In June of this past year, Dr. William (Bill) McCarthy passed away after a long bout with cancer.
Less than a month before, he sent me an e-mail to congratulate me on graduation and the success I'd had at Penn State, as well as that which he was sure awaited me at the University of Pittsburgh.
I miss you, Dr. McCarthy, and I'm grateful for the time we had together.
(...)
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Friday, November 16, 2007
A Brief Update
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
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
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...
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