Dr. McCarthy has moved up north. He has taught his last Religion in Lit class at Penn State. I hear he has a beautiful view of the ocean from his new house. There will be no more Shrove Tuesday breakfasts in this part of the Northeast, though I hope he has enough of his wife's family and makes enough new friends to consume all the buckwheat cakes coming off his griddle.
His brother, Cormac, is riding high, though according to a recent interview in -- was it Poets & Writers? The New Yorker? -- he's quoted as saying he doesn't much care. About the money. About the fame. About readership. His care is in the writing. And, with a movie on the horizon based upon one of his books ("No Country for Old Men"), he should be quite comfortable while executing that care.
Spring is my last semester as an undergrad. I only need two courses to graduate, so I'm filling up my schedule with things I want to take (when did I ever not?). The American Renaissance. An honors writing course. Perhaps "The Hero in Literature" -- but it's offered at a very inconvenient time. I've requested the syllabus and I already have the text. Perhaps it's time to return to self-teaching.
I've spent time defending Joseph Campbell in my Women's Studies courses. Campbell, in agreement with Jung, says we have no relevant myths. Some students taking the intro mythology course feel he would have endorsed the male supremacy movement (most notably the "Promise Keepers") as a new mythology. I argue that the issue is in changing society, which invalidates old myths. It's not a matter of telling old stories in a new way. It's in telling new stories. That's what we are lacking. The same questions are asked of the universe, but the answers have changed.
I'm reading Jung now, so perhaps this blog won't like as dormant as I thought it would
Friday, November 16, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I Passed...
...with an A.
On the day of the final, Dr. McCarthy handed us each slips of paper with our grades up to that point. On my "journal" (all the posts here so far), he wrote: "very strong A."
And here, I thought it sucked, all these raw thoughts and observations.
So until I decide what to do with this space, it will remain as a homage to Dr. McCarthy and Religion in Literature, COMLIT 141.
Then again, I just finished The Accidental Buddhist a few days ago. I suppose I need a place to record my thoughts, eh?
Till later....
On the day of the final, Dr. McCarthy handed us each slips of paper with our grades up to that point. On my "journal" (all the posts here so far), he wrote: "very strong A."
And here, I thought it sucked, all these raw thoughts and observations.
So until I decide what to do with this space, it will remain as a homage to Dr. McCarthy and Religion in Literature, COMLIT 141.
Then again, I just finished The Accidental Buddhist a few days ago. I suppose I need a place to record my thoughts, eh?
Till later....
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Last Thoughts…For Now
Entry #30
Work: Tolstly, Master and Man
Some thoughts:
The scene shift that describes Vassili facing all of his (for want of a better term) character defects is very effective. If not for this journey, perhaps he’d never reach the point of sacrifice he makes at the end with Nikita.
And what of the blessing of life that Nikita receives? He receives a gift more precious than life. He makes decisions that require sacrifice to his family. Losing a few fingers seems a small price to pay for the peace he receives upon his death. I don’t think it’s all that much different from the peace that visits Vassili. He has another twenty years to try to make things right. He leaves the wife whom we may not look kindly upon, but to him, it’s the right thing to do. With death, he removes the burden he feels he’s placed upon his son and grandchildren. He is gifted with the wish of having a lighted candle in his hand (of that, I know not the significance). One blessing follows another. A sort of retrospective “paying it forward.”
I know that these stories are necessary to contrast the extremes of humanity, though some would say they’re not so extreme: Vassili begins as a member of the greedy upper-crust and Nikita is a drunk, plain and simple. But it’s not. It’s not plain and simple. Tolstoy managed, in the story he considered just a little tale, to draw out the nuances and show that the synthesis is not so difficult, but it requires something more than just an ethical discourse. It requires GOD. And, gee, what better topic for “Religion in Literature?”
Till later…
Work: Tolstly, Master and Man
Some thoughts:
The scene shift that describes Vassili facing all of his (for want of a better term) character defects is very effective. If not for this journey, perhaps he’d never reach the point of sacrifice he makes at the end with Nikita.
And what of the blessing of life that Nikita receives? He receives a gift more precious than life. He makes decisions that require sacrifice to his family. Losing a few fingers seems a small price to pay for the peace he receives upon his death. I don’t think it’s all that much different from the peace that visits Vassili. He has another twenty years to try to make things right. He leaves the wife whom we may not look kindly upon, but to him, it’s the right thing to do. With death, he removes the burden he feels he’s placed upon his son and grandchildren. He is gifted with the wish of having a lighted candle in his hand (of that, I know not the significance). One blessing follows another. A sort of retrospective “paying it forward.”
I know that these stories are necessary to contrast the extremes of humanity, though some would say they’re not so extreme: Vassili begins as a member of the greedy upper-crust and Nikita is a drunk, plain and simple. But it’s not. It’s not plain and simple. Tolstoy managed, in the story he considered just a little tale, to draw out the nuances and show that the synthesis is not so difficult, but it requires something more than just an ethical discourse. It requires GOD. And, gee, what better topic for “Religion in Literature?”
Till later…
Spiritual Awakenings
Entry #29
Work: Tolstoy, Master and Man
My first thought with Master and Man was “Oh, God, please, don’t make me read a Russian writer.” I don’t have anything against Russian writers. They produce very tight, very good literature. It’s the feeling I’m left with after reading them. Everything is cold (this is no exception), stark and booze-saturated.
Putting to the side most of what we talked about in class, I’d like to just plain muse on the characters of Nikita and Vassili. I think if you combine them, blend their respective character traits, you’d probably come pretty close to something resembling the average person in today’s society. We all want to/need to make a living, yet we also want to show some care for our environment. We want to be thought of as ethical/empathetic creatures (and some of us actually are that way), but we also have our own agendas. There’s the “American Dream” which drives us to strive for the three bedroom house and the white picket fence, the two-car garage and something to put in it, and at the same time, a little recycling bin in the corner to catch our discarded newspapers and aluminum soda cans so that as we’re gaining all of the materialistic concerns of life, we’re not cluttering up the earth with our out-grown castoffs.
But that’s not what we have in Nikita and Vassili. They have not yet synthesized; they remain the thesis and antithesis. And, though Vassili becomes, in the end, the savior of his humble servant (and perhaps his humble servant becomes much more than just a servant, but a teacher as well), it’s not hard to slip Vassili right into that “anti” slot. Against. Against the good. And, of course, Nikita, for all his faults, occupies the other slot. Yes, he’s a drunk. Yes, his behavior has put him in a position of neglecting his family, but it’s never insinuated that it’s due to lack of love. He’s sick. Tolstoy conveys that, and though we know today that drunkards are sick (albeit with more choices than in the time when the story was written), he understood that and treated it almost tenderly. Nikita is not a bad guy, no matter how far down he’s “allowed” alcohol to take him. And the amazing thing, when stopping by the village, is that Nikita calls upon his will (my guess is that it’s not all his will) to forgo the vodka for the tea.
Vassili is the prime example of having it all and having nothing. He cares nothing for the horse except in what it can offer him. He’d much rather cut it loose. All throughout, Nikita shows compassion and love for the animals. Vassili doesn’t even treat Nikita like a human being, at least until the end. Is this a sign that, even without such a bottoming out that occurs with alcoholism, Vassili suffers from a disease of the soul that is beyond his control, requires a spiritual awakening to draw light into the darkness (often darkness that one doesn’t even realize exists), in order to experience that psychic change, that shift of perspective, that changes all that came before it? Vassili had to face death in order to reach this point. With so many things going on in the world that bring to mind the current teenage/cyber expression, WTF??, I wonder…do we all have to reach that point? I like to think I’ve reached mine, but something tells me there are many more steps to climb on that ladder propped up against the great transcendence.
Till later…
Work: Tolstoy, Master and Man
My first thought with Master and Man was “Oh, God, please, don’t make me read a Russian writer.” I don’t have anything against Russian writers. They produce very tight, very good literature. It’s the feeling I’m left with after reading them. Everything is cold (this is no exception), stark and booze-saturated.
Putting to the side most of what we talked about in class, I’d like to just plain muse on the characters of Nikita and Vassili. I think if you combine them, blend their respective character traits, you’d probably come pretty close to something resembling the average person in today’s society. We all want to/need to make a living, yet we also want to show some care for our environment. We want to be thought of as ethical/empathetic creatures (and some of us actually are that way), but we also have our own agendas. There’s the “American Dream” which drives us to strive for the three bedroom house and the white picket fence, the two-car garage and something to put in it, and at the same time, a little recycling bin in the corner to catch our discarded newspapers and aluminum soda cans so that as we’re gaining all of the materialistic concerns of life, we’re not cluttering up the earth with our out-grown castoffs.
But that’s not what we have in Nikita and Vassili. They have not yet synthesized; they remain the thesis and antithesis. And, though Vassili becomes, in the end, the savior of his humble servant (and perhaps his humble servant becomes much more than just a servant, but a teacher as well), it’s not hard to slip Vassili right into that “anti” slot. Against. Against the good. And, of course, Nikita, for all his faults, occupies the other slot. Yes, he’s a drunk. Yes, his behavior has put him in a position of neglecting his family, but it’s never insinuated that it’s due to lack of love. He’s sick. Tolstoy conveys that, and though we know today that drunkards are sick (albeit with more choices than in the time when the story was written), he understood that and treated it almost tenderly. Nikita is not a bad guy, no matter how far down he’s “allowed” alcohol to take him. And the amazing thing, when stopping by the village, is that Nikita calls upon his will (my guess is that it’s not all his will) to forgo the vodka for the tea.
Vassili is the prime example of having it all and having nothing. He cares nothing for the horse except in what it can offer him. He’d much rather cut it loose. All throughout, Nikita shows compassion and love for the animals. Vassili doesn’t even treat Nikita like a human being, at least until the end. Is this a sign that, even without such a bottoming out that occurs with alcoholism, Vassili suffers from a disease of the soul that is beyond his control, requires a spiritual awakening to draw light into the darkness (often darkness that one doesn’t even realize exists), in order to experience that psychic change, that shift of perspective, that changes all that came before it? Vassili had to face death in order to reach this point. With so many things going on in the world that bring to mind the current teenage/cyber expression, WTF??, I wonder…do we all have to reach that point? I like to think I’ve reached mine, but something tells me there are many more steps to climb on that ladder propped up against the great transcendence.
Till later…
Extracurricular Reading
Entry #28
Work: Various Unassigned
I neglected to comment on the other reading I was able to enjoy while on my trip over the weekend. I had opened my book, searching for the bookmarks for the assigned reading and realized I only had three. After poring over the table of contents, Tolstoy’s Master and Man did not jump out at me. So, while my husband drove and I was left with long stretches of highway (my camera inaccessible for “road pics”), I decided to leaf through and read at will. For pleasure. What a concept! Though I love reading at anytime, it seems it’s been so long since I’ve read just for the sake of reading that I felt as though I were being indulged in a guilty pleasure.
The first story I stumbled across was Reflections by Angela Carter. I was not familiar with her work, though I had heard her name. After reading Reflections and having carried on a long, drawn out love with science fiction and horror, not to mention a fairly recent relationship with feminist/womanist literature, I’m sorry I didn’t find her sooner.
Reflections shook me in many ways. It drew attention to those things that I feel must exist—a doorway to another consciousness as well as a mother-figure giving birth to it all—and it also gave rise to the possibility that the male psyche could assume the role, make amends, even in light of oppression.
The other story I read, mainly because it was so short and I wasn’t sure how quickly our exit was approaching, was Girl by Jamaica Kincaid. The introduction is nearly as long as the piece itself. I’d hesitate to call it a short story and lean more towards calling it prose poetry. It’s beautiful, shocking, bitter, every-day, hard-hearted. It makes one want to slather lotion on ones hands, makes one want to stand up and shout NO!, makes one want to gather up the girl-becoming-a-woman and guide her away from the washing, show her the way out...those things and so much more. But now, I must finish Master and Man, and perhaps find some more of her works to read over the summer. She is another example of that which draws black writers close to my heart. There’s so much soul, so much of the earth god underneath it all. It smells like loam, feels like velvet and sounds like the softest of lullabies, even when the topic is not so soothing.
On to Master and Man.
Till later…
Work: Various Unassigned
I neglected to comment on the other reading I was able to enjoy while on my trip over the weekend. I had opened my book, searching for the bookmarks for the assigned reading and realized I only had three. After poring over the table of contents, Tolstoy’s Master and Man did not jump out at me. So, while my husband drove and I was left with long stretches of highway (my camera inaccessible for “road pics”), I decided to leaf through and read at will. For pleasure. What a concept! Though I love reading at anytime, it seems it’s been so long since I’ve read just for the sake of reading that I felt as though I were being indulged in a guilty pleasure.
The first story I stumbled across was Reflections by Angela Carter. I was not familiar with her work, though I had heard her name. After reading Reflections and having carried on a long, drawn out love with science fiction and horror, not to mention a fairly recent relationship with feminist/womanist literature, I’m sorry I didn’t find her sooner.
Reflections shook me in many ways. It drew attention to those things that I feel must exist—a doorway to another consciousness as well as a mother-figure giving birth to it all—and it also gave rise to the possibility that the male psyche could assume the role, make amends, even in light of oppression.
The other story I read, mainly because it was so short and I wasn’t sure how quickly our exit was approaching, was Girl by Jamaica Kincaid. The introduction is nearly as long as the piece itself. I’d hesitate to call it a short story and lean more towards calling it prose poetry. It’s beautiful, shocking, bitter, every-day, hard-hearted. It makes one want to slather lotion on ones hands, makes one want to stand up and shout NO!, makes one want to gather up the girl-becoming-a-woman and guide her away from the washing, show her the way out...those things and so much more. But now, I must finish Master and Man, and perhaps find some more of her works to read over the summer. She is another example of that which draws black writers close to my heart. There’s so much soul, so much of the earth god underneath it all. It smells like loam, feels like velvet and sounds like the softest of lullabies, even when the topic is not so soothing.
On to Master and Man.
Till later…
Monday, April 30, 2007
Romantic, if Not Believable
Entry #27
Work: James Baldwin, Sonny's Blues
I don’t know what it is about black writers and their style that draws me to them, but I loved this story, though I again had some moments of discomfort. It flows, rolls, seeps through me as I read. The imagery is perfect. The flashbacks are not abrupt. They’re seamless, something I’ve attempted and failed to accomplish in my own writing.
Maybe I’ll come back to that later. The story itself is what held me after the style grabbed me. Sonny is another one of those tragic, yet not tragic, figures that strike fear in me. Being much like Sonny, I want to cheer him on, though I also want to caution anyone who is predisposed to addiction not the take cues from him. It’s like reading The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test and wanting to feel that way. It’s dangerous. The allure of the artists life has turned many a non-artist into a run of the mill junkie just by the romanticism of it.
I do think that there’s a soul that is missing something, for which art can be the thumb that plugs the dike, a kind of god, if you will, but that’s not everyone. The search for bigger and better and more vital art has sent many down that road when a simple spiritual journey, apart from art but in cooperation with art, is all that it really takes to escape the bottom. No, it wasn’t necessary that Sonny hit bottom (though each is self-defined, I know many who would consider a couple-year hitch in the pokey and a communal living situation to be “the good days”), and if he was a real addict, the ending was realistic. I take his musings on the street preachers’ singing and how it made him feel to be an indication that he’s still partaking of the poppy…and one doesn’t take addiction and turn it into something good. It just doesn’t work that way. Oh, there are rare exceptions (Jerry Garcia comes to mind), but for the most part, it’s a romantic, unrealistic notion.
I’ll need to think on this a little more. Perhaps after class discussion, I’ll have some borrowed thoughts to add.
Till later…
Work: James Baldwin, Sonny's Blues
I don’t know what it is about black writers and their style that draws me to them, but I loved this story, though I again had some moments of discomfort. It flows, rolls, seeps through me as I read. The imagery is perfect. The flashbacks are not abrupt. They’re seamless, something I’ve attempted and failed to accomplish in my own writing.
Maybe I’ll come back to that later. The story itself is what held me after the style grabbed me. Sonny is another one of those tragic, yet not tragic, figures that strike fear in me. Being much like Sonny, I want to cheer him on, though I also want to caution anyone who is predisposed to addiction not the take cues from him. It’s like reading The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test and wanting to feel that way. It’s dangerous. The allure of the artists life has turned many a non-artist into a run of the mill junkie just by the romanticism of it.
I do think that there’s a soul that is missing something, for which art can be the thumb that plugs the dike, a kind of god, if you will, but that’s not everyone. The search for bigger and better and more vital art has sent many down that road when a simple spiritual journey, apart from art but in cooperation with art, is all that it really takes to escape the bottom. No, it wasn’t necessary that Sonny hit bottom (though each is self-defined, I know many who would consider a couple-year hitch in the pokey and a communal living situation to be “the good days”), and if he was a real addict, the ending was realistic. I take his musings on the street preachers’ singing and how it made him feel to be an indication that he’s still partaking of the poppy…and one doesn’t take addiction and turn it into something good. It just doesn’t work that way. Oh, there are rare exceptions (Jerry Garcia comes to mind), but for the most part, it’s a romantic, unrealistic notion.
I’ll need to think on this a little more. Perhaps after class discussion, I’ll have some borrowed thoughts to add.
Till later…
Too Close to Home
Entry #26
Work: Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find
I want to judge the grandmother harshly. Part of me resents her for only having one child, for being a burden, for manipulating and exercising control over an adult child’s life. And that’s a personal response, springing from a personal situation.
I’m not an only child, but I’m the youngest child and the only female biological child. That makes me Bailey, and I fight against it, even to the point of assigning the grandmother’s role to my own mother—though I don’t want anything to happen to her. I only hear her talking me into making time to do things for her that she doesn’t really need and spending time that I really don’t have to spend, feeling the resentment of taking care of another’s whims at the expense of neglecting my (and my families) own needs. Perhaps there’s more of The Misfit in me than I’d ever be willing to admit. Not the killer instinct, but on occasion, when I forget the blessings, the idea that “It’s no real pleasure in life.”
It’s just the mood I’m in. I love my mother, want to do whatever I can for her when I can, but I do resent those side trips down dirt roads leading to certain hassles that aren’t as bad as having my family and myself dragged off into the woods to be shot.
There’s a lot more to be said about this story, and as I missed the day’s class, I suppose there’s lots that others have had to say about it that won’t even occur to me.
Is The Misfit a kind of Jesus who, rather than giving his own life for the salvation of others, takes theirs instead? It could fit. Very easily.
It’s time to go to bed. I’ll chew on it some more later. Flannery O’Connor has just made my summer reading list.
Till later…
Work: Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find
I want to judge the grandmother harshly. Part of me resents her for only having one child, for being a burden, for manipulating and exercising control over an adult child’s life. And that’s a personal response, springing from a personal situation.
I’m not an only child, but I’m the youngest child and the only female biological child. That makes me Bailey, and I fight against it, even to the point of assigning the grandmother’s role to my own mother—though I don’t want anything to happen to her. I only hear her talking me into making time to do things for her that she doesn’t really need and spending time that I really don’t have to spend, feeling the resentment of taking care of another’s whims at the expense of neglecting my (and my families) own needs. Perhaps there’s more of The Misfit in me than I’d ever be willing to admit. Not the killer instinct, but on occasion, when I forget the blessings, the idea that “It’s no real pleasure in life.”
It’s just the mood I’m in. I love my mother, want to do whatever I can for her when I can, but I do resent those side trips down dirt roads leading to certain hassles that aren’t as bad as having my family and myself dragged off into the woods to be shot.
There’s a lot more to be said about this story, and as I missed the day’s class, I suppose there’s lots that others have had to say about it that won’t even occur to me.
Is The Misfit a kind of Jesus who, rather than giving his own life for the salvation of others, takes theirs instead? It could fit. Very easily.
It’s time to go to bed. I’ll chew on it some more later. Flannery O’Connor has just made my summer reading list.
Till later…
Dark Humor
Entry #25
Work: Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find
Work: Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find
To say that this piece disturbed me would be an understatement, but I suppose, if I truly believe it when I say, “Making others uncomfortable is a good thing” (meaning, of course, helping someone move out of their comfort zone), then finding/having been assigned this story to read is a very good thing. It’s my first experience with O’Connor. I’ve enjoyed what little bit of William Faulkner that I’ve read, and I’ve heard her work compared to his. So, she was on my list. I just had not found my way around to her until now.
The dark humor—and it is humor, it is dark—caused almost a perverted sensation while I was reading, similar to watching a slasher movie and being unable to look away from the screen during the goriest parts (though I am getting much better at doing that – or changing the channel, or just not watching to begin with when I’m aware of the content).
I’m not quite sure if the grandmother is feigning ignorance of the fate of the rest of her family; I don’t know if it’s her manipulation, so deftly used in getting the car to make the turns she wanted it to make. The imagination could take it either way, and one turn would produce a very different conclusion than the other.
Ultimately, though, I find the most meaning in next to last utterance of The Misfit: “‘She would have been a good woman…if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.’” Is this an indication that she needed the desperation to bring out the best in her? What about the best in him? He didn’t seem to enjoy her killing. I can’t imagine him having a theological discussion with every life he’s taken, but I can imagine him having taken many lives.
Though he no doubt would have killed her regardless, perhaps it was her suggestion (statement) that there was good in him that brought him pause. Black and white, good and evil. Repulsion that Bobby Lee could suggest that killing was fun. Fun did not fit with his view of himself?
More later, till later...
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Shake Me in My Clinging...
Entry #24
10 April 2007
Work: Leslie Marmon Silko, The Man to Send Rain Clouds
I haven’t given this story a whole lot of thought yet. We read it in class (or rather, Dr. McCarthy read it to us), and I followed along with great interest. My heritage is Apache, and though this is a Pueblo tale, it’s the same part of the country. I imagine there are similarities (I don’t know. I have books, but I have no knowledge handed down to me.).
The blending of old and new, with respect to each (even on the part of the priest, in the end) is beautiful, peaceful and open-minded. Inspiring, even. I think that one of the things illustrated in the story is how cooperation and tolerance of different beliefs can be handled. Most of what I know of religion, I’ve learned from J. Campbell (I’m sure that’s become clear), and when he talks about us “needing a new mythology,” I envision something of this sort: taking the best of each religion and blending it into something that embraces everyone. The utmost respect is shown for the priest, and though at first, he is rigid in the laws of his faith, he comes around, taught, perhaps by a people that may have been viewed as savage by one of a “higher order.” It shows that the teacher and the pupils are only different by a degree and that the status can shift at any time.
Also, the positive way in which a death is handled is very different than the clinging, mournful way that many other people (me included) handle the letting go of another human being. Incredible faith must be required to think and feel in this way. I’ve learned a lesson in it, though I thought I already knew it. I’m a firm believer in the positive things that can come out of the seemingly negative. The final shift is to stop thinking of things as seemingly negative.
My husband has a way of relating how he can (if he chooses) consider every day a great day. He uses this analogy:
“I am at my mother’s side as she’s taking her last breath. Now, I can say that this is a horrible day for me, that I’ve just lost someone I love dearly, and how can I consider the day to be a good one with this knowledge? However, on that very day, perhaps on a different floor of the hospital, a new mother is holding her newborn child. She is consumed by her joy. In light of this, I cannot pronounce this a bad day because I’ve suffered loss. The new mother has just received an incredible gift. For her, it is a great day, so if I stop taking things so personally, thinking of things happening to me, and instead, see them as just happening, then every day must be a great day.”
I think it’s a beautiful analogy. In my clumsy way of attempting to put words in his mouth, another might not see it that way, but I’m trying, I am really trying, to embrace it as such.
The Man to Send Rain Clouds is a beautiful example of this philosophy.
Till later…
10 April 2007
Work: Leslie Marmon Silko, The Man to Send Rain Clouds
I haven’t given this story a whole lot of thought yet. We read it in class (or rather, Dr. McCarthy read it to us), and I followed along with great interest. My heritage is Apache, and though this is a Pueblo tale, it’s the same part of the country. I imagine there are similarities (I don’t know. I have books, but I have no knowledge handed down to me.).
The blending of old and new, with respect to each (even on the part of the priest, in the end) is beautiful, peaceful and open-minded. Inspiring, even. I think that one of the things illustrated in the story is how cooperation and tolerance of different beliefs can be handled. Most of what I know of religion, I’ve learned from J. Campbell (I’m sure that’s become clear), and when he talks about us “needing a new mythology,” I envision something of this sort: taking the best of each religion and blending it into something that embraces everyone. The utmost respect is shown for the priest, and though at first, he is rigid in the laws of his faith, he comes around, taught, perhaps by a people that may have been viewed as savage by one of a “higher order.” It shows that the teacher and the pupils are only different by a degree and that the status can shift at any time.
Also, the positive way in which a death is handled is very different than the clinging, mournful way that many other people (me included) handle the letting go of another human being. Incredible faith must be required to think and feel in this way. I’ve learned a lesson in it, though I thought I already knew it. I’m a firm believer in the positive things that can come out of the seemingly negative. The final shift is to stop thinking of things as seemingly negative.
My husband has a way of relating how he can (if he chooses) consider every day a great day. He uses this analogy:
“I am at my mother’s side as she’s taking her last breath. Now, I can say that this is a horrible day for me, that I’ve just lost someone I love dearly, and how can I consider the day to be a good one with this knowledge? However, on that very day, perhaps on a different floor of the hospital, a new mother is holding her newborn child. She is consumed by her joy. In light of this, I cannot pronounce this a bad day because I’ve suffered loss. The new mother has just received an incredible gift. For her, it is a great day, so if I stop taking things so personally, thinking of things happening to me, and instead, see them as just happening, then every day must be a great day.”
I think it’s a beautiful analogy. In my clumsy way of attempting to put words in his mouth, another might not see it that way, but I’m trying, I am really trying, to embrace it as such.
The Man to Send Rain Clouds is a beautiful example of this philosophy.
Till later…
Paper...
Entry #23
08 April 2007
Work: The River Between (Ngugi Wa Thiongo)
(Note: I’ve found that because I was in the play, I don’t have to also write the paper, but the essence of it is below in a very rough format.)
This paper is keeping me up nights. I have so many sticky flags in the pages that its beginning to look like a door skirt.
I keep looking at the cover, wondering about the artwork (and if I can find the source or commentary on it or if it’s followed the book through its interpretations and reprints), wanting to go see Mary Vollero to get her opinion on it. Her office hours are very limited, and that’s been a dead end so far.
The cover of this book has two brown arms, outstretched and coming back together at the fingertips. The river is visible between the arms, and there is a space between where the fingers meet and the junction of the thumbs (also touching). As I read, thinking of mother-based religion, woman-based religion (regardless of what’s conveyed in the text), I kept looking at that cover. The space outside of the arms and the river show the land: grassy, perhaps thicker in some places, ending in mountainous tuft-like growth at the horizon. I keep seeing a vagina. The water gives birth to humankind. The space between fingers and thumbs is a void. In it should be a clitoris, but there is only a peek at more water (perhaps an allusion to circumcision?). What of the think trickle of a river (think due to depth perception)? Perhaps this is a connection to the heart, or symbolic of the umbilical cord.
Waiyaki and Nyambura meet at the river. They fall in love at the river. Their love, as with any love, creates another being, joins two together, making one larger life. They meet in secret, at the “mother river.”
Nyambura, as a woman, must by default have some of the mother in her. Therefore, she must have some of the divine. I have a note on page 108 of my book: “Too close to the earth to have a father religion. The Mother must be present!” And there is much evidence. Yes, it is said that Murungu created Gikuyu and Mumbi. It is necessary, in a coup (the overthrow of the women) to replace the religion of the people as well as its leaders. But a man cannot give birth. A male god cannot give birth. Not without a mother god. Let’s suppose that Murungu has created these two. They go forth and multiply and bear all daughters, who become the mothers of the tribes. Why not fathers, if this is a father religion?
The answer lies in the overthrow of the women. Just as the Holy Bible must be pruned and edited in order to maintain control of the people of the time, the Gikuyu people must prune their myths. To have overlooked such a detail as “mother of tribes” may be coincidence, may be ignorance, may be ineptitude. It may also be my own sense of wanting to read something into a work that isn’t there, but there is too much to support my claim to ignore. Perhaps research will ferret out an explanation or a confirmation. I surely have enough books sitting here in front of me on African religions.
But suppose that this usurping of a woman’s power and the reordering of myths is only a stepping stone. It is not nearly as complete as it need be to institute a water-tight (no pun intended) patriarchy. The women are still necessary in day-to-day life and therefore must be respected in that way. Joshua’s brand of Christianity, though seeming in one way (and in the eyes of missionaries of the time) to be more humane to women, gives the men even more control in their homes. Man is the leader of the church is the leader of the home is the leader of the society. And a male god is at the head of it all, giving him credence by the sacred laws of the bible. This works so much better in a patriarchy than a system whereby women are necessary, needed and (somewhat) respected members, if not partners.
I ask myself what conclusion, other than “there’s more mother here than is admitted, but she’s oppressed,” can I reach? Perhaps (to borrow from another culture) the yin and yang must be restored to balance—for all of us—in order for any real progress to be made anywhere. Mother can’t rule, Father can’t rule, but together, they can Parent.
Till later…
08 April 2007
Work: The River Between (Ngugi Wa Thiongo)
(Note: I’ve found that because I was in the play, I don’t have to also write the paper, but the essence of it is below in a very rough format.)
This paper is keeping me up nights. I have so many sticky flags in the pages that its beginning to look like a door skirt.
I keep looking at the cover, wondering about the artwork (and if I can find the source or commentary on it or if it’s followed the book through its interpretations and reprints), wanting to go see Mary Vollero to get her opinion on it. Her office hours are very limited, and that’s been a dead end so far.
The cover of this book has two brown arms, outstretched and coming back together at the fingertips. The river is visible between the arms, and there is a space between where the fingers meet and the junction of the thumbs (also touching). As I read, thinking of mother-based religion, woman-based religion (regardless of what’s conveyed in the text), I kept looking at that cover. The space outside of the arms and the river show the land: grassy, perhaps thicker in some places, ending in mountainous tuft-like growth at the horizon. I keep seeing a vagina. The water gives birth to humankind. The space between fingers and thumbs is a void. In it should be a clitoris, but there is only a peek at more water (perhaps an allusion to circumcision?). What of the think trickle of a river (think due to depth perception)? Perhaps this is a connection to the heart, or symbolic of the umbilical cord.
Waiyaki and Nyambura meet at the river. They fall in love at the river. Their love, as with any love, creates another being, joins two together, making one larger life. They meet in secret, at the “mother river.”
Nyambura, as a woman, must by default have some of the mother in her. Therefore, she must have some of the divine. I have a note on page 108 of my book: “Too close to the earth to have a father religion. The Mother must be present!” And there is much evidence. Yes, it is said that Murungu created Gikuyu and Mumbi. It is necessary, in a coup (the overthrow of the women) to replace the religion of the people as well as its leaders. But a man cannot give birth. A male god cannot give birth. Not without a mother god. Let’s suppose that Murungu has created these two. They go forth and multiply and bear all daughters, who become the mothers of the tribes. Why not fathers, if this is a father religion?
The answer lies in the overthrow of the women. Just as the Holy Bible must be pruned and edited in order to maintain control of the people of the time, the Gikuyu people must prune their myths. To have overlooked such a detail as “mother of tribes” may be coincidence, may be ignorance, may be ineptitude. It may also be my own sense of wanting to read something into a work that isn’t there, but there is too much to support my claim to ignore. Perhaps research will ferret out an explanation or a confirmation. I surely have enough books sitting here in front of me on African religions.
But suppose that this usurping of a woman’s power and the reordering of myths is only a stepping stone. It is not nearly as complete as it need be to institute a water-tight (no pun intended) patriarchy. The women are still necessary in day-to-day life and therefore must be respected in that way. Joshua’s brand of Christianity, though seeming in one way (and in the eyes of missionaries of the time) to be more humane to women, gives the men even more control in their homes. Man is the leader of the church is the leader of the home is the leader of the society. And a male god is at the head of it all, giving him credence by the sacred laws of the bible. This works so much better in a patriarchy than a system whereby women are necessary, needed and (somewhat) respected members, if not partners.
I ask myself what conclusion, other than “there’s more mother here than is admitted, but she’s oppressed,” can I reach? Perhaps (to borrow from another culture) the yin and yang must be restored to balance—for all of us—in order for any real progress to be made anywhere. Mother can’t rule, Father can’t rule, but together, they can Parent.
Till later…
Thoughts on Soyinka
Entry #22
05 April 2007
Work: The Man (Soyinka)
Thoughts on Soyinka:
I’m trying right now to find the reference to Soyinka in my African-American Women’s Literature textbook, and the darned thing doesn’t have an index. I thought it was in an article by Barbara Christian, but I know that I highlighted intending to come back to it.
Regardless, he was mentioned in an article on literature and womanism, and though I don’t remember exactly how his mention related to the topic (it wasn’t an article we covered in depth), I started thinking about the role of women in the plays we’ve read.
In The Strong Breed, the primary female characters are Sunma, the girl and Omae. Sunma has a strong sense of self-preservation, though she comes across (from my perch of modern-day, American judgment) to me as sneaky and manipulative. Whiney, too. The girl, though some might see her as assertive and independent (she seems not to be afraid of anything) is not likeable at all. Sick or not, she seems mean-spirited. Her mother, too, though not present except in reference, is characterized (again, in my view) as a bad mother with little real concern for her daughter. Omae, the beloved, though faithful and true, is fragile and weak. She cannot bear the child of Eman because it is too much – as it would be for any woman. Women cannot bear the burden. Women are handed the burden of birth, but they fall short. One-trick ponies playing one matinee only and then off to the glue factory….I’m sure, as usual, I’m being overly harsh.
It’s the cultural lines in womanism/feminism that I have such a difficult time crossing without getting tripped up in the difference. Tolerance. Please, dear god, send me tolerance.
Till later...
05 April 2007
Work: The Man (Soyinka)
Thoughts on Soyinka:
I’m trying right now to find the reference to Soyinka in my African-American Women’s Literature textbook, and the darned thing doesn’t have an index. I thought it was in an article by Barbara Christian, but I know that I highlighted intending to come back to it.
Regardless, he was mentioned in an article on literature and womanism, and though I don’t remember exactly how his mention related to the topic (it wasn’t an article we covered in depth), I started thinking about the role of women in the plays we’ve read.
In The Strong Breed, the primary female characters are Sunma, the girl and Omae. Sunma has a strong sense of self-preservation, though she comes across (from my perch of modern-day, American judgment) to me as sneaky and manipulative. Whiney, too. The girl, though some might see her as assertive and independent (she seems not to be afraid of anything) is not likeable at all. Sick or not, she seems mean-spirited. Her mother, too, though not present except in reference, is characterized (again, in my view) as a bad mother with little real concern for her daughter. Omae, the beloved, though faithful and true, is fragile and weak. She cannot bear the child of Eman because it is too much – as it would be for any woman. Women cannot bear the burden. Women are handed the burden of birth, but they fall short. One-trick ponies playing one matinee only and then off to the glue factory….I’m sure, as usual, I’m being overly harsh.
It’s the cultural lines in womanism/feminism that I have such a difficult time crossing without getting tripped up in the difference. Tolerance. Please, dear god, send me tolerance.
Till later...
Shakespeare in Africa?
Entry #21
02 April 2007
Work: Wole Soyinka's A Dance of the Forests
This play, at least at its start, reminded me of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, though it’s probably been twelve or thirteen years, maybe more, since I’ve read it. The whole celebration held a dream-like, pensive feel to it. Something is going to happen; we don’t know what.
The story itself, this idea of “it’s all happening at once,” or at least, “nothing ever dies, but merely changes” (and at that, only by degrees—such that a human remains a human, regardless of the stage of time, and does not become a cow), was comforting to me in a way. Though I’m all for the idea that we can keep trying to get it right (and perhaps to a degree, some of the characters do improve their station or state), I’m also hoping for some sort of clean slate idea (So, perhaps the carrier idea is not such a bad one).
This connection between the past-present-future is an interesting one. I think I first encountered it in some reading on quantum theory: the idea that every crossroad, every choice, creates a parallel universe in which the antithesis of the fact exists. That isn’t the case here, though some would say that the difference between the life of a whore and that of a queen aren’t all that far apart. Yes, that’s a feminist making that statement. I’d say the same thing of a beggar and a politician (male sex implied).
The idea that life does not end, that the circumstances are only altered and not really changed, is at once comforting and hopeless. My life has changed dramatically in thirty-eight years. In the words of (I think) June Jordan, I have lived many lifetimes. My life fits no pattern, as the lives of the characters in Dance of… seem to. It makes for better didactics, though I’m not sure how much instruction is intended by the play. A celebration of independence, you say, Dr. McCarthy? Perhaps Half-Child, with a foot in each world. But the others? What will they do with their freedom? So, in reading the play, we only get half the story: how it was and what happened. Any good A&Aer knows that the story is only two-thirds told in that way. We must know how it is now, or there is no story. Perhaps that’s the reason that “leads” (stories of sobriety) aren’t encouraged to be told until someone has a year booze-free. At that point, their story is by no means complete, but there is some perspective. There is a bit of a conclusion.
But this is drama, not AA. The cliffhanger ending (One last “Proverb to bones and silence”) leaves us to either read and research the subtext or, if reading for pleasure, create our own impression of what happens next. I’ll stew on this one, try to make some sense of some of it in class.
Till later...
02 April 2007
Work: Wole Soyinka's A Dance of the Forests
This play, at least at its start, reminded me of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, though it’s probably been twelve or thirteen years, maybe more, since I’ve read it. The whole celebration held a dream-like, pensive feel to it. Something is going to happen; we don’t know what.
The story itself, this idea of “it’s all happening at once,” or at least, “nothing ever dies, but merely changes” (and at that, only by degrees—such that a human remains a human, regardless of the stage of time, and does not become a cow), was comforting to me in a way. Though I’m all for the idea that we can keep trying to get it right (and perhaps to a degree, some of the characters do improve their station or state), I’m also hoping for some sort of clean slate idea (So, perhaps the carrier idea is not such a bad one).
This connection between the past-present-future is an interesting one. I think I first encountered it in some reading on quantum theory: the idea that every crossroad, every choice, creates a parallel universe in which the antithesis of the fact exists. That isn’t the case here, though some would say that the difference between the life of a whore and that of a queen aren’t all that far apart. Yes, that’s a feminist making that statement. I’d say the same thing of a beggar and a politician (male sex implied).
The idea that life does not end, that the circumstances are only altered and not really changed, is at once comforting and hopeless. My life has changed dramatically in thirty-eight years. In the words of (I think) June Jordan, I have lived many lifetimes. My life fits no pattern, as the lives of the characters in Dance of… seem to. It makes for better didactics, though I’m not sure how much instruction is intended by the play. A celebration of independence, you say, Dr. McCarthy? Perhaps Half-Child, with a foot in each world. But the others? What will they do with their freedom? So, in reading the play, we only get half the story: how it was and what happened. Any good A&Aer knows that the story is only two-thirds told in that way. We must know how it is now, or there is no story. Perhaps that’s the reason that “leads” (stories of sobriety) aren’t encouraged to be told until someone has a year booze-free. At that point, their story is by no means complete, but there is some perspective. There is a bit of a conclusion.
But this is drama, not AA. The cliffhanger ending (One last “Proverb to bones and silence”) leaves us to either read and research the subtext or, if reading for pleasure, create our own impression of what happens next. I’ll stew on this one, try to make some sense of some of it in class.
Till later...
Pentheus Sacrificed and I'm Still a Vegetarian
Entry #20
28 March 2007 (approximate)
Work: Wole Soyinka's The Bacchae of Euripides
I suppose that The Bacchae does offer some humor, though of a very twisted sort. The ritual flogging of Tiresias, an interesting parallel between African culture and the Greek culture from which Soyinka borrows it, is humorous in its own way. It’s hard to view these things as serious rituals of society from our position, seeing playacting as of the realm of childhood or something done for our entertainment. Serious people don’t do this, I think most Americans would think. But if we look at our religious rituals, confined mostly to the organized church these days, or to secret societies (thinking: Masons and the History Channel), or to memorials…is it all that different? We can mock the ritual crucifixion reenactments as barbaric because we don’t do them as part of a backyard barbeque and Easter celebration, but we have our own rituals. About a year ago, I attended Catholic mass for the first time with a friend. It was the Palm Sunday service, and though I will say that a large part of my energy was focused on my ability to keep up with the genuflection, I was struck by the ceremony involved. Even the idea of communion struck me as something very foreign in my world, but quite natural to the others in attendance.
This cannibalistic act of drinking the blood of Pentheus at the end is a little disturbing. It surely doesn’t help overcome my inability to eat meat (of course, neither does the thought of communion). I know that it is my own spiritual (I hesitate to say “religious”) beliefs that keep me from accepting the interruption of another life in order to restore some sort of balance to nature and to fulfill a god’s will. It’s still all so confusing, and I’m looking forward to the semester’s close if only for the time to sit on the porch, watch the creatures of nature, and try as hard as I can to open myself up to what they have to offer me, say to me.
Why is it okay to drink the wine, but not the blood of Pentheus if one is thirsty? A question for vegetarians the world around.
Till later...
28 March 2007 (approximate)
Work: Wole Soyinka's The Bacchae of Euripides
I suppose that The Bacchae does offer some humor, though of a very twisted sort. The ritual flogging of Tiresias, an interesting parallel between African culture and the Greek culture from which Soyinka borrows it, is humorous in its own way. It’s hard to view these things as serious rituals of society from our position, seeing playacting as of the realm of childhood or something done for our entertainment. Serious people don’t do this, I think most Americans would think. But if we look at our religious rituals, confined mostly to the organized church these days, or to secret societies (thinking: Masons and the History Channel), or to memorials…is it all that different? We can mock the ritual crucifixion reenactments as barbaric because we don’t do them as part of a backyard barbeque and Easter celebration, but we have our own rituals. About a year ago, I attended Catholic mass for the first time with a friend. It was the Palm Sunday service, and though I will say that a large part of my energy was focused on my ability to keep up with the genuflection, I was struck by the ceremony involved. Even the idea of communion struck me as something very foreign in my world, but quite natural to the others in attendance.
This cannibalistic act of drinking the blood of Pentheus at the end is a little disturbing. It surely doesn’t help overcome my inability to eat meat (of course, neither does the thought of communion). I know that it is my own spiritual (I hesitate to say “religious”) beliefs that keep me from accepting the interruption of another life in order to restore some sort of balance to nature and to fulfill a god’s will. It’s still all so confusing, and I’m looking forward to the semester’s close if only for the time to sit on the porch, watch the creatures of nature, and try as hard as I can to open myself up to what they have to offer me, say to me.
Why is it okay to drink the wine, but not the blood of Pentheus if one is thirsty? A question for vegetarians the world around.
Till later...
Soyinka V. Zeami?
Entry #19
26 March 2007 (approximately)
Work: Wole Soyinka’s Collected Plays 1
This idea of bloodlines being cursed in some way, or predestined—that’s a better way to describe it, I suppose—contrasts with the Japanese Nō plays. The actors are restricted to certain roles depending upon birth. You know, on second thought, I don’t know if it is much of a contrast. Perhaps I’m looking at in such a way that the carriers are the shit shovelers, carrying away the sins, while the Nō actors are esteemed and privileged. Though the carriers are abused, reviled, and in some cases, possibly killed, they are doing as much a service to their communities as the Nō actors who teach moral lessons. Seeing a play enacted on the stage, illustrating a human failing, teaches in a different way, offers hope in a different way. Do the African villagers have hopes, at year’s end, that the carrier will have a lighter load the next year? Do they learn? Or is it entirely a blameless ritual. “Oh, well, we’ve got a whole year to screw things up again!” I don’t know, and I don’t think that the play is intended to show that sort of thing. Soyinka and his culture are heavy on illustration and celebration and a little lighter on didactics, I think.
Till later...
26 March 2007 (approximately)
Work: Wole Soyinka’s Collected Plays 1
This idea of bloodlines being cursed in some way, or predestined—that’s a better way to describe it, I suppose—contrasts with the Japanese Nō plays. The actors are restricted to certain roles depending upon birth. You know, on second thought, I don’t know if it is much of a contrast. Perhaps I’m looking at in such a way that the carriers are the shit shovelers, carrying away the sins, while the Nō actors are esteemed and privileged. Though the carriers are abused, reviled, and in some cases, possibly killed, they are doing as much a service to their communities as the Nō actors who teach moral lessons. Seeing a play enacted on the stage, illustrating a human failing, teaches in a different way, offers hope in a different way. Do the African villagers have hopes, at year’s end, that the carrier will have a lighter load the next year? Do they learn? Or is it entirely a blameless ritual. “Oh, well, we’ve got a whole year to screw things up again!” I don’t know, and I don’t think that the play is intended to show that sort of thing. Soyinka and his culture are heavy on illustration and celebration and a little lighter on didactics, I think.
Till later...
Musings on the Strong Breed
Once again, I’ve been remiss in transcribing my scribbles to the blog format, so here goes: several weeks worth all at one time. They will now be in a reverse chronological order, but that extra work of reordering them should teach me something about procrastination!
Entry #18
23 March 2007 (approximately…remiss in the dating in on my written pages)
Work: Wole Soyinka’s Collected Plays 1
I’ve read two of the three assigned plays, The Strong Breed and The Bacchae of Euripides. Though I know that it in part is an issue of understanding the culture, I found both to be very dark. Whereas in Euripides’ original play I found much humor, I didn’t pick up on any of that in Soyinka’s interpretation of the same.
The Strong Breed horrified me. From Sunma’s treatment of Ifada to the Girl’s raw manner (and what forces created her), events in the play unsettled me from the first. I was a bit confused about the relationship between Eman and Sunma, not sure, really, if they were husband and wife or if “strangers” were treated in a different manner in the society. That has not become clear to me, and the flashback nature of the play doesn’t help the confusion.
Ultimately, I have to once again fall back on Campbell’s explanation of myth and superstition as a means of a society to make sense of the seasons, the nature of man and that deep sense that all is not as it seems. This ritual of having a “carrier” to whisk away the sins of the village, though violent and repulsive to someone in our culture (I am assuming things), was, I’m sure, a rational—though I pray, a consciously symbolic—means of dealing with the complexities of human imperfection.
I often thought, during the reading, how wonderful it would be to believe so strongly in a symbolic act that all doubt was removed. My jaded mind tells me that bullet-proof denial is regressive rather than progressive, but how often—in a relationship, say—have we wished for a clean slate? How often have we uttered the words, “Maybe next year will be better.” How often, as an idealistic young person, have we awoken to a day full of promise, self-assured that it would hold none of the clutter and pain of the previous days? I still wake up like that, though now, I realize that it’s an individual choice to carry the sins of the past into the present. I also realize that I can do nothing to control what others choose to hold onto, what they insist must inform their momentary existence. And, as an individual in an individualistic society, I can’t quite grasp the idea of the group dynamic that’s at work in Soyinka’s created villages. I can remember my history lessons about Salem, Mass. and the communities purging of sin by human sacrifice, and I can think about the neighborhoods of my youth where it was still acceptable to knock on a neighbor’s door to borrow a cup of sugar (do people still do that? I don’t even know my neighbors on this long stretch of country road), but that’s not my reality. Even within my own family, we have some shared goals, but we also have our own individual agendas. I like to think we function as a unit, but I think it’s more accurate to say that we interact and shift focus from time to time depending upon the individual needs of each of our members. It’s not exactly symbiotic. Our current culture has affected us more than we like to admit at times.
Till later...
Entry #18
23 March 2007 (approximately…remiss in the dating in on my written pages)
Work: Wole Soyinka’s Collected Plays 1
I’ve read two of the three assigned plays, The Strong Breed and The Bacchae of Euripides. Though I know that it in part is an issue of understanding the culture, I found both to be very dark. Whereas in Euripides’ original play I found much humor, I didn’t pick up on any of that in Soyinka’s interpretation of the same.
The Strong Breed horrified me. From Sunma’s treatment of Ifada to the Girl’s raw manner (and what forces created her), events in the play unsettled me from the first. I was a bit confused about the relationship between Eman and Sunma, not sure, really, if they were husband and wife or if “strangers” were treated in a different manner in the society. That has not become clear to me, and the flashback nature of the play doesn’t help the confusion.
Ultimately, I have to once again fall back on Campbell’s explanation of myth and superstition as a means of a society to make sense of the seasons, the nature of man and that deep sense that all is not as it seems. This ritual of having a “carrier” to whisk away the sins of the village, though violent and repulsive to someone in our culture (I am assuming things), was, I’m sure, a rational—though I pray, a consciously symbolic—means of dealing with the complexities of human imperfection.
I often thought, during the reading, how wonderful it would be to believe so strongly in a symbolic act that all doubt was removed. My jaded mind tells me that bullet-proof denial is regressive rather than progressive, but how often—in a relationship, say—have we wished for a clean slate? How often have we uttered the words, “Maybe next year will be better.” How often, as an idealistic young person, have we awoken to a day full of promise, self-assured that it would hold none of the clutter and pain of the previous days? I still wake up like that, though now, I realize that it’s an individual choice to carry the sins of the past into the present. I also realize that I can do nothing to control what others choose to hold onto, what they insist must inform their momentary existence. And, as an individual in an individualistic society, I can’t quite grasp the idea of the group dynamic that’s at work in Soyinka’s created villages. I can remember my history lessons about Salem, Mass. and the communities purging of sin by human sacrifice, and I can think about the neighborhoods of my youth where it was still acceptable to knock on a neighbor’s door to borrow a cup of sugar (do people still do that? I don’t even know my neighbors on this long stretch of country road), but that’s not my reality. Even within my own family, we have some shared goals, but we also have our own individual agendas. I like to think we function as a unit, but I think it’s more accurate to say that we interact and shift focus from time to time depending upon the individual needs of each of our members. It’s not exactly symbiotic. Our current culture has affected us more than we like to admit at times.
Till later...
Monday, March 19, 2007
Beginnings of a Paper
Entry #17
Work: The River Between by Ngũnĩ Wa Thiong'o
I've decided to switch my paper topic to the work above after the initial revulsion I spoke of in my last entry. I'll use this entry to pound out my ideas a little.
I'm seeing an awful lot of the matriarchy that Waiyaki's father, Chege told him had existed in days gone by, even though the tribal religion seems to be centered, at least on the surface, around a patriarchal order. According to the tale, the women drove the men too hard, were unfair, and the men revolted.
And this matriarchy no longer exists, or so Chege tells Waiyaki -- but is this true? So much of the Gikuyu religion is earth-based, and therefore mother-based. They are close to the land. I'm seeing the two ridges, opposing mountains as breasts, the river as a birth canal. Even the cover art depicts it in this way. Is a goddess religion possible without a matriarchy? Or, if not a matriarchy, can it exist in the presence of a patriarchy?
Their religion descends from two shared parents, Gikuyu & Mumbi. Christianity has only a male godhead and each of the subsidiaries (the Christ and the Holy Ghost) are male. Yes, the virgin served as an incubator for the Christ, but she was a vessel only; chosen, yes, but not a goddess in her own right.
It is only through a male-centered religion that the white man was able to infiltrate peacefully these people. Christianity appeals to the disgruntled male, owner of property, head of household -- and with Christianity, Mumbi can be forsaken. Joshua's rebellious daughters can be forgotten, cut off because they are female and they are not in the image of the perfect One.
I'm merely hammering out these thoughts as I have them. No idea if I can find the textual support yet or independent research to support the point -- which I realize I haven't made yet.
The tribal culture of the Gikuyu and the white man's Christian religion are both forms of control of a people. Gikuyu people remain close to the earth because the earth feeds them. Waiyaki's attempt to blend learning with the tribal customs is honorable, but doomed, as the earth is lost in Christianity. The Gikuyu roots are in the earth, and the Christian religion transcends the earthly, therefore they cannot coexist. One necessarily negates the other.
There. That's as close right now that I can come right now to a thesis statement. I still have the last several dozen pages to read before morning, so I'd better get on it.
Till later...
Work: The River Between by Ngũnĩ Wa Thiong'o
I've decided to switch my paper topic to the work above after the initial revulsion I spoke of in my last entry. I'll use this entry to pound out my ideas a little.
I'm seeing an awful lot of the matriarchy that Waiyaki's father, Chege told him had existed in days gone by, even though the tribal religion seems to be centered, at least on the surface, around a patriarchal order. According to the tale, the women drove the men too hard, were unfair, and the men revolted.
And this matriarchy no longer exists, or so Chege tells Waiyaki -- but is this true? So much of the Gikuyu religion is earth-based, and therefore mother-based. They are close to the land. I'm seeing the two ridges, opposing mountains as breasts, the river as a birth canal. Even the cover art depicts it in this way. Is a goddess religion possible without a matriarchy? Or, if not a matriarchy, can it exist in the presence of a patriarchy?
Their religion descends from two shared parents, Gikuyu & Mumbi. Christianity has only a male godhead and each of the subsidiaries (the Christ and the Holy Ghost) are male. Yes, the virgin served as an incubator for the Christ, but she was a vessel only; chosen, yes, but not a goddess in her own right.
It is only through a male-centered religion that the white man was able to infiltrate peacefully these people. Christianity appeals to the disgruntled male, owner of property, head of household -- and with Christianity, Mumbi can be forsaken. Joshua's rebellious daughters can be forgotten, cut off because they are female and they are not in the image of the perfect One.
I'm merely hammering out these thoughts as I have them. No idea if I can find the textual support yet or independent research to support the point -- which I realize I haven't made yet.
The tribal culture of the Gikuyu and the white man's Christian religion are both forms of control of a people. Gikuyu people remain close to the earth because the earth feeds them. Waiyaki's attempt to blend learning with the tribal customs is honorable, but doomed, as the earth is lost in Christianity. The Gikuyu roots are in the earth, and the Christian religion transcends the earthly, therefore they cannot coexist. One necessarily negates the other.
There. That's as close right now that I can come right now to a thesis statement. I still have the last several dozen pages to read before morning, so I'd better get on it.
Till later...
Monday, March 12, 2007
Spring Break
Entry #16
Work: The River Between
I've been watching, in dribs and drabs, a PBS video collection entitled This Far By Faith. I'm looking for material for a somewhat topic-defined paper for Reading Black, Reading Feminist (WMNST 462). It's facinated me in reading black feminist writing that Christianity seems to have such a central role in their lives, in their psyches, and yet, the institution of Christianity is in most cases very patriarchal in its execution. (I just re-read that sentence and was struck by the juxtaposition of the words "Christianity" and "execution." Hmm...)
I'm on disk five now, and the story has progressed to the civil rights era, Black Power, return to African beliefs and religious practices. And it reminded me that I need to finish reading The River Between.
I'm in no hurry. Spring break stretches out before me, and I feel obligated to fritter away some of it. Then again, I also have the urge to make the most of ever moment, and if that involves enjoying the soft flannel of my nightgown for a few extra hours on a Monday morning, so be it.
This post is intended to relate to The River Between. And I'm thinking about my women's studies paper as well. TRB focuses much on the traditions of the people being usurped by a moral righteousness of the "saving" white man. The same moral righteousness here, in this country, being used as a method of control of an enslaved people. I'm trying to work this out in my own mind as I write -- how pure were the native religious beliefs of the people when they were brought here? How many of them found Christianity to be not so foreign? I need to check the timelines. Islam was also widespread in Africa. Facts gathered, I think this relationship requires more reflection. I will come back to it.
The hardest part of reading The River Between is maintaining objectivity. I think, for understanding, it's necessary to view what was rather than what I feel about what was. As tolerant as I believe myself to be, I'm seeing that it isn't so in the reading of this book. The issue of circumcision is repulsive to me, and not only female circumcision. The description of the ritual for young men is, in my realm of experience, barbaric, and I do believe I know something of the barbaric. I'm trying, though. I am truly trying.
I'm very near the end of TRB, and I hope to finish it before day's end. Then, perhaps, I can begin to discuss it in literary and philosophical terms, and hopefully then, with some sort of objectivity.
Till later...
Work: The River Between
I've been watching, in dribs and drabs, a PBS video collection entitled This Far By Faith. I'm looking for material for a somewhat topic-defined paper for Reading Black, Reading Feminist (WMNST 462). It's facinated me in reading black feminist writing that Christianity seems to have such a central role in their lives, in their psyches, and yet, the institution of Christianity is in most cases very patriarchal in its execution. (I just re-read that sentence and was struck by the juxtaposition of the words "Christianity" and "execution." Hmm...)
I'm on disk five now, and the story has progressed to the civil rights era, Black Power, return to African beliefs and religious practices. And it reminded me that I need to finish reading The River Between.
I'm in no hurry. Spring break stretches out before me, and I feel obligated to fritter away some of it. Then again, I also have the urge to make the most of ever moment, and if that involves enjoying the soft flannel of my nightgown for a few extra hours on a Monday morning, so be it.
This post is intended to relate to The River Between. And I'm thinking about my women's studies paper as well. TRB focuses much on the traditions of the people being usurped by a moral righteousness of the "saving" white man. The same moral righteousness here, in this country, being used as a method of control of an enslaved people. I'm trying to work this out in my own mind as I write -- how pure were the native religious beliefs of the people when they were brought here? How many of them found Christianity to be not so foreign? I need to check the timelines. Islam was also widespread in Africa. Facts gathered, I think this relationship requires more reflection. I will come back to it.
The hardest part of reading The River Between is maintaining objectivity. I think, for understanding, it's necessary to view what was rather than what I feel about what was. As tolerant as I believe myself to be, I'm seeing that it isn't so in the reading of this book. The issue of circumcision is repulsive to me, and not only female circumcision. The description of the ritual for young men is, in my realm of experience, barbaric, and I do believe I know something of the barbaric. I'm trying, though. I am truly trying.
I'm very near the end of TRB, and I hope to finish it before day's end. Then, perhaps, I can begin to discuss it in literary and philosophical terms, and hopefully then, with some sort of objectivity.
Till later...
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Exam, and Beginning African Literature
Entry #15
Work: Final Thoughts on Nō
and Ngũnĩ Wa Thiong'o, The River Between
Tuesday brings the first exam, first midterm of the semester. I will meet with Dr. McCarthy tomorrow morning, and in reviewing the study guide, I see my questions will be many. Keeping track of details has never been my strong point, but I will do my best.
Regarding Nō, I have had some handwritten notes jotted down that I have yet to flesh out here--just a bit more of my rebellion. This idea of the form being primary and that the art would appear where the form was correct -- this is something that makes me cringe every time I read perfectly rhymed, perfectly metered lines of verse that are absolutely atrocious. Like Hallmark cards. Perhaps I'm not disciplined or perhaps I just do not appreciate the idea of boundaries, but in writing, either prose or poetry, I want to break the rules. I like things that break the rules.
And when I have thoughts like this, I have to remember the vision of chaos while meditating and how beautiful and ordered it really was. It was a long time ago (and a long story to tell, if I ever really could) that I saw what I still don't have adequate words to describe, and it was everything I want my free verse to be (or have potential to be) but still possessed, at least upon years of reflection, some sort of framework that kept it within bounds of being.
I digress.
I could not understand what art could emerge within such a strict form. The stage in Nō is identical in each play. The backdrop never changes. Each character and actor has a specific role without much variation. How could art possibly emerge under the thumb of these dictates? It's oppression! I thought. And yet...would we still read it if it was any other way? Would Nō have survived? I doubt it. It survived because of the form, not necessarily because of the art.
I've been reading too much of Bradbury and his charge to aim for truth, not popularity, not literary acclaim, but merely truth, and if there is enough life in the truth, the art will emerge. Perhaps Nō is not so terribly different. This is not 1400 A.D., and in 1400 A.D. perhaps discipline was more important. And, again perhaps, maybe we could possibly benefit from more of the same today. And maybe it's just ego that the artist today feels that s/he is beyond discipline.
I am tired, and it's been a long week of pain and frustration with pain, so I will end this with a few thoughts on The River Between.
I wasn't sure, when beginning it, if I would be able to involve myself in the story. And then, after getting so far, I questioned whether I had the stomach to read it. That's been an issue with some movies and television shows; I can't stand violence, and the coming-of-age circumcision rites in The River... strikes me as very violent. However, during the reading, I have discovered something. I'm only at about the mid-way point, not having the concentration to read long at any one sitting, and I'm detecting a subtext of mother-religion. It's mentioned in the conversation between W & his father, and if it's not brought to the surface by the end of the tale, I think I will write my paper on it. If I choose to, however, I think I'll have to ask Dr. McCarthy if I can expand the paper a bit beyond five pages. Being economical with words is not my strong suit (even more so than ability to remember details).
Till later...
Work: Final Thoughts on Nō
and Ngũnĩ Wa Thiong'o, The River Between
Tuesday brings the first exam, first midterm of the semester. I will meet with Dr. McCarthy tomorrow morning, and in reviewing the study guide, I see my questions will be many. Keeping track of details has never been my strong point, but I will do my best.
Regarding Nō, I have had some handwritten notes jotted down that I have yet to flesh out here--just a bit more of my rebellion. This idea of the form being primary and that the art would appear where the form was correct -- this is something that makes me cringe every time I read perfectly rhymed, perfectly metered lines of verse that are absolutely atrocious. Like Hallmark cards. Perhaps I'm not disciplined or perhaps I just do not appreciate the idea of boundaries, but in writing, either prose or poetry, I want to break the rules. I like things that break the rules.
And when I have thoughts like this, I have to remember the vision of chaos while meditating and how beautiful and ordered it really was. It was a long time ago (and a long story to tell, if I ever really could) that I saw what I still don't have adequate words to describe, and it was everything I want my free verse to be (or have potential to be) but still possessed, at least upon years of reflection, some sort of framework that kept it within bounds of being.
I digress.
I could not understand what art could emerge within such a strict form. The stage in Nō is identical in each play. The backdrop never changes. Each character and actor has a specific role without much variation. How could art possibly emerge under the thumb of these dictates? It's oppression! I thought. And yet...would we still read it if it was any other way? Would Nō have survived? I doubt it. It survived because of the form, not necessarily because of the art.
I've been reading too much of Bradbury and his charge to aim for truth, not popularity, not literary acclaim, but merely truth, and if there is enough life in the truth, the art will emerge. Perhaps Nō is not so terribly different. This is not 1400 A.D., and in 1400 A.D. perhaps discipline was more important. And, again perhaps, maybe we could possibly benefit from more of the same today. And maybe it's just ego that the artist today feels that s/he is beyond discipline.
I am tired, and it's been a long week of pain and frustration with pain, so I will end this with a few thoughts on The River Between.
I wasn't sure, when beginning it, if I would be able to involve myself in the story. And then, after getting so far, I questioned whether I had the stomach to read it. That's been an issue with some movies and television shows; I can't stand violence, and the coming-of-age circumcision rites in The River... strikes me as very violent. However, during the reading, I have discovered something. I'm only at about the mid-way point, not having the concentration to read long at any one sitting, and I'm detecting a subtext of mother-religion. It's mentioned in the conversation between W & his father, and if it's not brought to the surface by the end of the tale, I think I will write my paper on it. If I choose to, however, I think I'll have to ask Dr. McCarthy if I can expand the paper a bit beyond five pages. Being economical with words is not my strong suit (even more so than ability to remember details).
Till later...
Sunday, February 25, 2007
A Woman Scorned
Entry #14
Work: Japanese Nō Drama
Kinuta -- The Fulling Block
Work: Japanese Nō Drama
Kinuta -- The Fulling Block
Another wrongful clinging theme: woman, in her clinging to the hurt and hate of abandonment, rages even on the side of death for that which she has lost. The introduction to the play is very helpful, though I don't see how the play could be deemed complete with only the first part, as Tyler indicates is believed by many critics. There is no release without the second part. I think back about Ray Bradbury's advice to the writer: sicken me not without leading me to the ship's rail. Zeami does that when he allows the ghost to face her husband, or vice versa. No one wants to think a spirit is doomed to hell, and by facing her husband, there is a sense of transcendence.
On to the next play...
Till later...
Some fragments of conversation...
Entry #13
Work: Japanese Nō Dramas
Last night, I had the pleasure of speaking with my friend, Delbert, about Japanese Nō (or Noh, as he expresses it). He taught the discipline to drama students and actually went so far as to consider going to Japan himself to more closely experience it.
He characterized the performance as factual for the Japanese -- that when they see a nō character upon the stage, they truly believe they are seeing a ghost of the actual person. He related the meditation state that a shite must find before a performance so that he may truly be in character, become the character. I wish I had taken a tape recorder because, though we were talking first in a cold parking lot and then in a crowded pizza parlor, what I sensed from him was an intensity and a passion about the art that I could not convey with mere words here. I would have to transcribe his comments, as well as his body language in order to do it justice.
If one were to meet Delbert and not know his background, it wouldn't take too long before theater would be the first guess, and it wouldn't have much to do with luck, either. He erupted into spontaneous nō movements several times, and I was struck how closely I could identify them with the film we watched in class. We made a friendly pact to grab tickets if any plays were performed nearby.
One last thing: he mentioned that the intensity of the performance is often too much for the acting student to handle. Likewise, even the audience is deeply affected by it. This I can believe just from the few minutes of viewing in the classroom on a small television with poor sound. I really hope that we can follow through on the pact.
On to the rest of the plays, which we will be discussing on Tuesday...
Till later...
Work: Japanese Nō Dramas
Last night, I had the pleasure of speaking with my friend, Delbert, about Japanese Nō (or Noh, as he expresses it). He taught the discipline to drama students and actually went so far as to consider going to Japan himself to more closely experience it.
He characterized the performance as factual for the Japanese -- that when they see a nō character upon the stage, they truly believe they are seeing a ghost of the actual person. He related the meditation state that a shite must find before a performance so that he may truly be in character, become the character. I wish I had taken a tape recorder because, though we were talking first in a cold parking lot and then in a crowded pizza parlor, what I sensed from him was an intensity and a passion about the art that I could not convey with mere words here. I would have to transcribe his comments, as well as his body language in order to do it justice.
If one were to meet Delbert and not know his background, it wouldn't take too long before theater would be the first guess, and it wouldn't have much to do with luck, either. He erupted into spontaneous nō movements several times, and I was struck how closely I could identify them with the film we watched in class. We made a friendly pact to grab tickets if any plays were performed nearby.
One last thing: he mentioned that the intensity of the performance is often too much for the acting student to handle. Likewise, even the audience is deeply affected by it. This I can believe just from the few minutes of viewing in the classroom on a small television with poor sound. I really hope that we can follow through on the pact.
On to the rest of the plays, which we will be discussing on Tuesday...
Till later...
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Two days of Reading, Finally Posted
I'm playing catch-up on actually posting my posts:
18 February 2007
Entry #11
Work: Japanese Nō Dramas
Plays/Pages Assigned for First Class:
General Introduction
Funa Benkei -- Benkei Aboard Ship
Kantan
Matsukaze -- Pining Wind
The introduction to Japanese Nō Dramas is a little confusing to follow, most likely because of the Japanese names and terms and necessary historical information included. My eyes tend to skim across those hard syllables requiring that I do a lot of back peddling when I realize that in order to understand a term further along in the text, I need to have absorbed one that came before.
My inner rebel soon reared her head when I read the line (under "Discussion of theme and meaning"), "Although nō plays are works of art, not religious or poetic treatises, they evoke important religious or poetic themes" (5). My instinct tells me that what is called art (the aesthetic--beauty, wonder and awe for its own sake) is essentially the same though occurring on a higher plane than that which is called religion, and that which is called poetry can exist on either plane. But that's just me pitching a fit before getting started.
My second resistance to nō is the small corner that women occupy in the discipline. Again, it's my own rebellion.
As a writer, I was intrigued by the description of "Persons speaking for one another; inconsistencies of grammatical person" as a narrative technique. I imagine a masked face with lips that do not move, disembodied voice coming from somewhere else. Or a half-mad actor, speaking of himself as he acts. The effect must have been extraordinarily eerie.
(Added later:)
*Dr. McCarthy explained in a later class that this can sometimes occur because a character is involved in a dance and require that the chorus or another person speak for him or her, though now I will say, after having read a number of the plays, that it is a little unnerving to hear a speaker suddenly begin speaking in the third person. My youngest son does that--he even has a myspace profile as "the3rdperson"--and if it will heighten the drama at the dinner table, I would imagine, masked & in elaborate dress, it would most definitely be effectively dramatic on the stage.*
In the play, Benkei Aboard Ship, I don't quite understand the power that Benkei seems to have over Yoshitsune. Yoshitsune is played by a kokata, as the introduction explains, portraying him as small and perhaps vulnerable. He allows Benkei to make the decision (attributed to him) to turn back Shizuka, his lover, who is very passionate in her love and desire to remain with Yoshitsune. But Yoshitsune and Shizuka never come together to discuss the news delivered by Benkei. He is the liaison throughout. I'm not sure if this dispatching of Shizuku is too trivial a matter for him to handle (She obviously thinks it's a big deal) or that his faithful servant is more wise in these matters (though too humble or knows his place too well to admit responsibility in the decision).
He surely lacks no power of decision in the second part as he slays the evil spirit of Tomomori. His chorus proclaims him "wholly untroubled"(94), and he has asked, "what harm could [evil spirits] possibly do?" (93) How the first part and the second part relate to each other, I'm not quite sure. Perhaps it is a testament to Benkei's wisdom that a woman should not have been present at such a violent moment, though Yoshistune seemed to have the situation in hand.
Kantan offered a bit more meat--in my opinion. To sleep on the magic pillow, to see that a life of riches and power pass away as though in a dream ("frittered away") and to be satisfied that he has seen what he came to see and can now return home is more of an answer than many who seek ever find. Oh, to have such a pillow!
I do question one thing, however. In his first speech, Rosei says, "Kantan, once simply a name,/lies before me, for I have arrived" (135), and I must wonder if "lies" is one of the pivot words that are mentioned in the introduction. Is what he sees in his dream upon the pillow a lie? Or is his journey a lie? His aspirations? *I will have to remember to ask Delbert or Dr. McCarthy about this.
Pining Wind is sad as hell. I can feel the dampness of saltwater-soaked and tear-stained sleeves. It seems the sun never shines on the shores of Suma, or it didn't in my imagination in the time it took me to read and reflect on the play. The music is sad (in my imagination), the beach is cold, and the landscape is dreary. Again, my rebellious inner child rears her head while reading the introduction and Tyler states, authoritatively, that "[Pining Wind's] yearing for Yukihira has nothing to do with transcendence. It is the quintessence of human love" (189). Perhaps this is true, but I prefer to interpret in my own way, from my own experience.
(Added later:)
*After speaking to Dr. McCarthy and spending some more time in reflection (in a non-rebellious state), I have come to agree with Tyler, though I think it's all the more reason to deem this a horribly depressing play. Love stinks and all that--and one who has spiritual aspirations, who desires transcendence and persists in clinging to the past, to that which is lost, is horribly stuck. And that may very well be why it's called "the human condition."
*sigh**
Till later...
21 February 2007
Entry #12
Work: Japanese Nō Dramas
Plays Assigned for Second Class:
Atsumori
Aya no tsuzumi -- The Damask Drum
Chikubu-shima
Sumida-gawa -- The Sumida River
I'm tired, so I will save any long commentary for later.
Again, though I know that Japan is a beautiful country, I have a cold feeling as I read these plays. They have a very spare feeling. Perhaps it's just the art form. Perhaps its the culture or the time.
Atsumori is another lonely play. Boy, left behind, retrieving his beloved flute, and big bad barbarian warrior strikes him down, sees the brutality of his actions (I can almost see Frankenstein carrying the poor, drowned little girl), and in repentence, changes his name and devotes his life to helping the spirit find freedom. The boy, attached to the flute. The man, attached to his guilt. The two of them at the end, cleaving unto each other, a yin and yang and a perfect balance for each other. So, even though a young boy is beheaded (after all, it was an act of mercy, as Kumagai did not trust the other murderous warriors to accept the responsibility for the spirit of Atsumori), a happy ending was received by all!
The Damask Drum got under my skin. Problems on both sides: The Old Man, so foolish to think that he could recieve the love of the Consort, and the Consort, so insensitive to the feelings of a foolish old man to hang a drum that she knew would not require her to fulfill her promise. He learned the hard lesson of being made a fool, and she learned the rath of a vengeful spirit scorned. Possession, whether by infatuation or by that of the self, closes one off from the spirit and invites sorrow.
I like the role of woman in Chikubu-shima, even in the knowledge that women probably came nowhere near a production of the play. They are still treated with reverence, and that sits well with me. And the treasures--if I understand rightly, they are comprised of a key, a rosary and a bamboo tree. They are spiritual and symbolic treasures, much like the painted pine on the back of the stage. And I like that.
I could say much about The Sumida River, but it seems that much has already been said about it from reading the introduction. The grief of the mother, as she realizes that the child under the mound is her own, is wrenching. The tension is palpable. My heart felt broken along with hers as I read.
While reading the play itself, I was wishing that I knew more about Japanese poetry. I most enjoyed the chanting at the end and could hear it resonating in my mind as the final scene came to a close. Though it is not clear that the mother has found peace at the end--after all, she has had but a moment to feel the hope turned into grief--I found myself praying that she had.
Till later...
18 February 2007
Entry #11
Work: Japanese Nō Dramas
Plays/Pages Assigned for First Class:
General Introduction
Funa Benkei -- Benkei Aboard Ship
Kantan
Matsukaze -- Pining Wind
The introduction to Japanese Nō Dramas is a little confusing to follow, most likely because of the Japanese names and terms and necessary historical information included. My eyes tend to skim across those hard syllables requiring that I do a lot of back peddling when I realize that in order to understand a term further along in the text, I need to have absorbed one that came before.
My inner rebel soon reared her head when I read the line (under "Discussion of theme and meaning"), "Although nō plays are works of art, not religious or poetic treatises, they evoke important religious or poetic themes" (5). My instinct tells me that what is called art (the aesthetic--beauty, wonder and awe for its own sake) is essentially the same though occurring on a higher plane than that which is called religion, and that which is called poetry can exist on either plane. But that's just me pitching a fit before getting started.
My second resistance to nō is the small corner that women occupy in the discipline. Again, it's my own rebellion.
As a writer, I was intrigued by the description of "Persons speaking for one another; inconsistencies of grammatical person" as a narrative technique. I imagine a masked face with lips that do not move, disembodied voice coming from somewhere else. Or a half-mad actor, speaking of himself as he acts. The effect must have been extraordinarily eerie.
(Added later:)
*Dr. McCarthy explained in a later class that this can sometimes occur because a character is involved in a dance and require that the chorus or another person speak for him or her, though now I will say, after having read a number of the plays, that it is a little unnerving to hear a speaker suddenly begin speaking in the third person. My youngest son does that--he even has a myspace profile as "the3rdperson"--and if it will heighten the drama at the dinner table, I would imagine, masked & in elaborate dress, it would most definitely be effectively dramatic on the stage.*
In the play, Benkei Aboard Ship, I don't quite understand the power that Benkei seems to have over Yoshitsune. Yoshitsune is played by a kokata, as the introduction explains, portraying him as small and perhaps vulnerable. He allows Benkei to make the decision (attributed to him) to turn back Shizuka, his lover, who is very passionate in her love and desire to remain with Yoshitsune. But Yoshitsune and Shizuka never come together to discuss the news delivered by Benkei. He is the liaison throughout. I'm not sure if this dispatching of Shizuku is too trivial a matter for him to handle (She obviously thinks it's a big deal) or that his faithful servant is more wise in these matters (though too humble or knows his place too well to admit responsibility in the decision).
He surely lacks no power of decision in the second part as he slays the evil spirit of Tomomori. His chorus proclaims him "wholly untroubled"(94), and he has asked, "what harm could [evil spirits] possibly do?" (93) How the first part and the second part relate to each other, I'm not quite sure. Perhaps it is a testament to Benkei's wisdom that a woman should not have been present at such a violent moment, though Yoshistune seemed to have the situation in hand.
Kantan offered a bit more meat--in my opinion. To sleep on the magic pillow, to see that a life of riches and power pass away as though in a dream ("frittered away") and to be satisfied that he has seen what he came to see and can now return home is more of an answer than many who seek ever find. Oh, to have such a pillow!
I do question one thing, however. In his first speech, Rosei says, "Kantan, once simply a name,/lies before me, for I have arrived" (135), and I must wonder if "lies" is one of the pivot words that are mentioned in the introduction. Is what he sees in his dream upon the pillow a lie? Or is his journey a lie? His aspirations? *I will have to remember to ask Delbert or Dr. McCarthy about this.
Pining Wind is sad as hell. I can feel the dampness of saltwater-soaked and tear-stained sleeves. It seems the sun never shines on the shores of Suma, or it didn't in my imagination in the time it took me to read and reflect on the play. The music is sad (in my imagination), the beach is cold, and the landscape is dreary. Again, my rebellious inner child rears her head while reading the introduction and Tyler states, authoritatively, that "[Pining Wind's] yearing for Yukihira has nothing to do with transcendence. It is the quintessence of human love" (189). Perhaps this is true, but I prefer to interpret in my own way, from my own experience.
(Added later:)
*After speaking to Dr. McCarthy and spending some more time in reflection (in a non-rebellious state), I have come to agree with Tyler, though I think it's all the more reason to deem this a horribly depressing play. Love stinks and all that--and one who has spiritual aspirations, who desires transcendence and persists in clinging to the past, to that which is lost, is horribly stuck. And that may very well be why it's called "the human condition."
*sigh**
Till later...
21 February 2007
Entry #12
Work: Japanese Nō Dramas
Plays Assigned for Second Class:
Atsumori
Aya no tsuzumi -- The Damask Drum
Chikubu-shima
Sumida-gawa -- The Sumida River
I'm tired, so I will save any long commentary for later.
Again, though I know that Japan is a beautiful country, I have a cold feeling as I read these plays. They have a very spare feeling. Perhaps it's just the art form. Perhaps its the culture or the time.
Atsumori is another lonely play. Boy, left behind, retrieving his beloved flute, and big bad barbarian warrior strikes him down, sees the brutality of his actions (I can almost see Frankenstein carrying the poor, drowned little girl), and in repentence, changes his name and devotes his life to helping the spirit find freedom. The boy, attached to the flute. The man, attached to his guilt. The two of them at the end, cleaving unto each other, a yin and yang and a perfect balance for each other. So, even though a young boy is beheaded (after all, it was an act of mercy, as Kumagai did not trust the other murderous warriors to accept the responsibility for the spirit of Atsumori), a happy ending was received by all!
The Damask Drum got under my skin. Problems on both sides: The Old Man, so foolish to think that he could recieve the love of the Consort, and the Consort, so insensitive to the feelings of a foolish old man to hang a drum that she knew would not require her to fulfill her promise. He learned the hard lesson of being made a fool, and she learned the rath of a vengeful spirit scorned. Possession, whether by infatuation or by that of the self, closes one off from the spirit and invites sorrow.
I like the role of woman in Chikubu-shima, even in the knowledge that women probably came nowhere near a production of the play. They are still treated with reverence, and that sits well with me. And the treasures--if I understand rightly, they are comprised of a key, a rosary and a bamboo tree. They are spiritual and symbolic treasures, much like the painted pine on the back of the stage. And I like that.
I could say much about The Sumida River, but it seems that much has already been said about it from reading the introduction. The grief of the mother, as she realizes that the child under the mound is her own, is wrenching. The tension is palpable. My heart felt broken along with hers as I read.
While reading the play itself, I was wishing that I knew more about Japanese poetry. I most enjoyed the chanting at the end and could hear it resonating in my mind as the final scene came to a close. Though it is not clear that the mother has found peace at the end--after all, she has had but a moment to feel the hope turned into grief--I found myself praying that she had.
Till later...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Comedy in The Frogs
Entry #10
Work: The Frogs by Aristophanes
Just some random thoughts on The Frogs...
I've thought about the interaction between Xanthias and Dionysus. There were elements that felt familiar to me, and not until I was drifting off to sleep last night did it occur to me what they were.
Their relationship is a common theme in cinematic comedy. It's the "smart butler, dumb master" bit. The example that springs to mind is the butler, Dobson (played by John Gielgud) and Dudley Moore in Arthur. There are variations which mimic this dynamic more closely where the servant is the trickster or the true master of cynicism, but Arthur will do just fine. Dobson is obviously more intelligent than the man he serves. It begs the question -- how does a god such as Dionysus find himself so often the foolish one?
Also, the clothing switch when they arrive at the inn is reminiscent of a Marx Brothers skit. Or a Three Stooges skit. Or some other vaudeville slap-stick comedy. One just knows, in the reading, that this identity shift is not going to benefit Dionysus. He's portrayed as such a buffoon that it must turn out badly.
As I said, random thoughts. "Turning the tables" seems to be the primary comedic device in The Frogs, and though it is humorous, I have to say that after reading first The Bacchae, I must say I felt sorry for the treatment of Euripides by Aristophanes.
That being said, I'm happy that I'm finally beginning to place these Greek authors into a historical context.
Till later...
Work: The Frogs by Aristophanes
Just some random thoughts on The Frogs...
I've thought about the interaction between Xanthias and Dionysus. There were elements that felt familiar to me, and not until I was drifting off to sleep last night did it occur to me what they were.
Their relationship is a common theme in cinematic comedy. It's the "smart butler, dumb master" bit. The example that springs to mind is the butler, Dobson (played by John Gielgud) and Dudley Moore in Arthur. There are variations which mimic this dynamic more closely where the servant is the trickster or the true master of cynicism, but Arthur will do just fine. Dobson is obviously more intelligent than the man he serves. It begs the question -- how does a god such as Dionysus find himself so often the foolish one?
Also, the clothing switch when they arrive at the inn is reminiscent of a Marx Brothers skit. Or a Three Stooges skit. Or some other vaudeville slap-stick comedy. One just knows, in the reading, that this identity shift is not going to benefit Dionysus. He's portrayed as such a buffoon that it must turn out badly.
As I said, random thoughts. "Turning the tables" seems to be the primary comedic device in The Frogs, and though it is humorous, I have to say that after reading first The Bacchae, I must say I felt sorry for the treatment of Euripides by Aristophanes.
That being said, I'm happy that I'm finally beginning to place these Greek authors into a historical context.
Till later...
Monday, February 12, 2007
Finally, some thoughts on The Frogs
Entry #9
Work: The Frogs - Aristophanes
I have been remiss in not making entries as I read, and then a virus kept me from even looking at a computer screen long enough to make an entry. Hopefully, I will be able to make up in quality what I lack in quantity.
I’ve found The Frogs to be the most difficult reading so far in this course. I have found much humor in it (though I won’t pretend to understand all of it), have only a vague grasp of what it's trying to say, and in the end, I don’t know that I could adequately offer a synopsis. One of the most interesting things, in my opinion, is its similarities to a comparative retrospective study of two writers of the past (at the time of Aristophanes’s writing, that is) that very well could have been written in modern times.
As I said, I found this to be the most difficult reading thus far. I don’t know if it’s the comedic element that is distracting or the references to works with which I’m not familiar, but it was difficult. Having said what didn’t work for me, I’ll try to tackle now the elements that have made an impression of the favorable or at least familiar sort.
First, the humor struck me as British—Monty Pythonesque, if you will. I’ve always felt that the Brits were more cultured (generally) in some ways that we Americans, so perhaps those feelings spring not from complete ignorance. Correction: perhaps my impressions are based upon good instincts. I have no real knowledge of the education of the British.
Second, and also regarding the humor, at one point I had to wonder if Arlo Guthrie had a classical education (and I will, at some point, investigate to find out for sure). As I read the lines:
I couldn’t help but think of Alice’s Restaurant. All that was missing was “veins in my teeth,” though if Aeacus, the gatekeeper’s rant is considered, I suppose that the sentiment was present.
As I said, I don’t exactly understand the social significance of the play, and I do find it strange, though not unreasonable, for one to wish that the talent of a deceased artist to return and carry on. In contemporary times, I think of James Dean, Jim Morrison (by virtue of his poetry rather than his eccentric rock and roll presence), Sylvia Plath, Pigpen from the Grateful Dead, Hank Williams, John Belushi, Stevie Ray Vaughn…I could go on. And on and on. All died young, all were incredibly talented in their respective disciplines, and many, I’m sure (myself included) would love to have seen how their talents would have developed. But those disciplines were not left barren. There were others to pick up the torch. Knowing nothing about the climate for artists in the time of Aristophanes, it may be perfectly reasonable for him to send Dionysus on a quest for “a skillful poet.” As Heracles grills him about those above ground, he has an argument for each and why they do not meet his needs (or wants). I suppose it tells me that art is important enough in the times to seek out at all costs, even if it requires a trip into Hades to get it.
I’m told that I missed a good lecture on the context of the humor on Thursday. I’m hoping that someone saw fit to take notes (not my strong suit). I’m not confidant about a quiz on this work, if only because it took me in so many different directions, I’m not sure I have a true understanding of the events. Before test time, I will need to have a re-read, but for this evening, commentary on what I think I understand is enough of a challenge!
Till later…
Work: The Frogs - Aristophanes
I have been remiss in not making entries as I read, and then a virus kept me from even looking at a computer screen long enough to make an entry. Hopefully, I will be able to make up in quality what I lack in quantity.
I’ve found The Frogs to be the most difficult reading so far in this course. I have found much humor in it (though I won’t pretend to understand all of it), have only a vague grasp of what it's trying to say, and in the end, I don’t know that I could adequately offer a synopsis. One of the most interesting things, in my opinion, is its similarities to a comparative retrospective study of two writers of the past (at the time of Aristophanes’s writing, that is) that very well could have been written in modern times.
As I said, I found this to be the most difficult reading thus far. I don’t know if it’s the comedic element that is distracting or the references to works with which I’m not familiar, but it was difficult. Having said what didn’t work for me, I’ll try to tackle now the elements that have made an impression of the favorable or at least familiar sort.
First, the humor struck me as British—Monty Pythonesque, if you will. I’ve always felt that the Brits were more cultured (generally) in some ways that we Americans, so perhaps those feelings spring not from complete ignorance. Correction: perhaps my impressions are based upon good instincts. I have no real knowledge of the education of the British.
Second, and also regarding the humor, at one point I had to wonder if Arlo Guthrie had a classical education (and I will, at some point, investigate to find out for sure). As I read the lines:
“When Euripides came down, he showed off
to the clothes-grabbers, to the
purse-snatchers,
the father-killers, the house-breakers—“
(771-73)
I couldn’t help but think of Alice’s Restaurant. All that was missing was “veins in my teeth,” though if Aeacus, the gatekeeper’s rant is considered, I suppose that the sentiment was present.
As I said, I don’t exactly understand the social significance of the play, and I do find it strange, though not unreasonable, for one to wish that the talent of a deceased artist to return and carry on. In contemporary times, I think of James Dean, Jim Morrison (by virtue of his poetry rather than his eccentric rock and roll presence), Sylvia Plath, Pigpen from the Grateful Dead, Hank Williams, John Belushi, Stevie Ray Vaughn…I could go on. And on and on. All died young, all were incredibly talented in their respective disciplines, and many, I’m sure (myself included) would love to have seen how their talents would have developed. But those disciplines were not left barren. There were others to pick up the torch. Knowing nothing about the climate for artists in the time of Aristophanes, it may be perfectly reasonable for him to send Dionysus on a quest for “a skillful poet.” As Heracles grills him about those above ground, he has an argument for each and why they do not meet his needs (or wants). I suppose it tells me that art is important enough in the times to seek out at all costs, even if it requires a trip into Hades to get it.
I’m told that I missed a good lecture on the context of the humor on Thursday. I’m hoping that someone saw fit to take notes (not my strong suit). I’m not confidant about a quiz on this work, if only because it took me in so many different directions, I’m not sure I have a true understanding of the events. Before test time, I will need to have a re-read, but for this evening, commentary on what I think I understand is enough of a challenge!
Till later…
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Reconciliation
Entry #8
Work: The Bacchae
I've titled this entry "Reconciliation" because I find myself having to reconcile my first impressions of a work with the time or culture in or perspective from which it was written. It happens all the time. I am angry with or disgusted by characters in a book or play, and eventually, I'm able to find some empathy for them. Most of the time, anyway.
I'm trying to do that with The Bacchae.
I have said earlier that I found it difficult to be sympathetic with either side or even have the ability to discriminate between the white hats and the black hats. Pentheus seems to me to be a controlling egomaniac and Dionysos, a vindictive, punishing god. There is no balance between structure (Pentheus) and freedom (Dionysos). And perhaps that's the point.
I brought it up in class today. Dr. McCarthy made a comment while I was searching for a line, and I didn't catch all of it. He was suggesting the causes of alcoholism, or a higher prevailence of alcoholism in certain cultures, and I'm not quite sure what point he was making (because of my searching, not because of his lack of clarity). I would suggest that repression by human forces, the rejection of the spiritual and the absence of outlets of creative expression could contribute to what I've come to believe is the spiritual void that underlies alcoholism. That, combined with opportunity (availablility of alcohol or drugs) and a predisposition (the physical compulsion/craving and inability to metabolize alcohol in a "normal" way) makes alcoholism almost sure to manifest in a person. Any of the first and last, and it's still very likely.
I strayed from my point, which is that Tieresias' refutation of Pentheus' claim that the booze made the broads loose--as they would be loose only if they were prone to being loose, a claim with which I'm not in total agreement--got me thinking about the "main" characters of Prometheus and Dionysos and my inability to find a good guy in either of them. I believe I was looking in the wrong place, as I was looking for a black and white, and the answer was in the grey--more specifically, and quite literally, in Tieresias. He's the old prophet. He's the one who's been around since before Dionysos and Prometheus were born. He's seen the race of warriors spring forth from a crop of dragon's teeth. He watched as Semele's reputation was defiled as she carried, then was martyred for the union of human and god. That's what we're really looking for here--a union. Not a divide. Prometheus is all "establishment" and Dionysos attempts to be all "god." Semele was the one who had both blended within her, and Tieresias sees the wisdom of that.
There are holes in that thesis, I know, but given enough time, I'm sure I could purge them. Dionysos is a character, that's for sure: part human, part god, and pissed off. His mother killed by his step-mother, his father having to hide his illegitimate spawn--if that's not a timeless story, I don't know what is. Just cruise any grocery store checkout line, and the tale is told over and over in the tabloids.
I'll chew on it some more.
Till later...
Work: The Bacchae
I've titled this entry "Reconciliation" because I find myself having to reconcile my first impressions of a work with the time or culture in or perspective from which it was written. It happens all the time. I am angry with or disgusted by characters in a book or play, and eventually, I'm able to find some empathy for them. Most of the time, anyway.
I'm trying to do that with The Bacchae.
I have said earlier that I found it difficult to be sympathetic with either side or even have the ability to discriminate between the white hats and the black hats. Pentheus seems to me to be a controlling egomaniac and Dionysos, a vindictive, punishing god. There is no balance between structure (Pentheus) and freedom (Dionysos). And perhaps that's the point.
I brought it up in class today. Dr. McCarthy made a comment while I was searching for a line, and I didn't catch all of it. He was suggesting the causes of alcoholism, or a higher prevailence of alcoholism in certain cultures, and I'm not quite sure what point he was making (because of my searching, not because of his lack of clarity). I would suggest that repression by human forces, the rejection of the spiritual and the absence of outlets of creative expression could contribute to what I've come to believe is the spiritual void that underlies alcoholism. That, combined with opportunity (availablility of alcohol or drugs) and a predisposition (the physical compulsion/craving and inability to metabolize alcohol in a "normal" way) makes alcoholism almost sure to manifest in a person. Any of the first and last, and it's still very likely.
I strayed from my point, which is that Tieresias' refutation of Pentheus' claim that the booze made the broads loose--as they would be loose only if they were prone to being loose, a claim with which I'm not in total agreement--got me thinking about the "main" characters of Prometheus and Dionysos and my inability to find a good guy in either of them. I believe I was looking in the wrong place, as I was looking for a black and white, and the answer was in the grey--more specifically, and quite literally, in Tieresias. He's the old prophet. He's the one who's been around since before Dionysos and Prometheus were born. He's seen the race of warriors spring forth from a crop of dragon's teeth. He watched as Semele's reputation was defiled as she carried, then was martyred for the union of human and god. That's what we're really looking for here--a union. Not a divide. Prometheus is all "establishment" and Dionysos attempts to be all "god." Semele was the one who had both blended within her, and Tieresias sees the wisdom of that.
There are holes in that thesis, I know, but given enough time, I'm sure I could purge them. Dionysos is a character, that's for sure: part human, part god, and pissed off. His mother killed by his step-mother, his father having to hide his illegitimate spawn--if that's not a timeless story, I don't know what is. Just cruise any grocery store checkout line, and the tale is told over and over in the tabloids.
I'll chew on it some more.
Till later...
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Contradictions?
Entry #7
Work: The Bacchae
Class discussion yesterday clarified some things. First, I felt myself a little lost by the long choral passages, having a difficult time penetrating their poetry and finding their significance in the tale. Dr. McCarthy's explanation helped. Euripides was known for his poetry in the sing-song-y chorus passages, and they serve as a type of imagery to further texturize the play. I likened them to the expansive passages in a George Eliot novel that she used to break up the action--or perhaps just because George Eliot was a very verbose writer!
Returning to the introduction, Blessington comments that, "The Bacchae is not just drama; it is also a major contribution to Greek thought, for it warns of the emotion that Greek rationalism, prone to abstraction, was in danger of forgetting" (xiv). As I've commented earlier, I can see and understand that need for a balance between the intellectual and the spiritual. However, what brings me pause is to think that sex and excessive imbibing of the "spirits" is the desired way to the emotional. It is as though there was no other way to revel or connect, no real avenue to the abstract, without an artificially induced state. I don't know. Maybe because wine came from the grape (of the earth) that it was considered a mystical substance. I guess that it still is by many today. And perhaps it is my own searching in vain, finally rejecting that state and finding it in a truly natural way that I find it....naïve. To me, it's like cheating and accepting an inferior look-alike--like wanting leather and settling for naugahyde.
One last thought: I did find it humorous that Cadmus and Teiresias threw themselves so exuberantly into the celebration. I suppose that's a contradiction of what I've just said, but there's something about it. Maybe it's because Cadmus is the elder and is still able to connect with his "inner child." Or that Teiresias is the prophet, someone one would think of as serious and solemn, yet he doesn't hesitate to adorn himself and head for the hills to join the women. The duality of what might be considered sage & fool in one body is appealing to me. Contradiction or not, I like it.
Till later...
Work: The Bacchae
Class discussion yesterday clarified some things. First, I felt myself a little lost by the long choral passages, having a difficult time penetrating their poetry and finding their significance in the tale. Dr. McCarthy's explanation helped. Euripides was known for his poetry in the sing-song-y chorus passages, and they serve as a type of imagery to further texturize the play. I likened them to the expansive passages in a George Eliot novel that she used to break up the action--or perhaps just because George Eliot was a very verbose writer!
Returning to the introduction, Blessington comments that, "The Bacchae is not just drama; it is also a major contribution to Greek thought, for it warns of the emotion that Greek rationalism, prone to abstraction, was in danger of forgetting" (xiv). As I've commented earlier, I can see and understand that need for a balance between the intellectual and the spiritual. However, what brings me pause is to think that sex and excessive imbibing of the "spirits" is the desired way to the emotional. It is as though there was no other way to revel or connect, no real avenue to the abstract, without an artificially induced state. I don't know. Maybe because wine came from the grape (of the earth) that it was considered a mystical substance. I guess that it still is by many today. And perhaps it is my own searching in vain, finally rejecting that state and finding it in a truly natural way that I find it....naïve. To me, it's like cheating and accepting an inferior look-alike--like wanting leather and settling for naugahyde.
One last thought: I did find it humorous that Cadmus and Teiresias threw themselves so exuberantly into the celebration. I suppose that's a contradiction of what I've just said, but there's something about it. Maybe it's because Cadmus is the elder and is still able to connect with his "inner child." Or that Teiresias is the prophet, someone one would think of as serious and solemn, yet he doesn't hesitate to adorn himself and head for the hills to join the women. The duality of what might be considered sage & fool in one body is appealing to me. Contradiction or not, I like it.
Till later...
Monday, January 29, 2007
The Song Remains the Same
Entry #6
Work: The Bacchae by Euripides
So the moral of the story seems to be "honor the gods or else." Or, as the Messenger laments,
Work: The Bacchae by Euripides
So the moral of the story seems to be "honor the gods or else." Or, as the Messenger laments,
"To be moderate and honor godly things/is best. I think it is the wisest possession/For mortal men, if they use it well" (1150-52).
Ruler, man of ego, denying the spiritual realm, suffers great punishment. His people, having been denied their god--once the dam of repression breaks loose--are at the mercy of its most ardent passions.
This god of fear is not so unlike the Christian god. I think of Sodom and Gomorrah, of the great flood, and of other plagues and pestilence said to be punishment for the immoral nature of man. In this case, the immorality is overly worshiping one's own intellect, one's own power of reason. But it's still fear-based: honor the god or suffer the consequences.
Many other thoughts on this piece, but I think I will wait until after the class discussion. I have come to the conclusion, with very little understanding of the Greek mythology, that Bacchus and Dionysos are one and the same. Also, I am not sure, at the end of the play, where my sympathies lie. I feel repulsion at the idea that reason is all, and yet I abhor the idea of an egotistical god. Perhaps the moral, that true being is somewhere between the extremes, is the point, and that, I can live with.
Till later...
Introduction to The Bacchae
Entry #5
Work: The Bacchae by Euripides
After several failed attempts at reading with a headache, I'm glad I made the prudent choice and backed up to read the Introduction to The Bacchae.
I'm always surprised to learn that some people can keep all the characters in a particular mythology straight. I don't know why. In this country with its predominant Christianity, even my children, who have very little religious exposure know the characters of Moses and Noah, not to mention Jesus Christ. Sage is even aware that his middle name, Bartholomew, was also an apostle who was flayed alive. It's just a different set of characters from a different time and place, I suppose. Still, I get so confused by the multisyllabic names and variant spellings that I'm in awe of anyone who can talk intelligently about the characters' histories.
One line in the introduction that stands out to me is "The Bacchae is a warning that Greek civilization should not place ideas before people" (xv). Having been immersed lately in 19th centrury black women writers, I've grit my teeth and have shaken my head more than once at the idea that a book, an ancient book, could be held up and be simultaneously used to oppress a people, justify actions against an entire people, and finally, be the hope for a people. As Blessington says in his introduction, "reigned-in spirits will break loose" (xiv) Thank god.
Onward to the reading of the play--Perhaps with some dim thought to offer upon completion.
Till later...
Work: The Bacchae by Euripides
After several failed attempts at reading with a headache, I'm glad I made the prudent choice and backed up to read the Introduction to The Bacchae.
I'm always surprised to learn that some people can keep all the characters in a particular mythology straight. I don't know why. In this country with its predominant Christianity, even my children, who have very little religious exposure know the characters of Moses and Noah, not to mention Jesus Christ. Sage is even aware that his middle name, Bartholomew, was also an apostle who was flayed alive. It's just a different set of characters from a different time and place, I suppose. Still, I get so confused by the multisyllabic names and variant spellings that I'm in awe of anyone who can talk intelligently about the characters' histories.
One line in the introduction that stands out to me is "The Bacchae is a warning that Greek civilization should not place ideas before people" (xv). Having been immersed lately in 19th centrury black women writers, I've grit my teeth and have shaken my head more than once at the idea that a book, an ancient book, could be held up and be simultaneously used to oppress a people, justify actions against an entire people, and finally, be the hope for a people. As Blessington says in his introduction, "reigned-in spirits will break loose" (xiv) Thank god.
Onward to the reading of the play--Perhaps with some dim thought to offer upon completion.
Till later...
Saturday, January 20, 2007
The Ego is Everything
Entry #4
Work: Ajax by Sophocles
Greek tragedy goes well with black coffee. I sat this morning, reading through the second Sophocles play for my Religion in Literature course. It's very difficult to reconcile the Greek state religions with my own non-theistic spiritual views.
In the interest of sparing the reader a summary, those visiting this page can find a fair job of it on Bastard Net . We have a character, driven by jealousy and scorn (the coveted weapons of Achilles have "democratically" been awarded to Odysseus rather than Ajax. Ajax, of course, feels he was the more deserving recipient).
Plenty of sexism exists in the play -- not surprising considering it was written in approximately 400 B.C. But, also, justifications of ego and attribution of actions to the gods seem at first odd, but upon reflection, I think things haven't changed all that much. We have a president standing at the podium (pulpit) decrying the ungodly enemy and swearing to lead them to the light. Okay, hyperbole on my part, I admit, but seventy-one percent of Americans agree at least to some extent.
Death before dishonor...that still exists in our military code, though mutiny (as Ajax's act, though thwarted by Athena) is still frowned upon. I don't know if mutiny is the proper term; Ajax is not leading a revolt, but rather staging his own personal and very final protest. So, let us just term it a one-man mutiny. He's brought consequences to his family, slave wife, son, and bastard half-brother by his actions. Or at least, he's willing for them to suffer the consequences. His parents also will suffer. His father, a curmudgeon to start, will be crushed, his mother, left alone. All for pride and ego. His slave wife laments, pleads with him to consider those very consequences: she will be called names, taken into servitude by another, her son will also fall into slavery, the pain and sorrow that will be visited upon his parents, and her absence of a country. She will belong no where. "Not to remember kindness is to be called no longer noble." Attempting to shame him is in vain. Ajax takes his own life with the sword given him by his enemy.
Then there is the issue with the prophet, Calchas, more or less a side issue of which we hear little. If Ajax lives, Calchas will be called a false prophet. If Jeanie Dixon lived in this time, her purse would no doubt be much lighter, and after a time, she would have no need of it. One wrong prediction and you're out, it seems. But, alas, we know that Ajax will die.
And is this play really about the death of Ajax? Or is it about something else? Odysseus, marked for death by Ajax before Athena's spell, is his arch enemy, the possessor of the coveted weapon of Achilles. It is Odysseus that prevents Agamemnon from following protocol and meting out proper posthumous punishment upon Ajax (tossing him out to become carrion for the birds as a symbol of the animals Ajax slaughtered). Odysseus argues for his proper burial and for the restoration of his reputation as a valiant warrior for the state. Some today would say that it was a wise political move. He is defending a man who denounced the need for intervention of the gods, preferring instead to serve himself instead. Blasphemy? Perhaps fearlessness instead. As we are told, "There is no law in a city where there is no fear, no order in any camp that is not fenced about with discipline and respect." It is implied that these orders, this means of governing, comes from the gods, and only a fool defies the gods. I'm not advocating force (not at all) as a means of expressing ones individuality, but anything counter to the state, even passive resistance, seems to be a crime not only against government but against the gods. Perhaps Ajax found his own god deep within himself.
I have many more thoughts, but I feel a re-reading is in order before those thoughts are expressed. Good play. Shake-my-head-in-wonder play.
Till later...
Work: Ajax by Sophocles
Greek tragedy goes well with black coffee. I sat this morning, reading through the second Sophocles play for my Religion in Literature course. It's very difficult to reconcile the Greek state religions with my own non-theistic spiritual views.
In the interest of sparing the reader a summary, those visiting this page can find a fair job of it on Bastard Net . We have a character, driven by jealousy and scorn (the coveted weapons of Achilles have "democratically" been awarded to Odysseus rather than Ajax. Ajax, of course, feels he was the more deserving recipient).
Plenty of sexism exists in the play -- not surprising considering it was written in approximately 400 B.C. But, also, justifications of ego and attribution of actions to the gods seem at first odd, but upon reflection, I think things haven't changed all that much. We have a president standing at the podium (pulpit) decrying the ungodly enemy and swearing to lead them to the light. Okay, hyperbole on my part, I admit, but seventy-one percent of Americans agree at least to some extent.
Death before dishonor...that still exists in our military code, though mutiny (as Ajax's act, though thwarted by Athena) is still frowned upon. I don't know if mutiny is the proper term; Ajax is not leading a revolt, but rather staging his own personal and very final protest. So, let us just term it a one-man mutiny. He's brought consequences to his family, slave wife, son, and bastard half-brother by his actions. Or at least, he's willing for them to suffer the consequences. His parents also will suffer. His father, a curmudgeon to start, will be crushed, his mother, left alone. All for pride and ego. His slave wife laments, pleads with him to consider those very consequences: she will be called names, taken into servitude by another, her son will also fall into slavery, the pain and sorrow that will be visited upon his parents, and her absence of a country. She will belong no where. "Not to remember kindness is to be called no longer noble." Attempting to shame him is in vain. Ajax takes his own life with the sword given him by his enemy.
Then there is the issue with the prophet, Calchas, more or less a side issue of which we hear little. If Ajax lives, Calchas will be called a false prophet. If Jeanie Dixon lived in this time, her purse would no doubt be much lighter, and after a time, she would have no need of it. One wrong prediction and you're out, it seems. But, alas, we know that Ajax will die.
And is this play really about the death of Ajax? Or is it about something else? Odysseus, marked for death by Ajax before Athena's spell, is his arch enemy, the possessor of the coveted weapon of Achilles. It is Odysseus that prevents Agamemnon from following protocol and meting out proper posthumous punishment upon Ajax (tossing him out to become carrion for the birds as a symbol of the animals Ajax slaughtered). Odysseus argues for his proper burial and for the restoration of his reputation as a valiant warrior for the state. Some today would say that it was a wise political move. He is defending a man who denounced the need for intervention of the gods, preferring instead to serve himself instead. Blasphemy? Perhaps fearlessness instead. As we are told, "There is no law in a city where there is no fear, no order in any camp that is not fenced about with discipline and respect." It is implied that these orders, this means of governing, comes from the gods, and only a fool defies the gods. I'm not advocating force (not at all) as a means of expressing ones individuality, but anything counter to the state, even passive resistance, seems to be a crime not only against government but against the gods. Perhaps Ajax found his own god deep within himself.
I have many more thoughts, but I feel a re-reading is in order before those thoughts are expressed. Good play. Shake-my-head-in-wonder play.
Till later...
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Many Thoughts
Entry #3
Work: Philoctetes
I've become accustomed to literature classes filled with students hoping only to fulfill a humanities requirement. The class (as predicted by another student) was a little smaller the second day, but of those present, most contributed to the discussion.
Several comments caused me to drop back and think about Philoctetes a little differently. One student said that she felt that Philoctetes possessed admirable qualities, one being his willingness to accept Neoptolemus's friendship, to forgive with little hesitation yet another betrayal perpetrated against him. She also said she felt he had a good attitude considering the length of his exile.
In a peripherally related comment, she answered in the affirmative when Professor McCarthy asked the question: "Is a small evil justified in light of the greater good?" That surprised me, as I know this student to be very religious. I replied with the words of Joseph Campbell that "every action is evil to someone." The greater good is often times a relative and possibly political judgement.
Backing up and falling back on some backyard psychology, if a person were isolated from humanity for as long as Philoctetes, any kind of human contact might be met with a desire to endear it to oneself. Also, Philoctetes was still burning with his long-felt resentment. Once the betrayal of Neoptolemus was revealed (by his own volition), Philoctetes reassessed his view of N., lumped him together with the "do whatever it takes" Odysseus, and retreated to his cave to pout. Well, perhaps pout is too flippant a word.
But along the way...it occurred to me that Philoctetes could have no faith in the sincerity of N, could not abandon his resentment towards Odysseus and sacrifice for the "greater good," and not until a divine intervention could Philoctetes see that his resentment stood in the way of a purpose higher than his own personal feelings. His belief and faith in a power greater than himself may not have replaced his resentment without the deus ex machina--Heracles's appearance.
It raises the question: If we cannot see the manifestation of divinity, are we doomed to the lower human instincts?
Till later...
Work: Philoctetes
I've become accustomed to literature classes filled with students hoping only to fulfill a humanities requirement. The class (as predicted by another student) was a little smaller the second day, but of those present, most contributed to the discussion.
Several comments caused me to drop back and think about Philoctetes a little differently. One student said that she felt that Philoctetes possessed admirable qualities, one being his willingness to accept Neoptolemus's friendship, to forgive with little hesitation yet another betrayal perpetrated against him. She also said she felt he had a good attitude considering the length of his exile.
In a peripherally related comment, she answered in the affirmative when Professor McCarthy asked the question: "Is a small evil justified in light of the greater good?" That surprised me, as I know this student to be very religious. I replied with the words of Joseph Campbell that "every action is evil to someone." The greater good is often times a relative and possibly political judgement.
Backing up and falling back on some backyard psychology, if a person were isolated from humanity for as long as Philoctetes, any kind of human contact might be met with a desire to endear it to oneself. Also, Philoctetes was still burning with his long-felt resentment. Once the betrayal of Neoptolemus was revealed (by his own volition), Philoctetes reassessed his view of N., lumped him together with the "do whatever it takes" Odysseus, and retreated to his cave to pout. Well, perhaps pout is too flippant a word.
But along the way...it occurred to me that Philoctetes could have no faith in the sincerity of N, could not abandon his resentment towards Odysseus and sacrifice for the "greater good," and not until a divine intervention could Philoctetes see that his resentment stood in the way of a purpose higher than his own personal feelings. His belief and faith in a power greater than himself may not have replaced his resentment without the deus ex machina--Heracles's appearance.
It raises the question: If we cannot see the manifestation of divinity, are we doomed to the lower human instincts?
Till later...
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Upon finishing the play,
Entry #2
Philoctetes, I couldn't help but relate it to the toxic nature of resentment and the process of amends-making.
Philoctetes is alone ten years on an island, having been wronged by a friend, and his resentment is strong enough that he would rather die and rot, becoming food for the birds he brought down with his magic bow and arrows (now having been relieved of both in another deception) rather than forgive or even think about his own survival.
In order to be sober, I must not let the poison of resentment lead me back to drink. In order to live, I must forgive.
Another character, Neoptolemus, younger and not tainted (we suppose) by the betrayal that Philoctetes has suffered, demonstrates amends in action. He cannot in good conscience perpetuate another betrayal.
It takes the intervention of a god, Heracles, to set Philoctetes back on the path of purpose.
Till later....
Philoctetes, I couldn't help but relate it to the toxic nature of resentment and the process of amends-making.
Philoctetes is alone ten years on an island, having been wronged by a friend, and his resentment is strong enough that he would rather die and rot, becoming food for the birds he brought down with his magic bow and arrows (now having been relieved of both in another deception) rather than forgive or even think about his own survival.
In order to be sober, I must not let the poison of resentment lead me back to drink. In order to live, I must forgive.
Another character, Neoptolemus, younger and not tainted (we suppose) by the betrayal that Philoctetes has suffered, demonstrates amends in action. He cannot in good conscience perpetuate another betrayal.
It takes the intervention of a god, Heracles, to set Philoctetes back on the path of purpose.
Till later....
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
First Day
Entry #1
Introduction
My first day of "Religion in Literature" -- COMLIT 141.
The reading list interested me (albeit a little intimidating -- as Professor McCarthy explained, I knew I would have to "read" in a different way). It is as follows:
Bacchae, Euripedes, and The Frogs, Aristophanes
Electra and Other Plays, Sophocles
Japanese No Dramas, ed. and transl. Royall Tyler
The River Between, Ngugi Wa Thiong'o
Collected Plays 1, Wole Soyinka
Sunset Limited, Cormac McCarthy
You've Got to Read This, ed. Ron Hansen and Jim Shepard
Holy Bible (with the notation: You don't have to buy this. Bring it from home or borrow from a library)
Interesting, yes. Intimidating, as anything written in a year succeeded by the initials B.C. has always been for me. I remember reading The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer in high school. We read it in the original Middle English, and though once into the rhythm of it, it was a hoot, finding that rhythm was near excruciating.
So, today was the first day of class, an introduction of sorts. As Professor McCarthy took roll, he asked each of us to tell him something about ourselves to help him remember us. One student said he was called "Crazy" because of his unruly hair. I didn't think his hair was all that crazy, but, hey, if he's fond of his sobriquet, good for him. There was a lover of Beat poetry, a New Jersey transplant, and I think I said something about liking nice canes (walking sticks) and that I have four teenagers and still possess a degree of sanity. I considered saying, "I can get away with wearing Harvard t-shirts on this campus because my oldest son is a first-year student there," but I didn't want to sound a) like a braggart or b) defined by my children's accomplishments. Maintaining sanity while raising four teenagers is, in my opinion, a strong statement about my mental fortitude.
Another young man made a statement that stiffened my spine. He said that the most remarkable thing about him was that he was in recovery for heroin addiction. I didn't quite catch if he used the word "recovered" heroin addict or "recovering" heroin addict, but I understood quite clearly that he was early on--in the first year or two, if that. How did I know? Because it's still a badge of pride. It's still defining. And it's a dangerous place to be. I had to make those decisions my first semester. Sometime in the second, I broke my anonymity with several people, and by now, it's common knowledge with anyone on campus who knows me, but I wanted...well, I wanted very badly to flag that young man down after class, tell him to guard his anonymity and prove himself as a student before he lodged in the minds of everyone he encountered that what made him him was his past. Granted, it can be used for much good...so very much good...but people have to see he's made of something more than used hypodermic needles and glazed-over eyes.
While I was having coffee this morning, I began reading Sunset Limited, the book by Cormac McCarthy, Professor McCarthy's brother. It is a "novel in dramatic form" (I believe that's what the front cover says. It's not right here beside me.). I read about a third, almost half of it while I had my coffee this morning. Two characters, one black, one white in the black man's apartment after he has rescued the white man from committing suicide by throwing himself in the path of a train (the Sunset Limited). The black man is religious; the white man, an atheist. The white man's "purpose" or "meaning," he says, is culture, and culture has disappeared for him; therefore, there is no reason left to live. Professor McCarthy mentioned today in class that literature is very often the result of religious expression. I think it is nearly always the result of spiritual expression. Religion, I believe, is merely the way in which those things most elusive, most resistant to capture by the written word, must be expressed. And in that way, I saw the white man as deluding himself. No one who appreciates culture can truly be atheist. If they believe in the aesthetic, they believe in a god. That god is not required to have a face.
Back to the class:
I paid particular attention to Professor McCarthy, his gestures and his demeanor. He's very soft-spoken, upbeat, and seems to have a rumbling passion for his subject hiding just below the surface. College courses, English especially, facinate me, not only because of the subject matter, the authors and times covered, but the ones who teach: why they teach, what drew them to their subject, the relationship they have with their subject, as well as their teaching philosophy (which can never remain hidden very long in the classroom). More on this later, I'm sure.
The only thing that makes me nervous so far in this class is the 50% of the grade comprised of exam scores. I would much rather write papers!
Till later...
Introduction
My first day of "Religion in Literature" -- COMLIT 141.
The reading list interested me (albeit a little intimidating -- as Professor McCarthy explained, I knew I would have to "read" in a different way). It is as follows:
Bacchae, Euripedes, and The Frogs, Aristophanes
Electra and Other Plays, Sophocles
Japanese No Dramas, ed. and transl. Royall Tyler
The River Between, Ngugi Wa Thiong'o
Collected Plays 1, Wole Soyinka
Sunset Limited, Cormac McCarthy
You've Got to Read This, ed. Ron Hansen and Jim Shepard
Holy Bible (with the notation: You don't have to buy this. Bring it from home or borrow from a library)
Interesting, yes. Intimidating, as anything written in a year succeeded by the initials B.C. has always been for me. I remember reading The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer in high school. We read it in the original Middle English, and though once into the rhythm of it, it was a hoot, finding that rhythm was near excruciating.
So, today was the first day of class, an introduction of sorts. As Professor McCarthy took roll, he asked each of us to tell him something about ourselves to help him remember us. One student said he was called "Crazy" because of his unruly hair. I didn't think his hair was all that crazy, but, hey, if he's fond of his sobriquet, good for him. There was a lover of Beat poetry, a New Jersey transplant, and I think I said something about liking nice canes (walking sticks) and that I have four teenagers and still possess a degree of sanity. I considered saying, "I can get away with wearing Harvard t-shirts on this campus because my oldest son is a first-year student there," but I didn't want to sound a) like a braggart or b) defined by my children's accomplishments. Maintaining sanity while raising four teenagers is, in my opinion, a strong statement about my mental fortitude.
Another young man made a statement that stiffened my spine. He said that the most remarkable thing about him was that he was in recovery for heroin addiction. I didn't quite catch if he used the word "recovered" heroin addict or "recovering" heroin addict, but I understood quite clearly that he was early on--in the first year or two, if that. How did I know? Because it's still a badge of pride. It's still defining. And it's a dangerous place to be. I had to make those decisions my first semester. Sometime in the second, I broke my anonymity with several people, and by now, it's common knowledge with anyone on campus who knows me, but I wanted...well, I wanted very badly to flag that young man down after class, tell him to guard his anonymity and prove himself as a student before he lodged in the minds of everyone he encountered that what made him him was his past. Granted, it can be used for much good...so very much good...but people have to see he's made of something more than used hypodermic needles and glazed-over eyes.
While I was having coffee this morning, I began reading Sunset Limited, the book by Cormac McCarthy, Professor McCarthy's brother. It is a "novel in dramatic form" (I believe that's what the front cover says. It's not right here beside me.). I read about a third, almost half of it while I had my coffee this morning. Two characters, one black, one white in the black man's apartment after he has rescued the white man from committing suicide by throwing himself in the path of a train (the Sunset Limited). The black man is religious; the white man, an atheist. The white man's "purpose" or "meaning," he says, is culture, and culture has disappeared for him; therefore, there is no reason left to live. Professor McCarthy mentioned today in class that literature is very often the result of religious expression. I think it is nearly always the result of spiritual expression. Religion, I believe, is merely the way in which those things most elusive, most resistant to capture by the written word, must be expressed. And in that way, I saw the white man as deluding himself. No one who appreciates culture can truly be atheist. If they believe in the aesthetic, they believe in a god. That god is not required to have a face.
Back to the class:
I paid particular attention to Professor McCarthy, his gestures and his demeanor. He's very soft-spoken, upbeat, and seems to have a rumbling passion for his subject hiding just below the surface. College courses, English especially, facinate me, not only because of the subject matter, the authors and times covered, but the ones who teach: why they teach, what drew them to their subject, the relationship they have with their subject, as well as their teaching philosophy (which can never remain hidden very long in the classroom). More on this later, I'm sure.
The only thing that makes me nervous so far in this class is the 50% of the grade comprised of exam scores. I would much rather write papers!
Till later...
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