the raven's life.
Does the woodcutter = the grim reaper?
Sure, why not? This poem can easily be seen as an allegory for life and death. Everything is spiffy in the life of the raven: he has experienced adventures beyond the scope of this poem. Only the real action in the raven's life doesn't start until death hits close to home.
What's really interesting about this poem, I suppose, if the fact that most of us don't get to have our revenge on death, as much as we would like it. After the woodcutter has destroyed the raven's home and built the oak tree into a ship, the raven gets to fly around cawing madly as the ship and its inhabitants are destroyed in an act of poetic justice seen more often in, um, poetry than in real life.
Oh man. I have a problem. Blogging used to be fun and exciting but just lately... blogs have become work. Oh crap.
I know that I -should- be blogging on The Great Gatsby or the four sonnets I just read for Intro to Lit or even the sonnet I read yesterday in an attempt to analyze it and then copy the style. But, man, I think I need a vacation!
Maybe taking 18 credits was another infamous Very. Bad. Idea. ? Maybe blowing off school work this weekend in order to throw a spectacular party wasn't the best use of time? But, I'm telling you.. all I ever do is work work work and it's getting to me!
I tell myself that it's fine because come May 15th, I will be home free, done with the semester, done or close to done working at my job, the sweet summer of European love stretching out long and exciting before me... but until then?? iiiieeee!!! Bring on the spring break!
"Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder."
Through my recent reading of Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby", I was struck by the image of the Great Gatsby as a mythic creature. Here is this guy living in a fancy-schmancy mansion throwing these extravagant bashes for New York's finest, and no one really has any idea who this guy is. You know, just like god?
Everyone is either drawn to Gatsby or repelled by him, but everyone's talking about him and only Nick Carraway seems to really question who he is, at least until the reporter shows up. Everyone has his or her own opinion about who God-Gatsby really is and doesn't think twice about sharing his/her views with any one else. He gets phone calls not from people but from places (Chicago, Philadelphia, Detroit) as if the world can't function without God-Gatsby to keep it all going, individual cities phoning in their prayers.
"Who is he?" Nick Carraway asks in Chapter 3. "Do you know?" He hears the rumors about Gatsby which serves to picque his interest. Fitzgerald writes, "I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But young men didn't - at least in my provincial inexperience I believed they didn't - drift coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island Sound." And, yet, that is exactly what the Great Gatsby did.
Gatsby is often pictured as separate from, and above, the others around him. Even the words describing him seem almost mythic in intent. Some examples:
"It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life."
"... my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and looking from one group to another with approving eyes."
"... but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched Gatsby's shouldner, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby's head for one link."
"The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception (immaculate conception, anyone?) of himself. He was a son of God - a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that - and he must be about His Father's business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty."
...
"On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby's house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn."
Even God-Gatsy himself speaks on the matter:
"'ll tell you God's truth.' His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by."
"It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life."
The Great Gatsby is so powerful that even the police cower before him. Just a wave of his magic wand (in the form of a Christmas card from the commissioner) sends the police officer scurrying away.
Gatsby can even change the past!
"You can't repeat the past," says Nick Carraway.
"Can't repeat the past?" he (Gatsby) cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!"
Not only does Gatsby exude the power of god, his friends are powerful beings as well! Why, one of his friends *fixed* the World Series of 1919!
Gatsby can disappear into thin air, proving that he is but an apparition:
"I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there."
Even physical descriptions of Gatsby are god-like in nature:
"He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room."
"An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-colored tie, hurried in."
White is the color of purity, silver is traditionally associated with the feminine aspects of divinity, gold with the masculine. Gatsby embodies all these things.
Gatsby -is- God. Yeah.
When I read this paragraph in Thomas Foster's "How to Read Literature Like a Professor" I was very happy indeed:
"It's useful to keep in mind that any aspiring writer is probably also
Yes! This is exactly what I was thinking of when this conversation got started!
I wrote: "I don't know that this is always a conscious act on the part of the writer, but perhaps it is a way for the deeper subconscious to arise to the surface shimmering and splashing around so that the conscious mind starts paying attention to it. "
I figure that the reason it is so important to be a prolific reader in order to be a writer is exactly what Foster is saying: I believe that everything you take inside your head stays with you, either consciously or subconsciously, meaning that everything that you read gets dissected and torn apart by your brain that is constantly analyzing for patterns even when you are vegging out on the sofa after a long hard day.
So it's conceivable that I could write a shory story that contains traces and hints of stories I've read in my past without me even being conscious of it. And I've found that happening in my writing, and I find that the more I read, the more I try to notice what's going on with my writing, well, the better I am able to hone my chosen art form. Kickass!
Foster also comments on lateral thinking:
"And lateral thinking is what we're really discussing: they way writers can keep their eye on the target, whether it be the plot of the play or the ending of the novel or the argument of the poem, and at the same time bring in a great deal of at least tangentially related material."
This makes me think of the way that I tend to write my stories: I have a germ of an idea, right? Maybe I know that I want to have a character named Joe Cinderella or write a story that takes place in a swimming pool or I saw a gerbil somewhere and know it has a story for me...
I can't sit down at that moment to write the story, I can maybe brainstorm a little bit, but what usually happens is that I "chew on" the idea for a little bit: I let my little germ of an idea brew and churn and grow (er... germinate?) and then a few hours, days, weeks, months later, I sit down at my computer and I write it.
Once upon a time in a land not so very far away in Brooklyn, New York there lived a man named Joe Cinderella. Joe was a surly young man with a heart of gold deeply buried beneath a gruff and extraordinarily manly exterior. Joe spent most of his days surfing the internet and shoveling snowy sidewalks for his grandmother, Mama Cinderella, a woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue.
If you had asked Joe if he were happy, he would have told you that he was, despite the loneliness of his Brooklyn existence and the absence of a love interest from his life. Most people would have believed him when he stuttered that yeah, sure he was happy, but one person didn’t. One person believed that Joe Cinderella was living a lie and took it upon himself or herself, as the case may be, to liberate Joe Cinderella’s consciousness.
One snowy morning, Joe Cinderella was shoveling snow for his grandmother, feeling grateful for last night’s six inch dump, feeling the ache in his muscles from the manly work and not thinking about much else. All of a sudden a flash of pink light occurs before his eyes and a smallish pink-tinted man in a tutu is floating in front of him.
Before Joe Cinderella can berate the little fellow for interrupting his blank thoughts, the creature begins to speak.
“Here ye, here ye, by order of royal decree, blah blah blah. You get the point. Listen, girlfriend, my name is Lou and I’m your fairy godfairy, honey, and you are going to the royal ball! Aren’t you excited? We’re going to get you a totally bitchin’ ballgown!” The little fairy godfairy begins clapping his hands together gleefully and grinning down at Joe Cinderella’s expression mistaking it, apparently, for joy.
Joe Cinderella looks at Lou for a full minute, fully expecting the apparition to disappear in a puff of smoke so that he can get back to work. When Lou doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, Joe speaks: “Listen, pal. I appreciates you alls sentiment and all, ya see, but my name is Joe Cinderella. I ain’t going to no royal ball, and I sure as shit ain’t wearin’ no ballgown.” A strangely wistful expression crosses his face for just an instant and then it is gone.
“Listen, buddy!” says Lou, voice dropping an octave into what must be his natural off-duty voice. “Alls I know is I gots this request: says that one Joe Cinderella is to go to Prince’s Castle over on the corner of bleeker and third down in Manhattan on the evening of February 14, 2005. that bein’ tonight, you being Joe Cinderella, when you puts two and two together, I gots me a dancing queen.” At the last two words, Lou the fairy godfairy’s voice rises back to its original pitch. “Now! Do you want a pink ballgown! Or blue! Or, oh honey, this would look fabulous, maybe we could do purple!”
“Ahs geez! Look, I told you I ain’t wearing no stinkin’ ball gown! I ain’t going to no stinkin’ ball! My name is Joey Cinderella, and I ain’t no dancing queen!”
…
If Joe hadn’t been paying so much attention to his shovel instead of carefully watching Lou the fairy godfairy, he might have seen the large blunt object coming straight for his head. As it was, he missed it. Instead, he woke up an indeterminate amount of time later, a throb in his head and a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs keeping his hands together. Immediately, he started complaining. Just as his complaints reached a crescendo of a volume loud enough to disturb even the most hearing-impaired neighbors, Lou the fairy godfairy flew into the room.
“Hey, buddy, how about you keepin’ it down in here!” When Joe continued his swearing tirade, Lou shook his head. “I’m sorry, bud, but you’re making me do it.” With that, he waved his magic wand and a gag appeared on Joe’s mouth.
…
The next few hours proved to be very embarrassing for our friend Mr. Cinderella. Along with Lou the fairy godfairy, there were now three blind drag mice who insisted upon articulating their opinions about every gown Lou conjured up for you, despite their inability to see it. Finally, the three blind drag mice and Lou reached a decision: a beautiful floor-length ballgown in a shade of blue similar to that seen in the sky on a summer’s afternoon.
“It matches his eyes!” one of the blind mice insisted, a statement that could have been grossly wrong but worked in this case.
“You’re right…” mused Lou the fairy drag fairy while experimenting with different hair styles on the glowering but resigned Joe Cinderella.
…
Finally, Lou declared his work finished and presented to the mice and the miffed Joe Cinderella the final product. “Tada!” he exclaimed, as a large mirror materialized in front of the five. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous!” he gasped, evidently proud of his handiwork.
“I look like a stinkin’ fairy!” Joe Cinderella complained, a slight smile forming on his lips that quickly disappeared when he caught Lou watching him. “Fine. I’ll go to the ball. But I ain’t dancin’!”
“That’s what you think!” Lou gibbered cheerfully, laughing as a pair of shoes appeared on Joe’s feet. “These here are enchanted shoes. Girl, you won’t be able to –stop- dancing! Not that you’ll mind it!” At this Lou started laughing and Joe blushed furiously. “Now we better get your pretty ass down to Prince’s Castle before happy hour! Oh, and honey, I better tell you. Those shoes stop working at midnight. After midnight, you are thereby freed by the implied contract expressed within.”
Lou flashed a long scrolled contract.
“By signing this you agree to release the company from any liability from the shoes or the gown, etc etc and hurry up, Joey, just sign the damn thing!”
Joe looks as though he might protest but as if realizing he has no choice, he takes the pen offered and signs the contract.
…
After the bell rings twelve times, the hall is silent save the swish and tap of a solitary dancer. All eyes turn to Joe as Lou the fairy godfairy floats over to him. “Heya, Joey, baby. You know them shoes stopped workin’ at midnight, don’t ya?”
Joe stops dancing and a sheepish expression crosses his face as he scuffs a foot on the ground behind him. “Yeah, don’t I know it!” He is still for a second, but moments later attempts an awkward pirouette.
“Joe! I thought you hated dancing!” Lou cries out, deeply confused, but thrilled nonetheless.
“And when you woke up this morning and looked in the mirror, honey, you thoughts that blue was your color.” Joe stops and gives Lou a long look up and down. “Well it ain’t.” Murmurs of agreement fill the air from the fellow ball-goers. “You fairies don’t know everything, you know. Sometimes us Brooklyn boys gotta show yous how it done.” At this Joe Cinderella wiggles his hips and spins in a circle.
Knowing full well that his duty is done, Lou the fairy godfairy gives a wave of his magic wand indicating for the band to resume playing. As the music fills the air, Lou tosses a raunchy wink in the direction of the fine young Prince, owner of Prince’s Castle, whose eyes have been glued to Joe Cinderella since he sashayed in the door. And in a puff of glittery pink smoke, Lou is gone.
Prince saunters over to Joe Cinderella who has stopped dancing and now blushes deeply under Prince’s gaze. Prince pulls a small slip of paper from his pocket and shows it to Joe Cinderella: it is an order form for one magic fairy compliments of Fairies, Inc. the company owned by Mama Cinderella. Joe smiles in the direction of Prince Charming. It all makes sense to him now. He can almost see Mama smiling.
And they all lived happily ever after…
This week I've been reading some poems from Koch & Farrell's "Sleeping on the Wing."
One thing that I've noticed about poetry is that when I begin to read poetry, I begin to think in poetry. Which, I suppose, just goes to show that if you want to write bestseller experimental religious choose-your-own-thrillers in swedish, you've got to start studying your competition. and learn swedish. anyway...
Today's Poetry Du Jour:
>>> Emily Dickinson's "Because I Could Not Stop for Death"
I've read this poems a few times, including last semester American Literature class. I realized today, however, that I had no idea what a tippet was so I decided to find out:
A tippet is "a stylish, snug-fitting neck piece that was worn in the days when Grandma didn't leave the house without her best hat on!"
Weird. I just made something similiar to that last snowy weekend. Word.
Gossamer is:
"A fine, often starched net of silk, rayon, or nylon, used especially for veils, tutus, or gowns."
I like this poem because it gives a nice vivid image: a woman in a thin dress shivering next to death.
>>> Gerald Manely Hopkin's "God's Grandeur"
I figured this poem had to be good because the poet's middle name is "Manley." How could you go wrong? I enjoyed reading this poem aloud to myself. In fact, I may even go home tonight and read poetry to my cats. Who knows? The beginning of the poem starts out very heroic in tone: the world is charged, it will flame out, gathers to greatness. Next comes an image of mankind trying to stomp out a fire and ruining the greatness of earth. However, "And for all this, nature is never spent," even if mankind doesn't heed the greatness of god, it cannot destroy nature. I loved the end of the poem:
"Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings."
I think it's a nice upbeat ending to the poem.
You know what? I just want to note that I despise ripping apart poetry and analyzing it. I am trying to be open-minded, trying not to hate, but oooh I hate it. Okay, we return to our regular programming...
>>> William Carlos Williams' "This is Just to Say"
This poem is cute. I can imagine it being written by a man to his wife in the morning just before he leaves for work so that when she wakes up and wakes to the fridge to see this poem hanging there, she knows that he ate the plums. and liked them. I like it because it's ordinary. Just a regular guy writing a poem about plums.
I wouldn't say it's a *great* poem or anything, but it's definitely accessible by even the most hardcore poetry hater. (Not that *I'm* a hardcore poetry hater, mind you, I read poetry pretty frequently.)
>>> T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Hah! I like this poem. It's more like *almost* a love song since poor old J. Alfred doesn't actually get any lovin'.
The lines
"To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?' "
Actually made me laugh out loud. My cats thought that was weird. But they are just waiting for me to croak anyway so they can feed on my flesh and have weird kitty Dionysian-style parties in my abandoned apartment. So screw 'em! But anyway...
I have to say that I'm pretty glad for the lady in question that J. Alfred decided not to ask his lady friend the dreaded question because J. Alfred is kinda creepy. Some lines to back this up:
"Like a patient etherised on a table"
"There will be time to murder and create,"
"I know the voices dying with a dying fall"
"spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways"
"Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress?"
"ragged claws" "malingers"
"I have seen my head ... brought in on a platter,"
"Till the human voices wake us, and we drown."
Honestly though, despite the almost creepiness of our dear friend J. Alfred, I like him. He's wordy, obtuse, balding, and a big scaredy cat. He's not a stalker, persay, he's just a lonely guy who's afraid to talk to chicks. You have to almost love him for it. (almost).
I love this part best:
"I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid."
Hey, buddy, I feel your pain. Love stinks.
I like this one too:
"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me."
Poor J. Alfred. Won't somebody love him?
Two scenes in particular have stood out to me in my reading of F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby":
The first is when Nick, Tom Buchanan, Myrtle and friends are at Mrytle's apartment drinking. Myrtle cries out at one point, "I'm going to give you this dress as soon as I'm through with it. I've got to get another one tomorrow. I'm going to make a list of all the things I've got to get."
This story is about people who have so much money that they can get a new dress on a whim and give the old one to a friend. This reminds me of a very scary Paris Hilton on David Letterman, encouraging him first to change his name to London and then bragging about only wearing each fancy schmancy dress she owns only one time.
Later in the evening, when Mrs. Wilson and Tom Buchanan are fighting over whether or not Myrtle has the right to mention Tom's wife's name, an episode of violence erupts:
"Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand."
What stands out to me is not so much the fact that Tom broke his lover's nose, which is awful as it is, but that none of the other parties goers seemed much to care! I mean, the women complained loudly as they stumbled around cleaning up the blood, but Mr. McKee just kind of looked around and said "screw this!" and left, followed closely by Nick.
This leads me to think, then, that perhaps violence towards women was not as frowned down upon as it is today. Obviously a man beating the crap outta his mistress was a-okay. To me, that action was absolutely appalling! If that happened today, I would hope that at the very least one of the men would step up and say "Hey, that's so not cool." Then again, we see so many women staying with men who abuse them that maybe the violence is just as prevalent but more subversive than it used to be. What do you think?
Another scene that caught my attention was the party at Gatsby's house:
"In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars."
This sentence displays an incongruency in the way that men and women are viewed in this culture. Note that the party-goers are men, implying mature and secure individuals, and girls, implying giggling mindless idiots. (well, i think so). Where does the power lie in this situation? With the men, of course. The introductory paragraph continues to describe Gatsby's two cars, eight servants, including a gardner.
This paragraph in particular caught my attention:
"Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York - every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen would could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb."
This paragraph illustrates the sheer material excess of the culture where Gatsby is the King: Five crates of oranges and lemons is a whole crapload of oranges and lemons, probably dozens and dozens of the things. Then, we have this amazing machine that can extract the juice of 200 oranges in only half an hour, truly an amazing feat that Gatsby could brag about to his friends. Of course no one cares about the butler standing back in the kitchen pressing the button. The butler is lower class and therefore indispensable.
i want to be famous yet anonymous.
i want to stand out in a crowd while blending in with the scenery.
i want to have an intimate connection with a really good book.
i want an infinite supply of peanut butter.
i want to be a world traveler from the comfort of my own living room.
yo quiero hablar espanol pero no quiero estudiar!
i want my cats to love me.
i want bettie page to be my new best friend.
i want six bodyguards and an evil twin sister.
i want to write bestseller experimental religious choose-your-own-thrillers in swedish.
i want remote control hair.
i want to be a rockstar. again.
i want to invent my own mustard.
i want a date with destiny!
...
i want a good night's sleep, darn it!
...
what do you want?
I love the story The Machine Stops by E.M. Forster. What is nifty-est (it's been a long day!) about the piece is the relevance to today's society! This story was written in 1909, loooong before computers were even imagined and here I am in 2005, writing about this story on the modern day equivalent of "The Machine." Super.
What caught my attention through the story was the lack of sensory experiences that the people in this world felt in their day to day lives. This sentence in particular caught my attention:
"The imponderable bloom, declared by a discredited philosophy to be the actual essense of intercourse, was rightly ignored by the Machine, just as the imponderable bloom of the grape was ignored by the manufactuers of artificial fruit. Something 'good enough' had long since been accepted by our race."
In other words, the very humanity of the beings had been stripped away!
I'll use the infamous "rose" example (you know, a rose by any other name... the bard is always with us):
You can read a paragraph about a rose. You can see a picture of a rose on the computer screen, dew drops and all. But you don't really "know" what a rose truly is until you "experience" the rose, or in this case, until you get down and smell the damn thing!
In this society of The Machine, true sensory experience has been completely stripped away! These people aren't living.. the people -are- the machine. The air is artificial - the scents are computer generated and pumped in. When Vashti
leaves her cell, she complains of the smell:
"For one thing it smelt - not strongly or unpleasantly, but it did smell, and with her eyes shut she should have known that a new thing was close to her."
She has been so withdrawn from the world that she experiences a "horror of direct experience."
hmm... sounds familiar...
As smell is chemically enhanced, so too is taste. The grape juice isn't made from grapes, but it's "good enough" for them. How many of you drink juices from actual fruit as opposed to *fake* juice? Just a thought...
And hearing? The hum of The Machine fills the ears of the inhabitants from birth so that when The Machine stops, as of course it must, the silence actually kills people.
How silent it must have been before the advent of the industrial revolution.
One of the things that struck me initially about New York City when I visited in December of last year was the ever present hum and buzz, that sound of thousands of people talking all at the same time, the living breathing murmur of a city that never sleeps.
By the time I came home, I scarely even noticed it.
What of touch? Well...
"When Vashti served away from the sunbeams with a cry, she [the attendent]behaved barbacially - she put out her hand to steady her."
The only sense that these people still use is of sight and everything that they see is The Machine. These beings have been stripped of their very humanity and of any possiblity of pleasure in their lives - I would argue that all pleasure is is an enjoyable sensory moment in time. With no senses to speak of, pleasure has been totally abolished.
"Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. THere were buttons and switches everything - buttons to call for food for music for clothing. There was the hot-bath button, by pressure of which a basin of (imitation) marble rose out of the floor, filled to the brim with a warm deodorized liquid. There was the cold-bath button. There was the button that produced literature, and there were, of course, the buttons by which she communicated with her friends. The room, though it contained
....
Whew... heady stuff. If I weren't so freaking exhausted I could go on forever!
{{ transcript from a group therapy session }}
a strangely_shy_in_public_situations young woman with crazy ass glasses stands and walks to the podium. she is wearing an obnoxious red fur coat and a black feather boa. her hair is twisted into two crazy bun-shaped orbs on the sides of her head and she is visibly shaking. she stands silent at the podium for a full minute without speaking, refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the room. suddenly she starts and darts from the room to the shocked gasps of the other group members. moments later she strides back in, and before the group leader can invite the next member to speak, she is standing again at the podium.
"Just playin! How you all doing?"
The room is silent.
"Woah... tough crowd!"
She proceeds to make a few more joking comments until the leader interrupts.
[ he clears his throat ]
"Ms. Richardson? Did you have something you'd like to share with us?"
The woman is subdued for a moment. When she speaks again her voice is soft. No one can make out what she is saying.
"Ms. Richardson? Would you care to repeat that last statement?"
The woman blushes deeply. "I said," she says in a loud shaky voice. "My name is Moira and I'm addicted to blogging!" Then she lets out a squawk and runs from the room. This time she does not return.
{{ / transcript from a group therapy session }}
So I've noticed that I've been spending more time on campus this semester than last semester (my first one at SHU). This is mostly because the number of credit classes that I have on campus are double from last semester. I am thinking, however, that I'm missing out on a lot on campus.
For example, I'm a commuter. So I know how to park, over the last semester I discovered the different parking areas, including the dreaded "D" lot, as well as figured out a few tricks for good parking spaces on my own.
I know how to get to each of my classrooms, mostly through trial and error. Slowly but surely I'm finding computer labs scattered around the place. I've been to the cafeteria twice (today was attempt #2 since I was dying for a cup o' joe). I didn't learn about Griffin's Cove until the last weeks of last semester when a friend mentioned it. I mean, I'd seen signs about it but didn't know what the heck it was.
Where are the *cool* spots to hang out on campus? The best place to study? To eat inexpensively? To get a cup of coffee? (My best place thus far is the weird little machine in the library lower level.) And, oooh!, where are all the ghostly folk?
I mean, there might be some kickass stuff that I'm missing out on here! Help a sista out! ;c) Your suggestions are MUCH appreciated!
I have a gripe.
Now, this semester I was able to confirm my financial aid, get a voucher for the bookstore, and purchase $400 worth of books in the bookstore all without photo identification. I had my i.d. with me but not one person asked to see it. At the book store, a little appalled at the ease that a person could get $400 worth of books, I asked the person working if s/he* wanted to see my i.d. and s/he said no.
So.
As I was walking to my car from the bookstore, I had quite a bit of time to think seeing as I was parked out in the boonies and I thought, "Gee.. how easy would it have been to use someone else's financial aid to get my books?" I mean, it's not that I'm planning on doing it, but honestly, the ease with which I could have done that is pretty scary. All it would have taken was finding the right social security number and, bam, I have free books.
Yesterday, I went to the library.
I didn't have my SHU i.d. with me because I can't remember where I put it, but I did have my PA driver's license that has a picture that looks exactly like me on it. Would you believe that I wasn't able to check out the book I wanted?
I don't know if it was because the workstudy was new or the policy changed from last semester but you can't check out a book unless you have your university-issued identification with you. I felt a little annoyed since I did have an i.d., even if it wasn't the right one, and I knew they could look me up in the computer system.
More than that I felt annoyed that last week I had gotten a fortune's worth of books for my courses with no one batting an eye at me but when I try to borrow a library book with my SHU id, you'd think all the kings horses and all the kings men were standing in front of me with pointy sticks and mean eyes. Shit man.
Does anybody else see the inconsistencies here??
* i won't incriminate anyone, promise.
Cell Phone Lost, Found, All in Thrilling Four Minute Period
"All of a sudden, my phone was gone!" said Labaton, 20, who was walking to her 5:10 General Chemistry lecture when she realized the cell phone was no longer in her right pants pocket. "I was like, 'Oh shit!' I looked through my coat and dug through my entire backpack, but it wasn't anywhere."
Oh my god, hasn't this totally happened to you? You, like, panic because, oh my god, you are going to miss the twenty calls from your mom, two from your boyfriend, one from that cute guy you met at the mall last week, three from your distraught sister, six from your distraught best friend, and oh my god, what are you going to do??? You might, like, die or something!!!
I was going to use this space to make a commentary about how cell phones are primarily evil blahblahblah but instead I have a story for you:
The other evening in class, around 8 p.m., someone's cell phone started vibrating. Now, you would think that with a cell phone set to silent the noise of its vibrations wouldn't distract a class, I mean, at least the dang thing isn't ringing with your snazzy new Destiny's Child midi-style song that you downloaded from the internet last week, right?
So the phone's vibrating, making a suprisingly loud vibration noise disrupting the class as everyone looks around accusingly trying to figure out the source of the sound. People on one side of the classroom thought it was coming from the other side of the classroom and vica versa. Finally after a few disturbing loud vibrating noises, the phone stops and class resumes as normal.
Now the embarrassing part: it was my phone!
I mean, I didn't know at the time because well, half the time I don't even remember that I have my phone with me and pretty much the only person who ever calls me doesn't call until around 9:30 or later. And since I never answer my cell phone anyway, I figured no one would be calling me. But, oh no, I was wrong. When I looked at my phone later that night I saw a missed call had occured at exactly the time in question. Oops.
Don't you hate it when you forget to turn off your ringer before you go to class? It's like the new embarrassment of the technological age... and now, apparently, cell phones have vibrations so powerful [no comment] that the sound can disrupt a class. Weird.
NOTE TO SELF: in the midst of reading literature for three different classes, learning how to speak Spanish (not to mention Middle English), working 2 jobs, planning a trip to Europe, planning a Crafty Day party, & trying not to go crazy, read these books:
Yevgeny Zamyatin's "We"
Margaret Atwood's "Oryz and Crake"
Jose Saramago's "The Cave"
My mom is currently sitting in an airport in Newark, New Jersey waiting for her 8 p.m. flight to England to take off. She might be shopping or reading or dancing on a table, though I really doubt she'd be dancing on a table. She is, however, my mother so it's entirely possible that the dancing bug has over taken her body and she is shakin it for cheerful passerbys in the middle of the airport. But... I doubt it. It's kind of a silly image though...
She left Pittsburgh at 1:21 p.m. It was kind of fun because I made sure she gave me her flight number so I could check online to make sure she was in the air, etc. She'll be in England for 5 freaking weeks, man, that's crazy. I'm so glad for her because my sister is currently living in England so the two of them can get all jiggy with it in the U.K. and shit.
Sometimes I really wonder about my mom: I mean - what kind of people pick up and move their budding family to a brand new country? There must be a spark of independent spirit there that I, as her daughter, can't seem to see.
... to be continued later, if i feel like it ....
NOTE: I don't know if any of y'all are planning on coming to Crafty Day, but if you were, take note: Crafty Day IV has been rescheduled to February 12th @ 7 p.m.
