Published in 1997 and now, 11 years later, read by me.

I had forgotten- for far too long- the great joy, and the discordant but necessary misery that is a part of that joy, that indeed makes that joy possible when words are crafted, sculpted by such an artist.

Saramago, 86, is Portuguese. I am 58, and American. An artist, like Saramago, makes us aware, if we allow him, of the diverting and dehumanizing veneer which such numbers and adjectives, in reality, are. He points us toward that within ourselves which enables us to see, and- if we are courageous enough- to observe. He peels away the layers of grey mythologies we are buried beneath so that we might remember the colors and tiny, very human events that gave rise to them. He invites us to smell human excrement so that we may remember, perhaps for the first time, the splendors of rain and tears.

Saramago writes with as few punctuational and structural barriers as are possible, thus allowing the reader to become part of the creative process. I attempt that now, too, by simply offering several of the quotations from Blindness which made me gasp, or linger, or begin to observe. To give you my synopsis of the story itself would only take away from what is waiting in dormancy within you now for the cleansing waters of Saramago’s words. Here:

..if, before any action, we were to begin by weighing up the consequences, thinking about them in earnest, first the immediate consequences, then the probable, then the possible, then the imaginable ones, we should never move beyond the first point where our first thought brought us to a halt. The good and evil resulting from our words and deeds go on apportioning themselves, one assumes in a reasonably uniform and balanced way, throughout all the days to follow, including those endless days, when we shall not be here to find out, to congratulate ourselves or ask for pardon, indeed there are those who claim that this is the much-talked-of immortality.. (pg.78)

..in my opinion we’re already dead, we’re blind because we’re dead, or if you would prefer me to put it another way, we’re dead because we’re blind, it comes to the same thing.. (pg.251)

Do you mean that we have more words than we need, I mean that we have too few feelings, Or that we have them but have ceased to use the words they express, And so we lose them.. (pg.292)

Don’t lose yourself, don’t let yourself be lost, he said, and these were unexpected, enigmatic words that didn’t seem to fit the occasion. (pg.294)

If I’m sincere today, what does it matter if I regret it tomorrow.. (pg.306)

Do you want me to tell you what I think, Yes, do, I don’t think we did go blind, I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see. (pg. 326)

Get Blindness. See. Look. Observe.

You can't go anywhere in the NZ art world right now without running into her and today I found out (rather late in the piece) about the Rita Angus Symposium this weekend at Te Papa. I am now scheming to try and get there but the logistics are tricky and does being a housewife count as "unwaged"? This is something I would really like to get to!

Self-Portrait at Clifton (circa 1945)

In weekend news, I travelled to Palmerston North (otherwise known as 'the vortex') on Sunday. Unfortunately I missed the opening of David Cauchi's Cauchikunst at Thermostat which was on Saturday and runs until 25th September, but I did manage to meet up with the delightful Helen (of swapsie goodness). All in all I am not quite so daunted at the prospect of possibily moving there now. I also have it on good authority that Mao in George Street make excellent Shanghai style dumplings.

I have also been assured on several fronts that learning to skateboard and/or surf before I am 40 may not be ridiculously out of the question. However with the Large Hadron Collider firing up this week - I may not need to worry. As jaymam over at Poneke's blog observed

"Today in 1985 "The Quiet Earth" starring Bruno Lawrence was shown at the Toronto Film Festival.

A man wakes up to find himself alone in the world, and goes about trying to find other survivors, as well as to find out what happened. He suspects that a government research project he was involved in had something to do with the disappearance of everyone."

Paranoid? - not me!

I have had two poems published by Political Affairs under my old name (see Self-Interview post numbers 8 & 9).

Political Affairs is a journal that I read as an undergraduate; I studied political science.  I read it to learn more about Marxism in the United States.  I am not a Communist though. 

I do believe in some form of social redistribution ( as peacefully chosen by voters-no militant revolutions) so the subject of my poetry fit what they were looking for.

Do I regret it?

No.

It is just a memory in my life's journey.

I sent them out thinking they would never be chosen and they were.  I really haven't pursued publishing until recently.  I suppose the older I get--the more I want to share with the world.

When hands hold hands
Under silver and crimson skies
They remember sometimes
That summer in June
Never comes to be
And love sometimes
Doesn't put his hand in mine

When skies fail to show
The yellow gloom of hope
Hearts get heavy and sink
Because love has refused
To make me smile anew

When smiles turn into tears
Little children are denied
The joy in innocent playfulness
They grow too quickly too soon
And tragically learn to hate
That which ought to be loved

When singers stay at home
Songs freeze inside the piano
And birds cease to fly
Beyond visible skylines
They sit around all day
Thinking if only it could be
That today a song is sung

When the sun chooses to hide
Behind the grey thickness of the air
Lovers lose sadly their passion
Because finally it becomes clear
That summer in June, actually
Never has it come to be
And walks along Second Beach
Turn into theft of innocence
And beauty is lost forever in time

Summer in June:
It never comes to be

Copyright © 2008 by Fluid Thought. All Rights Reserved.

They are different from all the poems on this site. 

I'm not sure if they will stand well on their own.  In the meantime, I am still searching for possible publications.

They would best be suited for places like Slate.com and maybe The New Yorker (given their subject matter), but I have a low chance of publication with either.

Still deciding....

I thought about an editor  today that I was kind of rude to several weeks ago .  I sent an apology.

I am not going to submit anything to that publication, but I just felt like apologizing for being arrogant--something I do quite well at times.

Good luck with your writing and publishing goals.

Oh, by all accounts and every measure that could reasonably be applied, everything worked precisely as the development team intended. No one above the special team level had as yet authorised human testing, and so the staff wiled away their time by testing, re-testing, occasional changes, cleaning exercises and repeat anew.

The real truth was that anything close to absolute power carried with it the option of convenience: there really was no one standing in the way of those holding power; if they felt any given person was a threat, there were quicker and more final ways to deal with that person.

This experimental equipment was tasked to work on a sub-cellular level, targeting and eviscerating individual genes within each chromosome, changing their function in programmed ways. And it would do this simultaneously to all cells within a body if so programmed.

When the system was used on a living being, the limitless permutations on output inherent in the equipment could be programmed to produce unimaginable and excruciating pain, rearranging the functioning within a cell to produce a slow and agonising death. It was theoretically possible to have each nerve ending in a body signal intense pain to the dutifully gathering and processing brain.

This insidious equipment was the ‘brain child’ of Dr. G’skhar Wrehsx, a self proclaimed brilliant molecular biologist who also happened to be psychopathic. Anyone who came close enough to the doctor to decipher his mental pathology and who showed signs of awareness in this regard faced a marked decrease in life expectancy - this doctor could and did kill.

Vreloran was not aware of Dr. Wrehsx’ mental instability; he was much too concerned with his own personal survival and the welfare of his family. If told to do, Vreloran followed the instruction, so long as he was otherwise employed and left alone he would do what was asked of him or so that was the prevailing opinion of the doctor and his closest associates.

There were a few other staffers – there were 20 on the team in all – who suspected or even knew the truth, but as with Vreloran, they were out to advance or protect their own self interests, and so they dutifully followed instructions and carried out work as instructed.

The system had been fully functional for a full year; behind the scenes, Dr Wrehsx begged the Minister of Internal Security for test subjects. The doctor was not fussy, anyone given over to him would do. He wished to see how the hideous creation of his warped mind could play god and rearrange a human being while causing limitless pain and destruction of their mental capacity. Programmed death finally ended the process, but the death element was not out of some mercy for the victim; it was for autopsy purposes, to study the results.

On this day, the doctor was once again begging the MIS for a live victim. “It is essential that we test the efficacy of the equipment on a human, or else when we truly must carry out orders to process someone, we will have no idea if we can in fact deliver the intended results.

While the Minister supported this programme, he also found it a very unpleasant subject. He had seen the test reports on animals, and the first had caused him to empty his stomach into a restroom toilet; he barely made it in there in time.

“Patience, doctor” The Minister coached, his job continued to be placate the doctor, keeping him interested and productive but in his place. “We will have a suitable subject for you before too long, and in fact, I have some idea as to who this person will be. When the time comes, you will be expected to follow our instructions to the letter, without question, and immediately.”

The doctor smiled at the thought of proving the theory and seeing to the practical application of his equipment. “Yes, I fully understand. It is my honour to serve Brellian and all he intends to accomplish!”

After the doctor left, presumably now thrilled at the prospect of some live being to torture, the Minister turned his thoughts toward the victim. On one level he greatly admired her courage and her ability, on the other he well recognised all he and Brellian believed in and were working toward could be jeopardised if she were allowed to continue agitating for change.

The Minister was unsure when they would act - it might be years - but the time would come when the fearless musician would learn a final lesson about challenging Arrhazonan institutionalised patriarchy.

Everlasting sunsets, mushrooms as much as berries, berries as much as water
Jumping salmons, fearless squirrels and too curious trouts
Hot saunas and freezing see
Moomin trolls and Väinämöinen
Pine trees, birch trees
mosses and lichens and ferns
and ropes and piers and boats ..

... alone with the sound of the sea,
alone with never evening red skies,
alone with my wife

for seven
wonderful,
unforgettable days.

We felt deeply in love with Finland.
And we want to go back!

(click on the post picture to see the huge Flickr set on our holidays in Finland)

On a sultry evening in Manhattan last month, Joseph O'Neill was to be found in the cool downtown atmosphere of the independent SoHo bookstore McNally Jackson. The occasion was a party thrown for the store's renaming (it had previously been called McNally Robinson), a champagne affair with a guest list and a doorman. A slew of hip young writers was present, but O'Neill, a trim, saturnine figure with the welcoming smile of someone familiar with anonymity, was the main attraction. In T-shirt, shorts and untied pumps, he looked like that most uncommon of urban creatures: a relaxed author. In front of him was a queue of readers - mostly young women - eager to gain his signature on their copies of his book, and all around him was the pleasing and unmistakable buzz of success.

This is the celebrity version of the literary life: the fashionable event, the limelight, the approbation. But O'Neill, an Irishman of Turkish descent who grew up in Holland and went to university in England, is far more intimate with the other version: the long days and dark nights that form the basis of the creative process, and the quiet, frustrating obscurity of the unread author. His two previous novels, and a memoir, had slipped almost unnoticed into the bottomless void in which nearly all books sooner or later - and mostly sooner - come to reside. ... more>>

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Anyway,

My husband says I must leave my old Nokia 6682 behind.  I stalled for as long as I could, but I just had to replace it.  I did try a T-Mobile bar Nokia phone (can't remember the number), but it wasn't that good.  T-Mobile kept dropping our calls so we canceled after just 2 days of service.

My first cell was a Samsung flip phone with voice dial.  It was a Sprint, and this was a fully metal phone, people!  Let's say that was a long time ago.  I then went with Cingular, and it was bought by ATT&T.  We have had good service, but after we moved our old contract (we were out of contract) was no longer available and we would be paying MORE for LESS minutes.

That just upset my husband greatly so we tried T-Mobile (disaster) and now we have Verizon--a very good carrier so far.

The bonus is my new Palm Centro (I thought I would hate it.).  It has a wonderful QWERTY pad, and  it is so cute; I have the deep blue one.  I love it! I keep calling my husband and texting him just because I want to use my new phone.

The only down side:

I keep getting texts that read:

"Who da fuck r u talkin on da phone to?"

And you can't beat this one:

"What u up to pimpmama?"

I politely called each texter and explained that this is my NEW but not new number.

This has never happened to me before.  I suppose I have a popular persons number because I keep getting calls and texts.

I hope it ends soon.

In the meantime, I like responding just to use my new phone.

It isn't bad for a whoppping $99.

Sorry, but I had to devote a post to my new little pal.

Nokia 6682    (pearl white-like mine)       Palm Centro (deep blue color)

Although exploring the similar theme of gay athlete and sports, The Dreyfus Affair, often looked upon as a more upbeat and funnier literary clone to the post-Stonewall classics The Front Runner (reviewed earlier), is even more provocative and engrossing a read that satirizes the subtle and insidious violation of human rights and dignity on the basis of sexuality. Combining romance, comedy, and baseball writing (so informative of baseball terms and jargons of which I was ignorant), the book, in a contemptuous tone, exposes how backward and hypocritical this country is. America would frantically jump at the first opportunity to act as moral guardian to human rights abroad and yet it is turning its back on liberty and justice at home.

Randy Dreyfus is the rising star who is aspiring to be a MVP. He is the hottest shortstop in the major leagues, happily married to a beautiful woman, and has a shopping center in Van Nuys named after him. Yet something very upsetting afflicts him---the more he tries to banish it from his conscious thoughts, the more intensely it encroaches him. No matter how adamantly he denies his feeling, Randy knows it is more than just deep-seated admiration. He has been teammate with D.J. Pickett for three years---spending a lot of time on the road, on planes, in hotels, in clubhouses. Their exchange is no more than perfunctory pleasantry and prep-talk for the game.

"So now you drag me up to a Chinese restaurant sixty miles out of town to ask me what my mother's maiden name is." [39]

Randy tries to ignore the thought, which at times nudges to the dangerous realm of forbidden, lustful, felonious acts between two men. But the thought does not peter out, it only intensifies. Come to terms with who he is. So the therapist advises. Randy only laments at the revelation that all his life he has twisted his insides up to deny what his real nature is. While teammates and sportwriter find themselves watching Randy spend great deal of time stealing looks at the second baseman, Susie Dreyfus ponders at the identity of a handkerchief's owner. The private detective whom she commissions to unveil the secret affair only returns with clues that further mystify the case. Sudden surge of desire, sudden loss of control---give away to their affection in the wrong place at the wrong time. The scandal stirs up a maelstrom of controversies and bevy of jokes. Love becomes the whole nation's business.

Amidst the gamut of media that frantically clamber for a piece of the hot cake, is the wrath of the old baseball bigots and homophobes who fear acquiescence to the players' relationship will bring upon the league's demise. Their so-called disciplinary actions is countered by a diatribe written by a fed-up sportwriter who accuses all parties involved in persecuting two citizens whose only crime is falling in love. The most touching part, almost like an antithesis to all the public outcry, is how the wife, who is afflicted by a chaotic tangle of contradictions, embraces the situation with magnanimity that demonstrates unconditional love.

From Amazon : "Recorded by Hunter S. Thompson between 1965 and 1975, these tapes capture his thoughts and descriptions both as they're happening and in reflection, as he would often go back to rerecord commentary while writing. Filmmaker Alex Gibney, producer Eva Orner and Gonzo archivist Don Fleming were given permission by Thompson's widow to explore the boxes of tapes stored in the basement of his Owl Farm home in Woody Creek, Colorado, left behind after Thompson's suicide in 2005. Fleming transferred the audiocassettes and reel-to-reel tapes to digital files, and they made their way to the cutting room for the film Gonzo: The Life And Work Of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Now for the first time these previously unreleased recordings are available in a 5-CD set. The Gonzo Tapes features original cover artwork by Gonzo artist Ralph Steadman, an amazing 44-page booklet full of never-before-seen images from Hunter S. Thompson's estate, along with memorable photos and an introduction by film director Alex Gibney, an essay by journalist and Thompson's fellow foreign correspondent Loren Jenkins, and notes by The Gonzo Tapes producer Don Fleming, former front man of the Velvet Monkeys and Gumball who has produced Sonic Youth, Alice Cooper, Hole, and more."

I want a copy nowwwwwwwwww!!!!

Ron Mexico

Which you really should, btw. John Kelly is my hero.

Anyways, what you can probably expect in the next few posts, whenever they may be, is some stuff on Micromegas and Candide by Voltaire, House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski (first book in a long time that I abandoned due to ridiculousness), the poetry of John Donne and Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. I have not read any Paradise Lost in over a month, but I am not abandoning that, so sometime down the road there will still be Paradise Lost posts...

Also, if you've been with me since near the start of the blog, I am still reading through the Bible, although the pace has slowed. A lot. =P I won't be posting so much on that though; I'm leaving theological/debate traffic for other blogs; I prefer to stay more in the books/literature niche.

Anyways, thanks for stopping by, hope to see you again soon!

I will post what journals/magazines I have selected to submit to in my next post.

Thanks for reading Poet Verse

For reasons perhaps related to the ideas dished out in a previous post, Stephen Frears decided to set his version of the Jekyll and Hyde story, MARY REILLY (based on a pretty good book by Valerie Martin) in a version of Edinburgh... I say a version, because in this Edinburgh everyone has an English accent (Glaswegians might argue this is quite accurate) and the city is populated by distinguished English character actors such as George Cole and Michael Gambon.

Nevertheless, the fogbound metropolis is surmounted by a recreation of the Greek Parthenon (tricked up in the studio) and Frears and his unit decamped to the actual Edinburgh for a week of location shooting. Basically none of this material made it into the movie, which is mostly studio-bound and none the worse for it.

But due to the Edinburgh connection, and the fact that Scot producer Iain Smith oversaw the production, I gleaned a little on-set gossip.

Brown was called to Julia Roberts dressing room one day. It seemed her then-husband Lyle Lovett (remember THAT beautiful affair?) was going to be in New York that weekend. "Isn't that great?" beamed la Roberts. "So he's going to be in New York, and I could fly out and meet him, and we could spend the weekend together! In New York!"

Brown replied that this was indeed great, although he couldn't quite see what it had to do with him. He left. By the time he got back to his office, his phone was already ringing. It was a sweary agent. "You are ****ing going to ****ing buy Julia Roberts a first-class ****ing plane ticket to New York, you ****ing ****!" he swore. "Fuck!" Sorry, he sneaked that one in past the asterisks while I was talking to you.

Brown refused, the agent swore at some more producers, and eventually the studio caved and met her demands, which she never had to actually even personally voice...

Anyhow, the shoot goes on. John Malkovich is playing Jekyll and Hyde (with resulting confusion as to which is which) and he's not getting on too well with the Roberts. Malkovich has been known to be difficult himself, in fact -- hold everything -- here's a story about him --

This one's from DANGEROUS LIAISONS and it's literally too good to be true -- ie it's probably made up. But not by me. Malkovich is doing DANGEROUS LIAISONS for Frears, and Frears visits his dressing room.

"John, I want to talk to you about your character."

"Well, sure. Valmont is a very complicated guy --"

"No, John, you don't understand. I want to talk to you about YOUR character."

Flashforward back to whatever I was talking about. Oh yeah. MARY REILLY wraps, and Malkovich approaches Julia R. "I just wanted to say..." and here he tells her, essentially, that she's an arrogant, stuck-up bitch, no professional, and he's by no means enjoyed working with her and looks forward to never having to meet her again.

Three months later they're back, re-shooting the climactic scene where she weeps over him as he dies in her arms...

The film itself? Some good work, the feeling of unease at the start is effective, suggesting that Frears could make a genuinely scary horror movie if it didn't cost $50 million, but the novel's conceit -- the story told from the point of view of a chambermaid -- is somewhat resistant to visualisation, since her POV is so limited: she misses the most dramatic events of the book. It could probably be done, but it would need greater talents. Christopher Hampton did a fine job adapting DANGEROUS LIAISONS but his subsequent films tend to the disastrous.  He seems to embody the more deleterious effects of the literary-theatrical tradition on British film. The fact that three endings were shot gives a sense of how lost the filmmakers became.

Worse, Frears usual intelligence seems to have operated only fitfully. There are bizarre mismatches of word and image. When Roberts describes her brute of a father as having an odd walk, "not quite a limp," it's a surprise to then see Michael Gambon hobble wildly up like Long John Silver on a pub crawl, walking on one ankle.

I might sound nuts.  I can't help it.  My husband has always done things for me.  I have been married since I was 20, and I am now 30.  So--a great deal of my life has always been taken care of for me.

I even thought about not going-giving up the fellowship and just staying at home.

But then I decided that was nuts.

I should go--and enjoy the experience.

Anyone else afraid to travel alone?

Edgar Allan Poe.

Edward Pettit, an Edgar Allan Poe Scholar, argues that Poe's body belongs in Philadelphia where he wrote many of his works not in Baltimore, where he's buried because he happened to die there -- under strange circumstances.  On January 13, Pettit is going to square off against Jeff Jerome, the curator of the Poe House in Baltimore.  January 19, 2009, marks the 200th anniversary of Poe's birth.

Jerome says he'll argue with grace and facts and then walk over to Pettit like a gentleman and punch him square in the face.

For more about the story go to my blog at this link Philadelphia and Baltimore Fight Over Edgar Allan Poe's Body.  There's also a link on my blog to a story about it in the New York Times.  I'm too lazy to re-write it all here.  Cathy

Empezando por lo clásico, películas que he visto: 1) El desprecio: No sé por qué no escribí nada de la que es ahora una de mis películas preferidas, pero me doy cuenta de que debo hacerlo en el futuro próximo. Por hoy, no puedo hacer más que recomendar esta hermosa reflexión sobre la naturaleza del cine, bellamente fotografiada, editada, musicalizada y actuada. O si tienen algún interés en ver a Brigitte Bardot desnuda (cuando era joven; como está ahora, no, gracias), hay que informar a todos los sectores del público :P

2)Les enfants su paradis: Sobre esta no haré un nuevo post porque me da pereza, aunque es genial. Es un clásico francés de tres horas realizado durante la ocupación alemana, y medita, con ingenioso diálogo de Jacques Prévert, sobre la belleza, el amor, y la actuación. Hermosa e inolvidable. 3) El cielo rojo: otra que es importante, esta vez para el cine tico, pero sobre la que no he escrito. tengo que hacerlo antes de olvidarla. 4)El camino: aún más importante para el cine local, y a la cual dedicaré mi otro post de hoy, si es que éste llega a existir.

Ahora, el otro tema clásico: libros. Estas dos semanas he leído mucho, demasiado tal vez. Pero al contrario de lo que opina mi mamá, sí he entendido lo que leo. Sobre uno ya hablé: Arne. El resto han sido: El dolor, de M. Duras (la sigo amando), The Setting Sun (de Dazai Osamu, cáustica memoria sobre la caída de la aristocracia japonesa). Sería bonito hacer una entrada conjunta sobre estas dos, ya que ambas hablan de la Segunda Guerra Mundial de distintas formas. Hoy leo The Mystic Masseur de V.S. Naipaul, y la estoy amando. Mañana empezaré A Personal Matter de Kenzaburo Oë y espero amarla.

En otros temas, he notado como los rótulos puestos en las paradas de las Interlíneas se están echando a perder, realmente rápido. Same old, same old. La elección de Sarah Palin como candidata a vicepresidenta de John McCain no me parece más que graciosa y previsible. Aunque ha levantado polémica. La mujer es conservadora: ¿National Rifle Association? Pero fue modelo, es bonita, tiene carisma. Es gracioso. Tal vez haga algo si queda McCain. Pero no quiero que quede McCain. No debería interesarme la política de EE.UU. pero sí. En fin, ojalá no más Republicanos por un tiempo.

En el gobierno de acá, bonos chinos. Genial el recurso de amparo presentado por La Nación, y genial que fuera aprobado. La información de interés público debe revelarse al público. Mal por el gobierno de Óscar Arias -de nuevo-, a quien sigo creyendo la mejor opción de las elecciones pasadas, sin importar lo que el 98% de la UCR trate de decirme todos los días. Uno aprende a ignorar que todos los profesores digan "ése es su presidente, no el mío"; pero sigo buscando la República Independiente de (Insert name) en el mapa de Costa Rica, y oh sorpresa, no aparece. En todos los gobiernos hay errores, y si en éste momento Ottón fuera presidente, seguro que escribiría el doble en éste blog sobre errores del gobierno.

Por cierto, yo pecador, ojeo La Nación,  y veo noticias que suenan bonitas: que Angela Merkel es la mujer más poderosa del planeta, que Britney Spears es víctima de su propia fama (y de su white trash background diría yo), que la crisis política en Bolivia está aún peor... Mmm, lo voy a leer más tarde, en realidad. Eso sería por hoy, mi entrada. En la noches hablo de El camino. He pensado importar entradas de mi viejo blog: eso me haría ver más constante y me daría más tiempo de escribir nuevas cosas. Hago trampa, pero espero que alguien lea. :D Si pasan por ac, dejen comentarios, y así sabré sobre qué escribir más tarde. Gracias :D

Fun Home begins with the expository surface details of Bechdel family life in order to set a framework (like a house of cards, an elegant facade of stability) which slowly comes under greater and greater scrutiny as the memoir progresses.  Once the details of Bruce Bechdel's death (which occurred several weeks after Alison's "coming out" to her family) are revealed, she takes the reader back to the myriad events of her childhood that seemed so innocuous at the time, yet were plainly visible signs of tragedy for anyone who had the foresight to look for them.  Make no mistake, though: It is Bruce's inability to accept his homosexuality that is his tragedy, not the sexual identity itself. Indeed, one might say that his inward repression - combined with subtle expression via creative outlets such as gardening, restoration of antiques, and fancy period dress - were an invisible, influential force on young Alison, who reacted by becoming "butch" to her father's "pansy" long before she was old enough to understand her own motives.

Everything in the Bechdel family home (a meticulously restored manor home from the nineteenth century that Bruce supposedly showed more affection to than his own children) was a carefully contrived fiction.  The Bechdels' marriage was never truly equitable or even amicable, and the entire family could be seen as just another "piece" of the house that gave the fiction an appearance of authenticity.  It is a wonder that Alison is not far more emotionally damaged than she is.

Fun Home is clearly written by a professional author, specifically one with a solid education in the classics of Western Literature.  Given the fact that Bruce Bechdel was a high school English teacher and an avid reader who encouraged his daughter to pursue the arts from an early age, this comes as no surprise.  What is surprising is the astoundingly literary structure of events in Alison's life, as well as the number and extent of allegorical, metaphorical or parallel occurances that make the truth even more illustrative and dramatic than fiction.  The final chapter deals largely with astoundingly fitting parallels between both Bruce and Alison's lives and James Joyce's Ulysses and Homer's The Odyssey (the "cyclops" is a lover of Alison's who has a glass eye, etc.), while the early chapters illustrate an unsettling mirror of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby that may have been an example of life imitating art.  After all, could it be coincidence that Bruce Bechdel's life so frequently reflected elements of his favorite novels?

On the subject of illustration, Bechdel's graphic work fits perfectly with the memoir genre.  Each panel blends the authenticity of meticulously recorded and researched history with the inherent nostalgia of memory, be it for better or worse.  The use of three colors (black ink, white negative space, and blue watercolor) gives the pages an almost cold feeling, which is more in keeping with the book's themes than more traditional sepia tones would be.  Many photographs and letter excerpts are expertly reproduced, sometimes authentic to the point of making them less legible.  If I have one problem with Fun Home, it is that the occasional reproduced handwritten excerpt takes extra time to decipher.  Thankfully, any passages of crucial importance are highlighted for emphasis and easy reading.

The subject of homosexuality is the crux of Fun Home, and it is treated not only with the respect that it deserves, but with a surprising level of accessibility.  Alison Bechdel does a fantastic job relating her own experiences in a way that will help heterosexual readers understand her journey without making them feel alienated or uncomfortable.  In fact, I would say that this may be one of the greatest strengths of "Fun Home."   Perhaps we will see it taught in LGBT studies courses the same way Maus is used in some college-level courses dealing with the Holocaust. It is certainly equally honest and forthright, and similarly tragic, but is a decidedly different in both theme and method of storytelling.  I highly recommend Fun Home to anyone who enjoys deeply moving, well-crafted stories with strong characterization and important themes.  Sometimes the truth really is more powerful than fiction.

         

         Charlotte Brontë’s best known and beloved work, Jane Eyre, has undoubtedly withstood the test of time.  Though it was first published in 1847, it reads as if it were written this century, for contemporary readers by a modern day writer.  Charlotte draws us into her world by articulating her reader-relatable life experiences using the language of images, a language commonly found in fairy tales.  There is no doubt that the use of common fairy tale motifs in telling her life story has made this one of the most enduring, engaging and memorable stories among generations.

         As readers, we identify with Jane’s sufferings throughout the narrative and we share in her joy at the end of the story.  The opening chapters remind us Cinderella, as we partake in the agonies, hopes, and debasement she faces when forced to live with the Reed’s in Gateshead Hall.  The red room, a small square chamber in the Hall, is analogous to the cinders next to which Cinderella had to sit and pick lintels.  The book John Reed hurls at her as she attempts to read, the foul treatment from her aunt Reed due to envy, remind us of sibling rivalry and the evil stepmother motifs.  As readers, we are already engaged and cheer for her, rooting her on to remain resilient and yielding.  We cringe at the mention or presence of her “stepfamily”. 

          After Jane’s departure from Gateshead and ultimate arrival at Thornfield Hall, the home Mr. Rochester, we immediately recall Beauty and the Beast, as Jane must now face a new intractable master, namely, Mr. Rochester.  Her wits and obstinate nature arouses a never before felt love in his heart, a love that is reciprocated by Jane, and serves to quell the harsh servitude, to which she might have otherwise been subjected.  This new found heart-felt love procures Jane a safe haven and the assurance of life long riches.  But, just as the beauty leaves the beast to fulfill moral obligations, so too does Jane abandon Mr. Rochester on principled grounds, only to return to him on emotional grounds. 

          Jane’s voyage from unattractive outsider to a position of happiness and status is comparable to The Ugly Duckling.  And Jane’s spiritual and intellectual development has stark parallels with The Pilgrim’s Progress.  Like all the aforementioned fairy tales, Jane Eyre ends happily with the heroine married to her beaux, with equal respect, in a happy abode.  These fairy tale motifs, as wrought in Jane Eyre, captures our imagination and interest, and will do so for generations to come, making this story an enduring, engaging and memorable story for all ages.

-O. James

© Orin James 2008

I have to read Claudia Rankine's The End of the Alphabet for class. It's one of those books that's useful only because as I read it I do all the mundane things I normally put off doing so I don't have to keep reading. Let's see, I cut my nails, did the dishes, wrote a couple of postcards, cleaned the place up a little bit, baked cookies (!). I'm not halfway through the book but I'm so compelled to write about why I don't wanna keep reading; in fact, this is probably just another mode of procrastination.

For one, there is this implicit discomfort with life & living: grief without the source of grief, grief without dressing, sadness without syntax, awareness of sexuality that is encapsulated in objects and words of painful mediocrity, "the lone expanse of his back," overly serious and inappropriate use of italics ("laughter: swollen, leaking in/ to appeal, To die," or "there is this about me: I feel bad"), a feeling like the man in Rankine's life is sick of fucking her, that this might be one source for her "dis-ease" (get it? get it?) etc.

I mean, don't get me wrong. Rankine certainly knows how to write a sentence. Some of her poems even look kinda cool aesthetically. But it's total Poet Laureate poetry--middle-aged, mundane, conventional, unwilling to risk anything, lacking any sort of rhythm from syntax or line break that excites me, does not connect the reader to nature, to emotion, or experience. It's total psychological deadness. Totally safe. Rankine working out her discrepancies with mortality in a wholly uninteresting way. What is the point of reading poetry, or anything, that is not a catalyst for such things that make poetry, or any writing for that matter, worthwhile? I.e. makes you feel, remember, write, think, understand.

"The morning cannot/ be picked through," Rankine says, "not be sorted out." Well, Ms. Rankine, I beg to fucking differ. I remember a rather beautiful morning of sorting and picking @ Taryn's apartment in chinatown after Willy's hip-hop show. Pieced the night together with each other's recollections. The inevitable occurrence of picking and sorting the night as we felt necessary. Memory is imperfect. Rankine needs to start sorting now, because I just don't give a shit about her everyday bedsheet grievances.

With this book, for the first time, there are extensive information about this collecting topic.The different technology of all watches is described and the printings on the dials are explained, too. So the collector learns about the meaning of each illustration, coat and abbreviation, printed on the dials. Beside the various types of wrist-watches, airplane clocks, pocketwatches, stop watches and navi chronometers are presented. For every watch admirer this book is a perfect entry in a new fascinating collecting topic.

A Reviewer from Amazon:

Excellent Photographs of Various Russian Timepieces

About the author:
Juri Levenberg was born in Riga and is a mechanical engineer. He lives in Petershausen, outside of munich, and has been actively collecting and documenting Russian wristwatches since 1988.

In the 19^th century, the word “nervous” was used instead of stress.  But then and now, there was always resistance to change and stress. 

A physician was a scientist who was taught the need to measure to know if something is real.  Disease and the language of science.  Hard evidence.

Change involved perceiving stress and an emotional response to disease.  We were always somehow changing.  Physiologically.  Emotionally.  Me and others. 

We were all disposed to disease of the body, the mind, the soul.  Disposed to disease, chronic disease over time.  What killed my grandmother had a good chance to get me.  We were all disposed to stress.  Male patterned baldness.  Cancer.  Stroke. 

Resist.  Sleep. Rest. Healing was an ongoing process. 

Disease. Language of science.  Hard evidence.  Emotions.  Emotional responses.  Always changing.  Stress and the imbalance in life?  Change and resistance to change.  Self-help.  Body.  Soul.  Need for help.  Exercise.  Relearning how to perceive the stressful event.  To be properly disposed to change involved practice.  There was a need to learn and relearn balance. In bike riding, skiing.  In life.  Exercises.  For the body, for the mind, for the soul.   

Be still!  So what was happening?  Emotions.  Thrill?  Wonder?  Awe!  Thanks.  Praise.  Looking for a place of peace in a nation when fear had been over there, stress was across the sea, seven years ago.  Before September 11, 2001.

History.  Family history.  We were not immune to disorder.   And healing was an ongoing process.

When heart responds in kind

To deliriums of time

The soul slumbers not

For shaken of its numbness it now has begot

Lovers of timeless sort

That no distance may distort

What may be said of love most dead

Other than it once lived while the quick slumbered instead

From broken crevices most confluent

Suffering of time’s creeping movement

Return to the shadows it must

In dormancy lay to rust

Despite hostile conditions it must thrive

Though only in one soul it must abide

For death it may not consume

Love for the humanity of another left to resume

A life on her own

Without

The comfort of one formerly known

 --Carolina Maine