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.
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