Normally, it would suit Amanda's perpetually capricious mood to treat the formatting of her blog as if it were some sort of spoof or gaggle or feeble impersonation, a confused montage of tribute and exposed ridiculousness. However, considering the unending riot that was my day, followed by the unnecessarily brutal beating that was my reading of The Waste Land, which resulted in the soreness of my physical and cognitive being, a soreness exacerbated by the fact that I was not given any reason as to why Eliot was so insistent upon doling out blow after passionate blow, I am simply too tired to think that much. All this blog will attempt to do is prove a theory of my own conception, which would be fitting of the thematic narcissism that laces my every post.
So, I'll use this quote to back my theory. Well, sort of a quote, I'm not going to copy the whole darn thing down:
"The mind of the poet differs from that of the immature one... being a more finely perfected medium... very varied feelings... enter into new combinations. Analogy... catalyst... two gases... mixed in the presence of... platinum, they form sulfuric acid... combination only takes place if... platinum... present;... newly formed acid contains no trace of platinum... blah, blah, blah, platinum itself... unaffected... The mind of the poet is the shred of platinum."
Christ, Eliot, just because you know every single darn word in the English language doesn't mean you need to utilize all of them just to make a point.
Anyways, it has recently come to my attention that most writers aren't ever well known, or well sold, or well written, until they are middle aged. I initially thought this had something to do with experience and all that "life teaches you" stuff, but my recent studies of brain function and health have informed me that an individual is usually middle aged before they can perform a single task with both hemispheres of their brain. So, until middle age, most people are only utilizing half of their brain power when doing almost anything they do.
I think having both sides of the brain, logical and emotional, working in harmony is a very important aspect to creating relatable, moving art. That task isn't easy for anyone, but it gets easier with experience and age. I hope. Anyways, I think what Eliot is trying to say with his alchemist, mixing-of-gasses, amalgamation metaphor is that it takes more than just one process to create a good poem, and that melding of processes comes with maturity, and is therefore the difference between mature and immature poets, and on a larger spectrum, artists.
Whew, I think that works...
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Imagist Commentary/Non-Imagist Commentary/Commifesto (Manitary?)
Imagist Commentary on This Week's Readings:
Loy's Feminist Manifesto
Black-on-Tan, words and words, jumping out at me like they know what they're supposed to be doing./
A woman late at night, massaging her worried brow.
A Grave of Merits:
She sighs, she strokes the hairless head
And can see where the hair would grow.
A clear plastic snake,
Sunk into her wrist
Keeps struggling across his tiny almost throat.
She wishes she could blame it.
She sighs again
Her breath fills the air
Her son cannot share.
She's in the mirror,
Rabid rocks and licorice flames
And sharp crooked hooks loom
Behind her.
All she sees is the crackled blue urn
On the mantle.
She stares at her belly button
(It's finally popped out to say hello)
And she does not think of or care for
The possibility
Of another urn.
Or, she pokes her fingers through the holes
Of an afghan
Her eyes plastered in prose.
She stirs a pot of macaroni,
Book in hand
Always sneering, lashing
Stirring?
She is learning about the world,
The world she has chosen not to pollute
With death.
The Poems of H.D./Pound's Retrospect
Honey magnifies the tan taut skin between two nipples; a leftover tongue print turns glisten into fuzzy./
A bee lands on my freckled arm, dips its hips, and stings.
Okay, fine, my feeble attempt at imagism ...
Non-Imagist Commentary on Pound's A Retrospect p. 1506
I'm really disappointed with this "manifesto." At first, it seems innocent and kind enough: if you want to write imagist poetry, here are some helpful guidelines. But it quickly turns horrifically condescending: I created this movement, yes, with the help of others, and I get to define it, and if you don't follow my definition, it's crap (and Oh! all the crap I've had to read. . .) And then, then, he starts listing off do's and don'ts, telling the world exactly how to make art.
I'm sorry, Mr. Pound, but you have no right. Yes, you were a pioneer, and yes, many people have tried to write in your newfangled style. You should be flattered that you have inspired the masses, not angry that they haven't conformed to your ideas of non-conformity.
You can make the rules for your own art, but you can't make the rules for other people's. That's how art works: someone, somehow, is inspired. They might even copy, or attempt to copy, a form they admire. But, they are another human, and they will inevitably leave their own distinct mark. And another person will read that, and do the same. It all starts with a great idea, but a great idea can only contain itself, not the world, and the world will take it and run with it, they will do what they want with it. Again, that's how art works. It's called evolution. And, the more a style changes, the farther it moves from it's origins, the more people have left their mark. What a compliment, Mr. Pound, you should be proud that so many admire your work.
But no, instead, you are stuffily trying to stuff the world's ideas into your own little box. Shame, Shame, Mr. Pound.
A final note: It's possible that I've heard this or something like it somewhere, and it's also possible that I came up with it all by myself. Who knows, and why should it matter? All that matters is that it applies here--"Good art reflects the individual who created it; Great art reflects the world that created it."
Amanda's FeMANist Commifesto:
First off, why do I keep reading in the biographies of the female authors of this anthology that the piece(s) represented weren't published until after the author's death? And why does this anthology feel the need to include them? If something wasn't published until 1960, include it in the movements of 1960, when it actually had a chance to move people. Don't tell me that it was an important part of nineteenth century literature--that's a lie, and it's also censorship. I feel like this series is peppering in female authors just to be PC. Literature is also history, and you can't just make up your own history. Make us ask why it's not there, make us wonder why, make us learn for ourselves what actually happened.
It's because of inconsiderate censorship like this that most women my age don't remember (or possibly don't know) that their great-grandmothers were beaten and jailed just so they could have the right to vote. As a result, half of them don't even take advantage of that right. And of those that do, half don't even know (or possibly don't care) what they're voting for. Not that I'm trying to take any sort of personal accountability out of this equation, I just want to point out that we are censored, that it's wrong, and that it does affect what we think we know.
As for the actual content of this piece: it was like a roller coaster ride in a dominatrix's basement. Loy would say something that I wholly identified with, and then proceeded to piss me off the very next sentence. Let's just look at some of her words:
" That pathetic clap-trap war cry Woman is the equal of man--She is NOT!"
--Um, feminist much?
"The fictitious value of woman as identified with her physical purity,"
--I agree. I hate the term "damaged goods" as much as anybody, and purity is truly a fictitious value. We are all humans, man or woman, and we are imperfect by our very nature. Not a single darn one of us can call ourselves pure. I don't care if you're a virgin until you marry, or until you die, you are absolutely incapable of being anything close to "pure." Therefore, it makes no sense that anyone is impure, because we all are.
"the first self-enforced law for the female sex ... would be the unconditional surgical destruction of virginity throughout the female population at puberty."
--Um, I'm not sure, but I think she's trying to say that girls have to have sex as soon as they start menstruating. I think that could actually constitute rape, and oppression. Or is she suggesting we surgically remove hymens? I'm not sure what she's saying, but I am certain that whatever it is, it's completely unnecessary.
"Every woman has a right to maternity"
--I agree. But then ...
"Every woman of superior intelligence should realize her race- her responsibility, in producing children ..."
--Hello, oppression. You are invading my personal bubble, and your breath smells really bad.
So just because I have a womb, it's my responsibility to procreate?
I don't have to pollute the world with my screaming, consuming, who-knows-if-they'll-actually-contribute-to-society offspring if I don't want to.
"the realization in defiance of superstition that there is nothing impure in sex--except the mental attitude to it--will constitute an incalculable and wider social regeneration than it is possible for our generation to imagine."
--MTV
VH1
FOX, NBC, CBS (the networks, you get it.)
Logo
FX
Adult Swim
Cinemaxx
Glenn Beck*
Yup.
To conclude: not a very good manifesto, ma'am. I'm pretty sure I could write my own feminist manifesto, that it would be better than yours, that it would abstain from oppressing anyone, and that it would only need seven words:
Do whatever the heck makes you happy**
Really, that's a humanist manifesto. Why should it matter what gender you are? This is what matters, and if you are oppressed, this is all you really need to know.
Footnotes:
*Clearly, the filthiest of all whores (I'm sure he'd take a steaming pile to the face for a tic-tac.)
**For anyone interested, this is also the Satanist Bible abridged, and the Cliff's Notes version of anything written by Ayn Rand.
Loy's Feminist Manifesto
Black-on-Tan, words and words, jumping out at me like they know what they're supposed to be doing./
A woman late at night, massaging her worried brow.
A Grave of Merits:
She sighs, she strokes the hairless head
And can see where the hair would grow.
A clear plastic snake,
Sunk into her wrist
Keeps struggling across his tiny almost throat.
She wishes she could blame it.
She sighs again
Her breath fills the air
Her son cannot share.
She's in the mirror,
Rabid rocks and licorice flames
And sharp crooked hooks loom
Behind her.
All she sees is the crackled blue urn
On the mantle.
She stares at her belly button
(It's finally popped out to say hello)
And she does not think of or care for
The possibility
Of another urn.
Or, she pokes her fingers through the holes
Of an afghan
Her eyes plastered in prose.
She stirs a pot of macaroni,
Book in hand
Always sneering, lashing
Stirring?
She is learning about the world,
The world she has chosen not to pollute
With death.
The Poems of H.D./Pound's Retrospect
Honey magnifies the tan taut skin between two nipples; a leftover tongue print turns glisten into fuzzy./
A bee lands on my freckled arm, dips its hips, and stings.
Okay, fine, my feeble attempt at imagism ...
Non-Imagist Commentary on Pound's A Retrospect p. 1506
I'm really disappointed with this "manifesto." At first, it seems innocent and kind enough: if you want to write imagist poetry, here are some helpful guidelines. But it quickly turns horrifically condescending: I created this movement, yes, with the help of others, and I get to define it, and if you don't follow my definition, it's crap (and Oh! all the crap I've had to read. . .) And then, then, he starts listing off do's and don'ts, telling the world exactly how to make art.
I'm sorry, Mr. Pound, but you have no right. Yes, you were a pioneer, and yes, many people have tried to write in your newfangled style. You should be flattered that you have inspired the masses, not angry that they haven't conformed to your ideas of non-conformity.
You can make the rules for your own art, but you can't make the rules for other people's. That's how art works: someone, somehow, is inspired. They might even copy, or attempt to copy, a form they admire. But, they are another human, and they will inevitably leave their own distinct mark. And another person will read that, and do the same. It all starts with a great idea, but a great idea can only contain itself, not the world, and the world will take it and run with it, they will do what they want with it. Again, that's how art works. It's called evolution. And, the more a style changes, the farther it moves from it's origins, the more people have left their mark. What a compliment, Mr. Pound, you should be proud that so many admire your work.
But no, instead, you are stuffily trying to stuff the world's ideas into your own little box. Shame, Shame, Mr. Pound.
A final note: It's possible that I've heard this or something like it somewhere, and it's also possible that I came up with it all by myself. Who knows, and why should it matter? All that matters is that it applies here--"Good art reflects the individual who created it; Great art reflects the world that created it."
Amanda's FeMANist Commifesto:
First off, why do I keep reading in the biographies of the female authors of this anthology that the piece(s) represented weren't published until after the author's death? And why does this anthology feel the need to include them? If something wasn't published until 1960, include it in the movements of 1960, when it actually had a chance to move people. Don't tell me that it was an important part of nineteenth century literature--that's a lie, and it's also censorship. I feel like this series is peppering in female authors just to be PC. Literature is also history, and you can't just make up your own history. Make us ask why it's not there, make us wonder why, make us learn for ourselves what actually happened.
It's because of inconsiderate censorship like this that most women my age don't remember (or possibly don't know) that their great-grandmothers were beaten and jailed just so they could have the right to vote. As a result, half of them don't even take advantage of that right. And of those that do, half don't even know (or possibly don't care) what they're voting for. Not that I'm trying to take any sort of personal accountability out of this equation, I just want to point out that we are censored, that it's wrong, and that it does affect what we think we know.
As for the actual content of this piece: it was like a roller coaster ride in a dominatrix's basement. Loy would say something that I wholly identified with, and then proceeded to piss me off the very next sentence. Let's just look at some of her words:
" That pathetic clap-trap war cry Woman is the equal of man--She is NOT!"
--Um, feminist much?
"The fictitious value of woman as identified with her physical purity,"
--I agree. I hate the term "damaged goods" as much as anybody, and purity is truly a fictitious value. We are all humans, man or woman, and we are imperfect by our very nature. Not a single darn one of us can call ourselves pure. I don't care if you're a virgin until you marry, or until you die, you are absolutely incapable of being anything close to "pure." Therefore, it makes no sense that anyone is impure, because we all are.
"the first self-enforced law for the female sex ... would be the unconditional surgical destruction of virginity throughout the female population at puberty."
--Um, I'm not sure, but I think she's trying to say that girls have to have sex as soon as they start menstruating. I think that could actually constitute rape, and oppression. Or is she suggesting we surgically remove hymens? I'm not sure what she's saying, but I am certain that whatever it is, it's completely unnecessary.
"Every woman has a right to maternity"
--I agree. But then ...
"Every woman of superior intelligence should realize her race- her responsibility, in producing children ..."
--Hello, oppression. You are invading my personal bubble, and your breath smells really bad.
So just because I have a womb, it's my responsibility to procreate?
I don't have to pollute the world with my screaming, consuming, who-knows-if-they'll-actually-contribute-to-society offspring if I don't want to.
"the realization in defiance of superstition that there is nothing impure in sex--except the mental attitude to it--will constitute an incalculable and wider social regeneration than it is possible for our generation to imagine."
--MTV
VH1
FOX, NBC, CBS (the networks, you get it.)
Logo
FX
Adult Swim
Cinemaxx
Glenn Beck*
Yup.
To conclude: not a very good manifesto, ma'am. I'm pretty sure I could write my own feminist manifesto, that it would be better than yours, that it would abstain from oppressing anyone, and that it would only need seven words:
Do whatever the heck makes you happy**
Really, that's a humanist manifesto. Why should it matter what gender you are? This is what matters, and if you are oppressed, this is all you really need to know.
Footnotes:
*Clearly, the filthiest of all whores (I'm sure he'd take a steaming pile to the face for a tic-tac.)
**For anyone interested, this is also the Satanist Bible abridged, and the Cliff's Notes version of anything written by Ayn Rand.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Twenty-Six Ways of Looking Through Stevens’ Eyes When He Wrote This Poem
1
I can't see it, but I know it's there . . .
2
I'm on acid and I know everything, man.
3
Have you ever seen one of those pictures, you know, those classy art photos, where something in the foreground is all sharp and in-focus, and then everything else behind it is all blurry because it's not as pretty as the focused-on object, but it's still important, that's why it's still there, in all its foggy glory.
4
Voyeurism is fun.
5
I prefer indecisiveness.
6
Oooh! How pretty. The shadows are running, maybe I should be running, too.
7
I don't know why "gentlemen" prefer blondes; I'm a brunette man, myself.
8
You hear that old British bag, trying to sound all smart with his "Indeed, indeed?" Even the blackbird on the window seal says, "Bullshit!"
9
I am sooo drunk right now.
10
Hookers are usually eloquent, unless they see something gorgeous.
11
Dude saw Hitchcock's The Birds one too many times--now he's crazy.
12
There's always a blackbird somewhere.
13
Oh, you didn't hear me the first time? Let me reiterate: there is always a freakin' blackbird, everywhere you look, no matter where you go. They're everywhere, man, nipping at your feet with insatiable yearning.
--OR--
I
Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there, watching you.
II
I read Eastern philosophy, and I know what the collective consciousness is.
III
Out of all the things whirling in the wind--the leaves, the dirt, the garbage--I chose to focus on the blackbird, because he was the only one in control of his movements, and the notion of having no control makes me uncomfortable.
IV
Metaphysics, anyone? Because I really like talking about things that no one will ever understand. It makes them think I'm smart.
V
What a deep, thought provoking way of saying that I prefer indecisiveness, because I simply can't decide which is more beautiful (the thought that they could be equally so would never occur to someone like me.)
VI
You can see what I saw, can't you? Can't you?! But, do you know what I mean? Of course not, I don't even know what I mean.
VII
If you don't hit that, someone will. Ahh, I'm so good at finding beauty, even when so little exists.
VIII
I am part of the collective consciousness, but apparently I'm only keen enough to absorb the intellect of a blackbird.
IX
I am sooo drunk right now.
X
In seeing what I see, even the whores of harmony would be driven to discord.
XI
If something is on your mind, you're likely to see it everywhere. Likewise, if you see something often, it is likely to grace your consciousness with frequency.
XII
There is always a blackbird somewhere, living, breathing, moving. It doesn't care if you can see it or hear it; it will still move forward with its (meager?) existence.
XIII
Among constant change is only one thing: Constance. By definition, it is always there.Now tell me, which one is more ridiculous . . .
Thursday, February 18, 2010
"Of Our Spiritual Strivings," Arthur Symons, p. 895/I'm in the Deeep South!
"As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?"
I believe that Du Bois used this excerpt because it drove in his idea of a dual existence, of African Americans trying to be themselves and Americans at the same time. I'm sure he wasn't the first to identify this struggle, but he was probably the first one to point it out. I wouldn't be surprised if many people weren't quite sure what they were going through, they couldn't understand what it was they were feeling--or as this poem personifies--hearing. I'm sure it was the voice of their hearts and the voice of the sea.
But the poem goes even farther than this, because the voice is also crying for rest.
"Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail . . ."
How tiring it must have been, being an African American in this time period. First, the constant duty of being a slave, of always having work to be done, and never once a vacation (wow, do I feel like crap right now.) And then, after emancipation, the incessant struggle of trying to find one's place in the world, in America; always smashed between two boulders of freedom and oppression, ever reaching out to grasp at opportunity, which I'm sure didn't pass by often.
Du Bois was trying to identify with and encourage his fellow men. He was saying, "I know, I know you're tired, I know your soul is crying for rest, but don't give up. We can't give up."
That's what all this is about, pressing on despite physical, social, and emotional exhaustion. That's why Du Bois slammed Washington's philosophies, because he saw them as a giant white flag. He saw Washington plop down right where he was and take whatever he could get, and encourage everyone else to do the same. He saw Washington give in. In Washington's own words, "Cast down your bucket where you are," which in every way discourages one from moving forward. True, there is always something there, and they weren't giving everything up. But there is always more just beyond the horizon, and I'm sure if those sailors had turned and kept sailing up the Amazon River, they would have found a towering waterfall, one more beautiful and plentiful than they could ever want or need.
I find it rather ironic that while I write this, I am sitting in the (former) overseer's house on a (former) plantation in Mississippi. We are staying with my friend John, and his family has lived on this land for over 200 years. If I hadn't of read Up from Slavery before I got here, I wouldn't have known what he was talking about when he said that the big house burned down and the house he now lives in used to be the overseer's house. There are several little shacks scattered all over this part of the property, and I didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure that that's where the slaves lived. It makes me a little sad, but also, it's history (and, it's history.)
As for Mardi Gras, well . . .
We went down to 'Nawlins for the first few days of our trip, and I have never had so much fun in my life. There's so much to tell, but I'll only include a few interesting bits for anyone interested.
I saw someone's ashes get scattered right on Bourbon Street. What a way to go.
I saw the Pope, Mic Jaggar, three Captain Morgans, a bear, a chicken, Jesus (or Moses, we're still not sure,) and about 50 trannies.
I got hit in the head with beads several times, and slipped and fell on beads a few times.
I will never drink another hurricane--ever--in my life.
But, for now, that's all you get, except this:
1) Riding a ferry while extremely hungover is not a good idea.
2) If you ever want to be lulled to sleep (very slowly and painfully) by the sound of a 1200 lb cow snoring just outside your window, come to Quitman, Mississippi.
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?"
I believe that Du Bois used this excerpt because it drove in his idea of a dual existence, of African Americans trying to be themselves and Americans at the same time. I'm sure he wasn't the first to identify this struggle, but he was probably the first one to point it out. I wouldn't be surprised if many people weren't quite sure what they were going through, they couldn't understand what it was they were feeling--or as this poem personifies--hearing. I'm sure it was the voice of their hearts and the voice of the sea.
But the poem goes even farther than this, because the voice is also crying for rest.
"Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail . . ."
How tiring it must have been, being an African American in this time period. First, the constant duty of being a slave, of always having work to be done, and never once a vacation (wow, do I feel like crap right now.) And then, after emancipation, the incessant struggle of trying to find one's place in the world, in America; always smashed between two boulders of freedom and oppression, ever reaching out to grasp at opportunity, which I'm sure didn't pass by often.
Du Bois was trying to identify with and encourage his fellow men. He was saying, "I know, I know you're tired, I know your soul is crying for rest, but don't give up. We can't give up."
That's what all this is about, pressing on despite physical, social, and emotional exhaustion. That's why Du Bois slammed Washington's philosophies, because he saw them as a giant white flag. He saw Washington plop down right where he was and take whatever he could get, and encourage everyone else to do the same. He saw Washington give in. In Washington's own words, "Cast down your bucket where you are," which in every way discourages one from moving forward. True, there is always something there, and they weren't giving everything up. But there is always more just beyond the horizon, and I'm sure if those sailors had turned and kept sailing up the Amazon River, they would have found a towering waterfall, one more beautiful and plentiful than they could ever want or need.
I find it rather ironic that while I write this, I am sitting in the (former) overseer's house on a (former) plantation in Mississippi. We are staying with my friend John, and his family has lived on this land for over 200 years. If I hadn't of read Up from Slavery before I got here, I wouldn't have known what he was talking about when he said that the big house burned down and the house he now lives in used to be the overseer's house. There are several little shacks scattered all over this part of the property, and I didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure that that's where the slaves lived. It makes me a little sad, but also, it's history (and, it's history.)
As for Mardi Gras, well . . .
We went down to 'Nawlins for the first few days of our trip, and I have never had so much fun in my life. There's so much to tell, but I'll only include a few interesting bits for anyone interested.
I saw someone's ashes get scattered right on Bourbon Street. What a way to go.
I saw the Pope, Mic Jaggar, three Captain Morgans, a bear, a chicken, Jesus (or Moses, we're still not sure,) and about 50 trannies.
I got hit in the head with beads several times, and slipped and fell on beads a few times.
I will never drink another hurricane--ever--in my life.
But, for now, that's all you get, except this:
1) Riding a ferry while extremely hungover is not a good idea.
2) If you ever want to be lulled to sleep (very slowly and painfully) by the sound of a 1200 lb cow snoring just outside your window, come to Quitman, Mississippi.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Dunbar's "We Wear the Mask", p.1043
“We wear the mask!”
Look at that exclamation hovering at the end there. It almost beckons us to celebrate. I kind of want to dance. I didn’t always want to dance. In the first stanza, I wanted to hang my head in
shame? In the second stanza, I wanted to do a sad, slow waltz—all by myself. In the third stanza, I felt the urge to yank my arms free of whatever imaginary binding held them, held them fast as they held my hands, which held to the page.
Was it really imaginary?
Then that last line. I wanted to jump up and dance, maybe clap my hands like a birthday idiot, some sort of notifying grin gracing my face.
“We wear the mask!”
The mask is glorious?
I always thought it was shameful to wear a mask. “Just be yourself” is all I ever heard as a child. “Go find out who you are”, ironically, didn’t come until my teenage years much later. Someone should really fix that. Anyways, I’m off the point.
Masks are people’s protection, I’ve been told. You needn’t protect yourself, I’ve been told. Hiding yourself behind a veil is lying, to the world and to yourself.
Be proud of who you are . . .
I call bullshit.
People say that (just be you,) but they mean be who you’re supposed to be, how you’re expected to be. Behave in an appropriate manner (unless no one’s looking ... that’s what Jesus is for.)
But if they happen to glance your way, you’d better hope your disguise is handy.
Who the heck is “they”? And what gives them the right to tell me how to pretend to behave?
Me. I give them the right. If I don’t hide my fear, my anger, my shame, my desire, my suffering, my desperation, my narcissism, my etc. etc. etc. etc. et cetera, they’ll say something. And that something might “hurt” me, and then I have even more to hide. If I’m not presented in the way I’m told to present myself, murmurs will float just past my ears, just close enough so I know they’re there, and just so soft that I can only assume what they mean.
“Be yourself, be proud!” society cries, while under it all they are constantly whispering, “Where’s your mask? Have you no shame???” They are tugging my arms, holding them fast behind my back.
“Our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile.”
How can I take off my mask if my hands are behind me, pressed between the sweaty, accusatory palms of my fellow facaders?
I can’t is a strong statement.
But why not celebrate, on the outside of all of it? Here is my mask, and it’s smiling. Here is my capering guise, you who dares to call me friend.
Is it acceptable? Does it make you happy?
Is that your mask smiling back at me?
What big teeth you have . . .
Look at that exclamation hovering at the end there. It almost beckons us to celebrate. I kind of want to dance. I didn’t always want to dance. In the first stanza, I wanted to hang my head in
shame? In the second stanza, I wanted to do a sad, slow waltz—all by myself. In the third stanza, I felt the urge to yank my arms free of whatever imaginary binding held them, held them fast as they held my hands, which held to the page.
Was it really imaginary?
Then that last line. I wanted to jump up and dance, maybe clap my hands like a birthday idiot, some sort of notifying grin gracing my face.
“We wear the mask!”
The mask is glorious?
I always thought it was shameful to wear a mask. “Just be yourself” is all I ever heard as a child. “Go find out who you are”, ironically, didn’t come until my teenage years much later. Someone should really fix that. Anyways, I’m off the point.
Masks are people’s protection, I’ve been told. You needn’t protect yourself, I’ve been told. Hiding yourself behind a veil is lying, to the world and to yourself.
Be proud of who you are . . .
I call bullshit.
People say that (just be you,) but they mean be who you’re supposed to be, how you’re expected to be. Behave in an appropriate manner (unless no one’s looking ... that’s what Jesus is for.)
But if they happen to glance your way, you’d better hope your disguise is handy.
Who the heck is “they”? And what gives them the right to tell me how to pretend to behave?
Me. I give them the right. If I don’t hide my fear, my anger, my shame, my desire, my suffering, my desperation, my narcissism, my etc. etc. etc. etc. et cetera, they’ll say something. And that something might “hurt” me, and then I have even more to hide. If I’m not presented in the way I’m told to present myself, murmurs will float just past my ears, just close enough so I know they’re there, and just so soft that I can only assume what they mean.
“Be yourself, be proud!” society cries, while under it all they are constantly whispering, “Where’s your mask? Have you no shame???” They are tugging my arms, holding them fast behind my back.
“Our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile.”
How can I take off my mask if my hands are behind me, pressed between the sweaty, accusatory palms of my fellow facaders?
I can’t is a strong statement.
But why not celebrate, on the outside of all of it? Here is my mask, and it’s smiling. Here is my capering guise, you who dares to call me friend.
Is it acceptable? Does it make you happy?
Is that your mask smiling back at me?
What big teeth you have . . .
Monday, February 1, 2010
"The Storm," Kate Chopin, p.531
Thank you, Miss Chopin, for furthering my last argument. If a woman wants to be credited in the annals of great American literature (years after her death, of course. What, you didn't think I would be so preposterous as to suggest that she should actually be acclaimed in her own lifetime, did you?), there is more than one way. She could try Dickinson's method, and write like a man. Or, in Miss Chopin's case, she could write for men.
" . . . her breasts . . . gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy."
Really?
Who the heck would want to read that? Dudes, of course. They're the only ones with the ability to think that breasts serve any purpose besides feeding infants, and the tenacity to think that they possess the power to make them do anything other than satisfy tiny hungry tummies. Lemme tell you (men) right now, you don't. My breasts have never given themselves up in quivering ecstasy, and if they ever did, I'd probably yell at them.
We have to remember that this was written long before women were regularly photographed naked and sold at the Seven-Eleven, and what better way to get the world's attention than giving them a little erotica? But that's where my disappointment sets in. She wrote about Calixta's body, and how it looked and felt to Alcee. But we never got a mouthy description of naked Alcee. Why do you suppose that is? Most likely because the majority of men (i.e.--the majority of her readers whose opinions mattered,) wouldn't want to read about it. But toss breasts, ecstasy, and lips into the same sentence, and you've got their (full) attention.
Don't get me wrong, that's not all there is to appreciate in this story. It is actually a very decent story. I assume that most women would love to be Calixta, with a devoted, scared, and doting husband, who waits, lovingly clutching a can of her favorite treats while she runs about, doing and commanding whatever fancies her. And of course her son is "the picture of pathetic resignation." How else could he have possibly turned out, given the circumstances? I feel that this is the most feminist aspect of the whole story: a woman raising a boy who is destined to submit to the "authority" of every woman in his life, and a father who makes no contention, only furthering this tiny little feminist movement.
I loved how the setting was a character in the story, not only planting us firmly in space and time, but living and breathing and gasping with the tale's action and inaction. Loved the local color in the dialogue. Hated the French and all the exclamation points. Not for the sole purpose of hating something, but because I felt it was all unnecessary, and that the "local color" would have been conveyed just fine (and less annoyingly) without it.
And finally, the last line of the story--why, Chopin, why? Not only is it a choppy indifference, awkwardly crammed under the story's final weight, fidgeting and squirming around the tone that was set so beautifully before, writhing so violently that one can't help but notice it set apart from everything else, but also, I didn't need her to tell me that. I really didn't. I got the whole metaphor of the storm ravaging and then passing, of everyone going back to the same old same-old. I understand the significance of the title, and the setting, and how it all pertains to the desires, thoughts, and movements of the characters. I chewed on it long and hard--I rather enjoyed the taste--until Chopin decided to shove it right down my throat. Rude, just--rude . . .
" . . . her breasts . . . gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy."
Really?
Who the heck would want to read that? Dudes, of course. They're the only ones with the ability to think that breasts serve any purpose besides feeding infants, and the tenacity to think that they possess the power to make them do anything other than satisfy tiny hungry tummies. Lemme tell you (men) right now, you don't. My breasts have never given themselves up in quivering ecstasy, and if they ever did, I'd probably yell at them.
We have to remember that this was written long before women were regularly photographed naked and sold at the Seven-Eleven, and what better way to get the world's attention than giving them a little erotica? But that's where my disappointment sets in. She wrote about Calixta's body, and how it looked and felt to Alcee. But we never got a mouthy description of naked Alcee. Why do you suppose that is? Most likely because the majority of men (i.e.--the majority of her readers whose opinions mattered,) wouldn't want to read about it. But toss breasts, ecstasy, and lips into the same sentence, and you've got their (full) attention.
Don't get me wrong, that's not all there is to appreciate in this story. It is actually a very decent story. I assume that most women would love to be Calixta, with a devoted, scared, and doting husband, who waits, lovingly clutching a can of her favorite treats while she runs about, doing and commanding whatever fancies her. And of course her son is "the picture of pathetic resignation." How else could he have possibly turned out, given the circumstances? I feel that this is the most feminist aspect of the whole story: a woman raising a boy who is destined to submit to the "authority" of every woman in his life, and a father who makes no contention, only furthering this tiny little feminist movement.
I loved how the setting was a character in the story, not only planting us firmly in space and time, but living and breathing and gasping with the tale's action and inaction. Loved the local color in the dialogue. Hated the French and all the exclamation points. Not for the sole purpose of hating something, but because I felt it was all unnecessary, and that the "local color" would have been conveyed just fine (and less annoyingly) without it.
And finally, the last line of the story--why, Chopin, why? Not only is it a choppy indifference, awkwardly crammed under the story's final weight, fidgeting and squirming around the tone that was set so beautifully before, writhing so violently that one can't help but notice it set apart from everything else, but also, I didn't need her to tell me that. I really didn't. I got the whole metaphor of the storm ravaging and then passing, of everyone going back to the same old same-old. I understand the significance of the title, and the setting, and how it all pertains to the desires, thoughts, and movements of the characters. I chewed on it long and hard--I rather enjoyed the taste--until Chopin decided to shove it right down my throat. Rude, just--rude . . .
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Theme in Whitman and Dickinson's poetry
I am going to apologize in advance for the subject matter of this blog. Not all of it, only the cliché form my discussion of theme will take. Cliché. What a nasty word. The cliché phrases we use every day are often despised by intellectuals, and why? Because they are the whores of the English language. They’re just so easy--you know exactly what you’re going to get, and only a few are wise enough to know that it’s completely meaningless. Cliché themes, concepts, and arguments are the skanks of the idea world. You can take on one of these ideas, but in doing so, you are touching on the same subjects that many, many others have broached. You are not the first, and unfortunately, you will not be the last. Just hope that you are not naïve enough to think that you can get something out of it that no one else has.
That being said, I’m sorry, guys. I just have to get me some of that.
In a sample blog about Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, Professor Weaver mentioned that Whitman was making a great effort to include all human beings in the line, “I am with you, men and women of a generation.” I find it interesting that he feels this way. The phrase “great effort” is really what got me. Why couldn’t Whitman just say ‘people’? It seems as though he had to add the word woman to the word man in order to properly address the universe. This clearly displays the gender inequality of the late nineteenth century.
The other poet we read for this week was Emily Dickinson. It might be argued that there wasn’t much inequality left, being that a female poet is just as famous as a male poet of the same era. In order to dissect that argument, I will have to look at both of these writers in terms of their genders.
Whitman--a man. His poems—long, open-ended, flowing free verse that just goes on and on. Dickinson’s poems, on the other hand, are very terse and tidy and constructed. Very short, and often very poignant. Whitman, as a man, knew that he could rant on and on and people would listen. Dickinson, as a female, must have known that if anyone was going to hear her, she’d have to keep it short. And honestly, I think Dickinson’s poems are better. They say the same amount, and sometimes more, than Whitman’s, with so much less. These days, that ability is considered real talent. But in those times, Dickinson wasn’t even published until after her death.
Whitman’s poetry contains a wealth of insight into the mind of a man. Both "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" and "Song of Myself" seem to be preoccupied with finding some connection to everyone and everything around him. I call this narcissism, which is a trait that afflicts many of the men I know. Everything you are, I am. Everything you know, I know, cries Whitman. But of course, he brings it back around. You, too, are everything I am, you know all that I do. Narcissism gone humble. Way to go, Whitman. You truly are the best.
And of course, when writing a rather long passage about the joys of his penis, he ends every single line with an exclamation. Only a man could get away with that. Even the way he obsessively observes, incessantly records, and prophetically organizes speaks to the freedom he feels as the better sex. His verse bounces all over the place, as if free-balling it all the way to town.
However, Dickinson’s poetry is wrapped neatly into the tight little corsets that every proper woman should wear. How inappropriate for a lady to be caught without undergarments! But her poems do try to break the barrier. Meter is always recognizable in her forms. She always sets it, but at times, she doesn’t quite follow it, she pushes a little past it. She wants to break free of it. And who wouldn’t?
This is why Dickinson, as a woman, was so successful. Because she loathed her gender expectations, and in her writing, she often took on the position of a man. I doubt her work would be so revered if she hadn’t. Look at her love, or more appropriately, heartbreak poems. In 340, she describes the experience of a broken heart as that of a funeral. Oh, the pain—oh, the pain! A woman would end there, but Dickinson doesn’t. “And finished knowing – then.” She ends with getting over it. Way to grow some balls. She does the same in 372, where there is pain, then questions, then process and heaviness, and then, “First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go.” A man would say get over it, a woman would say but it hurts so bad. Dickinson says it hurt, and then I moved the heck on. In 656 she even professes her strength (a lot like Whitman does in "Song of Myself"—“Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from.”) by saying, why, I would never let a man swallow me up whole, especially since I know that his departure is inevitable? And in 269, it looks like she moved past the metaphorical wielding of testacles and got herself a strap-on. Go, Emily! She wanted to get published, and she knew just what to do.
Has much changed? Are women still the weaker sex? I don't believe they are, but I know that they are still viewed as such. And, though we live in a more PC world, it is likely that a man will warrant immediate respect, while a woman will have to earn it. Things have gotten better since the days of Whitman and Dickinson, but they still have a ways to go.
That being said, I’m sorry, guys. I just have to get me some of that.
In a sample blog about Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, Professor Weaver mentioned that Whitman was making a great effort to include all human beings in the line, “I am with you, men and women of a generation.” I find it interesting that he feels this way. The phrase “great effort” is really what got me. Why couldn’t Whitman just say ‘people’? It seems as though he had to add the word woman to the word man in order to properly address the universe. This clearly displays the gender inequality of the late nineteenth century.
The other poet we read for this week was Emily Dickinson. It might be argued that there wasn’t much inequality left, being that a female poet is just as famous as a male poet of the same era. In order to dissect that argument, I will have to look at both of these writers in terms of their genders.
Whitman--a man. His poems—long, open-ended, flowing free verse that just goes on and on. Dickinson’s poems, on the other hand, are very terse and tidy and constructed. Very short, and often very poignant. Whitman, as a man, knew that he could rant on and on and people would listen. Dickinson, as a female, must have known that if anyone was going to hear her, she’d have to keep it short. And honestly, I think Dickinson’s poems are better. They say the same amount, and sometimes more, than Whitman’s, with so much less. These days, that ability is considered real talent. But in those times, Dickinson wasn’t even published until after her death.
Whitman’s poetry contains a wealth of insight into the mind of a man. Both "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" and "Song of Myself" seem to be preoccupied with finding some connection to everyone and everything around him. I call this narcissism, which is a trait that afflicts many of the men I know. Everything you are, I am. Everything you know, I know, cries Whitman. But of course, he brings it back around. You, too, are everything I am, you know all that I do. Narcissism gone humble. Way to go, Whitman. You truly are the best.
And of course, when writing a rather long passage about the joys of his penis, he ends every single line with an exclamation. Only a man could get away with that. Even the way he obsessively observes, incessantly records, and prophetically organizes speaks to the freedom he feels as the better sex. His verse bounces all over the place, as if free-balling it all the way to town.
However, Dickinson’s poetry is wrapped neatly into the tight little corsets that every proper woman should wear. How inappropriate for a lady to be caught without undergarments! But her poems do try to break the barrier. Meter is always recognizable in her forms. She always sets it, but at times, she doesn’t quite follow it, she pushes a little past it. She wants to break free of it. And who wouldn’t?
This is why Dickinson, as a woman, was so successful. Because she loathed her gender expectations, and in her writing, she often took on the position of a man. I doubt her work would be so revered if she hadn’t. Look at her love, or more appropriately, heartbreak poems. In 340, she describes the experience of a broken heart as that of a funeral. Oh, the pain—oh, the pain! A woman would end there, but Dickinson doesn’t. “And finished knowing – then.” She ends with getting over it. Way to grow some balls. She does the same in 372, where there is pain, then questions, then process and heaviness, and then, “First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go.” A man would say get over it, a woman would say but it hurts so bad. Dickinson says it hurt, and then I moved the heck on. In 656 she even professes her strength (a lot like Whitman does in "Song of Myself"—“Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from.”) by saying, why, I would never let a man swallow me up whole, especially since I know that his departure is inevitable? And in 269, it looks like she moved past the metaphorical wielding of testacles and got herself a strap-on. Go, Emily! She wanted to get published, and she knew just what to do.
Has much changed? Are women still the weaker sex? I don't believe they are, but I know that they are still viewed as such. And, though we live in a more PC world, it is likely that a man will warrant immediate respect, while a woman will have to earn it. Things have gotten better since the days of Whitman and Dickinson, but they still have a ways to go.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
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