tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43249523920172661172024-03-18T21:19:49.918-07:00even the fleasmemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-18776990161126592010-09-06T09:21:00.003-07:002010-09-06T12:14:18.713-07:00the country i remember, part i<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />It’s autumn in the country I remember.</span><br /><br />This is the opening line of Trumbull Stickney’s poem “<a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=MP_IxKA1vsQC&pg=PA25&lpg=PA25&dq=Mnemosyne,+Stickney&source=bl&ots=k5BBLrUY36&sig=wVF-GxeWy_x5bCoDWpqrY1i_JSI&hl=en&ei=NwaFTJzeBYGBlAeH0LXSDw&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=9&ved=0CDgQ6AEwCA#v=onepage&q&f=false">Mnemosyne</a>,” an elegiac meditation dedicated to the titular Titaness, the Greek personification of memory and mother of the nine Muses. A few weeks ago I memorized this poem with the help of my friend, Jason Daniel Baker. Learning poetry, like learning to sing a song, helps me to experience the musical and emotional effect of a poem's craft in a way that is visceral, rather than intellectual. I'm going to start saying/writing "learning" rather than "memorizing," because memorization smacks most of rote duty and accumulated detail (dare I say trivia?), and less of the dynamic process to which memorization is but an aid.<br /><br />I bet many of us can recite a few lines we were forced to regurgitate as kids--let us chant "Full fathom five thy father lies" or "Whose woods these are I think I know" in chorus!--without necessarily having a sense of what the lines mean to us, if they mean anything at all. I know this has been true for me when I learn by rote, rather than by heart--two clichés that touch on the canyon that lies between knowledge acquired through instruction, and the richer stuff we become acquainted with when instruction shines its small, pointed light into the dim universe surrounding us. Much like a star, instruction can lead us to discoveries, but it cannot illuminate the entire field of our experience at once. (Even the sun only touches on one half of the Earth at a time.)<br /><br />In the process of learning a poem, I notice things I don't notice on the page. In the case of "Mnemosyne," for example, how Stickney's shifty verb tenses spin a web of emotional resonance. One of the most striking tense shifts in the poem comes in the penultimate stanza:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But that I knew these places are my own,<br />I'd ask myself how came such wretchedness to cumber<br />The Earth, and I to people it alone.</span><br />(Lines 20-22)<br /><br />In line 20, the speaker acknowledges that, in spite of the contrasts between the country he romantically recalls in the poem's tercets, and the destroyed, desolate space he witnesses in the present-tense refrains, both "countries" exist in the perpetual present of his memory. Regardless of whether the mountains he gestures toward are where he once "lived" (see line 16), line 20's jostling return to the present reminds the reader that all the elegies ever written are incapable of erasing the eternal return played out in our memory. Mnemosyne, as an invocation of memory and artistic birth, shows us the two sides of Stickney's inspiration——the sorrowful corners, the persistent longings, the compulsion toward beauty, its succour and inadequacy. Even as the speaker bemoans the loss and decay of his mythic country (political, geographic, however you may read that), it belongs to him as much as he belongs to it.<br /><br />These thoughts lead me to ask whether national and regional identity are not similarly dynamic, and impossible, relationships.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">....to be continued....</span><br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-44992279529986686652010-09-05T05:11:00.000-07:002010-09-06T09:30:07.491-07:00A Taste Intervention for Ladies Everywhere*<div style="text-align: justify;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>5</o:Words> <o:characters>29</o:Characters> <o:lines>1</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>35</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:0 2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria;} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">*Now with 50% More White Male Gaze<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Sure, rolling out the trope of the male gaze can be tiresome in this post-feminist age where all gazes are equal (cue tweeting songbirds and gamboling puppies), but some days that gaze’s good works in the community demand recognition.</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">Exhibit A: </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />A recent commercial for <a href="http://www.sabra.com/">Sabra</a>’s (admittedly tasty) hummus:</span></span></span><br /><br /></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><object style="font-family: georgia;" height="300" width="400"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_trN4gfrIqI?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_trN4gfrIqI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="300" width="400"></embed></object></span> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I can hear what you’re thinking. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“But it’s FUNNY!”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Oh, come on, that Chinese guy’s hilarious!!”</span></span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Of course it’s funny! Didn’t Freud teach us that nothing makes us laugh like uncomfortable revelations? What could be funnier than a bald admission to (white, middle-class breeding) women, “Yes, we really are watching what you’re eating. And judging you. ALL of us. Even the Asian food service worker whose livelihood depends on your ‘bad’ taste—for yes, he also recognizes that his ‘Chinese’ taste is bad, and secretly wishes to join the ranks of the white, button-down-wearing, hummus-eating master class!”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >What’s that you say? That I’m missing the irony? That the commercial is a parody targeted at dudes, who stereotypically DO need taste interventions, NOT ladies, especially thin, white middle-class moms? That the fantasy of being married to a man with good taste who raises his children in the path of good-taste righteousness, in spite of his wife’s sad “addiction” to “junk” (poor soul!), is but a gentle satire?</span> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />The OED defines parody as “a composition in which the characteristic style and themes of a particular author or genre are satirized by being applied to inappropriate or unlikely subjects, or are otherwise exaggerated for comic effect.”</span> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />The genre being satirized is clearly that of rehab interventions, the same cultural script that gave birth to catchwords like “carefrontation” and television abominations like <span style="font-style: italic;">Celebrity Rehab</span>. That this script is exaggerated for comic effect I can’t deny. That’s what makes it funny! We recognize the trope, which tells us, “hey, we’re doing this for her own good,” even as we also recognize the ridiculousness of the “problem.”</span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Or do we? With obesity both a statistical epidemic and a media obsession, with foodie-ism and Alice Waters holding court, IS the parodied “problem” not a problem we identify as a real one? And can’t Sabra count on viewers’—particularly a demographic like thin, white middle-class moms or their aspirational counterparts—to make that connection?</span> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />To my mind, the commercial is parodic, but fails to be true parody because irony is not the point. We are not invited to laugh at the accusations Janet Reidel’s family and neighbor (I use this term loosely, given the problematic class/race dimensions of the deliveryman’s character) bring against her in the name of her own “well-being.” Neither does the parody show us anything new—rather, it chases it’s own tale (pun intended) like the tautological monster much advertising is.</span> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />Rather, we are invited to become uncomfortable, in the Freudian sense. And that “we,” the commercial let’s us know all too clearly, is a certain category of women, represented by Janet Reidel. (I say “category,” lest all those aspirational Janet Reidel’s who don’t happen to be female, white, middle-class or breeders feel left out.) The commercial acknowledges a system already in place, pokes fun at it in order raise anxiety in the viewer about her eating habits, and then ends with the product in question restoring order to the known universe.</span> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />Not only is the empowered male gaze, represented by the husband, son and deliveryman, watching, that gaze apparently is taking notes and conferencing about the “problem,” all the while Janet’s young daughter stands idly by with the dish of hummus. Like a timid alter boy, she hesitantly passes the hummus to her mother as she glances at her father. Accessory to her “recovery,” schlepping the goods of man, and most surely internalizing the message that she too must maintain vigilance over her food intake, this little girl knows the price of being found to have “bad taste,” as should her mother, if she wants her own daughter to consider her (Janet’s) image one of aspirational value.</span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Saved! Without Sabra and the male gaze, poor Janet Reidel might never have thought of her health or her “tastes” in quite the same way.</span> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />The food police are real, my friends. Take heed, and hide the Goober Grape.</span></div> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-46593103303411252372010-07-22T06:03:00.000-07:002010-07-26T07:46:32.448-07:00man-womanly, woman-manly...?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-f5n3zkbaQqF2HAEb4_cRCKTFIKj_m4PFTStIhVykUiizvnwxtt8NAws0ZyGXJkvcQD6aiy-AF0KSw5xR28aYUic7U99E7zJ31ZdUYzkZ3kwRK7dN9bL2F7bl-XzhJjpDk5vHe9iv0g/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 223px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-f5n3zkbaQqF2HAEb4_cRCKTFIKj_m4PFTStIhVykUiizvnwxtt8NAws0ZyGXJkvcQD6aiy-AF0KSw5xR28aYUic7U99E7zJ31ZdUYzkZ3kwRK7dN9bL2F7bl-XzhJjpDk5vHe9iv0g/s320/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496835850447708802" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Currently I'm reading <span style="font-style: italic;">Mating</span> by Norman Rush, a novel set in Botswana in the 1980s. Thus far, it is a fantastic read. I'm especially impressed by how believable and intriguing the female narrator is. It's pretty rare that I can lose myself in the narrative, trusting completely that the particular woman relating the tale is "real." Too often, I feel as though a scrim separates such narrators from their audiences, as though the authorial eye/I had swaddled the speaking subject in a type of low-level radiation discernible only to members of the gender/class/race/type supposedly "speaking." I guess you could call it the authenticity meter, though that phrase feels a little presumptuous--in spite of my ardor for Chaka Khan, I am not every woman.<br /><br />But I am ONE woman. A woman who can tell you that the way women narrators written by men narrate their bodies generally is the first bleep on the radar scren. "Sweat trickles between my breasts," or something of that ilk, pops up in the narrative. BEEEEEEEEEP.<br /><br />I couldn't tell you the number of times I've thought of my breasts as "breasts," because it hasn't been that often. Generally it's when someone else's gaze or hands are involved in increasing my awareness of their existence. In other words, largely in sexual, or sexually-charged, situations. Because, somehow, the word "breast," when not applied to chickens or followed by "cancer" or "feeding", has been sexualized in my mind. (Yes, I do blame society.) The fact of having breasts is not very interesting to me. If I were a narrator, I can guarantee you that their existence would only be interesting when their involvement in the plot of my life was interesting. Namely, during sex, or breast feeding, or getting any sort of medical test performed on them. Definitely while shopping. Most of those actions have plot value. The fact that the breasts, in themselves, exist does not.<br /><br />It's not (obviously) that my daily activities of bathing, dressing, working out, et. al. somehow are performed independently of them. It's just that I don't think of them as plot-movers. "The king died, and the queen died of grief." What happens if that shortest plot read: "The king died, and the well-stacked queen died of grief." Who cares?<br /><br />Well, if the queen trudged through a desert in her elaborate costume, and chronicled the discomforts of her trip...perhaps what happened to her breasts would be interesting. Both to her and her readers. Say her whalebone stays caused her discomfort. What language would she use to tell you about this? Would the sweat "trickle?"<br /><br />"Trickling." If I'm sweaty, I might deign to say I'm "sweating," in spite of the old saw about women not being horses and glowing (or something). "Trickling" is a word that sensualizes the experience of sweating. It adds a <span>writerly sort of drama</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>that living day-to-day with a female body, I can assure you, hardly resembles. It is its own plot, and it has nothing to do with the narrator.<br /><br />So, if the shoe is put on the other foot....what happens if a female writer creates a male narrator, and this narrator is to have a fight scene that escalates in the men's room when (say) his arch enemy is espied via a mirror as he stands at the urinal?<br /><br />Do men narrate to themselves when they visit a urinal any more than a woman narrates her trickling sweat? (And if the sweat were near another body part...say the armpit...would that author choose the word trickle? Food for thought.)<br /><br />I imagine not. Though, to be honest, I'm sort of intrigued about how I would narrate that moment. How could I make it real? How could I make it <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> real without falling back on trying to feel up my narrator vicariously? Without objectifying his experience of his own body?<br /><br />I suppose the first step would be to write about using the loo as I do, then changing the verb "sat" to "stood." Then important plot-driving details like, "scrutinized the etchings on the back of the stall door" to "noticed in the half-mirror a jagged scab on the side of my nostril. Fucking hotel razors."<br /><br />Could it be that simple?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Writing gender interests me not just in terms of character study, but in terms of how a writer writes embodiment via an "I" speaker, especially if that "I" speaker is of a different gender. What could be a more challenging exercise than trying to realistically narrate the thought-process of a character in an intimate moment with the self—especially an intimate moment as routine, and thus half-consciously dealt with, as using the bathroom? It would be hard for me to not want to talk about the mechanics of it, because it would be necessary for me to imagine the mechanics in order to try to get into that place. And then, it's really hard to think about the mechanics and not write about them, if only because the mechanics are INTERESTING. I'm not a dude. Urinals ARE interesting to me, in as far as they are unknown territory frequented by half the population.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Circling back to Rush's narrator in <span style="font-style: italic;">Mating</span>...thus far, I believe the unnamed protaganist's narration of her physical experience. One way Rush makes that work is by delivering an overwhelmingly self-aware narrator who's interest in anthropology and the position of the audience is rivaled only perhaps by her creator's. Another way is by avoiding letting his own interest (whatever that may be) in women and their bodies hijack the speaker's narration. Her descriptions are only as writerly as she herself is writerly (which is very) and they only wax garrulous on topics that interest her.<br /><br />We are given a cursory description of her physicality, but even then the details are delivered in a straightfoward, unromantic fashion, with little time spent extrapolating on the details of those deatils. I still have no idea what color her eyes are. Why would I? This character isn't interested in what her eye color means to others, and it hasn't come up as a pertinent plot point yet. No villager has told her she looks like a ghost because she has blue eyes, for example. This is the kind of moment when this narrator would deliver that kind of information. Otherwise, it's not important to her.<br /><br />Which isn't to say her body, and its effects or non-effects on the people around her, are not interesting to her. But while the narrator clearly is able to objectify (or could we say objectively view) herself within her milieu, her ruminations on her body, and its actions, only appear in ways that advance the plot and add contour to her character. As a result (and a big plus, in my book) we do not suffer a writer's interest in his character's, er, formal properties, at the expense of the work as a whole.<br /><br />P.S. The post title is not in reference to the picture. That is one gorgeous lady. You know...unless she's a man, of course.<br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-25467044630993287212010-07-13T10:17:00.001-07:002010-07-13T11:15:32.230-07:00negative capabilityWow. If I had a nickel for every time someone said "negative capability" in grad school, I might not be working a day job. And yet, it's a phrase that I would have a perversely difficult time defining if a random stranger were to ask me what it meant. I absolutely have to sit and mull over it for a few minutes, and parse jargon, before I remember. Then I usually laugh, because it's pretty funny for my brain to be continually in doubt about a concept that revolves around....continuing in doubt.<br /><br />When I wrote my last post on <a href="http://eventhefleas.blogspot.com/2010/07/unicorn.html">unicorns</a>, the subtext seems to have been my struggle with negative capability. More Wordsworth and Coleridge than Keats, I suppose, my usual process with a poem is to start with some sort of image, event or idea that makes me want to know more. KNOWING is, or has been, immensely important in my life. If I'm depressed, I want to dig around and try to find the "cause," or "problem." If a poem isn't working, my old instinct was to always analyze sound, meter or image to find what didn't "click" into place. In other words, the "problem."<br /><br />Last month I was following a series of articles on the New York Time's Opinionator blog by Errol Morris entitled "<a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/06/20/the-anosognosics-dilemma-1/?scp=1&sq=five%20part%20series&st=cse">The Anosognosic's Dilemma: Something's Wrong, and You'll Never Know What It Is</a>." The series loosely, but fascinatingly, explored the idea of the human mind's ability to know unknowns, or to seem to not know (or unknow) phenomenon considered by other sources to be knowns. One of Morris' dominant metaphors is that of anosognosia, an affliction where a person with paralysis does not appear to know he or she is paralyzed. Another riveting anecdotal example involves a man who is told wiping lemon juice on his face will make him invisible to cameras. He then tries to rob a bank, and is shocked when he is arrested after being identified from footage taken by a security camera.<br /><br />I mention these articles because they touch on the issue of the perceived "problem" of not knowing something. Morris briefly discusses Surrealism, and automatic writing, as well as the hysterics documented in Salpétrière, as examples of allowing the brain to show the self something that self doesn't "know" it knows. I imagine Keats would have said to Morris, "yes, my dear sir, you have described states of negative capability quite nicely, except for the part where you keep pursuing knowns!"<br /><br />A problem wants a solution, in the same way that a question wants an answer...at least, according to our habitual practice of syntax in conversation and composition (I'm thinking here of essay more than poetry). When habitual syntax goes out out the window, what are we left with? Some might say a truth or knowledge that we don't even know we don't know yet.<br /><br /><blockquote>If in a cluster of grapes there are no two alike, why do you want me to describe this grape by the other, by all the others . . . ? Our brains are dulled by the incurable mania of wanting to make the unknown known, classifiable . . . It is pointless to add that experience itself has found itself increasingly circumscribed. It paces back and forth in a cage from which it is more and more difficult to make it emerge . . . Forbidden is any kind of search for truth that is not in conformance with accepted practices . . .</blockquote>I quote Morris' excerpt of André Breton, because it is an excellent way to tie together the idea of creative "problems" and negative capability. A teacher of mine used to get VERY annoyed when I referred to poems or groups of poems as "projects." I think she felt that "project" implied that the poem—the flashes of the previously unknown or unseen that appear in poetry, appearing to surprise even the poet herself—already existed, leaving the poet's task to one of excavating and arranging....not unlike the way academic scholars or thinkers like Morris excavate and arrange information in order to reveal something previously unknown to their audiences.<br /><br />And yet, I believe that scholarly pursuits are just as much guided by negative capability—an example Morris' series makes quite nicely. At no point reading his essays did I get the sense that we started with a clear map of his "project," then proceeded down the outline to the conclusion he had identified from the outset. Rather, there is a creative meandering in the essays that takes us from cultural artifact to cultural artifact—mirroring, I imagine, the process by which his thoughts on anosognosia and knowing unknowns were stimulated. (He makes a point in his notes to mention that the whole idea started when he Twittered a definition of a stupid person.) In other words, accepting that the end of the fifth installment of the essay might even end without any solution to the "problems" of "self-deception" and anosognosia...but rather an acknowledgment of a few of the mysteries surrounding us.<br /><br />It is, of course, at times, deflating to be faced with so many unknowables when one has spent thirty-plus years being goaded to "know." Believing that the pursuit of knowledge was the good fight, and that knowing is the half of the battle that prepares you to win the war. (Sorry, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G.I._Joe">G.I. Joe</a>. You are indeed an American hero.) How many years were spent trying to know the wrong thing—trying to know what I never knew I didn't—and perhaps couldn't!—know?<br /><br />With this in mind, I am grateful for John Keats' poems and letters in a way I never suspected I would be—grateful to finally begin to understand (and next time someone asks me about negative capability, I think I'll know how to respond!) that understanding isn't the point of a poem. A poem can teach you things you didn't know, and it can share facts. It can be knowledgeable, in the way that we understand that word, and it can inspire one to gain more knowledge (I'm thinking in particular of Pound here). But at the end, if there isn't a relinquishment of intellectual knowing (i.e. mastery) in favor of imagining or intuiting our way to spheres of experience greater than our "accepted practices" have deigned show us (a state <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fanny_Howe">Fanny Howe </a>might call bewilderment)....I'm just not sure it's the kind of poem I want to write.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-42553826472239554552010-07-01T11:44:00.000-07:002010-07-13T10:14:32.217-07:00the unicorn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcl8YCedtWIMXwHAB_kEopQamSb2MykjNoJs3SzSePhDkwJWAvBarHZD2sPAwa3KLLCqYzXhld8adHCsfwNK1V3wvb_EhckvMG6dfeYZ9AWV7Qh_UjJ0qFnmpLhzmibxSdagawH8CQtVY/s1600/unicorn.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcl8YCedtWIMXwHAB_kEopQamSb2MykjNoJs3SzSePhDkwJWAvBarHZD2sPAwa3KLLCqYzXhld8adHCsfwNK1V3wvb_EhckvMG6dfeYZ9AWV7Qh_UjJ0qFnmpLhzmibxSdagawH8CQtVY/s320/unicorn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492692037909837474" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Years ago, a friend told me she had been invited to be a unicorn at a private party that moved around the city, expressly for the purpose of letting moneyed couples explore their swinger /exhibitionist inclinations. You might ask, as I did, what a "unicorn" is, in this sense. She replied, "A unicorn is a single woman who cruises parties for multiple partners. They are rumored to exist, but no one has ever seen one in nature."<br /><br />More recently, my friend, poet and writer Colie Hoffman, also got me thinking about unicorns. They appear in some of her magically surreal prose poems that I had the chance to read when we were at Hunter. I vaguely remember a scenario that involved unicorns playing baseball. In this scenario, unicorns in humanoid postures seem to suggest humans can attain an idealized form by elevating a mundane pastime (apologies to those who pray at the batted altar) to one of mystical meaning. Or, that our human hunger to believe our fantasies and ideals can somehow form a transcendent logic that is at home in this world.<br /><br />As some of you know, I have the privilege of working a day job in advertising that magically doesn't eat up all 12 hours of daylight. I also have what I consider to be the privilege of working in design. Even when my job is boring, there is the satisfaction of making things orderly, pretty, or functional, and most usually some combination of all three. I like organizing closets and making collages. I like type and colors. I like ordering information. So, all in all, this works out remarkably well.<br /><br />Recently a printer contacted me about submitting one of my designs to a contest. This happens on occasion, and is always flattering, even exciting. Since I've been focusing on my writing over the past few years, the energy I'd been pouring into design took a hit. These moments of reflection help stoke my flame that still burns for design, and reminds me that I might, after all, have the touch. That maybe there is hope for me yet at being more of a William Blake or R<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Bringhurst">obert Bringhurst</a> than a poor man's Wallace Stevens, toiling behind the scrim of a gray flannel suit.<br /><br />However, these moments also pose uncomfortable questions....have I made the right decision to spread my energies around, in this day of increased specialization? Am I wasting time trying to do too much, be too much? What IS that Most Important Thing? Could it be design for consumer markets, when I thought it was Art?<br /><br />This spiral continues, and the cheap seats begin to bark tips at the unicorns on the field:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You can't eat poetry.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Advertising is a career for the masses, art for the few.<br />You're still "creative," even if you're not an artist.<br />There're more benefits in being an art director than a poet.<br />Why don't you write something like "Twilight"?<br />Good luck with all that, kid. You'll never buy a house.<br /></span><br />But I'm not a kid, really, and I don't believe in unicorns. When models are hired to circulate at parties in various states of undress, either selling vodka or just the illusion of sexual availability, I don't believe the illusion they are selling. (Of course, I'm not the target market.) And I believe, Pollyanna-ish as it seems, that most members of said target market also don't believe in what they are being sold...they're buying into how safe the idea is when it's divorced from the threat of reality.<br /><br />My friend who "performed" as a unicorn at the aforementioned underground parties told me that her job really was to talk to people, and to wander around. I'm not going to pretend that her experience was in any way bound by the monogamous heterosexist narrative this comment implies. This was her take-away from the experience--that the unicorn was a unicorn because the unicorn wasn't real. The unicorn was extra-human, a figment of the imagination. And if she did choose to engage with couples...to break down the line between fantasy and reality...well, she never shared that with me. I suspect that might be because the reality of the event (so many arms and legs, the impossibility of three-way eye contact) made the pre-game illusion much more interesting.<br /><br />When I saw the first window ad for Diesel's "<a href="http://www.creativeadawards.com/diesel-be-stupid-advertising-campaign/">Be Stupid</a>" campaign months ago, the line I'm shuffling toward drawing in the sand between Teams Unicorn (where the teams are consumer design and poetry/non-consumer art) got a little clearer. This campaign represents exactly the kind of work I could be doing. I could be manipulating rhetoric, cultural symbols and psychological motifs into profitable advertising ventures. I even think I might be able to be good at making that kind of unicorn--the type that touches on some of our basest human desires and raises those desires to the level of an ideal. The desire that substitutes "creative" for "stupid," and counts on a society's anti-intellectual terrors to fill in the blanks. Or the desire that substitutes luxury goods with self-worth. That appeals to aspirational identity, and uses said rhetoric and motifs to make that identity emotionally fulfilling. The unicorn who frolics in sweet meadows, backlit by soft spring sunshine, silken mane buffeted by the wind as a chance ray of light reflects off the horn that springs from her forehead like an aesthetic messenger of Zeus.<br /><br />Then there is the unicorn in the baseball uniform. Is this unicorn ever really safe? This unicorn that stands on two legs, one hip stuck out as she throws a baseball into her glove (somehow), and glares at the competitors. This unicorn whose mane is stained with sweat and clay. Who, by playing a human game, reveals us to ourselves--our human ways suddenly absurd, for what could be more ridiculous than believing any of our logics can be transcendent, or that any of our ideals can be perfection?<br /><br />And yet, that's what we do over and over again, and that's the unicorn I want to chase. The unicorn that pulls humanity, in all its absurdities and beauties, into high relief. Not the unicorn that clicks shut like a box, a cipher of a desire that, while also all-too-human, somehow seems to push me further from becoming more human and further into a mountain of consumer goods.<br /><br />It's not that I don't love my consumer goods...my feelings are certainly ambivalent here, as I'm ever-so-much part of the machine I critique. It's really that my life project is to explore what makes us human in a way that brings me closer to humanity, within myself and (perhaps aspirationally!) within others...not to study how to push human buttons from behind a curtain.<br /><br />There....line drawn. Imperfectly, and certainly with logic flaws. Inconsistent. Contradictory. Perhaps even ephemerally delightful, like a unicorn playing baseball.<br /><br />Batter up.<br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-40138063300637405632010-06-24T11:01:00.001-07:002010-07-23T04:38:35.955-07:00me and my animal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xma2lhHDyKV-yBY9CNVWj0JjfSSUP7s-a5Zy2ehUXu2wEwrhpHWf1FmfETmQZmlxEnFNaEld4Qp_B6PttxAThTPMqEcQ2S9Lpx73-JpEyPoRsv7AilJSYiL4xj7g3mGGugpqnIHm_ps/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 118px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xma2lhHDyKV-yBY9CNVWj0JjfSSUP7s-a5Zy2ehUXu2wEwrhpHWf1FmfETmQZmlxEnFNaEld4Qp_B6PttxAThTPMqEcQ2S9Lpx73-JpEyPoRsv7AilJSYiL4xj7g3mGGugpqnIHm_ps/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486423834807990994" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I've been thinking about animals more lately than I can ever remember thinking about animals. Part of me blames Mary B. McHugh, who during our time at Hunter introduced me to a thousand and one ways one might consider an animal...and indeed, perhaps come to prefer to BE an animal. (Keep your eye out for her work, she's dynamite.) Part of me blames my twin obsessions of psychology and poetry, which lead me to puzzle over what the animal means within my writing, and thus self. Animals appear in many recent poems, either as a cow, dog or alligator, much to my surprise. The cows started sneaking in first. Now there is the ungainly, threatening but attractive figure of an alligator lurking in some newer sketches.<br /><br />In some way, the speakers of all my poems reflect a part of myself. (Surprise!) Maybe that part is small. Maybe it is a part I would otherwise cast out, but which must exist for the sort of empathy required to write from the perspective of another to be channeled. On one hand this makes me despair--for if one is only ever writing about one's self, then how can it ever be useful to take on the mantle of another? Isn't the ruse just too obvious? And aren't the ethical problems of speaking for another and/or appropriating their speech not worth the trouble?<br /><br />Well, if you were Jung (and sometimes I pretend to be him myself), you might say, "No! Ridiculous! Poppycock!". You might then say, "Did you not read my theories of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anima_and_animus">animus/anima</a>, liebchen? And are you not convinced that there are shadow selves darting in and out of your consciousness as though it were but und closet?"<br /><br />Perhaps. I find Jung's categories within the animus/a to be intriguing. I much prefer the idea that I am a core self working through my shadow selves toward a wholly realized self to Freud's feuding triumverate. While the animus/a's gender categories Jung created feel a bit old-fashioned, I do resonate with the idea that I might be slogging through the following shadow selves: The Athlete/Muscleman, The Planner, The Professor and the Guide.<br /><br />I love Jung's premise that a human being, in her/his best manifestation, reaches the final stage of mediation between all these parts...and then is able to shuttle between selves (or I might say types of knowledge and intuition) without sacrificing any of the parts.<br /><br />I might like to add the Animal to the list of shadow selves. For the body is, most purely, an animal like any other. It tells us when we are hungry, when we are aroused, when we are tired. It finds physical means of expressing its anger or joy or sorrow, in a manner quite divorced from the way we "think" or "recognize" our emotional feelings. How else to explain those terrible moments when we want to cry and can't, whether it be because our minds associate physical crying with emotional relief, or because our social selves feels the pressure to respond to an event.<br /><br />And yet...who would say that our bodies are not integral to our selves? Okay, Plato would. I sure as heck wouldn't.<br /><br />And yet...do I not live a life that is primarily in denial of my body's needs? And thus, at some level, deeper needs of my whole being?<br /><br />I thought of this while cleaning off our dining room table the other day. For the past two years, the table has been buried under manuscript drafts, photocopies of articles, half-used journals, books, mail, computer cords....in other words, it's been my desk. So, Shyam and I have been eating...pretty much where it's most convenient. Which in a New York apartment, where there is a strict no-eating-in-bed rule, means the couch.<br /><br />For two years, we have eating sitting side-by-side, facing the television, plates balanced either on knees or on the coffee table. I have been nurturing a frustration with this arrangement the whole time, but of course did nothing about it. After all, I had to have a work area, and there just was nowhere else to put my piles. (Or was lazy. You be the judge.)<br /><br />Then this weekend I finally moved those piles. And now we have begun eating at the table again. It feels...strange. It feels strange to look at Shyam when we're not in a restaurant. And given that we do not eat the majority of our meals in restaurants, it feels strange often of late. But strange in a wonderful way...strange in the way moving into a new home feels strange.<br /><br />But it's not only the strange feel-good-ness of actually communing (read: kvetching about our days) while we eat. It's also the way eating changes when one is actually communing while eating. We both eat slower, breathe more between bites, perhaps pause and rest for a moment. Usually because one of us is chattering, but also because it feels good!<br /><br />I hate eating quickly. Something physiological happens, I swear, when I'm eating with someone who eats quickly. It's as though an animal (athlete?) wakes up inside and says, "OMIGOD!!! SCARCE RESOURCES!!" and then I begin to eat more quickly, too. I practically feel the fight-or-flight hormones racing. It is the antithesis of, as the French say, <span style="font-style: italic;">l'art de vivre</span>.<br /><br />This little <a href="http://ezinearticles.com/?Discover-the-Art-of-Eating-Well-in-10-Easy-Steps&id=3684428">article</a> I stumbled upon sums this all up very well with key points to help "Discover the Art of Eating Well":<br /><br />1. Hyrdate. <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> "Mmmm, aperitif!"</span> Or water. That's good too.<br />2. Breathe. <span style="font-style: italic;">"(Sigh)...life is good." </span>Or, life is hard....but now there's a break.<br />3. Extend gratitude. <span style="font-style: italic;">(see above)</span><br />4. Engage the senses. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Mmm, that smells like....looks like..."</span><br />5. Savor the first bite. <span style="font-style: italic;">I think you smell what I'm cookin' here.</span><br />6. Chew well.<br />7. Slow down.<br />8. Observe.<br />9. Complete the practice.<br />10. Notice the effects.<br /><br />When I allow myself to take the time to follow these steps, they come rather intuitively. Of course, it's hard to muster too much excitement about a peanut butter sandwich or ramen, you might say. But why? It's time taken to nourish the body, and by extension, the self. It isn't necessarily whether truffles and foie gras are involved, but the ceremony itself.<br /><br />And it's also a way, I think, of keeping our inner alligators in check, without denying they exist. To feel animal desire urge us to devour a juicy steak, while our more highly-realized self says, "It ain't gonna run away, and no one's going to steal it. Let's celebrate!"<br /><br />Though, if you do give in to your inner alligator...well, there's a ceremony for that, too. But it's nice when the Guide shows up to wipe her mouth.<br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-36299890637619669242010-06-13T07:02:00.000-07:002010-06-13T09:36:17.623-07:00bodies of knowledge<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKAAF0cKoO-C3OZkeOL9Q97_6vsDRsNzl9UL4vS1U4kD3l4pARL6pCsVKHOvGjXo92-1eFRcL-S2gVgi_lNCZRoADx7uUjAYokdUMp-DCxbmHH1hLOtgwxVnBpSP9Homhdq1n64Loy9c8/s1600/img_9137-1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 144px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKAAF0cKoO-C3OZkeOL9Q97_6vsDRsNzl9UL4vS1U4kD3l4pARL6pCsVKHOvGjXo92-1eFRcL-S2gVgi_lNCZRoADx7uUjAYokdUMp-DCxbmHH1hLOtgwxVnBpSP9Homhdq1n64Loy9c8/s200/img_9137-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482294006239269346" border="0" /></a>Though I've been trying to set myself the post-graduate task of one blog entry per week, last week's entry fell by the wayside. I had some scribblings about cultural code-switching, but after the fun and the drain of festivities planned in anticipation of my best friend Lisa's wedding, I wasn't feeling too bloggy. Inevitably when I looked at the notes, the small flame that had lit that fire had extinguished, and I put the notes aside for another day when the spark returns.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Do you experience that same phenomenon? I know writing, and the creative life in general, requires discipline. But if I don't have the fire within for that particular creation, it's very difficult to push it through. I have to thank my friend and teacher <a href="http://www.donnamasini.com/iWeb/Donna%20Masini/donna%20masini%20.html">Donna Masini</a>, among others, for helping me come to terms with this ebb and flow. At Hunter, Donna drilled into our heads from day one that "willing" a poem was often a dead-end strategy. That it was often more productive, and kinder to the host (i.e. ourselves), to let the unfinished poem lay fallow rather than beat our intellects against the Muse's door. Of course there are times when, without will, I'd write nothing. But it is not the will that reveals the poem usually, but the will that puts me in a place where I might stumble upon the beginnings of a poem. Those of course are the lucky days.<br /><br />I don't mean to suggest that I consider the poet to be some sort of medium who is "possessed" by a poem, but who has no direct role in that poem's creation. For me it just sometimes feels like that when the quick cold lightening in my belly announces inspiration. When the poetic instruments, or organs, are roused from sleep, and begin to dance with the mind and body.<br /><br />The poetic, or creative, instrument. Could this be a third essence, or idea, or substance? For the past few days, I've been reading <span style="font-style: italic;">An Introduction to St. Thomas Aquinas</span>, the 1945 Modern Library edition edited and introduced by Anton C. Pegis. And let me stress the "introduction" part, as I have yet to make it past Pegis' introduction, which for me has been a mind-whirling good time of parsing out where Aquinas split from the Platonic tradition and set the 13th century's britches on fire. Or not, considering that many of his Neoplatonic contemporaries thought his more Aristotelian theory of man as a composite being, for whom body and soul were inseparably important, was just plain wrong-headed.<br /><br />I can see why a world that disdained the body as largely a housing for the purer "Intellect" and/or spirit might be rocked to the core by Aquinas' view that "man is a knower rather than a thinker, and he is a composite being rather than a mind" (Pegis, xxiv).<br /><br />Marinating on my own poetic process over the past few years, and how torn I feel about relinquishing head knowledge to body knowledge, I've often put this struggle in feminist terms. The knowledge I feel bubbling within, what my intellect begins to intuit but often strains to decipher clearly, is precisely the type of body knowledge, or knowing, that my feminist mothers' writings (Cixous, Stein, Rich, Lorde) urge the world to acknowledge, even as baby feminists such as myself struggle to accept that this knowledge is valuable.<br /><br />Confession: I have doubted. I might say I was taught to doubt, and raised on doubtful elixirs that poisoned me to the worth of my own knowing. But whatever the causes, the Doubt of my own composite nature, twin knowledges, instruments of knowing and thinking, exists. I still fight to tear it out at the roots.<br /><br />And yet, I constantly stumble upon dudes--here an old Catholic dude, no less--who sort of say, to be human--not just to be woman--is to be a knower of many things. A composite of forces.<br /><br />Here I admit this an interpretation of Aquinas based on scanty reading and no scholarship. I probably project more than a little pop Gnosticism onto it. But ride with me. I admit I am feeling my way around, toward a knowing, rather than thinking, progressing through the discrete white rooms with tables, at right angles, resisting the pencils that suggest I scratch out a proof.<br /><br />I think the reason I love poetry is that its proof is in its feeling. I'm not going to label Aquinas a feminist per se, though it IS bolstering to do a Google search of "Aquinas" + "feminism" and find that these ideas are circulating in other skulls. What I am trying to get at is the import of self-knowing. Trusting the knowledge that might come from sources other than the socially-recognized "intellect." Something that you might not have proof for (hey, we can't all be masters of philosophy), but that is intuited.<br /><br />This weekend I spent some time with <a href="http://egwellness.com/">Esther Gokhale</a>'s (Go-clay) book <span style="font-style: italic;">Eight Steps to a Pain-Free Back</span>. It ain't the <span style="font-style: italic;">Summa Theologica</span>, but it is a fantastic example of one person following the path of an intuited knowledge. In this case, a woman who suffered from excruciating back pain.<br /><br />Gokhale spent years studying what she calls "traditional" societies, such as those found in Burkina Faso, India and Portugal, where back pain, even among elderly manual laborers, is largely nonexistent. Approaching the issue through the lenses of biomechanics, photojournalism, history and anthropology, Gokhale developed a method for preventing back pain based on training the modern body to return to its pre-modern knowledge. The comparison of pre-20th century and post-20th century medical drawings of "healthy" spines speaks volumes itself.<br /><br />Basically, she shows you how to sit. And lay. And stand. And walk. And let me say—even after a day and a half of trying some of these exercises, it is amazing to feel the spine settle and the muscles release in a way that feels like a return to a sort of physical innocence. All the pictures of babies and small children doing their intuitive biomechanical thing don't hurt either.<br /><br />During one of my sitstretching sessions, Shyam asked what I was doing. After giving him the short version, he started flipping through the book--and laughing. He found the idea that babies "know" how to sit correctly to be a tad ridiculous. This at first made me angry. As anger is an umbrella emotion, I looked under that umbrella to see what was there. I found frustration, disappointment, exhaustion and sorrow. Why sorrow? Because yet again I had bounced against a fundamental lack of respect for "other" types of knowledge that I suspected (feared is perhaps the better word) could not be resolved.<br /><br />Having spent much of my life passionately defending feminist principles to audiences who were at best bemused and at worst scornful, this moment felt like another in a long series of being patted on the head and told to go back to my funny little projects. Of course I comforted myself with thoughts like, "he's just afraid of what is different and foreign to his ways of knowledge." Cold comfort, that.<br /><br />When we first met, he told me that he felt his life had been a little too Apollonian, and he needed a Dionysian influence. To my eternal amusement, I was that Dionysian influence. (Those who know my day-to-day habits will see the amusement in this.) I think maybe he was also saying, "Hey, I have my worldview, and I'm attracted to yours, which is not mine. But don't expect me to join your tribe so easily." I'm not one to change my principles on a dime either, so this was at least a meeting on the grounds of respect as well as a proverbial drawing of a line in the sand. Exciting at first. Tiring, even alienating, at other times. I will be charitable and imagine there have been moments when he's felt this same mix.<br /><br />Later in the evening, we took a walk through the neighborhood. I couldn't help taking note of the posture of the small children we passed. It was remarkable how their biomechanics were so consistent. Gait and posture were the consistent gaits and postures of new beings whose bodies know how to move, ineffably.<br /><br />Shyam teasingly asked if I was keeping track of all the babies' postures. (And in Carroll Gardens, ladies and gents, this is no mean feat.) But when we got home and I wriggled my way into another attempt at stretchsitting, he did join me in trying to sit like "a straight-backed baby."<br /><br />This was a feat of sorts, though I did wonder later whether presenting the whole idea in terms of Thomism (even if only as rhetorical device) would have expedited this process. I think I'm glad I resisted that tactic.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Photo Credit: Tamara Bonêt, <a href="http://tamarabonet.com/blog/2009/01/22/indian-woman-maiden-sculpture-wip/">"Indian Woman (Maiden) Sculpture WIP"</a></span><br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-79580873964111638822010-05-29T09:29:00.001-07:002010-05-29T14:25:40.911-07:00walking the songline<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_AXGRh3usyyix4972qd6o-LzyH-j-agoUrg4PO3FxnmVn8Q9sSHcKOYrmyFT9lV86y_12H0HX41lcIxNzNyRmW1DealaO6KdPjLkp9WsH7Oa5jbEVwo-i1tZDzSoM8Rj8h1QAc2IwhE/s1600/images-1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_AXGRh3usyyix4972qd6o-LzyH-j-agoUrg4PO3FxnmVn8Q9sSHcKOYrmyFT9lV86y_12H0HX41lcIxNzNyRmW1DealaO6KdPjLkp9WsH7Oa5jbEVwo-i1tZDzSoM8Rj8h1QAc2IwhE/s400/images-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476753674013156642" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">This weekend I am in Providence, RI, with my partner Shyam's family. Shyam's mother leaves books, magazines and news clippings throughout the house, and often there is a small pile waiting our arrival, each article addressed to its intended reader with a yellow Post-It. These articles might be notices of school, church or shop closings, notices of weddings or passings of classmates or neighbors from the "old" neighborhood. For me, there are usually recipes, general interest articles about things French (today, a piece on the delight that is the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macaron">macaron</a>) or fashion spreads. These clippings both flatter and charm me with a version of myself, as seen by Shyam's mom—in no small part because of the way these themes repeat in my own family's understanding of things I love. Perhaps the taxonomic ordering of identity, at the hands of a family member, is all the more special for the way particularities are framed--like curio cabinets, these clippings feeds us with shadows of ourselves, seen.<br /><br />At the same time, these small signs of familiarity are a self-perpetuating phenomenon. Clippings on political correctness, perhaps one of my traits that Shyam finds (among others, I'm sure) trying at times, never make their way into these piles. Nor do clippings on radical political insurgencies, or the progress of the Khmer Rouge trials. I imagine in part because these interests of mine are not the kind any of my family members necessarily wishes for me...but then what parent or friend really wishes tragedy, violence or mundane hatreds to be in their loved one's world? As a younger adult I tended to view this kindness as a rejection of sorts. Today I think I begin to peer through another prism of the dodecahedron that is the ways of love, and am grateful.<br /><br />Of course, I have friends whose parents' lives have been dedicated to radical social and political work, who prefer to recognize these strains of common interest in their children, rather than petty bourgeois inclinations. This, too, is a way of love—a self-loving self looking for self in future generations. I would imagine self almost always finds some strain of that shared family self, too, if one is looking thoroughly. I don't find this impulse to be negative, though I can understand why some might find it creepy, but one of the human drives characteristic of the parenting principle—of which teaching, if not other forms of social parenting, is certainly included.<br /><br />Are not the selves we construct, the qualities we've developed on our own, not the values we often value for our children (wrongly or rightly) as well? All the more loving, then, when that child's combination of departures from and alliances with the family fold (for there is always this tangle) are recognized.<br /><br />But what if I were to depart from this psycho-semiological mumbo-jumbo for one cotton-pickin' second, and consider these departures and alliances from another perspective? On the bedside table in the bedroom we often sleep in chez Oberoi, I found a copy of Christopher J. Moore's book <span style="font-style: italic;">In</span> Other<span style="font-style: italic;"> Words</span>, an editorial compendium of words that are difficult, if not impossible, to translate, and what translation (however slant) reveals both to and about the translator. In the introduction, Moore mentions the Aranda* word for dreaming, <span style="font-style: italic;">aljerre</span>.<br /><blockquote>For Indigenous Australians, dreaming is a vital way of holding the created world together. British author Bruce Chatwin writes, "Aboriginal myths tell of the legendary totemic beings who wandered across the country in the Dreamtime . . . singing the world into existence." If a tribe's Keeper of the Dreaming fails to carry out his or her "dreaming" task, walking the songlines that put the world together, the Earth as we know it would come to an end. (14)<br /></blockquote>"Tribe" is a term not infrequently employed as a synonym for "family" (at least, by me). I spoke with one of the Keepers of the Malloy Dreaming (my father) yesterday. He had been on summer vacation from his teaching job for a whole two days, and our conversation went something like this:<br /><blockquote>M: What're you up to?<br />D: Oh, just enjoying the heck out of myself, playing in the yard. . .<br />M: Any plans for the summer?<br />D: Well, I'm taking a trip next week to go visit some folks I haven't seen in a while.<br />M: Oh? Who's that? Where're you going?<br />D: Taking the bike [read: motorcyle] out to Texas and Oklahoma for a few days. I'm going to catch up with my dad's brother, Bobby, and see my old commander at Fort Sill.<br /></blockquote>I can count on one hand the number of trips my father has made without his beloved life-partner, my beloved step-mother, in the twenty years they've been together. I can count on one finger the number of times I've heard any mention of a Great Uncle Bobby. That would be during the conversation, loosely transcribed above.<br /><br />My father and his siblings have been estranged (by choice) from my grandfather (now long deceased) and his family (more or less) since before I was born. There are histories of abuse that run long and deep, about which I know only a little, but which I felt composed a steady-but-minor theme in our family songline. My reaction to the news of this Uncle Bobby, and my father's impending trek on a 20th-century horse through the tumbleweed-y landscapes of Texas and Oklahoma, echoed otherwise.<br /><br />Astonishing! This image of my father, a figure of a man almost wholly unknown to me, taking off for such an adventure, with characters to whom I am apparently connected . . . and yet not. The writer in me immediately was envious. I commented to Shyam that I wanted to be a camera trained on my father during his trip—I wanted to read his reactions, feel the landscape, interpret and know this Great Uncle Bobby through my father's eyes. All of which is not only impossible, but proprietary and perhaps creepy in the ways that children can be creepily proprietary of their parents.<br /><br />And yet . . . I like to think that underneath these knee-jerk immaturities, the excitement I feel for my father's trip is one born of love—the same sort of love that makes my father demand I order in French when he takes me to a French restaurant. For him, pride in my capabilities express love. For me, the drive to know everything (creepy or not).<br /><br />My father is walking the songline of <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> life, and the song will change in ways that touch, but do not include, me. Probably in ways I will never understand, even remotely. But him following his songline shows me how we continue to put the world together—parent and child, teacher and student—simultaneously. It also shows me the ends of a child's egoism—where the belief that the child's songline somehow becomes the entirety of the song—bleeds into an orchestra of Keepers young, old and—like Great Uncle Bobby—shadow.<br /><br /><br />*Caveat lector: For readers who, like me, have a bad tendency of demonstrating their minds when traveling or at urbane parties, I couldn't find any specific mention of a language called Aranda, but a list of languages spoken by the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arrernte">Arrente</a> people for whom the Aranda district of Australia was named. Lord knows that Wikipedia should never be used as one's primary definitive source, but it is often mine.<br /><br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-81292256369877912212010-05-23T06:43:00.000-07:002010-05-29T14:23:24.444-07:00whose soul is not a clod has visions<blockquote>FROM A PLAY: A PUBLISHER'S SONG<br /><br />I lie in the bath and I contemplate the toilet-paper.<br />Scottissue, 1000 sheets—<br /> What a lot of pissin and shittin,<br /> What a lot of pissin and shittin,<br />Enough for the poems of Shelley and Keats—<br />All the poems of Shelley and Keats.<br /><br />—Muriel Rukeyser</blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">My dear teacher and friend, <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/63">Jan Heller Levi</a>, introduced me to this Rukeyser gem a few months ago. This morning, spent in near-raptures with Keats' "The Fall of Hyperion," I couldn't help but think of Rukeyser's <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uB6zkwZYKtJ-uIsvuf25t3j4JTe2j5cTd9ljs6yJgWJNUHJCJxkQYTanoESTm0wh5-9BZgJrBDuIXo5mZnNJy6WPqqdeiTs4CLUNtcgXUEQRSuU1JRaXf5HUMvS59MXD4bq2JcS76Hw/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 114px; height: 114px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uB6zkwZYKtJ-uIsvuf25t3j4JTe2j5cTd9ljs6yJgWJNUHJCJxkQYTanoESTm0wh5-9BZgJrBDuIXo5mZnNJy6WPqqdeiTs4CLUNtcgXUEQRSuU1JRaXf5HUMvS59MXD4bq2JcS76Hw/s400/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476805280530301378" border="0" /></a>seeming-condemnation of Keats' work. I also couldn't help but wonder whether a 1,000 sheet roll would be enough to scrawl out the 530 lines of "<a href="http://www.john-keats.com/gedichte/the_fall_of_hyperion.htm">The Fall of Hyperion</a>" in my rapidly-degenerating script. (Note: will try this later. Rainy Sundays and railroad apartments were made for such tasks.)<br /><br />I don't know enough about Rukeyser to say whether she despised the poems of Shelley and Keats, or whether this poem is more of a statement on the disposable, compost-able, ever-recyclable nature of poetries. This morning I lean toward the latter interpretation. For years I found Keats excessive, his lyric cloying in its enthrallment with sensuous beauty. Mayhaps—yeshaps—because I fight <a href="http://www.bloodorangereview.com/v4-4/malloy_ceo.htm">my own inner Romantic </a>constantly. Like a man with a pretty mouth and pockets full of <a href="http://www.goetzecandy.com/index.cfm?page=caramel_creams">Goetze's caramel creams</a>, Keats gave me the high I was most susceptible to—seasons of melancholy mists sweetened by mellow fruitfulnes, that chatty urn chanting, to the beat of my aesthete heart: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty [.]"<br /><br />And then, "The Fall of Hyperion." I mean, SERIOUSLY, ya'll. This fragment-poem is described by Harold Bloom as Keats turning away from the "sentimentality" he felt drove earlier poems such as "Ode to a Nightingale." Yet, the question that ends "Nightingale"—"Was it a vision, or a waking dream? / Fled is that music—Do I wake or sleep?"—rings similarly throughout "The Fall of Hyperion," with a marked shift in the question's underlying anxieties. Keats' speaker in "Fall" takes the waking dream as a given—"Fanatics have their dreams" and "the savage too," but now the question is not whether the vision is to be doubted, but whether it can be written: "pity these have not / Traced upon vellum or wild Indian leaf / The Shadows of melodious utterance" (4-6). But most importantly—whether these visions may be written in ways that "save / Imagination from the sable charm / And dumb enchantment" (9-10).<br /><br />The introductory stanza goes on to posit, in a surprisingly democratic manner (at least, in my shamelessly ahistorical reading), that anyone "whose soul is not a clod" indeed has the vision and drive to "speak, if he had loved" (in the way Keats thought love to mean something similar to Simone Weil's famous injunction, "Absolute unmixed attention is prayer," and the fruit of that prayer poetry). That is, "if he had loved, / And been well nurtured in his mother tongue" (14-15)—and what a tremendously important distinction that is!<br /><br />Reading Keats in such a way takes me back to Rukeyser's riposte, and socially-conscious poems (such as "<a href="http://poemhunter.blogspot.com/2007/05/ballad-of-orange-and-grape.html">The Ballad of Orange and Grape</a>") that ask difficult questions—and make grim insinuations—about what happens when one is not "well nurtured" by any tongue, mother or not. Do the "great" poems then become shit-smeared sheets because of illiteracy? Or is it the forward progress of poets, a progress Keats' "Fall of Hyperion" gestures to in spirit at least, that allows old visions to become fertilizer—that which, in their decomposition, foster the future?<br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-88550083654670225152008-09-22T10:12:00.001-07:002008-09-23T06:34:36.632-07:00Patriot, Patria, Pater...quid est?Barring errors in the pathetic bit of Latin I can still pull up, the title of this blog summarizes (via a bad language proof) a big thing that's on my mind these days.<br /><br />I should preface this by noting: I am currently back in the academic fold, and loving every bleeding second of it. A friend asked me how the program was going, and the only image that I could come up with was that of a lover you can't stand to be away from. Fortunately for me and my colleagues, I am relatively well-adjusted about love. I can and do stand being away--but the passion does not abate. Ah, intellectual masturbation, artistic flagellation, how I do love thee.<br /><br />A characteristic of being back in the academic fold is that, once again, I spend time with people who think seriously about things like poetry, ethics, etc. Not always at the same time, of course. I would never claim that everyone in my program were involved in grassroots movements or even registered to vote. (Well, they better be registered to vote.) But, in general, these are people who do think about their relation to their country--whether that thinking takes the forms of righteous indignation, fear and loathing, anxiety, etc. (Times are tough, kids. Few apple-cheeked flag-fliers in these parts, these days.)<br /><br />So, I do feel a little guilty blogging about what I happen to know people are actually thinking about it. To save you, dear reader, and myself the ignominy of trudging through yet another tortuous blog entry on pent-up liberal angst, I'm going to cut right to the chase:<br /><br />What is patriotism?<br /><br />I asked S. this yesterday, while suffering another weepy bout of self-serving sorrow and fear that the country is barreling down a mountain in the dark, headed right for a granite wall. The sorrow is self-serving, as I observed to S., because it is predicated on a sense of entitlement that I am not sure I am right to feel. After all, why should I feel entitled to freedom, health care, the right to choose what goes on with my girl bits, peace, etc.? In a true democracy, it is my fellow countrypersons who, along with myself, design the parameters of our rights. We have the guidance of just over 200 years of government, an old document called the Constitution that we (used to) take pretty seriously and a whole bunch of conflicting viewpoints vying for a voice to guide us.<br /><br />So, whither this sense of entitlement? Is it that I never was good at group projects, or is it that the idea of sublimating my beliefs to the 51% of Americans who (so far) appear to believe Sarah Palin is qualified to be the next president REALLY bothers me?<br /><br />Being a child of the so-labeled "<a href="http://www.boston.com/news/globe/magazine/articles/2007/09/30/the_new_me_generation/">Entitlement Generation</a>" by the hair of my chinny-chin-born-in-'79-chin, I tend to flagellate myself about the tendency to "expect" too much. Though, if I realize that my expectations may not be "fair" or "justified," I tend to wonder if I really can be lumped in with that crowd. It's hard for me to say. But, I am working under the assumption of responsibility for my generation. Let's carry on.<br /><br />Lately I feel that I am experiencing a second adolescence, where my country is my parent and I am the disillusioned, angry, idealistic teen. I feel that I am seeing my father-land with clearer, older eyes, and the child within is angry, hurt and righteously indignant in the face of the perceived injustices acted upon me by this so-called father.<br /><br />I am horrified by the war(s) perpetuated by the hands of those who do not fight.<br /><br />I am horrified by the looming threat(s) and ever-slippery legislation challenging the one right I never expected I'd have to fear losing (i.e. Roe v. Wade).<br /><br />I am horrified that my mother is racking up debt so she can afford to buy her medication during the "donut hole" days.<br /><br />I am sickened that our country thinks less of its children's health and welfare than it does of its old-boy networks of oil greed.<br /><br />I am disgusted BEYOND disgust at the mockery of progressive-ism (is that an -ism?) that is Sarah Palin's nomination.<br /><br />And underneath all of these jolting energies is a profound sorrow. It feels similar to the sorrow I experienced years ago after my first adolescence, unpacking the baggage I carried from my short history as a subject in the Kingdom of My Parents, whose parental choices were not always good, whose luck also was not always good, and who had the audacity of being (gasp!) human.<br /><br />It's the sorrow that recognizes the vulnerability of the child I was, or say the citizen I was. It's the sorrow that weeps to realize that while my "father" and "fatherland" have not acted against "me" on purpose, they definitely acted against the guiding principle of "father"hood -- that of caring for and protecting one's "child." (I am throwing quotes around because when I compare my feelings toward the country to those toward my parents, I am not addressing specifically my father, just the idea of the father.)<br /><br />Growing up in a military family, I was trained to never ask what my country could do for me, but what I could do for my country. After all, my country was the best place on earth. Just ask my dad. Just ask his tee-shirts that swore he'd fly 10,000 miles to "smoke a camel jockey."<br /><br />And I loved my country, the way a child loves her perhaps-politically-misguided father--without questioning the validity of that love, with the blind trust that marks all of our childhood attachments to caretakers.<br /><br />Deep down, I am ashamed to be taking my country to task for its wrongs in the same way I have been ashamed to take my parents to task for past wrongs. The main difference here is that my parents are human, while the country is humanoid. Created by and run by humans, but lacking the appendages and faculties by which healing most easily occurs (i.e. an intellect and heart, a mouth for communicating, arms for hugging), a country has only time by which to heal the wounds of past mistakes.<br /><br />The dominant American rhetoric regarding post-adolescent angst and anger at parents can be summarized in two phrases: get over it, and/or get a shrink. There is a certain amount of validity to each point, though we all know the timeline for "getting over it" varies widely. It depends on personality. It depends on the parent. But most particularly, it depends on the history, and the graveness of the wrongs--are we talking about not having much freedom to go to parties, or abuse?<br /><br />I would like to ask Asian-Americans how they feel about WWII internment camps. Has the wrong been assuaged? If so, what accomplished that? Was it time? The fact that their grandparents who remembered the injustice are dead? Because everyone around them (the aggregate intellect and heart that is the base of a country) said it was sorry? Because they got a shrink and just got over it?<br /><br />I digress. There are so many digressions possible here.<br /><br />Returning to the point: entitlement. Does one have a right to feel a sense of entitlement toward one's country? Do Asian-Americans have a right to feel that they deserve(d) reparations for the wrongs of internment? <a href="http://www.upne.com/1-58465-648-4.html">Peter Levine'</a>s book, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Future of Democracy: Developing the Next Generation of American Citizens</span> helps confront this question:<br /><blockquote>Patriotism is a love of country. For most people, it is not a passionate and exclusive and life-altering love. It's more like love for a blood relative, perhaps an aunt. It doesn't involve choice. It doesn't require a tremendously high estimate of the object's intrinsic qualities. (You may admire Mother Teresa more than your Aunt Theresa, but it is the latter you love.) It implies a sense of obligation, including the obligation to understand and be interested in the object. It also implies a sense of entitlement: you can expect your own aunt, or your nation, to help you in ways that others need not. Both the obligation and the entitlement arise because of a sense of identification, a "we-ness," a seeing of yourself in the object and vice versa. (Levine, 146)<br /></blockquote>According to Levine (and to a little etymological game-playing with the Latin root <span style="font-style: italic;">pater</span>), maybe this sense of entitlement isn't something about which I should feel shame. Maybe it's actually the mechanism by which patriotism actually works--where "obligation and entitlement" are the two-sides of the tug-o'-war that is the democratic We in action.<br /><br />When I was living in France, and John Mellancamp saved me from despondent hours by bringing a bit of Americana into my apartment, was that like getting a letter from Aunt Theresa? Was it a way of soldering the tie that binds, building my sense of obligation by fulfilling the needs to which I have become entitled by virtue of my citizenship?<br /><br />These are big questions. I will continue noodling over this.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-25416802088297998502008-09-14T06:03:00.001-07:002008-09-14T06:41:59.609-07:00Consider the LobsterToday is a sad day. I read in the news this morning that writer and thinker David Foster Wallace committed suicide Friday, September 12th. This marks the first time since Benazir Bhutto was assassinated that I have actually cried while reading/hearing the news. I almost cried when I read about Palin's nomination, and have almost cried every day since details about her platform and her history have emerged. But those were almost-tears of political frustration, disappointment and fear future-tense. This is different. My feelings about Wallace's suicide are those of grief and loss.<br /><br />A few of the reasons this loss resonates so deeply:<br /><ol><li>Wallace was young. 46.<br /></li><li>I loved his writing, in particular his essays. His writing entertained, challenged and opened my mind in a way few contemporary essayists have done.<br /></li><li>The world of American letters cannot afford to lose such a mind right now. Ever. But especially so young.</li></ol>Part of me is angry. I'm angry because Wallace's nonfiction writing gave me hope, and I want more. I'm angry because it gave me comfort, and I think it gave comfort to other American writers/thinkers who are bewildered and aghast with the state of our country, both culturally and politically. Perhaps part of this comfort was the sign that live, creative intellects are hard at work, interrogating not only the "high" culture of literature, but also the culture that produced said intellect. He was not only writing avant garde literature--he was an American writer thinking seriously about facets of his/our culture.<br /><br />Suicide is the ultimate incomprehensibility, for myself at least. It is a negation whose profundity has no edges in the dark night of possible negations. It is the ink well, that once spilled, is spilt, irrevocably.<br /><br />Yesterday S. and I watched <span style="font-style: italic;">Wings of Desire</span>. It was the first time I had watched the whole film at once, without falling alseep, in spite of my dear friend C.A.'s attempts to the contrary in college. I can't believe I ever fell asleep watching this film. I may need to watch it again, if only to take comfort in Damiel and Cassiel's sorrow before human suffering's mundanities and extremes.<br /><br />I am full of the echo of Cassiel's cry, "Nein!," when the young man with headphones jumps to his death off the roof. In the background, two people urgently rattle the gate separating them from the young man, their mouths contorted as they yell at him--ostensibly trying to dissuade him from his alluded act. Neither Cassiel nor the man can hear them, as Cassiel hears only the man's thoughts, and the man hear's only his thoughts and his music.<br /><br />No part of me wonders what D.F.W. was thinking when he hanged himself Friday. That is a romanticization (in the purest sense) that I feel would be a betrayal of the greater calamity of the act. All I can see in my mind's eye is the emptiness of the room around him, how the vitality and energy must have been sucked out of it. How his wife's stomach must have fallen even before she entered the room, sensing the here-not-hereness that is being in the presence of the dead. But I cannot continue even this train of thought. Read not the romantic here: read only horror, confusion and sadness.<br /><br />Today there is everything that there was yesterday, less at least one. Less more than one, but less one that lends me, particularly, the sense of what can be lost between sunrise and sunset. <br /><br />If you, too, need comforting, there are many people voicing their feelings along the same lines on blogs around the Internet. Here's just one link to a line of comments where I found sorrowful <a href="http://gawker.com/5049526/david-foster-wallace-dead-of-suicide-at-46">community</a>.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-24101560058388425742008-09-01T07:47:00.000-07:002008-09-01T08:09:01.141-07:00Overmuch Update.Well, campers, it's September 1st. Happy Labor Day! Happy farewell to white shoes! Happy barbecue and beer drinking!<br /><br />And, happy update on the month spent trying to avoid overmuch.<br /><br />How did it go? Here's the recap:<br /><br />A) We ate out less, and I spent more time at the gym--membership for which was already paid. Result? I lost three pounds, and am better at push-ups than I was a month ago. That wasn't precisely the goal, but I ain't complaining. The proportion of my upper body strength to lower body torque is distressingly high, and I worry about having to hang from a skyscraper rooftop one day. Step one toward surviving a rooftop fight with assassins: <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">GOLD<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">.</span></span><br /><br />B) I read more newspapers and journal articles...on-line. Of course, the semester started last week, so I dropped way too much money on books. But they are for school. So even though that sort of plays into the "bigger, better, faster, more" progress model, the fact that I study poetry offsets the potential pitfall with its high rating on the chart of economically-useless-pursuits. Result: <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">SILVER</span>.<br /><br />C) Shopping. Uh, well that could have gone better. However, I am proud to say that I purchased only a few items for the "school year," and did return the one outrageously-priced pair of jeans that I could not, under any circumstances, justify keeping. I mean, I only even wear jeans two days a week max (can you say Saturday and Sunday?). So even though I was feeling smug about losing three pounds, I fought off the desire to offset that accomplishment by succumbing to fashion affluenza. Result. <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">BRONZE</span>. Good try.<br /><br />D) I learned to make three kinds of Korean banchan, including white radish kimchi. Not only did I preserve vegetables that might otherwise have perished for future consumption...I earned major international points with my friend S.Y. She told me I am now an honorary Korean. Wow! Who would have thought that putting down the affluenza tip would lead to global unity? Result:<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> GOLD</span>.<br /><br />Now that the experiment is over, I hope to continue to practice avoiding the affluenza bunny. This will be challenging, as I've been designated fashion coordinator for my sister's wedding. Granted, it's her money and not mine. But I am already wrestling with how absurd it is to justify $200 heels. . .even if you can dye them and use them again. And wrestle is not too strong a word, my friends--I can see very persuasive arguments on both sides. After all, if you find Vera Wang dyeables marked down from $400, and you know you can consider it a business wardrobe investment (my sister is a soon-to-be lawyer, who will indubitably need cocktail attire in her professional future). . .does the tax write-off balance out the excess?<br /><br />And if a poetry anthology drops on your foot but your partner is asleep . . . does he hear you yelp?<br /><br />Back to work. Probably will be less consistent in posting for the next few months, but in the immortal words of the governor of California: I'll be back.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-61749681148849728092008-08-14T10:54:00.001-07:002008-08-15T09:40:02.218-07:00Lemon Yellow LightThe news is <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/15/world/europe/15georgia.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin">bad</a>, kids. BAD. Russia is pulling a sneaky-pete with South Ossetia and Abkhazia, and yours truly is frankly worried.<br /><br />Some of you know I tend to be a bit of a Cassandra. Or, Chicken Little, if you will. I will preface this comment with that excuse: I am concerned that Medvedev and Putin have a plan to try out some Soviet-era domination schemes. I'm concerned that this will happen during a time when the prevailing global police force (i.e. the U.S.) is too overextended, over-compromised and overwhelmed with domestic issues to possibly consider any sort of grand army march over bad intentions. Then I'm concerned that I'm even thinking this way, because I'm ALSO concerned that we (the U.S.) play police too frequently. And THEN I think about all the bad jokes I've heard involving European nations, and the reasons they are all still conducting their governments in their native tongues and not German....and I wonder.<br /><br />Fear mongering works, as you can see. I'm conducting my own self-experiment to determine just how successful fear-mongering is in America. To date, here are the suspect behaviors I have that, I feel, are influenced by fear-mongering:<br /><ol><li><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I have </span>rental insurance</span>. And yes, I paid extra for electronics coverage, even though I've never been a victim of a fire, flood or break-in. And no, I will not cancel it, despite clearly seeing the apparatus that makes the insurance machine tick hard at work. Because I'm afraid of <span style="font-style: italic;">what if</span>.</li><li><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I </span>quit smoking.</span> Years ago. And I bug S. to quit smoking, because I'm convinced he will die. This is not an irrational fear--I watched my grandmother die of lung cancer. It's not good, and the research doesn't (always) lie. However, I cannot control what my darling does. I can only sigh ponderously and make weepy doe-eyes at him every time he lights up, hoping this will persuade him to think about <span style="font-style: italic;">what if</span>.</li><li>I'm unhappy if I do not have <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">vegetables or fruit <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">in a meal</span>.</span> Because MY GOD people, do you REALIZE what havoc that can cause? </li><li>When I travel abroad, I spend more time planning out <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">safety </span>than planning our itineraries. This to me is a shameful, shameful admission. What a waste of time and energy! I still manage to slice off a finger, bruise a muscle crucial to the walking process or catch a cold everywhere we go. The fact that I cannot accept that it is my destiny to be clumsy abroad is like something out of Beckett. I spend hours searching for collapsible finger splints and slip-safe shoes only to twist an ankle randomly in a sidewalk crack. But.....<span style="font-style: italic;">what if</span> that penicillin prescription <span style="font-style: italic;">were</span> necessary?</li><li>I <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">notice bags left unattended</span>. EVERYWHERE. Thank you, MTA.<br /></li></ol>Because, indeed: what if.<br /><br />Now, I'm not about to come full circle and suggest that we should all ignore Russian hijinks and fear-mongering, that we should throw insurance policies and vegetables to the wind (though I do think insurance is the oddest invention yet for controlling the middle class) and take to the streets for ice cream. No. But I do think a little reflection is warranted.<br /><br />I don't feel we can ignore history while contemplating skirmishes such as the one emerging in Georgia's provinces, or the ones (oops!) we're up to our necks in in the Middle East. Too much has been ignored already, and I fear that we are setting ourselves up for some colossal troubles as a nation and as a world. (There's that word fear again....)<br /><br />World War I was started by the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. I remember that from World History class in high school. I also remember what my history teacher repeated ad infinitum about every conflict we studied: tensions had been mounting. <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">TENSIONS HAD BEEN MOUNTING.</span> Is it just me, or have tensions been mounting for years?<br /><br />Okay, that seems self-serving, doesn't it? Just because the U.S. has been involved in a war for six years doesn't necessarily mean that global tensions have been mounting. So is it just my paranoia speaking? Is it the comic-book-caper in my mind that whispers, "Watch out for Russia...they're waiting until you're weak so they can strike!"<br /><br />It's not Russia...particularly. It's world politics at large. Paul Krugman's <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/15/opinion/15krugman.html?em">editorial</a> today summed up what I'm trying to articulate, in a way that an econ professor at Princeton can do way better than moi. He gives a fruitful (if abbreviated) reading of J.M. Keyenes' 1919 comments regarding the state of the British economy and the resulting psychology of the urban British citizen, who firmly believed the world around him could not come crumbling down. He makes the following point toward the end of the essay:<br /><blockquote>"So are the foundations of the second global economy any more solid than those of the first? In some ways, yes. For example, war among the nations of Western Europe really does seem inconceivable now, not so much because of economic ties as because of shared democratic values.<br /><br />Much of the world, however, including nations that play a key role in the global economy, doesn’t share those values. Most of us have proceeded on the belief that, at least as far as economics goes, this doesn’t matter — that we can count on world trade continuing to flow freely simply because it’s so profitable. But that’s not a safe assumption."</blockquote>Word to your mother, peeps. I've been thinking this for years (albeit in less eloquent form) and am privately convinced that my diligent contributions to my 401K are really less important than my ability to forage for edible greens.<br /><br />Of course, now I'm curious whether his striking a chord with me makes him a Chicken Little, too. Fortunately or unfortunately, I've never been one to ignore my gut sense of things. I suppose we'll see.<br /><br />And what does this have to do with lemon yellow light? Nothing directly. But isn't it a nice way to ice a terrible situation? Repeat that phrase to yourself a few times and see if you don't feel a tad better. It's like a linguistic cupcake.<br /><br />Good night, and....well, you know. Good luck.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-74877773718117685192008-08-04T09:56:00.001-07:002008-08-04T12:02:37.913-07:00Wow.When I started this blog, I was determined to keep my politicizing largely out of it. I know I am prone to getting up on my soapbox, and in general prefer to reserve my indignant, self-righteous diatribes for S. (lucky man!).<br /><br />But--and this is a big but--but today, I read Maureen Dowd's <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/03/opinion/03dowd.html?em">column</a> on Obama and could no longer resist. The thing about Dowd that irks me can be summed up in this editorial. It's not that she's stupid. She's not, though occasionally I find her logic lacking. It's not that she's a bad writer. She's not! It's that she has a way of writing editorial that sets my blood cold, usually by applying inept metaphor and/or offending my politics.<br /><br />Now, you can't take someone to task for offending your politics. That is the right of a writer, and in this country, the right of us all. But would it hurt so much to adopt a tad more of the finesse of David Brooks (who, as my friend S.M. so perfectly stated, is the only conservative a radical liberal intellectual can have a crush on)? Would it hurt to THINK for two seconds about what her message really is?<br /><br />Today's editorial is a strong example (perhaps the strongest) of her stylistic wont to annoy. She uses a sloppy comparison between Jane Austen's <span style="font-style: italic;">Pride and Prejudice</span> and our presidential candidates to (ostensbily) tease out some of Senator Obama's shortcomings with blue-collar women voters. I'm guessing its with blue-collar workers primarily. It's hard to be really sure from the essay, which bandies about references to "feminists" and "mac-n-cheese"-eating blue-collar woman in the same breath. Are these the same women? Are they different demographics? Is "mac-n-cheese-eater" a real category?<br /><br />I love Jane Austen. I love PBS for loving Jane Austen, and I love the dickens (pun intended) out of any actor who's played even a wee bit part in a film adaptation based on any of her fine novels. And perhaps one of the first things I learned about Jane Austen whence first a copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Emma</span> came my way, was that Ms. Austen was British. That's right, British. As in, NOT American. And what did she write about? Comedies of manners involving nineteenth-century <span style="font-weight: bold;">British</span> society.<br /><br />So, let's check out this parallel Dowd makes between Mr. Darcy and Barack Obama. Beginning with their height and slimness, she then extrapolates from "a prayer to the Lord at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, a note that was snatched out and published" to the fact that Obama is all too aware of his own propensity for pride. (This is a grave American crime, apparently. So grave that it, in fact, is British.)<br /><br />Might it be that the savvy politician suspected his prayer would be so desecrated, and thus chose a spin that would help offset concerns the American people might have with his audacity to be black, educated and opinionated? No, of course not. Clearly, this is just the first step in the epistolary struggle between Darbama and Ameribeth, with America fronting as Elizabeth Bennett, in all her " spirited, playful, democratic, financially strained" glory.<br /><br />I just ate lunch. I don't really know if I can muster the energy to unpack the ballyhoo that is this metaphor. But I will give a fighting shot at at least this much: perhaps comparing blue-collar, mac-n-cheese-eating feminists to Elizabeth Bennett is a tad . . . well . . . daft. Elizabeth Bennett was spirited, playful, financially strained and caught up in certain prejudices. But democratic?<br /><br />Please, Maureen. Please give me a close textual response illuminating how Ms. Bennett was democratic. Because in my reading, she's a feminist, perhaps even a liberal -- but never a proponent of democracy. She demands equal franchise between the sexes, and expects a partner who respects her mind and opinion. BUT SHE SAYS NOTHING AGAINST THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND. She does not mention the vote, she does not mention suffrage. She never suggests holding an emergency session in the Houses of Lords and Commons for a restructuring of the patriarchal model that requires daughters to obey their fathers. In fact, there is the textual suggestion that had her father demanded she accept her first proposal to Cousin Collins, she may have acquiesced . . . or been out in the streets, on her fine, British arse.<br /><br />Please, for the love of your Lord (you know, the one who didn't mind when Obama's PRAYER was swiped from its resting place), consider your metaphors. This editorial appears like the result of a quick session on the laptop after a long brunch. (One with mimosas. Lots of them.) Perhaps, at this mimosa-laden brunch, you had been discussing your love of Jane Austen, and your secret attraction to Obama's embodiment of the very qualities that make Mr. Darcy a toothsome bit of literary man. Perhaps you then thought of macaroni and cheese, and then perhaps read yet another distorted blog post claiming feminists are turning against Obama out of defiance. Perhaps you lastly thought, sighing, "well, isn't that just like a Jane Austen novel. 'Twhatever shall become of these lovers?"<br /><br />Perhaps you didn't think at all, beyond the assumption that female readers of your column might appreciate this literary nod to their stereotyped proclivities, and that just maybe they'd consider Obama for the presidency.<br /><br />My main question, though, is whether the whole thing is but a mish-mash. We all are curious about whether we can, as a country, overcome our terrible history of prejudice. But are you trying to be supportive of Obama by comparing him to Mr. Darcy, or are you trying to put yet another doubt in the mac-n-cheese-eaters' mouths? 'Cuz frankly, I don't see how suggesting Obama is a noble Brit will help his cause at all.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-12106255688888029712008-08-02T12:20:00.001-07:002008-08-04T06:33:15.495-07:00Overmuch by How Much?I think I've been looking at the etching of "Excess," personified in the being of a pale, fleshy woman who looks maybe a tad too much like me for comfort, for too many days. Maybe I'm starting to see myself in this etching because excess has got me down. Regardless, Monday I will have to find a new bugaboo.<br /><br />But today is Saturday, my chickadees, and tomorrow is Sunday. And you know what Sunday's children are full of: being fair and wise and good and gay. (And...oh, never mind.)<br /><br />So in my effort to harness a touch of the fairness, wisdom, goodness and gayness that must mark the lucky child of Sunday, I want to find a way out of the excess mess.<br /><br />It started Friday when I read Judith Warner's<a href="http://warner.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/07/31/camp-codependence/?em"> editorial</a> in the NY Times, reprising an article earlier this week about affluent parents' behavior (specifically, their difficulty letting go of control of their children, their demand for exceptional attention and their flagrant disregard for rules).<br /><br />The latter article caught my attention because, as a teenager, I worked two summers as a camp counselor at the glorious <a href="http://www.ffgc.org/youth/camp_wekiva.html">Camp Wekiva</a> in Florida. Camp Wekiva was the farthest from a $10K-a-week camp that you could possibly get. The benevolent members of the Florida Federation of Garden Clubs personally saw to it that children in need had the chance to apply for scholarships, and even for those who did pay full-kitty. . .it wasn't pricey.<br /><br />My experience as a camp counselor was a fairly idyllic experience, marked by skinny-dipping with other counselors while my junior counselor tended to our bed-wetting wards, confiscating cigarettes from a few plucky campers and occasionally writing snarky nature haiku.<br /><blockquote><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">N.B. </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">To my dear friend T.E., I will never forget your prize-winning haiku, nor our chants to the spirit of the sacred titmouse.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Boom goes the sand pine<br />onto the soft forest floor.<br />Deforestation!<br /></div></blockquote>During my tenure, only one experience still stands out to me--and it wasn't a pushy parent. Rather, it was a camper who, the eve before her session ended, woke with night terrors so severe that she crawled under the bunk, clung to the bed coils and refused to come out.<br /><br />We had to wake the head of the camp, as no group of terrified 15- to 18-year-olds is equipped to handle such a situation. By the time they were able to pull her out from under the bed, one of her fingers was broken from her grip on the coils. I have never in my life seen such terror in a child. The worst part, of course, was that it turned out that her estranged father, a suspected child-molester no less, was picking her up from camp the next day. And the camp had no choice but to release her to her father's care, per the mother's specifications. That's right, ladies and gents. When the head of the camp called her the next morning to see if perhaps she could fetch her daughter instead (given the broken finger, night-terrors, suspected diddling and what-have-you), the mother refused, and was annoyed by the request.<br /><br />So, when I read about overly-concerned parents, it doesn't exactly rub me the wrong way. I've never had to deal with them, give or take a few stroller-wars on the sidewalks of Brooklyn, and even if I gripe about their gross sense of their child's entitlement (to, say, lay on a busy CITY sidewalk to better explore cement), it could be much, much worse.<br /><br />The children, after all, are our future. And no one knows that better than a crack-smoker, isn't that right, Whitney?<br /><br />Ahem. I digress.<br /><br />Warner's editorial addresses the effect of "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Affluenza">affluenza</a>" on parenting, and considers the potential problems said-parenting promises the future. Her argument is that certain groups of affluent parents cannot merely stop at showing their children all the beauty they possess inside. No, nor can they merely teach them well, then let them lead the way. (<a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/whitneyhouston/greatestloveofall.html">I'm sorry, Whitney, but it's too easy.</a>) Instead, they inculcate expectations of privilege and exception based on purchasing power.<br /><br />I was familiar with the "affluenza" term, but I had never read the exact definition of affluenza. I will share, thanks to my good friend Wiki:<br /><b></b><blockquote><b><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">affluenza</span><br /></b><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">n.</span> a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">n.</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> 1.</span> The bloated, sluggish and unfulfilled feeling that results from efforts to keep up with the Joneses. <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> 2.</span> An epidemic of stress, <span class="mw-redirect">overwork</span>, waste and indebtedness caused by the pursuit of the American Dream. <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> 4.</span> An unsustainable addiction to economic growth.</blockquote>You mean, Doctor, there's<span style="font-style: italic;"> a</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">name </span>for it? Condition of overload, debt, anxiety and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more.<br /><br />I really thought for a long time that this was the description of living in New York. I didn't realize it was an actual socio-psychological DISEASE. But seriously, pathologizing this phenomenon makes me feel better. It actually gives me hope that the particular malaise I fall into occasionally (say, after buying three pairs of shoe on sale), is not just me being crazy. That there actually is ill-effect to be had by the pursuit of overmuch.<br /><br />For a while, I thought it was class guilt. I have a tense relationship with shopping....as an inveterate fashion-whore and general aesthete, I can't help but care about clothing (for example). As a reader and bibliophile, I cannot resist having (too) many books. Yet, I notice that after making many purchases (say, the week the toaster breaks, the luggage we've been wanting for years goes on sale and the scheduled-maintenance for our work wardrobes come due at the same time), I do not feel good. I feel actually the opposite of good.<br /><br />In spite of our "success" in obtaining what we want, in reaching the "next level," I feel overloaded, anxious, indebted and stressed. Even if I'm not technically overloaded or indebted, the anxiety and stress of the stuff tends to lead to feelings of indebtedness and overload the next day when I go to work. These feelings then tend to lead to a feeling of deep dissatisfaction, a lack of desire to be productive (as productivity is linked to<span style="font-style: italic;"> stuff</span>) and a depressed desire to run out into an open field, lay down, close my eyes and disappear for a while.<br /><br />Now. I'm fully cognizant that this may just be me. Truly. I mean, few children have anxiety dreams that involve them being buried in all their toys until they can't breathe. It may be my own particular relationship with so-called pleasure-objects (toys or shoes or books, they are much the same) and the listlessness of a wasteful, bloated existence.<br /><br />I'm not exactly saying let's all run off and go Walden. Hell, I don't even like camping. But there is something to be said for being content with what I have, and breaking off from the bigger-better-faster-more mentality. There is something to be said for making my way to that empty field and taking a deep breath, taking an hour, and not worrying that I have to get to the gym before 5pm so I can make it to CVS before it closes to get that toothpaste I read about. There's something to be said for just saying no, and, as Ms. Warner has pointed out in other editorials, opting out.<br /><br />So my new experiment for self-improvement, and in consideration of what this may means in terms of Maslowe, affluenza and poetry along the way, I've decided to opt out for the next month. I'm still hammering out what "opt out" will mean, in practice. As of now, this is what it looks like:<br /><ul><li>Make no purchases beyond necessities such as food, soap, etc.</li><li>Avoid "up-grading" any necessity purchases. <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">(This would mean getting the happy hour special rather than paying twice as much for the glass of viognier, for example. I'm not advocating asceticism, but rather temperance. Uh, I mean prudence.)</span></li><li>Finding things to think about and do that do not involve accumulation or vanity.</li><li>Writing about topics (especially poetically) that endeavor to avoid self-indulgent navel-gazing, or striving to be greater-than or more-than they are.</li><li>Avoid chastising myself for not adhering perfectly to my plan. <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">(Aren't unhealthy standards partially responsible for the affluent malaise?)</span><br /></li></ul>Other suggestions? I'm all ears. But don't try to one-up me. . .I'm not playing that game again until September 1st.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-59980006963403932402008-07-29T06:08:00.000-07:002010-05-23T07:57:01.407-07:00Safety DanceI think we've all noticed by this point that the American economy is in the proverbial crapper. If for some reason you've been deaf and blind to the thousands of articles and/or news reports on the state of the Dow Jones, the housing market or the cost of food, there is always the personal experience of realizing that you cannot, in fact, afford something that once was taken for granted.<br /><br />As S. points out to me when I start getting apocalyptic (the sole reason I work out is to be sure I can run after scarce goods when it all comes down), we are fortunate to have enough expendable income to cover most extremes. If rice triples in price, we will still be able to afford to buy it. It doesn't mean priorities won't change. It doesn't mean we won't feel the squeeze, or that psychologically we won't feel anxious. But we'll be able to eat.<br /><br />Remembering this helps me to be thankful for the fact that I am in the top itty-bitty percent of this world that is not truly suffering from poverty. Real poverty. Not "I-can't-afford-to-live-in-Manhattan-and-I-don't-have-any-new-Prada" poverty. Not "waxing-my-eyebrows-AND-my-bikini-line-is-getting-too-pricey" poverty. No, not even the poverty that wakes up at 5:30am to take a train an hour before working nine hours of manual labor. Even that (which looks like poverty to most first-worlders) is poverty relative to the wealth of (in this case) New Yorkthat rubs up against it on a daily basis--poverty that only knows itself by immediate comparison to those who "have" for as far as the eye can see.<br /><br />There are days when I feel poor. Days when I've sweat myself into a funk on the platforms of the city's heaving underbelly, only to finally get on a train without air-conditioning, packed to the gills with people, their unsavory offspring and their large plastic sacks filled with stuff. (And that's on a car without any homeless.) Days when I fall down the stairs, when my back spasms from carrying my groceries home after a long day at my desk, when I stub my toe on the door, when the refrigerator breaks, when our neighbors blast bluegrass just as I'm going to sleep, when the air is so polluted and heavy that I become asthmatic just from stepping outside, when the sidewalks are covered in dog shit, when....when everything conspires to make city life the dirty, ugly hell suburbanites claim it is.<br /><br />But this isn't poverty, really. Poverty of the spirit, maybe. Definitely poor morale. But not the poverty that looks around the room (if there is a room to be looked around) and sees no possibility of food, water or shelter. Instead, it's a psychological poverty. The poverty that is fed, but that is fearful of not being fed. Of being full, but fearful of not being full. Of having, but forever fearful of losing.<br /><br />Some might call this the purest expression of the animal human drive to live, to procreate, to conquer. There are certainly moments when this view feels true, and right. There are other moments when I wonder whether it's a terrible lie. Whether a perverse extreme of Maslow's hierarchy has taken over our psyche, causing us to run laps around the first level, which is the only level, of his nifty triangle.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkiGUEd2uXl4K1hlxH7231WBkCDgEYNqeJg8EQJZaHwz4UST-iLozSUz_XtKN8atMAAUiAEQALbjFnTSkqInsGP6rFMbngfhh6YywA_2k6SjmfnWHYBxnHZLg0D7lX5dplkwO27PwsI4/s1600-h/400px-Maslow's_hierarchy_of_needs.svg.png"><br /><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkiGUEd2uXl4K1hlxH7231WBkCDgEYNqeJg8EQJZaHwz4UST-iLozSUz_XtKN8atMAAUiAEQALbjFnTSkqInsGP6rFMbngfhh6YywA_2k6SjmfnWHYBxnHZLg0D7lX5dplkwO27PwsI4/s400/400px-Maslow's_hierarchy_of_needs.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228436237019598578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As we see in the illustration above, our primary drives are for obtaining our immediate physiological needs. (I never really viewed sex as one of these needs, per se, but I suppose I can see the point.) But I'm left a little cold once we start moving up the ladder. Isn't safety just the control (or illusion there of) that our physiological needs will be met? How did property and morality come into the safety level, I wonder? It seems that for all the jargon, all levels save the top level are little more than stages of security that must be met in order for a being to strike out on the path of self-actualization.<br /><br />My revised hierarchy:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8G5S2g9lVfwPWyt2uVZCybtJF_u1JYALMsxnCYGp_cAQPWJbLNiQWzF-FBixhbwlohZGgO9DydzLi84hOV3qjhcmiaGkcn6y-4xQbqNk6-miVWj3GiY5PS9BdbvQNxzCqaH3ZKlqLIv0/s1600-h/mymaslow+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8G5S2g9lVfwPWyt2uVZCybtJF_u1JYALMsxnCYGp_cAQPWJbLNiQWzF-FBixhbwlohZGgO9DydzLi84hOV3qjhcmiaGkcn6y-4xQbqNk6-miVWj3GiY5PS9BdbvQNxzCqaH3ZKlqLIv0/s400/mymaslow+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228446142765013554" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So, we are big babies. Essentially. But what does this mean in terms of psychological poverty versus economic poverty? Arguably, one will never make it up the ladder if one doesn't obtain the barest means of preserving physiological needs. So, if one is truly poor, one probably cannot make it to safety or love/belonging. Does that mean that the poor do not love their children? Does that mean their children do not feel safe with their poor parents? Hmm.<br /><br />Let's attack it from a different angle. Let's look at artists. Are we to assume that because one has reached the "top," and thus tapped into creativity, that he or she has obtained safety? Sexual intimacy? Self-esteem? The consistent means with which to buy food and other trappings of a safe, middle-class life? Hardly.<br /><br />In fact, it seems anyway you cut it, this structure is based on a very middle-class assumption that "safety" is the prevailing force moving us around. That we are but in search of health and property. So why doesn't art stop being created in poor countries? During times of war or famine? (There are clearly stressors put on artists NOT to create during these times, but the history of humanity speaks against any sweeping argument for economics-based creation.)<br /><br />My mother used to tell me that in China, telling a man his wife was fat was taken as a compliment. I suppose Maslow would agree.<br /><br />I'm going to think about this a little more.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-84371597089998578922008-07-25T06:36:00.000-07:002008-07-27T10:20:26.055-07:00Punctuate Me<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Ah, excess. Let me count the ways. Sometimes excess arrives in the guise of Sunday afternoon, reading in bed until 4pm before sluggishly realizing that Sunday is almost gone. I hate that Sunday-almost-gone feeling. Nothing touches on my mortality anxiety like Sunday afternoon.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >This might be a good time to bring up one of my favorite poems by </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" href="http://www.bartleby.com/265/355.html">Wallace Stevens, "Sunday Morning."</a><br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="font-family:times new roman;"><tbody><tr><td><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">I</span></div><span style="font-size:130%;">C</span><span style="font-size:130%;">OMPLACENCIES</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> of the peignoir, and late</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="1"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="2"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">And the green freedom of a cockatoo</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="3"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Upon a rug, mingle to dissipate</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="4"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.</span></td><td align="right" valign="top"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="5"><i> 5</i></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">She dreams a little, and she feels the dark</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="6"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Encroachment of that old catastrophe,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="7"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">As a calm darkens among water-lights.</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="8"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">The pungent oranges and bright, green wings</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="9"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Seem things in some procession of the dead,</span></td><td align="right" valign="top"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="10"><i> 10</i></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Winding across wide water, without sound.</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="11"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">The day is like wide water, without sound,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="12"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="13"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Over the seas, to silent Palestine,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="14"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.</span></td><td align="right" valign="top"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="15"><i> 15</i></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></td></tr> <tr><td><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">II</span></div><span style="font-size:130%;">She hears, upon that water without sound,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="16"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">A voice that cries: “The tomb in Palestine</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="17"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Is not the porch of spirits lingering;</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="18"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="19"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">We live in an old chaos of the sun,</span></td><td align="right" valign="top"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="20"><i> 20</i></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Or old dependency of day and night,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="21"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Or Island solitude, unsponsored, free,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="22"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Of that wide water, inescapable.</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="23"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="24"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;</span></td><td align="right" valign="top"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="25"><i> 25</i></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="26"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">And, in the isolation of the sky,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="27"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="28"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Ambiguous undulations as they sink,</span></td><td><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="29"></a></span></td></tr> <tr><td><span style="font-size:130%;">Downward to darkness, on extended wings.</span></td><td align="right" valign="top"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a name="30"><i> 30</i></a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >This is but the beginning. If you like the vibe, check out the link. Especially on a Sunday morning, when you are lounging in your favorite peignoir.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Right now some of my favorite lines are:</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><blockquote style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">We live in an old chaos of the sun,<br />Or old dependency of night and day,<br />Or Island solitude, unsponsored, free,<br />Of that wide water, inescapable."</span></blockquote><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >That covers all the bases of Western religious/mystic thought for the past few, oh, millenia. And, at least as of 1917 when this was published (Thank you, Harriet Monroe), we arrive at solitude. But not just any solitude -- solitude bookended by absolute freedom and mortality, basking in the mythic shadow of religious tradition. Now is that poetry or what? (I know, I know, it's that whole Wednesday's child thing again.)</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >What here is excessive? I suppose it depends who you ask. It might (understandably) be the image of me in a peignoir eating oranges and sighing over my soul's mortality. Some don't like Stevens dated syntax. Some don't like his lush, trip-to-Byzantium-by-way-of-Conneticut imagery. Others just find his work obscure, and (heavens!) difficult. And then, to add insult, there are all the </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/End-stopping">end-stopped</a></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > lines which comes across as archaic and pent-up today. (Or so I've heard claimed.) For the sake of argument, these are not unfair claims when made by twenty-first-century readers. What life is left in the canon of poetry if we do not continually trot out these questions, after all, and decide (if not for others, then at least for our writing selves) what is useful?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Now, I will throw down my punctuation gauntlet right now. I adore end-stopped (whether comma-stopped, hyphen-blocked and colon-spotted) lines. I adore punctuation in poetry in a way that sometimes makes me afraid for my writing life. I've had knock-down-drag-out debates with other poets about comma-bracketed adjectives that appear mid-line (i.e., "silence, expectant, sings"). I've walked out of poetry readings led by highly-estimable critics and poets because their readings were rife with crimes-against-punctuation. I've suffered goosebumps, imaginary nosebleeds and spiritual seizures while listening to "actors" stumble through recitations of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Othello</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Okay, so I'm a serious punctuation-head. That much is established, and I promise not to list my credentials again. Before I end this tangent and come back to my target, though, I'd like to explain why I feel so strongly about punctuation. It isn't (as many likely suspect) that there is a buttoned-up schoolmarm holding court in my brain. Heck, I like contractions such as "ain't" and "ya'll," and fully believe that any word that can be spoken is in fact a word--whether it is "correct" or not. The issue I take with punctuation is that it's purpose is so simple, yet so gravely abused--and nowhere is that abuse more severe than in poetry, a form relying more than most on rhythmic speech.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >There are varying theories as to when and how punctuation came to into use. For my concerns here, I will take the emergence of punctuation marks in fifth-century B.C. Greek plays as a start. Euripides and Aristophanes (et. al. and others) employed a simplified system in order to guide actors in how to perform/read their plays. This formula was improved upon by that hot-shot </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" href="http://www.actorsmovementstudio.com/showbizweekly/feature.shtml">Shakespeare</a></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >, who used punctuation (and capitalization) to similar ends.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >What does this mean to poets? It means that if an adjective is set off in commas, it is MEANT by the writer to be set off in commas, so that when read, it achieves a specific effect or emphasis. If I had meant to write "silence expectant(ly) sings," that's what I would have written. If I had meant, "expectant silence sings," then I'd have written that. But what I meant was "silence, [pause] expectant, [pause] sings."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >So too if Stevens, or Eliot, or anyone, had meant to enjamb his lines, then enjamb they would. And if you are reading them, you darn well better stop that line when the lines tells you to. It would be disrespectful not to, and sets a terrible precedence for interpretation. Like with translation, opportunities still abound within poetry for interpretation. With poets like e.e. cummings or W.C. Williams, these opportunities are greater than with Stevens or Marianne Moore. When enjambment is more common than end-stops or purposeful punctuation, then the reader does have choices.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >And some are better choosers than others. To date, Philip Levine is still my most favorite reader of other writers' poetry. When I heard him read W.C.W.'s "<a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535">This is Just to Say,</a>" I could have almost been convinced to leave S. in the dust, and offer my long-gone plum to Mr. Levine for the taking. What did he do? How did he do it? Well, he followed the lines and the punctuation, and added enough of his own experience to the intonation to make it come. so. very. alive.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >That is a gift. Not everyone has it. When I heard Harold Bloom read Donne's "<a href="http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/673.html">A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day</a>," I left the reading in tears. I love that poem. Intensely. And that poem provides us with a clear punctuation map. So why did Mr. Bloom read it as though he had taken three Percasets and swallowed a metronome? My main regret for leaving the readings is that I did not get to ask him that question. I have no doubt that Mr. Bloom would have had a clear, cogent, well-researched answer that would have made my feelings feel two-feet small. He probably would have launched into a lengthy explanation of Jacobean rhythm, and how original manuscripts of Donne's didn't even include punctuation. (Sort of doubt that last bit, but who knows.)</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >I should be most embarrassed to admit that I still don't know the answer to that question. I think the punc poet inside me doesn't want to know, because she loves the poem how it reads in all it's punctuated glory. And that, my friends, is nothing less than a weakness.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >On that note, I will end with a poem that first set all of these thoughts on poetry and punctuation into motion, one close to my heart and also one that I find to be maddeningly challenging to read. If you know any good recordings of this, let me know. I'm always on the look out for punc. porn.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><blockquote style="font-family:times new roman;"><p><span style="font-size:130%;">since feeling is first<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">since feeling is first<br />who pays any attention<br />to the syntax of things<br />will never wholly kiss you; </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">wholly to be a fool<br />while Spring is in the world </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">my blood approves,<br />and kisses are a better fate<br />than wisdom<br />lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry<br />- the best gesture of my brain is less than<br />your eyelids' flutter which says </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">we are for each other; then<br />laugh, leaning back in my arms<br />for life's not a paragraph </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">And death i think is no parenthesis</span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >e.e. cummings</span></p></blockquote>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-34775208722770838232008-07-22T07:48:00.001-07:002008-07-22T13:20:39.519-07:00Shine a Rock-Star LightSo, tonight I am going to attend <a href="http://www.myspace.com/jarvspace">Jarvis Cocker</a>'s concert at Terminal Five with my friend S. (Not to be confused with partner S., as he largely prefers to abstain from shows in general, unless there is promise of comfortable chairs and cocktail waitresses serving sidecars. And who can blame him? Standing-room-only makes my feet hurt just thinking about it.) There is the distinct chance that we may go backstage after the show, as my friend S. is a friend of a friend (if you get my drift).<br /><br />This may be the first time in my entire life that I've ever had even the glancing opportunity to "go backstage." And thus, my first experience of the feeling: I'm not sure I want to. But not just that I don't want to...that it actually makes me NERVOUS to think about this happening. Which (as Wednesday's child and a generally inquisitive person) makes me ask, "why?"<br /><br />Why would I be nervous at the prospect of shaking hands and making brief small talk with a sweaty British pop star? Why would I be actually indignant about the opportunity to gain access to the hallowed area stalked by fan(atics) searching to touch the damp hem of a headliner's tee-shirt?<br /><br />I have found that in my brief and stilted career of meeting "famous" people, I suffer from a curious combination of star-struck and star-sour. I am mightily annoyed that I am intimidated by the prospect of going backstage, and even more mightily annoyed that I am nervous about that. I am catastrophically annoyed that, despite my deep disinterest in things-and-people-famous, I am not immune to the strike of starlight.<br /><br />I cannot say star-struck. That would be too strong. I haven't ever been to one of Cocker's concert, or to any of Pulp's. In fact, yrs trly doesn't really go to shows all that often unless they involve costumes or jazz interpretations of Bjork. In other words--sillyness mixed with pageantry. The Sincere Rock Show (or Pop Show, or whatever the kids are calling it these days) gives me the hives, in the way that seeing middle-aged men exposing chest hair at art openings while chatting up younger women does. I DIDN'T SAY IT WAS FAIR. It's just the way I feel about star culture in general, and rock culture in particular.<br /><br />Yet the possibility for a strike o' starlight to become a star-striking looms in the eves, and I am sore afraid. How much easier it is to meet a famous person in less famous settings. Like, say, at a friend of a friend's party, where the conversation can go something like this:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqouMqSZ6LAXxbOR55NQfcHZFwlwN9gfakuK6uQxyMIUvN75HVY8aeZi9SprYxvRlZEDLF0DdeT7iWqTR9GQ3LASf35qfjrsMUf6LOrbG0ps5hlalVtBlQp8JyJW3uzJ1nS6AXQMcg4A/s1600-h/Jarvis+Cocker608_MainPicture.jpg"><br /></a><blockquote><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Friend-of-a-Friend:</span> This is M. She is a poet and designer. M, meet Star. He's a star.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Star:</span> Hi. Poetry, huh. What do you design?<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Me:</span> Nice to meet you. I work in advertising...designing advertising stuff. You know, to support poetry. Whew, it's hot tonight, huh?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">--Silence falls as Star looks at his/her shoes or over<br />M.'s shoulder, and M. does same.--</span><br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Friend-of-a-Friend:</span> Friend said you two went to see the new MoMA exhibit yesterday. How was it?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">--Palpable relief followed by stilted, idle chit-chat.<br />M. excuses herself and wanders back to bar.--</span><br /><br /></div></blockquote>What exactly is motivating this exchange? Well, embarrassment for one. For some reason, I always assume famous people are so tired of meeting people that they don't have much to say. So, I don't really expect them to say anything, and I don't really like asking them questions. The closest I came to letting myself run off at the mouth before someone whose work I admired was when I met <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Carson">Anne Carson</a> in April. Let me just say<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">I LOVE ANNE CARSON.</span><br /></div><br />I did not tell her this, in so many words. I did not wax rapturous about how much I like her work, and her daring, and her long, gray-speckled braid. No, I did not. Instead, I said:<br /><blockquote><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Me:</span> Nice to meet you. I really admire your work.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">She (placidly, sweetly):</span> Thank you.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Me (unable to leave it at that):</span> In particular, your book on eros. It had a large influence on me.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">She:</span> Yes...I liked that book very much once, too.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">--Awkward pause. Will M. continue to rhapsodize about A.'s work?<br />Will compliments become saccharine? Will A. cry and run from the room,<br />or will she turn her back on the maladroit young poet?--</span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Me:</span> Well, I guess books are better than kids. When you don't like them anymore, they're easier to get rid off.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">She:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Actually laughs.)</span><br /></blockquote><br />This was one of my better moments, trust me. But afterward, I thought, why on earth didn't I just leave it at "I admire your work." And then I said to myself, "why not??? Don't people like to hear that people admire their work?" And then I thought, "why do I have such complicated, WASP-y feelings about fame? I was raised Catholic, dammit! I should be on my knees, kissing her proffered knuckles and weeping!!!"<br /><br />Yet there it is. Maybe WASP-y is the wrong word. I was tempted to write blue-collar, but I'm not sure that would be accurate, either. I never saw either of my parents interact with someone of insinuated prestige, except perhaps a general at a National Guard ball. Does that count?<br /><br />It may actually be the perfect example of why I'm pent-up about fame. Growing up in the military, hierarchies bear a tremendous amount of weight on one's life. Fortunately for me I did not grow up on base, where I've heard it's worse (i.e. hierarchy among the officers' kids versus enlisted, sub-hierarchy among generals and colonels versus majors and captains, etc. etc.) My fathers dealt with these hierarchies like they were Protestant caste systems. Yes, you were born into your place--but with hard work, sobriety and tenacity, you could rise to the top by virtue of your, well, virtues. Whenever I did see my father interact with superior officers, he was every inch the army professional. "Yes, sirs" and "No, sirs." and "Thank you, sirs" would float in the air around his head, stiffly perched until he was given leave.<br /><br />That's right. Given leave. I seem to recall that my father was the superior officer in our house, and our interactions were guided by a similar principle. This may be an exaggeration of my memory, but I suspect it's at least partially true. There was obeisance and discipline before those who must be obeyed, with the hope that one day my virtues would lead up to a satisfactory, independent life where I was master of my own domain.<br /><br />But what if you are supposed to be awed into obeisance by someone whose "virtues" you find spurious? What if you are confronted by an entity whom society places "above" you, in terms of accomplishments and recognition, but whose accomplishments you find less interesting than their person? What if, under all of this, you chafe at the idea of hierarchies and are resentful of your innate response to the heirs-apparent? And what if you hate their art AND their person?<br /><br />Well, I suppose those questions are a good start at summing it up. But we can't forget vulgarity! While I may greatly admire someone's work, and may also be awed/intimidated by their power and success, there's a part of me that finds the whole thing vulgar. Hence the WASP comparison. But my leanings are definitely more socialist...it's not that I feel anything-they-can-do-I-can-do-better, but that just-because-you-make-good-music-doesn't-mean-that-social-workers-aren't-as-worthy-of-adulation-so-why-am-I-making-a-big-deal-about-you-when-I-don't-even-value-what-you-do-enough-to-pay-for-the-album? (Shh. Don't tell.)<br /><br />Or it could be fear that I will say something embarrassing because I'm fighting these internal struggles? Fear of being rejected by someone generically valued by society? Anxiety of influence?<br /><br />THAT IS IT. I am afraid that I will want to wear Jarvis Cocker glasses. I am so, so afraid.<br /><br />He does have great style, though. Maybe I should just relax and go with the flow. Even though I was a <a href="http://www.seeklyrics.com/lyrics/Jarvis-Cocker/Fat-Children.html">fat kid</a>, it's no reason to be pent up about the guy. I never robbed anyone, after all, so why be a chump. I'll even tell him I admire his work, should the opportunity come to pass.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-45114396096038281162008-07-16T08:16:00.000-07:002008-07-17T09:04:57.189-07:00Oh, the Misogyny...If you were a girl-child in the late '80s, you probably remember playing a game called MASH. MASH was prototypical of girl games from my childhood. Centered on pubescent girls' budding interest in sex, the game envelopes those interests in the safer trappings of adulthood-as-we-then-knew-it.<br /><br />On a sheet of paper, the capital letters M-A-S-H were written at the top. These letters stood for Mansion, Apartment, Shack or House. Under this header appear categories involving other features of our futures...features such as cars, husbands, jobs and more, depending on the tenacity of the players. Each category held four options, which were eliminated through a complicated counting process that involved (I think) the roll of a die. Once only one option was left in each category, you had your future--be it living in a shack with Billy Brat with six children all named Starlight, or holed up in an apartment with the janitor while pursuing a career in hair-braiding.<br /><br />Here's a sample:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGU0EcDikr1bTkN-l72Zmg3f8YHjKQ2QFOT7LS8ihoWrLgx8WnYQtG5AQHjz2zjUie3qsaTxMYpu0V6q2tNkmFSVF4d8Dneh7-1RAalGSvpPnejnHbDy6m1omZHAD5Vq3abw3tvZRXWM/s1600-h/mash1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGU0EcDikr1bTkN-l72Zmg3f8YHjKQ2QFOT7LS8ihoWrLgx8WnYQtG5AQHjz2zjUie3qsaTxMYpu0V6q2tNkmFSVF4d8Dneh7-1RAalGSvpPnejnHbDy6m1omZHAD5Vq3abw3tvZRXWM/s400/mash1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223636385222707570" border="0" /></a><br />I am still vaguely outraged that my parents allowed my sister and I to play this game. That despite my father's desire for me to be overtaken with a hot, burning love for soccer, he mirthfully shook his head at us instead, sitting in a circle on the living room floor, planning out the social architecture of our futures with notebook paper and pencils.<br /><br />But then, I suppose I may never have bothered with college had I known I would end up living in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn without even a bicycle, making money by perjuring my creative standards daily in corporate America, far far away from the goals I imagined myself reaching before I stood teetering on the cusp of 30. But then there's S. Though it's hard to speak for my ten-year-old self now, the promise of a sweet bald man probably would have tipped the scales heavily, thus convincing me to continue my studies and not end up barefoot-and-pregnant in Florida. Probably.<br /><br />Which brings me to the second in today's bugaboo blitz: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0066026/"><span style="font-style: italic;">M*A*S*H</span>,</a> the movie. Just in case the clip of the movie poster to the right isn't clear enough, here's another shot of the graphic used to market Altman's film:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_iaBeMK8D2IrgG1bhtzDzJByUtOWN1Nsp57Sg_VqlqY1mKdRrxGghw9HDAXJiAT6TnL_ZmDzzsPecKCn31Cfi0-AmShTJpgG1o4y03ByHFo_U9d4c0GbUBG_BI0NkIHs2rabMAtVm7k/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_iaBeMK8D2IrgG1bhtzDzJByUtOWN1Nsp57Sg_VqlqY1mKdRrxGghw9HDAXJiAT6TnL_ZmDzzsPecKCn31Cfi0-AmShTJpgG1o4y03ByHFo_U9d4c0GbUBG_BI0NkIHs2rabMAtVm7k/s400/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223640346071552050" border="0" /></a><br />Tasteful, right? Because what better way to make an anti-war statement than an inverted peace-sign made of a pair of legs?<br /><br />I used to love watching this television show. From my recollection of the series, the female characters were nothing like those portrayed in the actual film--i.e. they were not barely-veiled targets for harassment and abuse.<br /><br />Now, I grew up in a military house, and spent enough time around officers and at military events to kinda guess that even in the '90s,the military wasn't exactly a haven from sexism. However, I also saw a very positive side of the military--dedicated fathers and husbands, members of the community, working together for a cause they believed in strongly.<br /><br />As an adult, I recognize that many of those "dedicated" members of the community could very well have been alcoholics, wife-beaters, philanderers, liars, cheats or even sexists. And, as a cultural participant, I am not immune to the histories of terrible actions taken by troops, past and present, during war. But the protagonists Hawkeye Pierce and Duke Forrest and their male cohorts go far beyond the call of middle-brow hazing during their "use of humor and hijinks to keep their sanity in the face of the horror of war" for the sake of entertainment (Thank you, IMDb.)<br /><br />I don't want to trot out the details, for those who haven't yet had the pleasure, because it makes my blood pressure rise recounting just how these two use female soldiers to redirect their anger at having been drafted, their frustration with military protocol AND their self-congratulatory prankster/playboy ways. What I DO want to address is the issue of viewer identification. Like with the MASH game I played as a kid, participating in a game (or film) only works if one can identify with it.<br /><br />My huffy outrage turned to genuine puzzlement after watching <span style="font-style: italic;">M*A*S*H</span>, because the reasons women may have had for enjoying this film in its heyday seemed inscrutable. Then I remembered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laura_Mulvey">Laura Mulvey</a>. (You knew that was coming, didn't you?)<br /><br />According to Laura Mulvey's highly-influential "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," "classic" film puts all viewers in the masculine subject position, leaving the women in the film to be viewed not as selves, but as objects of desire. (In a very reductive nutshell.) Thus, even female viewers who may be politically opposed to the dynamics of a film will find herself more likely to identify with the masculine eye of the camera--the eye that almost always pursues heterosexual, masculine objects of desire: women and power.<br /><br />In light of these thoughts, it is not surprising that an enormous feminist outcry was not heard when <span style="font-style: italic;">M*A*S*H</span> came to the silver screen. The main thrust of the film, after all, is war, which in 1970 had a tad more interest for most Americans than did feminism, unfortunate as that may seem. War affects everyone, especially when there's a draft. Thus, my conclusion is that female viewers of this film must have identified with Hawkeye and Duke--the bucks brave enough to flout the authority that sent so many Americans to die in Vietnam.<br /><br />Yes, they must have identified with the renegade soliders--not the nurses terrorized into granting the two access to a private hospital ward, not the young women taunted with bawdy requests for sexual favors and certainly not the doomed Major "Hot Lips" Houlihan exposed during her shower for the ostensible purpose of finding out whether she is or is not a natural blonde. (Nothing but class.)<br /><br />And why should they, when other female soliders take part in the humiliation too, laughing at Houlihan as she flounders, wet and screaming, on the floor of the collapsed shower tent? It isn't that Houlihan's character is at all sympathetic. Rather, she is a standard Army-issue rule monkey, and a prig. Add a little sadism, and we'd have Nurse Ratched. Unlike Ratched, though, who is attacked because of her power, Houlihan is sexually harassed into a submission that was never denied. From her first night in the camp when she has sex with one of the soliders to her impotent attempts to lodge complaints to the General, Houlihan's "power" is a joke from the get-go. She is humiliated as an unfortunate emblem of the Army, and all of the humiliation centers around her sexuality. Which, apparently, she can't control, given the number of her attackers she ends up sleeping with before the movie ends.<br /><br />And yet, women probably went to the movies with their boyfriends/husbands/lovers and enjoyed this film. Were it 1970, and were I a child of the '60s, would I have enjoyed it? I hope I would have been helping Gloria Steinem start <a href="http://www.msmagazine.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ms.</span></a>, or knocking on doors to advocate for pro-choice legislation. What scares me though, is not knowing whether that would have kept me from spending Friday night at the movies yuking it up.<br /><br />On a positive note, I've moved past MASH the game, and I can safely say that I've somehow come out on the other side of adolescence without the internalized male gaze...or at least not the part of that eye that can look past violence against women. One could say that looks something like progress.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-64872334815049085372008-07-14T06:51:00.000-07:002008-07-14T08:44:28.590-07:00La Vie en Rose: Proud to be French-FriedAs today is Bastille Day, I felt it would be appropriate to pause from my trap-door ravings in order to muse on francophilia. Last night, S., J. (a visiting friend from Boston) and I had a lovely pro-Frenchie evening: we saw a French film, drank French wine, dined on steak frites and moules frites at a French-ified bistro and then moved on to drink even more wine while discussing literature. Though our last glasses of wine were not, in fact, derived from the French vine, I feel that our two-plus hour conversation about literature (and poetry!!!) sufficiently ups the french-quotient of our evening.<br /><br />I've always loved how seriously the French take literature and language. Where else but France could a film like Haneke's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0387898/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caché</span></a> be made, where the main character is the "star" of a television show dedicated to interviewing writers? That's right, mes amis, a talk show about books.<br /><br />Ah, la France. The hexagon. The land of frogs' legs and fries, berets and baguettes, pouty lips and ponderous sighs, birthplace of the bourgeoisie and existentialism, home of the can-can and Tin Tin.<br /><br />I salute you, and will certainly raise at least one glass tonight in your honor.<br /><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy0lPdHTXHPULg50yjNs7gPLPgtQgSeq3F_fapogGeNkIbrO_mcxSkMgGr-fOzpF5P6Ww-WCADEvXSWe6j2Uw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-3036894303518093782008-07-13T10:46:00.000-07:002008-07-17T09:12:32.128-07:00Trap Doors, Part Deux<div style="text-align: justify;">Okay. I've been away on vacation, and victim to the shadowy sloth that always awaits my return. Perhaps others experience this post-vacation malaise, too. I suppose that's what people mean when they say they need a vacation from their vacation.<br /><br />My thoughts were trained upon the trap door even as we were zipping down the steamy Florida corridors and downing Greyhounds. (Not, of course, at the same time.) Just before we left the city's mossy mouth for another humid endroit, I read David Orr's essay <a href="http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/0708/comment_181746.html">"The Politics of Poetry"</a> in the current issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Poetry</span> magazine that really set my "trap door alarm" into high alert.<br /><br />Here's a picture of what that felt like:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ls-QndYdB2LFrOVSkIzGemrNg4P7OrAdMXSjbTc5S1W0uu5X4oMKD8tYA_aBukQg4SrKPb6_ryhs5PdUVb-w8H-PqeFp0_rRNtspDGluhT24XHwUYe9Qxu9FAipIhCs6NmE4mNvIoH8/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ls-QndYdB2LFrOVSkIzGemrNg4P7OrAdMXSjbTc5S1W0uu5X4oMKD8tYA_aBukQg4SrKPb6_ryhs5PdUVb-w8H-PqeFp0_rRNtspDGluhT24XHwUYe9Qxu9FAipIhCs6NmE4mNvIoH8/s320/images.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222557102234219794" border="0" /></a><br />Not bad as a photo editorial, huh?<br /><br />Now, after the first three paragraphs (assuming a singular exclamatory remark counts as a paragraph), Orr presents a well-balanced and interesting discussion of poetic versus political rhetoric, and how the arenas overlap. However, I had to approach the article on FOUR separate occasions in order to get through the disastrous trap door that is the introduction.<br /><br /><blockquote style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Shortly before Ohio's Democratic primary, Tom Buffenbarger, the head of the machinists' union and a supporter of Hillary Clinton, took to the stage at a Clinton rally in Youngstown to lay the wood to Barack Obama. "Give me a break!" snarled Buffenbarger, "I've got news for all the latte-drinking, Prius-driving, Birkenstock-wearing, trust fund babies crowding in to hear him speak! This guy won't last a round against the Republican attack machine." And then the union rep delivered his coup de grace: "He's a poet, not a fighter!"<br /><br />Ouch.<br /><br />Fortunately, this insult to the sacred mysteries of Poesie didn't go unanswered—within a few days, the poet John Lundberg angrily riposted at the Huffington Post, declaring that he "would be happy to step outside" with Buffenbarger to show him that poets can indeed mix it up. (Smart money is on Lundberg, as Buffenbarger appears to have lost several dozen battles to the combined forces of Little Debbie and Sara Lee.) Yet what was most interesting about the Clinton supporter's remarks wasn't their inaccuracy or intemperance, but the way in which they neatly summarized two assumptions often made about contemporary American poetry and contemporary American politics. (Orr, "The Politics of Poetry")<br /></blockquote><br />The first time I read Orr's introductory remarks, I was so annoyed that I kvetched at S. for a good half-hour about hyper-masculinity, its attendant anxiety in those following "non-masculine" career paths and how counterintuitive Orr's "amusing" remarks are to his greater purpose.<br /><br />Upon the next two attempts to get past these paragraphs and into the meat of the essay, I found myself confronted by an internal roadblock. No matter how sternly I trained my eye on the fourth paragraph, it took me yet another attempt before I could find the escape ladder out of the rabbit hole: <blockquote style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">One would think poets might get a little more respect from political speakers, and that political speakers might refrain from comparing their purely verbal existence to the decidedly non-verbal world of physical violence. (Orr, "The Politics of Poetry")<br /></blockquote>Whew! Finally, we're getting somewhere.<br /><br />Was it really necessary for Orr to begin his essay with such (frankly) hyper-masculine anxiety? Of course not. Was it creative? Sure. Does it demonstrate skill and virtuosity? Definitely. It's not ever day, after all, that one encounters such elegant turns of phrase when insulting another's rotundity. (See: "<a href="http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/0708/comment_181746.html">Buffenbarger appears to have lost several dozen battles to the combined forces of Little Debbie and Sara Lee.</a>")<br /><br />If the war of rhetorical styles is that of the passive pen against the aggressive sword, I find it hard to believe that Orr's application of schoolyard-taunt to pub-brawl principle scores a point for poetry. Hilarious in a conversation, yes. Funny in a poem, perhaps. Amusing as a preface to what I assume is meant to be taken as a serious look at poetry's rhetorical power in the political sphere, no.<br /><br />Aggressive posturing is common, indeed charming, in children. When I was a kid, I had a friend who was a) a boy and b) very sensitive about playing the piano. He was quick to assert that though he played, he still could deal a black eye to any punk who dared to call him a sissy. To my adult ears, the anxiety behind this assertion was obviously a product of the conflict he faced on the complicated road to maturity. (I would say "manhood," but that opens up a whole 'nother issue, and implies that women are never perpetrators of this crime.)<br /><br />In adults, this posturing has no allure for me--especially in adults who are appealing to readers as intellectuals. That is sort of a question of personal taste, however. Objectively I have no trouble seeing how Orr's ass-kicking remarks might thrill many readers, girding their poetic loins with visions of warrior-bards busting lips in a show of epic power. It's Orr's use of one of our society's baser myths that creates a trap door.<br /><br />By framing his essay with such remarks, Orr speaks out of both sides of his mouth. Out of one side, he says, "Surely you recognize that my tongue is in my cheek." Out of the other side, he says, "But I will be the first to feel better when one of my poetic brethren punches the ticket of anyone who dares say poetry is weak." Why else mention John Lundberg's response to Buffenbarger?<br /><br />Now, let's pause for a moment to consider catharsis. During my two-week break, I’ve been turning over my trap-door anxiety (yes, there I said it) to see if it’s really MY problem. After all, who doesn’t enoy a humorous riposte every now and again? Who doesn’t crave that dinner-time comment that turns conversation away from the tiresome and toward the light-hearted? Don’t we ALL sometimes laugh when a politician stumbles on his words, thus rendering his point, for all intents and purposes, null and void? Sure we do. Aristotle covered this all ages ago when he argued against Plato’s misguided proposal that poetry led humans into the clutches of chaotic and uncontrolled passions.<br /></div><blockquote style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Aside: there is scholarly evidence that the term “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catharsis">catharsis</a>” derives from kathairein, “to purify, purge," and which was normally used as a medical term until Aristotle trotted it out as a metaphor. According to one source on Wikipedia (LOVE you, Wiki), “usually referring to the evacuation of the "katamenia", the menstrual fluid or other reproductive material.” JESUS.<br /></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">So, as a poet, I would be a bit of a silly-pants if I didn’t stand on the “for” side of the cathartic divide. Of course catharsis is good! This is part of the reason people (the same people who argue with you at your cocktail parties about why poetry no longer functions) turn to poetry at weddings, births, graduations and funerals. The act of breathing in measure and using symbolic/metaphoric/contemplative language brings not only relief to those pesky inner passions, but solace to the suffering. If one were so disposed, one might agree with Aristotle that it keeps us from murdering each other quite so frequently. (When I first typed “frequently,” it came out “freakquently.” Pure coincidence….I think not.)<br /><br />On a less-exalted tip, humor can provide us with a break from our lofty pensées. I would accept the argument that Orr is doing precisely that—introducing a humorous bit before plunging into a topic that just may be to many readers (surely not readers of<span style="font-style: italic;"> Poetry</span> magazine, however) a tad dull or difficult.<br /><br />But, like any trap door worth its well-engineered salt, it will hit us on the ass the minute we enter if we’re not careful. Humor provides catharsis that, in my humble trap-door-fearing view, can actually release us from the responsibility of pondering the important issues raised by the very practice of release. Instead of sharing outrage of Buffenbarger's, er, less-than-astute Obama-slurs, we end up participating in the very sentiments guiding B's warbling.<br /><br />But to assume NO ONE spends any time noodling over this textual puzzle would be like assuming that none of us thinks about what gave us an orgasm once we achieve one, right? (We can talk about my hierarchical lingo here in reference to sex later. "Achieve." I should be ashamed.) As such, I assume that I’m not the only one to find herself jammed up by Orr’s comments even as I laughed at them.<br /><br />Like the<a href="http://eventhefleas.blogspot.com/2008/06/trap-doors-part-i.html"> foie-gras PBJ</a>, it’s not that Orr’s humor doesn’t work. It’s that the underpinnings of his comments give those he argues against a reason not to listen to the thoughtful remarks that follow. They provide instead a trap door down which some readers may fall without finding their way out. And while I am tempted to claim this is the reader's fault, there is something to politically- and ethically-charged speech that can entrap even the most tenacious of us.<br /><br />Caveat lector, indeed.<br /><br />It would be unfair not to mention that Orr can be excused (sort of) for his anxious banterings by virtue of the venue in which the essay appears. If readers are ever to be expected to be aware of how such a text functions, it’s probably in a publication devoted to the rarefied ramblings of poets and poetry critics. Still, in closing, I must mention that the worst crime of this particular type of trap door is that it provides an excuse for readers to dismiss the subject at hand (here, poetry) not only as passive, but as passive-aggressive. And I don’t think Orr would want that, do you?<br /><br />More thoughts to come on this topic, but now I’m off to prepare for pre-Bastille Day celebrations. Vive Petanque!<br /><br /></div>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-65938452823206743192008-06-25T11:31:00.000-07:002008-06-25T13:54:05.249-07:00Trap Doors. Part I.As today is Wednesday, and as Wednesday's child, I'm primed to launch into the woeful bugaboo that <span style="font-weight: bold;">really </span>coaxed me into the blog-o-sphere. Anyone who's suffered recently through a dinner party or other social gathering that involved too much wine has heard me wax spastic about this concept I call the "trap door." I now intend to exploit my blog as a stage for my personal peccodilloes.<br /><br />To the right of the screen, I've provided a picture of one genre of trap door. A particularly creepy trap door at that.<br /><blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Side note<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">: Recent discussions regarding the endangered hyphen push me to ask....is it trap-door, or "trap door." Surely we haven't devolved so much that it's now an overly Teutonic "trapdoor," have we? I found multiple uses of the term with and without a hyphen. Since the on-line OED requires a monthly payment of $29.95 or a yearly subscription for $295, I'll have to wonder until I get home tonight.</span></span></div></blockquote><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Back to the trap door at hand. This creepy trap door reminds me of "Deliverance," or "The Hills Have Eyes." Which is only to say that despite my quasi-rural upbringing, man-made holes in the earth make me think of deranged maniacs. A useful association, actually, when one thinks of the trap door as a bugaboo.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"></span></span></span><blockquote><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Another, and I promise the last, aside in this post: <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">"Bugaboo" is a fun little word, isn't it? It has two equally fun meanings:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></span></span> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="ds-list"><b>1. </b> An object of obsessive, usually exaggerated, fear or anxiety.</div><b style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">2. </b><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A recurring or persistent problem.</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The fact that marketers have co-opted this term as though it means "cute little children" is hilarious to me. For I, mostly, see children alternately as objects of exaggerated, obsessive anxiety or recurring, persistent problems. Delightful misstep, don't you think? </span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.bugaboostrollers.com/">http://www.bugaboostrollers.com/</a></span></span></span></blockquote><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><a href="http://www.bugaboostrollers.com/"></a><br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">BACK ON THE RANCH<br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"></span></span></span></div><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Trap door is the term I have begun to apply to rhetorical devices which allow writers (or speakers, though I'm much more interested in how this manifests in text) to evade battering out cohesive, balanced thoughts on an issue just after introducing a topic--especially topics of an uncomfortable, challenging nature.<br /><br />Via the trap door, the writer/speaker evades any responsibility for the stickier implications of his or her point. A trap door is the hole into which the "response" part of "call and response" falls to a bloody death, especially if one is dealing with this phenomenon in conversation. (There's that Wednesday's child again...bloody death indeed. For shame.)<br /><br />What makes the trap door insidious is the fact that its ultimate goal is comfort. It is more comfortable to end a complicated conversation with a platitude, or to change the subject, or to use a joke, or (worst of all, I feel) to fall back on irony. (Irony is another bugaboo, which I'll get into a bit later in my explorations of the trap door.)<br /><br />My goal for the rest of the week is to find solid, illustrative examples. Right now, the most boorish one will at least begin to sketch out what I'm getting at.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">[The setting is a trendy restaurant in New York]</span><br /><br />Party A: <span style="font-style: italic;">Honestly, this neighborhood has become unbearable. I moved to New York for dirt, for passion, for art and transgression. And now there's a Baby Gap on every corner of the Village.<br /><br /></span>Parties B-D: <span style="font-style: italic;">[sighs] Yeah. It's so true.<br /><br /></span>Party A:<span style="font-style: italic;"> I mean, I'm starting to wonder what I'm staying here for.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Party C</span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">: <span style="font-style: italic;">Well, the city does still have it's strong suits.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Party A:<span style="font-style: italic;"> Yeah. Like restaurants! I cannot WAIT to try the foie gras PBJ....it's supposed to be fabulous. And who doesn't like a little foie gras with their urban discontent?<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Parties B-DL: <span style="font-style: italic;">[laughing] True! Pass the wine.<br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">-Fin-<br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Now. We've all tried to avoid the tedious, never-ending conversation that is how-our-city-town-or-village-has-changed. Especially at dinner. Especially when we're tired, and not all that interested in really digging into a socio-political debate about the relative rise and fall of Manhattan's cultural scene.<br /><br />What gets me is the trap door -- the use of humor (in this case) to dismiss the question and move on to easier and more palatable topics. If you call foie gras PBJ palatable. Which I do.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">ATTENTION:<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Trap door.<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"></span></div></div><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></div><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It would be very, very simple for me to end my blog entry with that snarky comment about foie gras. If I may applaud myself, it was a stylish way of summarizing a rather tedious topic, and evading taking any responsibility for what I'm arguing.<br /><br />It also means that you, as the reader, can stop working, too.<br /><br />And that will not do, black shoe.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">to be continued...</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span></div><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-71004483866523627922008-06-24T12:56:00.000-07:002008-06-24T14:01:31.963-07:00A Rose is a Rose is a Flower with Many PetalsLanguage, like love, is a many-splendored thing. Or splendoured, if you're British. Or sometimes, a splintered thing.<br /><br />Every so often, I encounter a hole in the English language. This is not an uncommon or English-centric phenomenon, I'm sure. If it were, than expressions like, "c'est le timing" or "c'est flash" would not exist in French. Clearly, the English terms "timing" and "flash(y)" capture sense (the je-ne-sais-quoi, if you will) a tad more purely than their French analogues.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">(adj./n.) - je-ne-sais-quoi. </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">A term we use in English to emphasize that we don't know what we're talking about, literally translating to: "I don't know what."<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Example:<br /><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">I<span style="font-style: italic;"> don't know why I'm so attracted to him, Mom. He has good posture. His smile? Maybe. Definitely not his fanatic intimacy with Wagnerian opera. I don't know. . . there's a certain je-ne-sais-quoi about him I just can't resist.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Translation:<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">There's a certain I-don't-know-whatness about him.</span><br /></span></span><br />Was language ever so bereft than in the moment illustrated above? Or is it that language, the actual exchange of signs and signifiers, benefits from this inter-lingual transposition? I tend believe the latter, even if je-ne-sais-quoi remains an overwhelmingly dumb example.<br /><br />Now, saying anything in French seems to lend authority, élan (or is it panache?) and unbearable snoot to any conversation.</span></span> Which brings me to my main point of interest today--the phrase "l'homme de ma vie."<br /><br />I first learned this phrase when I was living in France. A friend referred to her ex-husband as "l'homme de ma vie," by which she meant to communicate that in spite of their permanent estrangement, he was and would always be first in her heart. The romantic in me loved this gesture. The cynic in me assumed she was being melodramatic.<br /><br />But then I saw the phrase in an article. And then I heard it on t.v. And on the street. Was it that this seeming overwrought phrase was common currency? Was it that the French really were over-sexed and hyper-romantic sops? Or was this phrase hitting on something else?<br /><br />By the time I moved back to the States, I had come to the conclusion that this was one term commonly used to describe a romantic partner, with whom marriage may or may not be the tie that binds. In France, one spoke about living together, or having children together, with the man or woman of one's life. A copine or copain is just a copine or copain, but the "homme/femme de ma vie" is an entirely different thing.<br /><br />What does this mean for English speakers? Well, it means that there is a phrase, ergo a recognition, of a type of relationship that we just don't have here in the good old U.S. of A. Or, apparently in British English, either. Here's a great look at the limits set by English when it comes to referring to the romantic being in one's life:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/learningenglish/grammar/learnit/learnitv62.shtml">http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/learningenglish/grammar/learnit/learnitv62.shtml</a><br /><br />S. and I have had this conversation over and over again. What do we call each other? I've taken to referring to him as my partner, which many have pointed out leads people to assume that I'm gay. I don't not enjoy that confusion. However, I chafe at the business-like aspect of it.<br /><br />We both hate "boyfriend" and "girlfriend." I especially get a kick out of friends who introduce us as "dating," given that dating implies to me that two parties meet in a place for the purpose of getting to know each other, and that that place is not their shared home.<br /><br />A few times I told people he's my roommate. That led to a funny situation with a woman who found S. to be particularly toothsome. While the confusion amused us, it was not kind to the third party, so I haven't used that since.<br /><br />S. likes the Spanish monniker of "mujer." I hate the idea of being referred to as "woman," even if it's in another language. So I suggested "l'homme/la femme de ma vie." We both like it. But are we going to use it? In conversation?<br /><br />Only at cocktail parties where that brand of je-ne-sais-quoi guarantees us a quick exit and zero future invites.<br /><br />Anyone have any other ideas? This is becoming a bit of a quest.memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4324952392017266117.post-7092801715437983512008-06-23T10:52:00.000-07:002008-06-23T13:49:09.710-07:00Monday's Child is Fair of FaceI was born on a Wednesday. In fact, I was born on the same Wednesday as Heath Ledger. I discovered this after doing a cursory Google search to determine which kind of child I was predicated to be. Not, apparently, fair of face.<br /><br />Now there are two things I have in common with Heath Ledger: we both were born on Wednesday, April 4th, 1979, and we both live(d) in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, NY. I bet he also liked his burgers with the full Aussie lot. Now it's three. This is close to being a macabre game of Seven-Steps-to-Kevin-Bacon.<br /><br />That I am making any of the connections above should clue you in, regardless of any fairness-of-face, to the fact that I am wholly Wednesday's child. Oh, Wednesday's children! What are we full of? Woe.<br /><br />Woe is us. Or would it be, "Woe are us." I'll keep that in mind just in case I end up working for Toys R Us in the midst of a hot "Welcome to Tim Burton's Wild, Wacky World of Childhood Development" trend. Woe R Us, indeed.<br /><br />So, we are woe. Pretty dramatic, right? I propose a rewrite of this nursery rhyme to better suit my personality. The late Mr. Ledger unfortunately has made a strong case for Wednesday's children. Which makes me sad. . .until I think about Zimbabwe, and proportion trumps particulars.<br /><br />Shall we read the ditty?<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><br /><br />Monday's child is fair of face,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> Tuesday's child is full of grace,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> Wednesday's child is full of woe,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> Thursday's child has far to go,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> Friday's child is loving and giving,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> Saturday's child must work for a living,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> But the child that's born on the Sabbath day</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"> Is fair and wise and good and gay.<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /><br />And shall we pause for a moment to consider how this verse casts radical doom on not only Wednesday's, but Thursday's AND Saturday's child? Or, to put it another way, a good 3/7ths of the population? (Assuming, of course, that births are proportionate to the number of days in a week.)<br /><br />While I'm assuming (and flagrantly risking ass-making), it might be fun to ponder whether this nursery rhyme has its foundations in Christianity. Let me get out my tattered copy of King James and remind myself what was created on the third, fourth and sixth day of Creation.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">On the third day, God created dry land and plants.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">So....obviously, this means that vegetarianism is woeful....? Let's check out day four.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">On the fourth day, God created the sun, moon and stars.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Okay, so Thursday's child has far to go. This can be interpreted as meaning space travel, perhaps. Neil Armstrong was born on July 20th, 1930. That was a Sunday, which is the Pass-Go-&-Collect-$200 day. But Sally Ride was born on May 26th in 1951 -- a Saturday!!! Which brings us to our next day-o'-birthin'-doom. (Attention, young feminists. There is a masters thesis somewhere in this...)<br /><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">On the sixth day, God created the land animals and man.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Well. I suppose I can see the "work for a living" theme, although I'm not too thrilled about the idea of turning the mythic consequences of Original Sin into a nursery rhyme.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">MOVING ON</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"></span></span></div><br />Today is Monday, and that's where this tangent began, as well as this blog.<br /><br />Why "even the fleas" for a name? Suffice it to say: it was the first combination that I could claim both from Blogger and the Domain Mafia.<br /><br />Sorry, Mr. Porter. After I found out Wednesday's Child was an adoption organization, I really wanted to name the blog "Educated Fleas." 'Twas not meant to be.<br /><br />Could "Even the Fleas" be a good name for an adoption organization? Points to ponder. Don't let's ask Elna Baker. (We already know it's a BAD idea anyway, right?) <a href="http://www.elnabaker.com/stories002.html">http://www.elnabaker.com/stories002.html</a>memhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05304041049982865476noreply@blogger.com3