Sunday, October 27, 2013

Happy Fall, I Guess...

Reapers, by Jean Toomer (1894-1967)

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.

The poem is talking about farming, right? About harvesting, gettin' that corn out of the fields and onto the dinner table, gathering those last bits of gold before the sun sets in the distance.

Oh, who am I kidding.

There is something creepy, dark, and sinister about this poem; everything from the way the words roll off the tongue to the choice of phrasing used to describe what should be a harmless day out on the mower points to something more than just happily ending the season's harvest with food aplenty.  There are two different scenarios that play out here, side-by-side. The obvious one is the one we mentally see in our heads--farming. Getting those horses out to the long corn fields, mowing them stalks down before any more cold weather spoils the vegetables. But what we feel--that is doubly more interesting, not to mention haunting. I feel an ominous presence, almost lurking feeling on the horizon, of something reaping instead of mowing, I smell blood, my skin breaks out in goosebumps as the darkness curls around my arms--honestly, the poem falls more under this latter description. It seems to me that there's a more powerful presence reaping here, and corn should be the last thing on our minds when we hear about this reaper prowling around, eager to find its real prize.

I'd first like to point out the genius in the first line itself--of "Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones". If there were any way to vocally describe the opening of a horror movie, this line would be the best fit. The first image that pops up is, of course, the infamous Grim Reaper cloaked in black with scabby fingers and a scythe at hand (looks scarily like a dementor from the Harry Potter series--but then again, isn't that where J.K. Rowling got the original idea?). What you hear in your imagination is a horrific dissonance of noise, a cacophony of high-pitched screeching from the "steel on stones" that makes you forget about the popcorn and be aware of controlling your stomach for the next scene to come. As the second line personifies the mowing machine, you're left uneasy--is the poem really talking about a machine? I've never heard of one with hip-pockets before. They can sharpen their own scythes? That's lovely...then, one by one, as if an army of black death is marching, cutting down any obstacles in the way, the hooded figures swing their scythes in your general direction. And when you're close enough to see each individual blade of the entity, blood-stained from the creatures whose lives its taken, you realize that there are no obstacles left, no more shade to hide in, and that you are the next weed that it's ready to cut.

Ok, that's about as far as I can go with that spooky stuff. This is a great piece of scary literature, but what meaning is there besides trying to make you pee your pants during a Lit class? Some background inference would be helpful here. Days of harvest, of collecting food and grain, can be linked to death from another perspective: the seasons. And what we're talking about here specifically is Autumn. It only makes sense that all harvest must be collected to be consumed, but a key word choice changes this assumed meaning completely: the use of reap instead of mow. According to the dictionary, reap implies gathering or taking a crop or harvest, while mow is simply the act of cutting down crops with a scythe or machine. You can mow crop, sure, but you can't mow a person--this is where reap comes into play. The use of reap suggests that Autumn not only is the time for man to collect his harvest, but for Nature to collect hers as well--harvest of human lives, mind you. Personifying the reaper to be more like the dark-hooded figure we know today (sharpening scythes, fashionable Grim Reaper hip-pockets) in our culture includes the fall of human life as the season runs its course. Thus, Death's influential hand stretches out into our own 'field,' "cutting weeds and shade" so that no human has any other place to hide from Death. No single person will be treated differently from the rest under the wrath of nature and time, in the way that no farmer would let a mature crop go to waste by letting it be.

Does that mean that we're all destined to die in the Autumn? Obviously, no, or else I wouldn't have to turn in a blog post. But there's a definite change in the air, a change in the environment around us, that the supernatural, ubiquitous 'Reaper' shapes for us in this chilling season. We don't have to hope for imminent death in the near and coming months, but we are all susceptible to the colder winds, the drier air, and the dying greenery that surrounds us. Think of it as a friendly reality check that time stops for no one, and this under-rated season reminds us that death is necessary in the cycle of life, whether you imagine a Grim Reaper single-handedly sucking the life out of every flower and ray of sunshine, or only absent-mindedly realize that you had to wear a jacket today.

Don't be the lame neighbor that gives out apples and bananas this Thursday; go out there and buy some candy or else you'll be finding a rather angry reaper/mower knocking on your front door. Unless, that is, you're a dentist; in that case many kids already think you're some sort of Hell-spawn destined to make their lives a pain in the tooth (ha ha). Happy Halloween!



Sunday, October 20, 2013

All the World's a TV Show/ And all the Characters in Grendel Merely Actors

     I love the idea of Grendel; really, I do. Besides the fact that Grendel is actually a very amusing character to listen to, the themes of the book delightfully shake your beliefs and challenge your morals in a way that makes your head hurt (and I mean that in the best way possible, if that's possible). His rants about life go a lot deeper than any teenager's loathing, yet it carries a meaning and questioning that all human beings--teens, adults, my parents--have in their mind, but don't quite have the words to explain. One of them particularly interested me: the idea of truth. We had an interesting and mind-bending conversation regarding Grendel and Plato's allegory of "The Cave" and the possible implications between the two. Grendel is so relatable because of the questions he asks, the philosophies he ponders. What is truth? Is it in the eye of the beholder? Where can we find absolute truth? And even then, does truth carry a meaning if there's no one around to interpret it? At which point, the truth isn't absolute anymore, but just another interpretation?

     I'm really tempted, every day in class, to slouch back in my chair and declare "I don't know, please don't ask again." But there's no fun in that, and I can't help but think about my own beliefs and how they match up with Grendel's. Throughout the book, Grendel contrasts the human version of truth against his own, and they definitely don't match up; the funny thing is, though, they're both essentially 'true.' This is the struggle that Grendel deals with. He seems to know his own version of life and death, all a pointless act that we live through aimlessly and hopelessly until the day we die--that existentialism exists, and nothing else. His solipsist view on life is true for him, and it is at its core true for everyone; we're born here, we do stuff, and then we die somewhere else. That's how life works.
   
     On the other side of the coin, the human beings that inhabit the 'real world' above Grendel's cave attribute all wins, losses, and natural signs as an act of God or other intangible force, a message that is passed down, telling people what to do in order to get to heaven (or hell). Religion, a spiritual existence, is what human beings strongly believe in and live their life by, and it's sure more comforting and stable than Grendel's daily rants of helplessness and wanting to jump off every cliff he passes by. For a majority of people, religion is their truth, and who can deny that? It's an anchor and a solace, and if it works then power to them. But Grendel knows this not to be true. For one reason or another, he knows that religion does not exist, and these people are just living in lunacy. He was born in 'hell', for lack of a better term, and for this reason I believe in this statement that Grendel does seem to know more than human beings do. He is part of the religious background, but isn't affiliated with it, and that's significant.

     What's most interesting about Grendel, however, is how willing he is to ditch his existentialist self and cross over to the more spiritual one, the human truth, regardless of its consequences. For example, upon hearing the Shaper's poem about how heroic man was for 'beating' Grendel, Grendel states,

"I knew very well that all he said was ridiculous, not light for their darkness but flattery, illusion, a    vortex. [...] Yet I was swept up. [...] My heart was light with Hrothgar's goodness, and leaden with grief at my own bloodthirsty ways" (48).

Despite what really happened--Hrothgar's posse burned inferior halls to the ground, "hacked down trees in widening rings [...] till the forest looked like an old dog dying of mange" (40)--Grendel wants with all his heart to believe that these people are doing good in the world, even though they aren't (at an existential standpoint). He wants to fall into the notion that man supersedes all, is good to all, and is willing to sacrifice for his own kind (in reality, Hrothgar wants to eliminate competition in his land and expand his kingly hand). Grendel battles with himself, especially in the fourth chapter, about the contrast between what humans say and what they actually do. They say they glorified their men in epic battles to protect their homeland; but weren't they just murdering anybody who got too powerful? And when Grendel bursts into Heorot, pleading mercy and peace, the men hacked at him with poisonous blades and he had to retreat in an effort to save themselves from a monster; but all Grendel was trying to do was express his guilt and admiration for the human spirit.

     And this is where I strongly believe that reading Grendel is like watching a TV show--and you're Grendel. TV dramas make such obvious plots, scenarios, for the watcher to fall into, be it romantic choices, conquering lands, singing your heart out to win the Glee cup. You already know how everything will end; the girl will get her heart broken, the king will lose his crown for being too greedy, the kids will lose because they had a shaky year and didn't practice hard enough. But you grind your teeth, you sit down in that sofa and believe as hard as you can that the opposite will happen. You are willing to disprove what you have believed will happen since you watched that first episode that none of it is true. And three months later, when the season ends, you're let down. See the parallel here?

     Grendel fights with himself, to try and believe two completely different philosophies. He wants the cut-and-dry good versus evil that man puts their hearts into, but he can't. There are too many contradictions in human nature for this to be possible for a non-human creature to believe in. "It was a cold-blooded lie that a god had lovingly made the world, [...] that one of the races was saved, the other cursed" (55). Every time Grendel gives mankind a chance to walk the walk, to act upon what the Shaper proclaims that mankind is, it is shut down by violence, cruelty, and unfairness, and reality. Is this not the definition of a monster, a definition that Grendel was supposed to fill, not mankind?

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Vicious Circle

     "The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock" is, number one, not a love story. Number two, it is not heart-warming. His language and diction may be eloquent, his imagery may be beautiful, but if this poem doesn't leave you in a jumble of nasty, afflicted emotions after an intense close reading, then get out of my face (not really...just read it again, please). Is it ironic that all these depressing truths about the meaning of true love and how impossible it is to attain is learned in senior year, almost as an intro-to-real-life class? I'm not sure...that might just be me being pessimistic. Unless it's actually true, then hooray, I guess?

     But that's the thing with this poem, and even with Winesburg, Ohio, that always bugs me: all this guessing, the lack of concrete feelings, the unsureness, the "I guess"-ness of it all. No one really knows what they're really talking about; all you can get out of these two pieces of work is its emotional baggage that the characters perpetually carry, and this emotional baggage is what ties Winesburg, Ohio with "The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock" so well. Whoever it is that's speaking in both works talks about an inevitable loneliness and lack of communication that is tied into love. As we age, love seems to dissipate into nothingness and we have no one left except, well, us. Love looks like an impossible ideal that no one can reach because of our human incapability to describe our feelings and communicate this in a way that the other party, be it a loved one or a stranger, can understand. Is this all due to fear? Maybe...but fear of what? A misunderstanding, of exposure, of dependence to this other person who may know all your secrets and desires if you over-communicate? Who knows? (I sure don't.)

     Take the first stanza of Eliot's poem, for example. He is describing a journey that "you and I" are about to partake (with "you" referring to whoever you want it to be--a lover, a friend, maybe even you, the reader). In a type of dream-like state, the speaker describes these uncomfortable places that we can go: "half-deserted streets" (Eliot, line 4), "one-night cheap hotels" (Eliot, line 6), "sawdust restaurants" (Eliot, line 7). I don't know about you, but this sounds like a foolproof plan to ruin date-night. But the real connection here is in its last three lines, where the speaker states "Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"/ Let us go and make our visit" (Eliot, lines 11-12). Immediately, the image I see is this boy and girl staring down a long road, with the buildings stretched out to the point of the road far in the distance, on the horizon line. What blew me away was when we went to class the next day for the rotating poster activity, and at least 3 people drew the same picture. Why? Why do many of us imagine this same picture?
   
     It's the uncertainty of life that pops up in many of our minds as we read this first stanza that is also evident in Winesburg, Ohio when George is trying to overcome childhood and graduate into the lovely new world of adulthood. This uncertain attitude could refer to relationships, love, the future...practically everything that you didn't have to worry about when you were still a child. Thus, the vision of the long road gives off that unpredictable, uncharted feeling. The ideal of perfect first dates, lovely strolls in the evening, is ruined by the reality of cheap restaurants and dingy hotels. The speaker of the poem mentions an "overwhelming question" that cannot be asked because no one knows the answer. George is a young boy in Winesburg, Ohio who wants to grow up and make something of himself, but doesn't seem to do so successfully because he doesn't know how. It's like the same story, the same problem, in two different formats--poetry and short stories.

     Secondly, there's this problem with communication that I never seem to understand as a problem in our society (probably because I talk way too much, so I wouldn't be able to empathize with this point). Eliot's poem is peppered with unanswerable questions directed towards himself about this overwhelmingly large question: "Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?" (Eliot, lines 45-46); "And should I then presume?/ And how should I begin?" (Eliot, lines 68-69). All of this questioning yields no answers, sadly enough; all this questioning, only to realize that "It is impossible to say just what I mean!" (Eliot, line 104). Enoch Robinson immediately comes to mind when Prufrock laments about who-knows-what. Both of these characters want to be understood, but in such a specific way and form that they can't communicate it easily. All they're left with in the end is their own, unsolvable questions that never even leaves their lips. ""I'm alone, all alone here," said [Enoch]. "It was warm and friendly in my room but now I'm all alone"" (Anderson, 177). Neither character can take that first step in asking the right question, or saying the right thing, in a way that can be understood and empathized by the people they're surrounded with. They don't want to end up like Wing Biddlebaum, in other words--shunned from society because of his miscommunication with kids. And the fact that a majority of American kids sitting in an AP Lit class thinks he's gay. That's a heavy burden to carry!

     In their fright of miscommunication, the people of Winesburg and the people in Prufrock's poem create their own loneliness. It's a vicious circle; there's no discernible endpoint because no one wants to take that first step, to be outspoken about their identity. We've seen the product of such people who try to communicate their ideas and feelings: Elizabeth Willard, Kate Swift, Wing Biddlebaum, to name a few. These characters' endings are not happy endings, I can tell you that much. In an effort to communicate their ideas and truths, they end up being labeled as loose women (sorry, Elizabeth), hard-headed and strict (yes Kate, you), or gay (it's not your fault, Wing). The complete opposite side of the spectrum is Prufrock, this man who stays silent for too long and ends up stagnating. In time, he grows old and realizes his silence contributed to his demise, but it's far too late to change, he's too old. Either action leads to loneliness, and it seems that we've only got two ways to go about this: die alone with a preconceived notion from society about who you are, or die alone with no one actually knowing who you are, or what impact you've made on life.

     I can't decide yet. I'm way too young to make this type of decision; I'd rather believe that communication and understanding is possible in this world, not an impossible ideal to strive for. But doesn't that make me sound a lot like George in his naivety? Probably. 'Vicious circle', remember?