I hope for everybody's sanity's sake that their lives are nowhere near as bad as Hamlet's. He has every bad thing coming after him, and it's not even the end of the second act yet. To outline every problem he has so far:
-His girlfriend, Ophelia, has sworn to her father that she won't see him anymore because her father, Polonius, thinks Hamlet is using her and/or he's a bit creepy.
-His father, King Hamlet, just died.
-He was not given the crown; his uncle Claudius became king.
-His mother remarried to--guess who?--king Claudius.
-He was denied the opportunity to go to school by the king himself.
-He knows his father's killer--it's Claudius.
I think that covers everything…so far. Can you imagine a modernized version of this type of situation? Putting this all in a scenario, you are a 20-something year old man whose girlfriend unexpectedly stopped talking to you a mere month after you lost your father, who had owned a company with some type of inheritance plan. This inheritance plan doesn't include you, but in fact goes to his sketchy uncle who has the hots for your mom. And, despite your former belief that your mom only had her heart set on the man she married (your father), she happily jumps into marriage with this uncle less than a month after your dad dies. But somehow, you manage to get into contact with your father, who reveals that the true killer of his mysterious death is the evil uncle, and he places the sacred duty of vengeance on your small, young shoulders.
This is where I hit a small speed bump.
The use of the ghost is clever on Shakespeare's part in that the audience cannot help but distrust the bad omens the ghost brings. However, it tells Hamlet what seems to be the truth about what really happened prior to his death, and the ghost doesn't appear to be inherently evil; he doesn't come from hell, per se, but rather from Purgatory waiting to be purged of all sins. And yet, I find it hard to believe that Shakespeare himself was superstitious in comparison to the audience he was serving. And I too am pretty skeptical of this apparition. If we were to modernize this portion of the play, how would it be done?
I've had this theory run through my head a couple of times since I've thought about it, and now I can't help but notice how it could fit even in Shakespeare's time. Maybe the ghost doesn't really exist; maybe Hamlet himself is going crazy. It's plausible, at best. His mind is going through an incredible amount of stress, and to top it all of he has no way of releasing this inner tension that's eating off of him. In response, his mind starts projecting and hallucinating to account for this stress, to try and make sense of it (I worked on psychology for way too long today, being snowed-in and all). He imagines his conversation with his dead father's ghost and comes up to his own wild conclusion that his uncle killed his own father to put his own mind at ease. This is why his mother and Claudius want to keep an eye on him, and why everybody (including the sentinels) always seems so polite to him; they're afraid of doing something that could set Hamlet off. There's the outlier Polonius of course (who seems to hate Hamlet's guts), but I think I would be more sympathetic towards him if I knew that my daughter were to date someone as emotionally unstable as Hamlet during this difficult time. I have to admit that what Claudius and Gertrude have done, so soon after the late King Hamlet's death, is a bit creepy. But they could also be genuinely concerned for Hamlet's health; if they knew, as parents, how weird their situation was, they would do anything in their power to help Hamlet make sense of it. If Hamlet isn't responding the way they want them to, of course they'd be worried.
And this would be a perfect modern adaption of our 'ghost.' Regardless of whether Hamlet's hunch on the killer is right or not, considering the possibility of mental disorder adds depth to Hamlet as a character. If we don't even know if Hamlet has his head on straight, how do we discern reality from imagination? It's an interesting take on Hamlet's disposition, that his insanity from grief caused him to be this way. At least, I find that more believable than a "thoughtful" ghost guiding him to avenge his murder with more murder.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Marriage Kills People
In Media Res, by Michael McFee
His waist,
like the plot,
thickens, wedding
pants now breathtaking,
belt no longer the cinch
it once was, belly's cambium
expanding to match each birthday,
his body a wad of anonymous tissue
swung in the same centrifuge of years
that separates a house from its foundation,
undermining sidewalks grim with joggers
and loose-filled graves and families
and stars collapsing on themselves,
no preservation society capable
of plugging entropy's dike,
under the zipper's sneer
a belly hibernation-
soft, ready for
the kill.
This one's a toughie. Like the title implies, there's a heck of a whole lot going on for a one-sentence poem. But the tempo at which I read this poem is interesting; the weird spacing of the poem isn't only to manipulate the shape (literally) of the poem, but to push or pull the reader to speed up or slow down. I've noticed from the poetry readings we have in class that the shorter the line is, the slower (or the more emphasis) we place on the critical word in that line. So, as I was reading this alone in my room and creeping myself out, I noticed on the second reading that I always unintentionally rushed the longest lines in the middle while I spoke slowly in the beginning and the end lines. I think it has to do with the fact that we want to read each line in the same amount of time; for instance, if it took me 3 seconds to read "His waist," then my mind would want to use up only 3 seconds to read all the other lines too. At least, that's what I think my brain is doing. This completely deviates from a more common sonnet or ballad, which more or less contains the same syllables in every line and therefore takes up the same amount of time to read. So, in addition to giving the poem this beer belly-like shape, the spacing gives it verbal shape that's interesting to note.
Sadly, that was the easy part. On to the content of the poem itself…let's separate the different topics the poet addresses. From what I discerned, there seems to be a fat man at his wedding, a small, yet repulsive discussion about skin and tissues, the world spinning out Of control in a centrifuge, an introduction to energy and disorders, which is then backed by the man's fatness which somehow is able to kill. Sounds about right. And like I said before, the shape of the poem almost takes a form of the belly of a man who's lost control. In media res is a popular phrase for many books and movies, which describes something as being "in the middle of the action." Open up a book, and it starts with a war before going backwards. Or see the beginning of a movie, which starts at the end of the whole story.
The action here isn't "action-y" in a physically strenuous sense; it's in the middle of a drastic change in someone's condition, which falls in line with the media res claim. This fat man is about to get married, a huge next step in the process of life. However, the focus of the first couple of lines isn't about his wedding, but about his size. The wedding itself has already made him a different person, at least physically; he's gained a lot of weight so that his belt doesn't rest the same way. Then it goes on describing his belly's skin, which I strangely find revolting even though it wasn't described with any particularly vulgar words. Comparing this to a plant's "skin," I think, is the reason why. It de-humanizes the man's stomach to be this nonliving flap of plant tissue. The use of "expanding" brings to mind unbaked bread in an oven, growing to the point of explosion. It's really gross.
And describing his body like a "wad;" gum, unshapely pile of blargh, comes to mind. Soft and malleable, the wad swings in a "centrifuge," the second word in addition to "cambium" that relates to some form of biology and nature. A centrifuge, as I've come to learn in biology, is a machine that spins tubes of blood extremely fast to separate the red blood cells (the living matter) from the nonliving plasma, which includes white blood cells and other extraneous liquids. From this point, many things come unhinged in the poem; a house comes off from its foundation, joggers are pulled away from sidewalks and dead people from the grave start shaking while the stars fall from their ceiling--eek. His home will be ruined, his efforts of maintaining his body weight by jogging, his relationship with his relatives, even his dreams (characterized by the stars) are flipped upside down, shaken and broken. This rapid movement and spinning can't be controlled, as he alludes to this shaking as an "entropy" that can't be tamed. He equates this spinning to a measure of disorder. As the zipper "sneers"--either in reference to the sound sneeeee that a zipper makes, or to its ironic and mean smile it makes as it's being zipped up--it contains this craziness that is his belly, his spinning, his disorder, behind a zipper jacket that is soft to the touch, but ready to explode.
So what is he saying about this obese groom? In the middle of the action, we seem to see a future of his marriage as the growing of disorder and craziness, exemplified by his growing stomach (which is also stereotypical of men who get married). It seems that the poet is saying that marriage unhinges you, in the worst possible way. Behind the curtain of a happy marriage is a certain amount of uncontrollable disorder borne out of this marriage that will eventually ruin his life, if not his marriage. A fitting title then, for in the middle of his wedding is actually the beginning of his downfall as he walks down the isle with pants that, already, seem ill-fitting.
His waist,
like the plot,
thickens, wedding
pants now breathtaking,
belt no longer the cinch
it once was, belly's cambium
expanding to match each birthday,
his body a wad of anonymous tissue
swung in the same centrifuge of years
that separates a house from its foundation,
undermining sidewalks grim with joggers
and loose-filled graves and families
and stars collapsing on themselves,
no preservation society capable
of plugging entropy's dike,
under the zipper's sneer
a belly hibernation-
soft, ready for
the kill.
This one's a toughie. Like the title implies, there's a heck of a whole lot going on for a one-sentence poem. But the tempo at which I read this poem is interesting; the weird spacing of the poem isn't only to manipulate the shape (literally) of the poem, but to push or pull the reader to speed up or slow down. I've noticed from the poetry readings we have in class that the shorter the line is, the slower (or the more emphasis) we place on the critical word in that line. So, as I was reading this alone in my room and creeping myself out, I noticed on the second reading that I always unintentionally rushed the longest lines in the middle while I spoke slowly in the beginning and the end lines. I think it has to do with the fact that we want to read each line in the same amount of time; for instance, if it took me 3 seconds to read "His waist," then my mind would want to use up only 3 seconds to read all the other lines too. At least, that's what I think my brain is doing. This completely deviates from a more common sonnet or ballad, which more or less contains the same syllables in every line and therefore takes up the same amount of time to read. So, in addition to giving the poem this beer belly-like shape, the spacing gives it verbal shape that's interesting to note.
Sadly, that was the easy part. On to the content of the poem itself…let's separate the different topics the poet addresses. From what I discerned, there seems to be a fat man at his wedding, a small, yet repulsive discussion about skin and tissues, the world spinning out Of control in a centrifuge, an introduction to energy and disorders, which is then backed by the man's fatness which somehow is able to kill. Sounds about right. And like I said before, the shape of the poem almost takes a form of the belly of a man who's lost control. In media res is a popular phrase for many books and movies, which describes something as being "in the middle of the action." Open up a book, and it starts with a war before going backwards. Or see the beginning of a movie, which starts at the end of the whole story.
The action here isn't "action-y" in a physically strenuous sense; it's in the middle of a drastic change in someone's condition, which falls in line with the media res claim. This fat man is about to get married, a huge next step in the process of life. However, the focus of the first couple of lines isn't about his wedding, but about his size. The wedding itself has already made him a different person, at least physically; he's gained a lot of weight so that his belt doesn't rest the same way. Then it goes on describing his belly's skin, which I strangely find revolting even though it wasn't described with any particularly vulgar words. Comparing this to a plant's "skin," I think, is the reason why. It de-humanizes the man's stomach to be this nonliving flap of plant tissue. The use of "expanding" brings to mind unbaked bread in an oven, growing to the point of explosion. It's really gross.
And describing his body like a "wad;" gum, unshapely pile of blargh, comes to mind. Soft and malleable, the wad swings in a "centrifuge," the second word in addition to "cambium" that relates to some form of biology and nature. A centrifuge, as I've come to learn in biology, is a machine that spins tubes of blood extremely fast to separate the red blood cells (the living matter) from the nonliving plasma, which includes white blood cells and other extraneous liquids. From this point, many things come unhinged in the poem; a house comes off from its foundation, joggers are pulled away from sidewalks and dead people from the grave start shaking while the stars fall from their ceiling--eek. His home will be ruined, his efforts of maintaining his body weight by jogging, his relationship with his relatives, even his dreams (characterized by the stars) are flipped upside down, shaken and broken. This rapid movement and spinning can't be controlled, as he alludes to this shaking as an "entropy" that can't be tamed. He equates this spinning to a measure of disorder. As the zipper "sneers"--either in reference to the sound sneeeee that a zipper makes, or to its ironic and mean smile it makes as it's being zipped up--it contains this craziness that is his belly, his spinning, his disorder, behind a zipper jacket that is soft to the touch, but ready to explode.
So what is he saying about this obese groom? In the middle of the action, we seem to see a future of his marriage as the growing of disorder and craziness, exemplified by his growing stomach (which is also stereotypical of men who get married). It seems that the poet is saying that marriage unhinges you, in the worst possible way. Behind the curtain of a happy marriage is a certain amount of uncontrollable disorder borne out of this marriage that will eventually ruin his life, if not his marriage. A fitting title then, for in the middle of his wedding is actually the beginning of his downfall as he walks down the isle with pants that, already, seem ill-fitting.
Monday, January 20, 2014
A Good Movie is Like a Good Book
The Green Mile is my favorite movie. Some spoilers will ensue (sorry!).
It has been for the past 3 years, as nothing I've seen after that fateful summer day made me change my mind. But for those 3 years, I've never been able to accurately describe why it is I love that movie so much. The ending was horrible; that is, it made you feel horrible. There's Tom Hanks (no context necessary there) and Michael Duncan, two actors with the best chemistry I've seen in a movie. But what more is there to that?
I wasn't sure until last week when I watched it again, except this time with the knowledge of a 1 semester, 2 week-old AP Lit student. As we've learned, poetry and pose (and all of art, for that matter) is about capturing a moment in life and showing it to others. This is an ugly moment that The Green Mile captures, ugly and revolting…and accurate. Of course they execute the John Coffey because he's black; that was their definition of justice in that time period. However supernatural Coffey's powers are, it might as well not have existed in the eyes of most white men. A very existential judgment to make in the name of justice, but this same convoluted thinking is also why any person convicted is considered innocent until proven guilty; no evidence, no proof, then no conviction. The director succeeds in capturing this moment, to keep in mind the monstrous as well as the virtuous sides of humanity that should never be forgotten. And no matter how much I cried about it, the justice of that time period would not have changed. That is the beauty of this movie above all others; justice is served in a negative light here, leaving the audience extremely, without a doubt, gnashing-your-teeth, I'm-going-to-email-the-director-about-this, angry. Angry, and sad, and shocked, and a whole bundle of inexplicable emotions that you can't place your finger on.
Most movies aren't like that, only because an angry audience can do horrible things to your ratings, I can only imagine. At least, that's how I felt watching The Shawshank Redemption, which oddly enough shares the same director as The Green Mile. The ending was a bit too fulfilling, it was definitely too good to be true. Yeah, John Coffey may have had unnatural powers that sucks evilness out of people's mouths, but I find that incredibly more realistic than digging through a prison wall and finding success after 19 years in prison. He should have died in prison, whether he was an innocent man or not; that would have better captured "the moment in life," where injustice exists in a man who just happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. A conventional movie can't give out unhappy endings.
But books can. Who is there really to blame? The author? Oh please, he/she couldn't care less. You can have an unacceptable, yet rich ending that leaves just enough open ends to make you question what really happened, while being substantial enough to leave you satisfied (if even a bit angry). That's why The Green Mile still remains my favorite movie to this day; it acts like a book. I'll try very hard not to ruin anything, but everything in that movie is convoluted, much like a book. Symbols are twisted, allusions are turned inside out, and the ending will break you. The Green Mile does this brilliantly; it takes a giant of a black man with the kindest heart and the most unbelieving power of healing and life…a physically black man who is a figurative Jesus Christ in the prominently white South. He is the Jesus that anonymously saves lives without expecting anything in return, who would not hurt a fly. And this Jesus dies by the hand of man. What?!
What are the implications of this? That the eyes of man can't see graciousness and religious sanctity if it were right under their nose (or sitting in an electrocution chair?) That we are blind to prejudice that supercedes even Jesus-like figures? Who's right? Who's wrong? But of course there are no clear answers; like a good book makes you question without getting answers, The Green Mile does the same. All it does is capture that grotesque moment, a moment in our human history that needs to be remembered so it won't be repeated. The rest is up to you, viewer/reader.
It has been for the past 3 years, as nothing I've seen after that fateful summer day made me change my mind. But for those 3 years, I've never been able to accurately describe why it is I love that movie so much. The ending was horrible; that is, it made you feel horrible. There's Tom Hanks (no context necessary there) and Michael Duncan, two actors with the best chemistry I've seen in a movie. But what more is there to that?
I wasn't sure until last week when I watched it again, except this time with the knowledge of a 1 semester, 2 week-old AP Lit student. As we've learned, poetry and pose (and all of art, for that matter) is about capturing a moment in life and showing it to others. This is an ugly moment that The Green Mile captures, ugly and revolting…and accurate. Of course they execute the John Coffey because he's black; that was their definition of justice in that time period. However supernatural Coffey's powers are, it might as well not have existed in the eyes of most white men. A very existential judgment to make in the name of justice, but this same convoluted thinking is also why any person convicted is considered innocent until proven guilty; no evidence, no proof, then no conviction. The director succeeds in capturing this moment, to keep in mind the monstrous as well as the virtuous sides of humanity that should never be forgotten. And no matter how much I cried about it, the justice of that time period would not have changed. That is the beauty of this movie above all others; justice is served in a negative light here, leaving the audience extremely, without a doubt, gnashing-your-teeth, I'm-going-to-email-the-director-about-this, angry. Angry, and sad, and shocked, and a whole bundle of inexplicable emotions that you can't place your finger on.
Most movies aren't like that, only because an angry audience can do horrible things to your ratings, I can only imagine. At least, that's how I felt watching The Shawshank Redemption, which oddly enough shares the same director as The Green Mile. The ending was a bit too fulfilling, it was definitely too good to be true. Yeah, John Coffey may have had unnatural powers that sucks evilness out of people's mouths, but I find that incredibly more realistic than digging through a prison wall and finding success after 19 years in prison. He should have died in prison, whether he was an innocent man or not; that would have better captured "the moment in life," where injustice exists in a man who just happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. A conventional movie can't give out unhappy endings.
But books can. Who is there really to blame? The author? Oh please, he/she couldn't care less. You can have an unacceptable, yet rich ending that leaves just enough open ends to make you question what really happened, while being substantial enough to leave you satisfied (if even a bit angry). That's why The Green Mile still remains my favorite movie to this day; it acts like a book. I'll try very hard not to ruin anything, but everything in that movie is convoluted, much like a book. Symbols are twisted, allusions are turned inside out, and the ending will break you. The Green Mile does this brilliantly; it takes a giant of a black man with the kindest heart and the most unbelieving power of healing and life…a physically black man who is a figurative Jesus Christ in the prominently white South. He is the Jesus that anonymously saves lives without expecting anything in return, who would not hurt a fly. And this Jesus dies by the hand of man. What?!
What are the implications of this? That the eyes of man can't see graciousness and religious sanctity if it were right under their nose (or sitting in an electrocution chair?) That we are blind to prejudice that supercedes even Jesus-like figures? Who's right? Who's wrong? But of course there are no clear answers; like a good book makes you question without getting answers, The Green Mile does the same. All it does is capture that grotesque moment, a moment in our human history that needs to be remembered so it won't be repeated. The rest is up to you, viewer/reader.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Amateur Predictions
Old empty bed...springs hard as lead
Feel like ol’ Ned...wished I was dead
What did I do...to be so black and blue
Even the mouse...ran from my house
They laugh at you...and scorn you too
What did I do...to be so black and blue
I'm white...inside...but, that don't help my case
’cause I...can't hide...what is in my face
How would it end...ain't got a friend
My only sin...is in my skin
What did I do...to be so black and blue.
I've got to admit, this is one of the creepier songs I've listened to, not only because it was the dead of night when I was listening to it and the recording was soft and scratchy, but the lyrics themselves make you feel utterly alone. In the prologue of The Invisible Man, it makes even more sense to have this song playing as the narrator--whoever he is--descends onto some trance-like state and has these visions captured by the 3 whole pages printed in italics. Since I have to Inception-ize everything, when I read this passage it was immediately like being transported into this dreamlike phase, where the song is playing 1000 times slower than it actually is. "Black and Blue" in itself is a creepy song, but when it's slowed down I can only imagine the horror of the rumbling trombones and the droning trumpets as the narrator struggles to navigate his way through his own unconscious. It's so disconnected down there. I don't like it.
Then there's the content--and context--of the song itself. Louis Armstrong, a legend in the jazz world and an imperative instrument in the fight for equal rights between all races in the United States, adds depth to the struggle the narrator already has in being 'invisible' (which I'm still trying to figure out--literally invisible, or contextually invisible?). A question comes to mind: does he believe he is invisible because he may be black? Is he invisible to the eyes of white men, if this is true? Invisibility is associated with darkness and secrecy, yet the narrator is obsessed with light and truth. Yet, he claims also that white men are nothing but corrupt beings. What in the world is going on here?
I keep going at a tangent about this; ok, back to Louis Armstrong. The real question here is why this song, "Black and Blue," is introduced in the Prologue. If the first chapter of every book gives away the whole purpose of the novel, then this song must be pivotal in its makeup. The song has nothing to do with being invisible; it focuses more on the struggle of dark-colored people in the United States during Armstrong's period, understandably. You can infer that by the way he states that his sin is found in his skin, and that in addition to feeling blue, he also feels "black;" it may allude to the figurative meaning of being dismal, of course, but also may hint at his skin color. But feeling both black and blue…feeling both dismal and depressed, maybe? He feels the blackness of death and despair, along with the blues of sorrow and calmness. These two colors do a good job in visually describing what the narrator feels like whenever he's invisible.
And the recurring question preceding the colors--"What did I do…?--gives way to the lack of control both the singer and narrator feels about his current situation. There's the obvious point: neither had the choice to be born dark-skinned (or invisible). And then there's a deeper, emotional aspect of it. Why are they always so dismal and in despair? Was it through each own's fault?
With all this in mind, it's time to predict. I might get a good laugh at this in two months when I finish the book and look back at this, but it's worth a shot. Judging from the emotions this song captures, the narrator is trying to find the cause of his isolation and sadness. This could be taken from a literal perspective (being centered around the Civil Rights movement, he could be an activist?) or from a personal perspective, as he tries to find out why he's invisible and comes to terms with why he ends up the way he ends up. Very existential, very grendel (yes, I just made that an adjective.). "The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead" (pg. 6)? And what about "The truth is the light and light is the truth" (pg. 7)? I'm telling you, this narrator's ambition is to be Grendel, and Plato is his mentor.
Anyways.
The novel also centers around isolation, either because the narrator is shunned from society, or because he feels himself intellectually separated from human beings…or a mixture of the two. "Aint got a friend," says Armstrong, and since the narrator is invisible I find it hard to believe that he has any friends either. But again, this parallels with the possible struggle of the dark-skinned man in a white-skinned community as he is shunned by the rest of society and carries the burden of ebony skin. Like Grendel's inner turmoil exemplified in his wrath against humans and Beowulf, the battle for equality here runs along the same lines as the narrator's internal struggle against his state of invisibility. There's the surface, and then there's the deeper level.
I'm interested to see where this book goes. It definitely takes getting used to; like the jump from Winesburg, Ohio to Grendel, I have to take the time to take off the gender glasses and rummage around my room for my existential ones again. But more than that, I'm curious to see why he's invisible, and if I've hit anywhere close to the mark on this prediction.
Feel like ol’ Ned...wished I was dead
What did I do...to be so black and blue
Even the mouse...ran from my house
They laugh at you...and scorn you too
What did I do...to be so black and blue
I'm white...inside...but, that don't help my case
’cause I...can't hide...what is in my face
How would it end...ain't got a friend
My only sin...is in my skin
What did I do...to be so black and blue.
I've got to admit, this is one of the creepier songs I've listened to, not only because it was the dead of night when I was listening to it and the recording was soft and scratchy, but the lyrics themselves make you feel utterly alone. In the prologue of The Invisible Man, it makes even more sense to have this song playing as the narrator--whoever he is--descends onto some trance-like state and has these visions captured by the 3 whole pages printed in italics. Since I have to Inception-ize everything, when I read this passage it was immediately like being transported into this dreamlike phase, where the song is playing 1000 times slower than it actually is. "Black and Blue" in itself is a creepy song, but when it's slowed down I can only imagine the horror of the rumbling trombones and the droning trumpets as the narrator struggles to navigate his way through his own unconscious. It's so disconnected down there. I don't like it.
Then there's the content--and context--of the song itself. Louis Armstrong, a legend in the jazz world and an imperative instrument in the fight for equal rights between all races in the United States, adds depth to the struggle the narrator already has in being 'invisible' (which I'm still trying to figure out--literally invisible, or contextually invisible?). A question comes to mind: does he believe he is invisible because he may be black? Is he invisible to the eyes of white men, if this is true? Invisibility is associated with darkness and secrecy, yet the narrator is obsessed with light and truth. Yet, he claims also that white men are nothing but corrupt beings. What in the world is going on here?
I keep going at a tangent about this; ok, back to Louis Armstrong. The real question here is why this song, "Black and Blue," is introduced in the Prologue. If the first chapter of every book gives away the whole purpose of the novel, then this song must be pivotal in its makeup. The song has nothing to do with being invisible; it focuses more on the struggle of dark-colored people in the United States during Armstrong's period, understandably. You can infer that by the way he states that his sin is found in his skin, and that in addition to feeling blue, he also feels "black;" it may allude to the figurative meaning of being dismal, of course, but also may hint at his skin color. But feeling both black and blue…feeling both dismal and depressed, maybe? He feels the blackness of death and despair, along with the blues of sorrow and calmness. These two colors do a good job in visually describing what the narrator feels like whenever he's invisible.
And the recurring question preceding the colors--"What did I do…?--gives way to the lack of control both the singer and narrator feels about his current situation. There's the obvious point: neither had the choice to be born dark-skinned (or invisible). And then there's a deeper, emotional aspect of it. Why are they always so dismal and in despair? Was it through each own's fault?
With all this in mind, it's time to predict. I might get a good laugh at this in two months when I finish the book and look back at this, but it's worth a shot. Judging from the emotions this song captures, the narrator is trying to find the cause of his isolation and sadness. This could be taken from a literal perspective (being centered around the Civil Rights movement, he could be an activist?) or from a personal perspective, as he tries to find out why he's invisible and comes to terms with why he ends up the way he ends up. Very existential, very grendel (yes, I just made that an adjective.). "The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead" (pg. 6)? And what about "The truth is the light and light is the truth" (pg. 7)? I'm telling you, this narrator's ambition is to be Grendel, and Plato is his mentor.
Anyways.
The novel also centers around isolation, either because the narrator is shunned from society, or because he feels himself intellectually separated from human beings…or a mixture of the two. "Aint got a friend," says Armstrong, and since the narrator is invisible I find it hard to believe that he has any friends either. But again, this parallels with the possible struggle of the dark-skinned man in a white-skinned community as he is shunned by the rest of society and carries the burden of ebony skin. Like Grendel's inner turmoil exemplified in his wrath against humans and Beowulf, the battle for equality here runs along the same lines as the narrator's internal struggle against his state of invisibility. There's the surface, and then there's the deeper level.
I'm interested to see where this book goes. It definitely takes getting used to; like the jump from Winesburg, Ohio to Grendel, I have to take the time to take off the gender glasses and rummage around my room for my existential ones again. But more than that, I'm curious to see why he's invisible, and if I've hit anywhere close to the mark on this prediction.
Friday, December 13, 2013
Love Drunk
"Love," by anonymous
There's the wonderful love of a beautiful maid,
And the love of a staunch true man,
And the love of a baby that's unafraid--
All have existed since time began.
But the most wonderful love, the Love of all loves,
Even greater than the love for Mother,
Is the infinite, tenderest, passionate love
Of one dead drunk for another.
I don't like to think that I'd have to be drunk and dead in order to love completely, but this poem makes it sound like I need to be. But that's the 'wonderful' irony in the poem, created by a tonal phenomenon that we, as the reader, can sense by cold, Times New Roman text; we can feel its subtle, sadist message, the teasing and almost condescending nature that the poet uses regarding the concept of love in the human condition. He (or she) gives me the impression of a failed explanation of what love is, as if the reader were a complacent 5 year-old that he could influence and convince that love is not what the little girl thinks it is. Almost like reading a children's story to a group of kindergarteners, except you have the Grimm Brothers; edition. Something along those lines.
But on to the tone itself. the rhyme scheme is what really sets the mood as childish and playful. It isn't until the very last line that we're hit with preliminary confusion, realization, and final discomfort at the message that this poet is trying to convey. There isn't really a shift in tone, per se--I read it with that same happy bouncing inflection that most rhyming poems deserve to have when read. But the meaning and implication of that tone changes drastically when the dead drunk is involved. Suddenly, the chipper voice of love transforms into a dry, sarcastic, and flat retrospection as to the meaning of love. Not of a love that is defined by coherent and acceptable people of society, but of a pure love borne out of drunkenness, confusion, and pain. The grating connotation of a dead drunk dissonates the tone that is used to read it, leaving the reader a bit disarmed in the process.
So love must not have the greatest implications for the sad, sorry guy that wrote this. The concept of love is ripped apart as he not-so-subtly contrasts the allusion of true love in virtuous people (beautiful maids, stauncy men, and unafraid babies) with the realistic, passionate love that drunkards have of each other. Depressing to think about, really. the drunkard's love give rise to many implications; maybe of an unrestricted love? Of a proliferating love? The common assumption of drunks is that they have a looser tongue and less inhibition with each other, so it only makes sense that the love that they may share for one another appears to be unrestrained. Does this translate to true love, to pure love? Depends on the reader and what she thinks of drunk people, I guess. but gonig under the assumption that drunks are more free-spirited, the implication of love from the three 'virtuous' people therefore seem rehearsed, taught, and controlled.
And let's not forget that these drunkards are dead. The poet presents the stages of life backwards from the beginning to the end, starting with man and women, leading to a baby, and ending in death. What's up with that? He seems to suggest that in order to experience the "infinite, tenderest, passionate love," we have to have experienced its oppositve first: death. It sounds very similar to what my mother says about affluence and appreciation; one cannot appreciate the value of money unless he was poor first at some point in time. Is the true passion that comes with love only available to those who have experienced its opposite (death) to appreciate it more than face value, and be 'drunk' off societal pressure, without inhibition, in the process?
I can only imagine what must have happened in his life to make him write something like this, so universally unacceptable to believe in, but realistically rings truer than any optimistic notion we have about true love and caring. Love might just be yet another human ideal that we all strive for, but never achieve. The existential me asks "What's the point?" though the ideal, optimistic me says "Let's change that notion." Maybe I should get drunk and see what happens. But knowing me, I'd be the type to fall asleep if I really lost all that inhibition.
There's the wonderful love of a beautiful maid,
And the love of a staunch true man,
And the love of a baby that's unafraid--
All have existed since time began.
But the most wonderful love, the Love of all loves,
Even greater than the love for Mother,
Is the infinite, tenderest, passionate love
Of one dead drunk for another.
I don't like to think that I'd have to be drunk and dead in order to love completely, but this poem makes it sound like I need to be. But that's the 'wonderful' irony in the poem, created by a tonal phenomenon that we, as the reader, can sense by cold, Times New Roman text; we can feel its subtle, sadist message, the teasing and almost condescending nature that the poet uses regarding the concept of love in the human condition. He (or she) gives me the impression of a failed explanation of what love is, as if the reader were a complacent 5 year-old that he could influence and convince that love is not what the little girl thinks it is. Almost like reading a children's story to a group of kindergarteners, except you have the Grimm Brothers; edition. Something along those lines.
But on to the tone itself. the rhyme scheme is what really sets the mood as childish and playful. It isn't until the very last line that we're hit with preliminary confusion, realization, and final discomfort at the message that this poet is trying to convey. There isn't really a shift in tone, per se--I read it with that same happy bouncing inflection that most rhyming poems deserve to have when read. But the meaning and implication of that tone changes drastically when the dead drunk is involved. Suddenly, the chipper voice of love transforms into a dry, sarcastic, and flat retrospection as to the meaning of love. Not of a love that is defined by coherent and acceptable people of society, but of a pure love borne out of drunkenness, confusion, and pain. The grating connotation of a dead drunk dissonates the tone that is used to read it, leaving the reader a bit disarmed in the process.
So love must not have the greatest implications for the sad, sorry guy that wrote this. The concept of love is ripped apart as he not-so-subtly contrasts the allusion of true love in virtuous people (beautiful maids, stauncy men, and unafraid babies) with the realistic, passionate love that drunkards have of each other. Depressing to think about, really. the drunkard's love give rise to many implications; maybe of an unrestricted love? Of a proliferating love? The common assumption of drunks is that they have a looser tongue and less inhibition with each other, so it only makes sense that the love that they may share for one another appears to be unrestrained. Does this translate to true love, to pure love? Depends on the reader and what she thinks of drunk people, I guess. but gonig under the assumption that drunks are more free-spirited, the implication of love from the three 'virtuous' people therefore seem rehearsed, taught, and controlled.
And let's not forget that these drunkards are dead. The poet presents the stages of life backwards from the beginning to the end, starting with man and women, leading to a baby, and ending in death. What's up with that? He seems to suggest that in order to experience the "infinite, tenderest, passionate love," we have to have experienced its oppositve first: death. It sounds very similar to what my mother says about affluence and appreciation; one cannot appreciate the value of money unless he was poor first at some point in time. Is the true passion that comes with love only available to those who have experienced its opposite (death) to appreciate it more than face value, and be 'drunk' off societal pressure, without inhibition, in the process?
I can only imagine what must have happened in his life to make him write something like this, so universally unacceptable to believe in, but realistically rings truer than any optimistic notion we have about true love and caring. Love might just be yet another human ideal that we all strive for, but never achieve. The existential me asks "What's the point?" though the ideal, optimistic me says "Let's change that notion." Maybe I should get drunk and see what happens. But knowing me, I'd be the type to fall asleep if I really lost all that inhibition.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Started at the Bottom…Still at the Bottom
I'm no fan of Drake, but the titular lyric seemed fitting. After finishing A Doll House by Ibsen, I feel much obliged to state that I, in accordance to many many many (I assume) other students and teachers, hate the alternate ending that Ibsen imposed to please the audience he was stuck with. It's no wonder the poor dude can't even live with himself after releasing such an atrocity. Nora, the supposedly enlightened woman and an ideal that all men and women strive for to reach intellectual freedom and self-worth, goes mainstream and stays in her stagnant relationship with her clueless (and just as inexperienced) husband. Where's the sense of closure in that? There isn't any feeling, no artistic and symbolic thought that went into the writing of this ending--a huge contrast for Ibsen, as he wrote most of the play with subtle hints of deeper meaning without giving everything away. All of his artistic credibility as a playwright is lost with that ending.
The main problem I have with this alternate version is the hypocrisy with which the husband uses to get Nora to stay. That, in itself, seems like a cheap move even for Torvald. In the heat of Act III, Torvald shows his true colors as a selfish husband who cares more for public appearance and perfection instead of the well-being of his family; his cries of "I'm saved! I'm saved!" are testimony to that. Krogstad's letter, which was more or less addressed to Nora instead of Torvald, is seen as Torvald's own saving grace (I'm saved) instead of Nora's (We're saved). It's as if she should have never deserved this solace, that she still has to suffer the burden of 'doing the wrong thing', or pay Torvald a price for making him so angry (even though she did all of this to save his life). There is absolutely no mention of their kids, or of their kids' futures, as far as Torvald's concerned; their well-being is nonexistent. It's like that classic test of parental wit; if a fire alarm sounds in a house, the first thing a thoughtful parent would look for is the child. If a fire alarm had sounded in the Helmer home (or any 1800s equivalent of an alarm), Torvald would be the first to bolt out the door. Sadly, Nora would be the second.
So the hypocrisy is only overstepped when he uses the children (not his children--he doesn't deserve children) as an excuse to get Nora to stay at home. We see that his offspring are just as much as strangers to him as Torvald is to Nora when Torvald exclaims, "But first you shall see your children for the last time!" 'Your children'. Nora's children. Not 'our children,' a collective responsibility that makes a family whole. He is basically separating himself from his wife and kids here, creating a dividing line to separate 'family' into 'me' (Torvald) and 'you' (everyone else). He manipulates Nora into thinking she's the selfish one for leaving the kids, even though Torvald doesn't give a second thought of them, doesn't even consider them his own. Where is the justice in that? The 'honor'? The concept of a "real marriage"?
The counterproductive conclusion of the whole story here is that nobody wins. The fact that Nora doesn't escape from herprison doll house shows that no change has happened, that Nora will revert back to her old ways despite her exposure to the benefit of knowledge and independence from the real world (through Dr. Rank, Krgostad, and Mrs. Linde). And, more importantly, the audience will see these three characters as villains for trying to break up such a 'perfect' marriage that the Helmers have. The message it sends is twisted in itself: 'keep living with me because I don't want to raise kids that aren't mine! And I like to control you!' Lastly, Ibsen's message of the struggle for individual freedom is completely lost in translation as Nora changes from a dynamic character to a static one. In the beginning of the play, she's a ditsy lost girl who does not know how to mother her children and happily submits to a husband who doesn't know any better; she climbs up the ladders of self-fulfillment and virtue, an arm's stretch away from the key to happiness and self-adequacy, at the end of it all she tumbles back down to the bottom of the cliff because she feels bad about leaving her children motherless, even though she isn't even qualified to be a mother.
To sum up my feelings, an equally fitting meme: http://img01.lachschon.de/images/155928_SadDoge_1.jpg
Alternate Ending:
http://ibsen.nb.no/id/11111794.0
The main problem I have with this alternate version is the hypocrisy with which the husband uses to get Nora to stay. That, in itself, seems like a cheap move even for Torvald. In the heat of Act III, Torvald shows his true colors as a selfish husband who cares more for public appearance and perfection instead of the well-being of his family; his cries of "I'm saved! I'm saved!" are testimony to that. Krogstad's letter, which was more or less addressed to Nora instead of Torvald, is seen as Torvald's own saving grace (I'm saved) instead of Nora's (We're saved). It's as if she should have never deserved this solace, that she still has to suffer the burden of 'doing the wrong thing', or pay Torvald a price for making him so angry (even though she did all of this to save his life). There is absolutely no mention of their kids, or of their kids' futures, as far as Torvald's concerned; their well-being is nonexistent. It's like that classic test of parental wit; if a fire alarm sounds in a house, the first thing a thoughtful parent would look for is the child. If a fire alarm had sounded in the Helmer home (or any 1800s equivalent of an alarm), Torvald would be the first to bolt out the door. Sadly, Nora would be the second.
So the hypocrisy is only overstepped when he uses the children (not his children--he doesn't deserve children) as an excuse to get Nora to stay at home. We see that his offspring are just as much as strangers to him as Torvald is to Nora when Torvald exclaims, "But first you shall see your children for the last time!" 'Your children'. Nora's children. Not 'our children,' a collective responsibility that makes a family whole. He is basically separating himself from his wife and kids here, creating a dividing line to separate 'family' into 'me' (Torvald) and 'you' (everyone else). He manipulates Nora into thinking she's the selfish one for leaving the kids, even though Torvald doesn't give a second thought of them, doesn't even consider them his own. Where is the justice in that? The 'honor'? The concept of a "real marriage"?
The counterproductive conclusion of the whole story here is that nobody wins. The fact that Nora doesn't escape from her
To sum up my feelings, an equally fitting meme: http://img01.lachschon.de/images/155928_SadDoge_1.jpg
Alternate Ending:
http://ibsen.nb.no/id/11111794.0
Saturday, December 7, 2013
¿Por qué no los dos?
…comes the adorable reply of a little girl promoting the fabulousness of a combination of hard and soft-shell tacos in one box. It's funny, as I was fast-forwarding through the commercials to get to the real heart of the matter (an episode of Conan where he tries and helplessly fails at playing Tomb Raider, so he compensates by killing her as many ways as humanly possible), I stopped to look back at this long-forgotten product. As two older siblings fight tooth-and-nail to get what they really want for dinner (hard or soft shell tacos…an argument that my household has had the fortune never to go through), the smaller of the family of three, an adorable little girl, asks in Spanish, "Why not have both?" And while the party music plays in the background with the family celebrating in joy ("Feed your Fiesta!") my mind instantly shifts to Newland Archer. No, not because of some taco-induced tragedy that he goes through in the second half of the book. Fair warning-I'm about to go on a rant that may or may not reveal the ending. So for those who haven't finished the book, you've been warned.
In truth, having the best of both worlds isn't always possible--with the exception of tacos, of course. As Newland Archer lives between two women, May Welland and Ellen Olenska, he figuratively digs himself a big and deep hole by wanting both women throughout pretty much the majority of the novel. What annoys me the most is his lack of future planning, of his brainless actions in wooing Ellen Olenska while wearing May Welland's ring. What did he expect out of this affair? What good comes out of being with Ellen as a married Welland man? In many scenes of the book his thoughts are just plain silly. There are notions of Newland wanting to run away from May and elope with Ellen, of sailing off to sea and never coming back…even of killing May so that his hook-up with Ellen will finally be seen as acceptable. His thought-process here is awful. Commit a crime--murder, per se-- to save face.
But let's look deeper here, to see why he wants two women in the first place. There's the obvious; they're both foils of each other. Each carries a characteristic, trait, or personality that the other is absent of. May is a reserved, optimistic, rich, yet delightfully dull human being. She has all the requirements fulfilled to be the ultimate housewife, but she has the experience of a 3 year-old girl. Newland describes May almost as a slave to her own social class, claiming that "[t]here was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free" (160). Brought up by her mother, she exhibits her mother's ways of living as a stable house puppet of a wife for Newland. And her analytic, creative abilities? Forget it. She may be a straight shot with a bow an arrow at the Beaufort's annual Archery competition, but she'd also be the one who gave up against a bear attack, even with a bow and arrow strapped to her back. Thoughtless. She isn't driven intrinsically, by a desire to prove her worth; rather, she is a pawn of the social hierarchy, an outlet to produce and maintain the Welland family line.
The other Welland--a classic attitude that many of the Wellands and Mingotts take on Ellen--is otherworldly and fantastic. Raised in New York, but inhabitant of Europe, she embodies the all-knowing qualities any travelled man should have. In terms of housewifery, she's a lost cause. She is an outspoken, down-to-earth woman who cuts through the superficial haze that the upper class created for itself. This is apparent in her criticism of New York. "It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country," (196), Ellen says, implying how conceited and unoriginal the American society really is, in contrast to what it claims to be. Her subtle yet hard-hitting jabs at the New York way of life irks the inhabitants of the city, and her family is no exception. She's lived through it all, and like the wise words of Tardar Sauce the grumpy cat, "I am not amused."
And being the greedy, expectant man Newland is, he wants both. He craves some type of stability and comfort, of an innate need to fulfill even his own mother's wishes of going with the high society flow in marrying May (and he does). He loves the idea of 'teaching' May all the things he knows, to shape her and play with her like a doll whenever he feels the need. But this idea of her being a hollow case with nothing on the inside to show for it is what makes him turn to the other woman--Ellen. He consequently also wants an equal, a woman who shares his interests in traveling, exploring, and admiring the arts. Ellen would be a perfect fit here, regardless of her sex. Newland doesn't care for other people's family business or clothes (like Jackson or Lefferts), and for this reason we see that he doesn't have many friends to begin with. So when someone like Ellen walks in, a beautiful damsel in distress and an intelligent human being, it's not surprising that he feels an instant attraction towards her. So which woman is the perfect one for him? I can't be sure. Newland is too complex of a character to really love May regardless of her faults, but he is also too rigid in stature to really love Ellen, including her gutsy attitude. And with that note, I believe that neither woman was a good fit for Newland. The fact that he kept jumping between the two women means (to me, at least) that neither had all the qualities he desired in a partner, so he couldn't have been happy with either one. Sadly, he's too blind from puppy-love with May and admiration with Ellen to really open his eyes. His saving grace is found in his children, specifically his first-born, Dallas. If he can't fulfill true happiness, at least teach to his offspring who can, right?
When the little girl in the TV asks, "¿Por qué no los dos?" I shrug and say that sometimes having two good things isn't always the best idea. Newland tried to have both, and look what happened to him. He nearly drove Ellen out of the country (and she later does, but on her own will--a loss for Newland). His life with May isn't exactly depressing, but he never expresses gratitude and happiness for his wife besides a reserved and self-taught affection. Has he fulfilled his purpose in life? Does he have regrets? I'll leave that for Newland to decide when he sits on the bench and stares out at Ellen's Parisian balcony, years and years later. As for me, I will continue fast-forwarding until I see Conan flail his controller around.
Taco Commercial: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqgSO8_cRio
Conan 'playing' Tomb Raider (a bit inappropriate, but it is Conan after all): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCe8-1dbXZc
In truth, having the best of both worlds isn't always possible--with the exception of tacos, of course. As Newland Archer lives between two women, May Welland and Ellen Olenska, he figuratively digs himself a big and deep hole by wanting both women throughout pretty much the majority of the novel. What annoys me the most is his lack of future planning, of his brainless actions in wooing Ellen Olenska while wearing May Welland's ring. What did he expect out of this affair? What good comes out of being with Ellen as a married Welland man? In many scenes of the book his thoughts are just plain silly. There are notions of Newland wanting to run away from May and elope with Ellen, of sailing off to sea and never coming back…even of killing May so that his hook-up with Ellen will finally be seen as acceptable. His thought-process here is awful. Commit a crime--murder, per se-- to save face.
But let's look deeper here, to see why he wants two women in the first place. There's the obvious; they're both foils of each other. Each carries a characteristic, trait, or personality that the other is absent of. May is a reserved, optimistic, rich, yet delightfully dull human being. She has all the requirements fulfilled to be the ultimate housewife, but she has the experience of a 3 year-old girl. Newland describes May almost as a slave to her own social class, claiming that "[t]here was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free" (160). Brought up by her mother, she exhibits her mother's ways of living as a stable house puppet of a wife for Newland. And her analytic, creative abilities? Forget it. She may be a straight shot with a bow an arrow at the Beaufort's annual Archery competition, but she'd also be the one who gave up against a bear attack, even with a bow and arrow strapped to her back. Thoughtless. She isn't driven intrinsically, by a desire to prove her worth; rather, she is a pawn of the social hierarchy, an outlet to produce and maintain the Welland family line.
The other Welland--a classic attitude that many of the Wellands and Mingotts take on Ellen--is otherworldly and fantastic. Raised in New York, but inhabitant of Europe, she embodies the all-knowing qualities any travelled man should have. In terms of housewifery, she's a lost cause. She is an outspoken, down-to-earth woman who cuts through the superficial haze that the upper class created for itself. This is apparent in her criticism of New York. "It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country," (196), Ellen says, implying how conceited and unoriginal the American society really is, in contrast to what it claims to be. Her subtle yet hard-hitting jabs at the New York way of life irks the inhabitants of the city, and her family is no exception. She's lived through it all, and like the wise words of Tardar Sauce the grumpy cat, "I am not amused."
And being the greedy, expectant man Newland is, he wants both. He craves some type of stability and comfort, of an innate need to fulfill even his own mother's wishes of going with the high society flow in marrying May (and he does). He loves the idea of 'teaching' May all the things he knows, to shape her and play with her like a doll whenever he feels the need. But this idea of her being a hollow case with nothing on the inside to show for it is what makes him turn to the other woman--Ellen. He consequently also wants an equal, a woman who shares his interests in traveling, exploring, and admiring the arts. Ellen would be a perfect fit here, regardless of her sex. Newland doesn't care for other people's family business or clothes (like Jackson or Lefferts), and for this reason we see that he doesn't have many friends to begin with. So when someone like Ellen walks in, a beautiful damsel in distress and an intelligent human being, it's not surprising that he feels an instant attraction towards her. So which woman is the perfect one for him? I can't be sure. Newland is too complex of a character to really love May regardless of her faults, but he is also too rigid in stature to really love Ellen, including her gutsy attitude. And with that note, I believe that neither woman was a good fit for Newland. The fact that he kept jumping between the two women means (to me, at least) that neither had all the qualities he desired in a partner, so he couldn't have been happy with either one. Sadly, he's too blind from puppy-love with May and admiration with Ellen to really open his eyes. His saving grace is found in his children, specifically his first-born, Dallas. If he can't fulfill true happiness, at least teach to his offspring who can, right?
When the little girl in the TV asks, "¿Por qué no los dos?" I shrug and say that sometimes having two good things isn't always the best idea. Newland tried to have both, and look what happened to him. He nearly drove Ellen out of the country (and she later does, but on her own will--a loss for Newland). His life with May isn't exactly depressing, but he never expresses gratitude and happiness for his wife besides a reserved and self-taught affection. Has he fulfilled his purpose in life? Does he have regrets? I'll leave that for Newland to decide when he sits on the bench and stares out at Ellen's Parisian balcony, years and years later. As for me, I will continue fast-forwarding until I see Conan flail his controller around.
Taco Commercial: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqgSO8_cRio
Conan 'playing' Tomb Raider (a bit inappropriate, but it is Conan after all): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCe8-1dbXZc
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