Another Wake

I was internet surfing and came across this song by, Flogging Molly called, "May the living be dead (In our wake)." It made me happy, because the band is Irishy, and I understood the reference.
: )

Real Love Abides- thoughts on a review

Sept. 1956, William Barrett wrote a review of the Three Novels by Beckett, called "Real Love Abides." I like how this guy describes reading Beckett as having "to take him in short gulps, coming back again and again." This guy wasn't impressed by Beckett's writing at first, but it sounds like he read it twice. The first time, he read as if it were a "normal" novel, and the second, in gulps, in gasps, it would seem to me. Barrett describes him as a wounded bird, who tries to give it all out before he dies. He calls him an artist, who takes the paint from the canvas, but keeps the increasingly white surface exciting. It makes me think of those last moments, we talked about. Like the woman in the Inner Light or Socrates. You know in movies, when dying characters noisily grasp for breath, all raspy and rattling? I'm starting to think that they might not be trying to rake in more moments or more life, but instead, they're trying to get rid of something while they still can. I could be wrong, but there's kind of a beauty in it. It's like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, when they guy chooses to release all his emotions, instead of retreating to his mind and holding everything in. I guess, by that time, you'd have everything to lose and nothing to gain, or everything to gain by losing everything. I don't know.

Child's Play

In high school, my class read portions of "Waiting for Godot" and I can't say I remember much about it, except we all knew the characters were waiting for God and we all knew God wasn't going to show up. My dad was really excited when he heard my class read bits of it, especially the clown/servant speech. He thought the whole thing was fascinating. When a movie version came out (I have no idea what the year was), my dad took my mom to see it or rented it or something, I think for a date night. He told me it was so fantastic, and my mom told me she wanted to die. She said it felt like four hours watching two guys by a dead tree. I looked at the Beckett site and found this guinea pig production of the play. http://www.musearts.com/cartoons/pigs/godot.html I liked it; I just totally got what was supposed to be said and when the guy and the servant walks across, I laughed, because I remembered that part. The whole thing was about three minutes. My roommate walked out after about ten, maybe fifteen seconds. I kind of prefer the guinea pig version to the actual play, but I'm glad I know enough about the play to understand why three minutes of silent blinking guinea pigs are funny.
Anyway, I was thinking about the five moments where you can tell Beckett is creating fiction, and while reading Molloy, I finally realized that the whole thing was creating fiction. I know we talked about it, but I kept reading, "I think, I don't think. . ." It was this or that.. . the way he talked about the setting and the people reminded me of children playing with doll houses or playing pretend. "A little dog followed him, a pomeraian I think, but I don't think so." When little kids tell you stories, don't they say this? I was at a preschool over winter break, and I was having a conversation with a little girl with pretend telephones. At some point, she was having a conversation with the phone (I'd say she was pretending, but she was really having a conversation, listening and responding). When she was done, I asked her who she talked to. "Oh, my mom." She sighed. "Oh yeah?" "Yeah, she wants to . . . (sometimes three year olds are hard to understand, but I think she said something to the effect of her mom wanting a new carpet or traveling??) "Really?" I asked. "No."
These kids made up all sorts of stories, and when I asked them to clarify or if I said, "Really?" they would either say, "No-" With that look on their face that told me I was stupid or they would say, "Oh yeah!" And they would make a bunch of elaborate details before getting sidetracked and coming up with a new story. I was just struck by Beckett in Molloy, and how much he reminded me of those kids. He comes up with little side stories or characters, and he seems to get close to them, but then he dismisses them so easily. He seems to explore the imagination and the art of writing, in a cynical little kid kind of way, and I think it's intriguing. I think everyone does it at some point. It makes life interesting. And that brings me to Haroun too, (and I was really excited when I found this spot) because he says, "I've disbelieved only too much in my long life, now I swallow everything, greedily. What I need now is stories, it took me a long time to know that, and I'm not sure of it." "What is the use of stories?" Also in Pullman's Amber Spyglass. "Tell them stories. . . " I'll end with the story. My best friend and I liked to make up stuff, I guess you might call them lies, but they were so ridiculous, I didn't see why people should believe them (and I actually now prefer stories that are true, but don't seem like it, i.e. my friend Mark, who is a story). Anyway, my best friend and I usually got a ride from my other friend and her dad. My little sister got a ride with us too. One day, she got a ride from my mom, because she had some project due and had poster boards and whatnot. Later on in the afternoon, my friend asked me where my sister was that morning- she just noticed or remembered that she wasn't there. I told her she had an Anne Frank project. Christy- my friend- asked why that should matter. I said, because my sister really wanted to get to know the character of Anne. She was going to walk to school, because that's what they did back in the day, but then a family friend said, why let her walk when she can ride in a horse and carriage like everyone did in the early 1900s. ("Really?" Christy said- that's so cool. . they still rode in carriages?) Well, it was more like an open wagon, but she still got the feeling for it. The bumpy seat and the fresh smell of horse poo. She totally felt like Anne. And my other friend, who was listening said, "Wait a minute- wasn't that like WWII era?" I would think they'd have bikes or automobiles or something." I said probably. I didn't know that Anne Frank ever rode around in a horse drawn wagon. She probably didn't. Christy was mad for a second, because she believed me, but then she said she was just too gullible. I agreed, but I had a good time. The end.

A Call for Child Protective Services

First Impressions on Beckett: Does anyone else feel like the main character in Molloy shouldn't be allowed to have custody of that kid? Take this passage- I think it says it all. "And then I forgot that my son would be at my side, restless, plaintive, whining for food, whining for sleep, dirtying his drawers. I opened the drawer of my night-table and took out a full tube of morphine tablets, my favorite sedative." What??? I can't tell if the pills are meant to keep the kid silent, or keep the guy less annoyed or both. Regardless of the purpose, this isn't very good. From what I've read so far, this guy belongs in a mental institution. He projects feelings onto the people around him, mainly his son, and it makes me think the guy is really insecure, has control issues and is paranoid. The way he talks about what others must be thinking, reminds me of something I've heard or seen or something, where a person projects his thoughts, fears and suspicions onto people, animals or inanimate objects. A "that goldfish is judging me" kind of a feeling. I guess we all have those moments, but I like to think we don't let them overwhelm us to the point where we have to totally dominate that thing, until it snaps- if it's alive, I mean. I think at some point in the story, the little boy looks at his father with animosity, because the dad takes his prized knife. The guy says the little boy is probably wishing he could slash the guy's throat out with the knife he was surrendering, but he's not big enough. The guy says, "patience, child, patience." This is a serial killer in the making. I'm not quite far enough to tell if the guy himself is a hired killer, but I'm getting the vibe.
I've laughed quite a few times- i.e the morphine passage and the rope one: "I toyed briefly with the idea of attaching him to me by means of a long rope, its two ends tied about our waists. There are various ways of attracting attention and I was not sure that this was one of the good ones."- and then some passages are really deep and thoughtful, but even though I laugh and feel awed by the profound nature of some of the words, my mind is stuck on the little boy and how bad I feel for him. I guess "I laugh to keep from weeping." Maybe.

The things I see

I haven't done a list, an inventory, yet, and I thought now would be a good time. I just read Shelby's blog about her list, and I get her point and agree with her. Although the reason I haven't done a list yet isn't because I don't think anyone will read it. . . I just don't have the patience to get it done. I'm kind of a Haroun with an 11 minute attention span. Except with the list, I only get to item number one before I lose interest. Reading and memorizing lists aren't bad at all; I just can't stand to write one. So, I'll sit here and quickly tell you what's in front of me, quick like a bandaid.

Monkey pen- it jumps when I write, perfume, elephant from Africa- it's really from Africa, Naproxen, glasses, nail clippers, Scrabble calender, lint roller, book, movie- 27 Dresses, CD's- it says Disc 2, Phantom of the Opera 2004 movie Gerard Butler, glue stick, combs, bracelet, peanuts, stapler, school schedule, cartoon strips- funnies? the pearls before swine strips, two of them, pictures of my dad, kelleen, eva, clare and her dog, Adrianna, Me, Joe, Gabby, Phil, Grandma, Cody, Sam, Mom, Dad again, Gabby again, Sean, her husband, German phrases book, my brothers address, battery recharger, picture of something, my sister gave it to me, a dance poster, post its all around me, on my door, wall, next to my head full of German words from last semester that I was trying to learn and are now all over the walls in my room and also the bathroom, box top envelope- I collect, and that's all I can think of or stand, neosporin, right now. The end.

The Inner Light- Put your shoes away

I heard about Socrates last words tonight, and it reminded me of the Star Trek episode, when Patrick Stewart's wife died. I don't exactly remember the final words, she, (I think her name was Eline?) made, but I think it was something to the effect of putting shoes away. I thought it was cheesy and funny, but now I wonder why. I know it was kind of an inside joke, but it must have had (and it did have) meaning for them. But if it had so much meaning,- she picked these as her dying words- I wonder why I laughed. If I had a chance to give my last dying words, I think it would be cool to say something profound. Knowing me, though, I'm sure it'll just be something silly.
I opened with dying thoughts to begin talking about T.S. Eliot and the Inner Light. "In my beginning is my end." It has taken me awhile to get through the Four Quartets, because I get stuck in Burnt Norton and go nowhere. I can tell I've read it a lot, because I recognize it, but I'm constantly forgetting it. Maybe it's Phil's way of telling me to relive the poem each day for thousands of days until it becomes second nature. East Coker, which I just read, reminded me strongly of the Inner Light, reincarnation/ Eternal Return, Dolce Domum, everything. This passage, though, is very Inner Light, I think.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not
The Trek guy- Stewart's character, Kamin? He was living two lives. He became a different man living in that doomed planet, because he was living a stranger's life; but really, the stranger was actually him, just a different version. This passage:
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
If you are familiar with a Jet Li movie called, "The One," you'll remember that every person has multiple sets of themselves living simultaneously in different dimensions. They're all the same person, but they're not aware of the others' existence (except for one of Jet Li's characters, because he tries to kill all the others). I was starting to think reincarnation could just be dying or fading from one consciousness to another. Like Kamin, who faded mentally from the Enterprise and lived a lifetime elsewhere, so he could return to his ship and his other life. I know that's not really right, but it made me wonder if we do slip into a different reality sometimes, and that reality seems like a strange life, but it's one we actually know and would learn to love if we stayed long enough. But we're only meant to get a glimpse every now and then. Like dreams.

For Low Brow readers. . . .

I found this at a site called, "Book-a-Minute." Sometimes, just for fun, I look up books that I'm reading to see what they would be like ultra condensed. Some of my favorites include the entire Nancy Drew collection, the collected works of e.e. Cummings, Othello and the Lord of the Rings. Anyway, this is what they have to say about FW.

Finnegans Wake
By James Joyce
Ultra-Condensed by Edward Ledebur and Samuel Stoddard


James Joyce

I have created my own language to tell the cyclical history of humanity.

Reader #1

Brilliance!

Reader #2

(dies)



THE END

Memory Palace- lists

In class, we've talked about how we can memorize words by pairing it with a place we know really well. I read Brianna's blog about memorizing her passage from FW and I remembered a book I read last year called "The Madonnas of Leningrad." It goes back and forth through time, but the idea is that she is losing her short-term memory while living (or re-living) her experiences during WWII. She worked in a museum in Russia, but she and the other workers took the paintings down and sent them somewhere for safekeeping. To help herself cope with the hardships of the war, she remembers where all the paintings were in the museum (she was a tour guide for the paintings). She not only remembers where they all were in the museum, but she also remembers the stories behind them. She has a whole building of paintings in her head that she takes with her forever.
I think the idea is neat; and I like to attribute memories to things I have in my room- like I keep silly things, because they remind me of some point in my lifetime, but when it comes to remembering passages or lists, I rely on either drilling repetition or I make it into a song or it actually doesn't have to be a song, it just has to have a rhythm. I could tell you the phone numbers of my friends in elementary school, because we made them into songs. I know all the counties in Idaho, all 44, because we had to sing them in 4th grade to the tune, 1 little, 2 little Indians or whatever. The United States song- Fifty-Nifty, names all the states in alphabetical order. I know the verbs of being. These are the lists I remember from elementary school, and they really don't mean anything to me (except the Idaho counties. . . I know where every license plate is from), but I know them anyway. I think my words have a kind of rhythm, but I still don't quite have it down yet. It's just a work in progress.

Emma on the brain- a long day

Falling asleep on the first of February, I dreamed about Jane Austen and her time period. I have been watching the new Masterpiece production of "Emma" with Romola Garai and Johnny Lee Miller. It's a mini series and I've been able to see bits and pieces on YouTube. Every time I see a version of any Jane Austen book, I wish I were there for that time period, just for a day, and watch everyone act so proper, dancing and socializing. And I love the way they talked. It's soft, but there's an intensity in it that I love. I should have been brought up in England. Anyway, I woke up around 6 with merry thoughts and then went back to sleep to dream about it some more. It was like a taste in my mouth, present when I finally did get out of bed, and it lingered with me all day. I only had one class that day, so I read a book for a little while and ate some cereal, Koala Crisp- it's my favorite, and watched some more Emma- my internet can only take so much, it's so slow. I walked down to the bus and listened to some Modest Mouse and some Safe & Easy (my boyfriend's ska band from back home). It reminds me of home and the people we know from our hometown. My sole class was Origins, and it was basically a two hour debate over a theory of everything, if science had limits and where God was. I walked back with my friend, Derek, and we actually talked about Groundhog's Day, and whether or not we thought we might have already lived every day and just didn't remember or if we might have died at the end of each day. It made me think of Jane Austen again, because we were walking and talking. I walk so much more in Bozeman than anywhere else I've been, and it is so pleasant and refreshing sometimes, walking under the Big Sky with lots of fresh air. It's much better than where I am right now, anyway. Someone must have been wearing Axe or something. It smells so bad, it makes my stomach churn.
I bussed home, me and my ipod. I was in a cooking mood, so I baked some french fries- I love potatoes- must be my Idaho upbringing or my family's Irish background- George Foremaned some fish and baked some flourless peanut butter cookies, which were delicious. I just had to make sure I didn't eat too many. It's a fairly dense dessert. Last time I made them, I ate seven and was sick for a day. It was totally worth it though. If I could do it over again, I would've done the same thing, they were so good. It's just because I'm a really good cookie maker. So long as it's peanut butter or chocolate chips. I make the best chocolate chip cookies, because I make them the way my mom does. I don't actually eat those cookies anymore, because I developed a gluten intolerance a few years back, but they make the house smell so good and baking is really soothing, especially when you're frustrated with your to-do list for the day.
I worked on an article for the Exponent, a cultural autobiography, lit readings, journal stuff and felt terrible, because none of them seemed to get finished. My head was going to die by the end of the afternoon, when I abandoned everything to go to the gym. On my way there I bumped into a friend, who is getting married later this spring. I hadn't seen her in awhile, so I was pretty stoked. We talked about classes and her wedding, and the best part of the conversation was her reception plans, because the settings are literary themed. Each table would be a different literary couple from Shakespeare and other classics, with quotes on the table and sticky notes with literary figures. And she mentioned Edward Ferrars and Elinor, and I could have danced, I was so excited. I cannot wait to go to her wedding; it will be awesome.
So Jane Austen and stories were fresh on my mind while I went running. Usually, I try to blank out and think of nothing when I work out, but I couldn't help it, I was so darn excited about my friend's wedding.
I had a meeting for ALD after my workout, so I walked down to the SUB, was supremely tempted by the candy stand in the shop by the bookstore- I picked something up, and thought in my head that eating sweets after running, would probably make me ill and put it back down- and made it to my meeting. We went through applications and financial info, planned for future meetings, and then something kind of cool happened. The president of our club had to write down something he needed to do and pulled out three tiny notebooks. Two notebooks are lists of things he needs to do for different clubs he's in and the third notebook was a list of things he had done, so he could remember them all for resumes or applications. And he keeps them all in his pocket. I wondered if he actually managed to do everything on those lists, or if he made them so the objects wouldn't be on his mind. With our talking about lists and inventories, I just thought it was neat. I talked with him after the meeting (walking and talking) about his lists and the things he did during the day, and I thought that he must do everything on his list, because there isn't a time during the day when he's not doing something. But it sounded so exhausting, to do everything. I'm glad I take breaks and zone out, watching movies or BBC mini-series.
My head was hurting again, I figured food would be good, but after a bowl of cereal- it was a Koala Krispies kind of a day- and some cookies, my headache didn't go away and I was turning into blind grumpiness. Luckily, I figured out I was fighting a migraine and took some drugs, which made me feel super good. My boyfriend and I worked on some homework for awhile, and then we watched some of the Masterpiece Emma, and then he went home. I had some valuable girl talk with my roommate, about Jane Austen books, my friend's wedding, boys and school and then I went to bed with merry, tired thoughts in my head.

Reflections on Skin of Our Teeth

I'm not too clear on some of the FW parts, but I think SOOT has the same element of rambling on and on to create a mood. They talk things out and often times, it doesn't make much sense or it's out of character (Sabine), which fits in, because it also doesn't make sense in a play, but then if you think about it, it kind of does have meaning, because we're human too. At the end of the first scene, they're talking about saving the human race, even though it seems hopeless or a losing battle. They save it with fire, the multiplication table and the Bible. It's not just the physical part they have to save. They want to preserve knowledge and thinking, but they only want to do it when Antrobus feels like it's worth preserving. I guess it isn't that unclear at the end, but how they got there was interesting.
Something else I feel this play does well, is how it waves up and down. Starts low and ends rising, starts high and declines. I don't feel like this book is constantly cycling, I think it's like a flower, up and down the petals, but ultimately coming back to the same place. Hopelessness starts with Sabine, rises with the goal of preserving the human race, High as president to low questioning the sanctity of family, high in starting over, war is over whooshing low family feud, rising again with knowledge, back to the beginning.
Another thing I noticed is Henry. Henry's name might have changed, but his nature doesn't. His reasoning evolves, but he's hot tempered and rebellious. I think he represents the frustration of having to play the same rules over and over again. At some point, one kind of wants to say, "Enough!" Which is what I wanted to say by the end of the play. The inevitability of the waves is hope sucking. It reminds me of that cartoon, Invader Zim and the doom song. It never ends- it's all doom.
So with that, I'll say, "Enough!"