start time: 2:12 pm
As another assignment for my creative writing class, I was asked to describe the physical transformation of a protagonist, as Franz Kafka does in The Metamorphosis.
---
I am becoming my grandfather's pocketwatch. The one I misplaced a week ago.
We were in Salt Lake, and I was to load in the herds at precisely 3:08 pm, when I realized it was missing. But I still heard the ticking.
"All Aboard!" I yelled, and the steady beat persisted. It was different than the meter of my watch--this I could feel inside my bowels.
The next morning, my blue trousers seemed a bit more snug. By the end of the day, I had lost my button. It had shot off in the smoking cabin, flying through the air like an engine at full speed. My waist was widening, growing sideways so that my once narrowest part had become the broadest.
I waddled into the changing room and exchanged my uniform for a larger set. My skin felt cold as I undressed, cool and hard like metal. My face looked a dull, yellowish-bronze in the dirty mirror, like finger smudged gold. I spun myself around and noticed the faintest etch on my back: TDH.
My arms and legs shrunk. The hair on top of my head became rigged, a hinge appeared on my right side, and I felt queasy, as if something was moving around in my gut. I still had no watch and no real sense of time. But I prayed that we were on schedule, and used my internal ticking to count the minutes at each station.
But it is my job to know the time, to inform passengers of our progress, to give the appearance of quality, expertise, and efficiency. When asked, I'd rely on my knowledge of schedule and the racing scenery and guess. "We're scheduled to arrive in Sacramento at 4:09, Sir. I'd say we're about an hour away."
But today as I wobbled down the aisle, punching holes into passengers’ tickets, a woman insisted for the precise time, as I had it.
I shrugged, and pushed the bump that has been swelling atop of my head. Instantly, my jacket swung open, my belly gaping like a clam and revealing a tea-stained face with black roman numerals and hands. "11:42 on the dot."
I snapped myself closed and rolled into the next car.
end time: 3:33 pm
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
the exquisite corpse
start time: 7:32 pm
"The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine."
A few weeks ago (yet again in my creative writing class), I was introduced to the "exquisite corpse" method. Invented by the Surrealists in an attempt to break one's imagination free from the constraints of the subconscious, it is a phrase or sentence collectively assembled in a group that follows a basic rule.
Our rule was a favored standard: (1) article and adjective; (2) noun; (3) verb; (4) article and adjective; (5) noun.
"The butterfly moon eats a screaming comb."
The following short piece was inspired by this sentence.
---
In my town, no one believes that cheese comes from milk. Milk is Magic. It appears in the empty glass bottles we leave at our side door each morning, and vanishes into our coffees and cakes, with our cereals and cookies. In no way does it have anything to do with cheese. Cheese is not Magic; we know exactly where it comes from.
The man in the moon makes our cheese, and each night he shuttles down blue cheese crumbles and blocks of brie to us on the backs of tiny space-cows and tiny space-goats, who ride shooting stars while listening to Bach, or so it was written very long ago.
But in my family, we know the secret behind it all, that this simply isn’t true. Cheese does come from milk--milk from cows and goats, sure, but ones who live on farms and chew on grass all day long.
The man in the moon, in fact, is a fake. He’s a cover up for something even more fantastic and remarkable, something completely beyond the imaginations of rational beings (which, is why, I’m forced to have faith in her existence): the Moon Bunny.
She has ears that stick up and soft fur, but other than that the Moon Bunny is unlike any bunny around here. She doesn't wiggle her nose nor chomp on carrots. No, this bunny is far more wonderful. She is a keeper of sacred butterflies. (But, just like this fantastic bunny, these butterflies are unlike any butterflies you or I have ever seen.)
Each day, before the moon has risen and after it has set, the Moon Bunny hops around her lunar Eden, tending to brightly colored flowers and a nursery of caterpillars. Once they’ve swaddled themselves in their silk cocoons, she coaxes them out with a lullaby and gives them a good scratch with a screaming comb. They hover amongst the sweet flowers for just a while and then, when they are all ready, she releases them into space for us to see, and as they flutter they reflect the shine of the sun.
“Meteor showers,” our scientists call them. And how quick everyone is to believe!
end time: 8:50 pm
"The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine."
A few weeks ago (yet again in my creative writing class), I was introduced to the "exquisite corpse" method. Invented by the Surrealists in an attempt to break one's imagination free from the constraints of the subconscious, it is a phrase or sentence collectively assembled in a group that follows a basic rule.
Our rule was a favored standard: (1) article and adjective; (2) noun; (3) verb; (4) article and adjective; (5) noun.
"The butterfly moon eats a screaming comb."
The following short piece was inspired by this sentence.
---
In my town, no one believes that cheese comes from milk. Milk is Magic. It appears in the empty glass bottles we leave at our side door each morning, and vanishes into our coffees and cakes, with our cereals and cookies. In no way does it have anything to do with cheese. Cheese is not Magic; we know exactly where it comes from.
The man in the moon makes our cheese, and each night he shuttles down blue cheese crumbles and blocks of brie to us on the backs of tiny space-cows and tiny space-goats, who ride shooting stars while listening to Bach, or so it was written very long ago.
But in my family, we know the secret behind it all, that this simply isn’t true. Cheese does come from milk--milk from cows and goats, sure, but ones who live on farms and chew on grass all day long.
The man in the moon, in fact, is a fake. He’s a cover up for something even more fantastic and remarkable, something completely beyond the imaginations of rational beings (which, is why, I’m forced to have faith in her existence): the Moon Bunny.
She has ears that stick up and soft fur, but other than that the Moon Bunny is unlike any bunny around here. She doesn't wiggle her nose nor chomp on carrots. No, this bunny is far more wonderful. She is a keeper of sacred butterflies. (But, just like this fantastic bunny, these butterflies are unlike any butterflies you or I have ever seen.)
Each day, before the moon has risen and after it has set, the Moon Bunny hops around her lunar Eden, tending to brightly colored flowers and a nursery of caterpillars. Once they’ve swaddled themselves in their silk cocoons, she coaxes them out with a lullaby and gives them a good scratch with a screaming comb. They hover amongst the sweet flowers for just a while and then, when they are all ready, she releases them into space for us to see, and as they flutter they reflect the shine of the sun.
“Meteor showers,” our scientists call them. And how quick everyone is to believe!
end time: 8:50 pm
Sunday, February 12, 2012
my own Ithaca
start time: 9:05 am
I recently read C.P. Cavafy's poem, Ithaca, in a creative writing class. As an assignment, we were asked to write about our own Ithaca, about returning home after learning from the journey of life.
---
Young Emily did not know what she was getting herself into (or what she was putting into herself, for that matter) when she had that first bite of thai noodles. The sweetness and unfamiliar spice, with a hint of peanut and a scramble of egg, immediately altered her perception of taste. Soon her taste buds would no longer tolerate the standard spaghetti and sauce, or the grilled chicken and broccoli, but demanded something different.
So she set out, traveling far and wide, to discover what her mouth had been craving. She relished in the coconut cream of curries and humble lentils, in saffron yellow paellas and the thick red of fresh jams. The world was to be seen, not of nations and markets, but of pomegranates and eggplants, of herbs and greens, and she began to note her travels by the tastes and smells each city would bring. Geneva was rich with fondues of chocolates and cheese; Aleppo studded with roasted pistachios; Shanghai calmed by tiny cups of tea; and Cairo congested with the steams and sizzles of street meats. Occasionally she met a sweet or a dip she disliked, but she did not allow this minor disagreement to disrupt the completion of her quest for the mouth’s best.
And then, some time later, on a holiday’s eve, she realized what she had been longing for. For even though she sought refuge in the colorful concoctions of fantastic foods, and had learned from the most exotic of epicures, it was the modest, homemade pie that warmed her heart. Simple—sugared and spiced with only cinnamon and a dash of salt—served with a single scoop of vanilla cream, was what she loved most.
end time: 10:23 am
I recently read C.P. Cavafy's poem, Ithaca, in a creative writing class. As an assignment, we were asked to write about our own Ithaca, about returning home after learning from the journey of life.
---
Young Emily did not know what she was getting herself into (or what she was putting into herself, for that matter) when she had that first bite of thai noodles. The sweetness and unfamiliar spice, with a hint of peanut and a scramble of egg, immediately altered her perception of taste. Soon her taste buds would no longer tolerate the standard spaghetti and sauce, or the grilled chicken and broccoli, but demanded something different.
So she set out, traveling far and wide, to discover what her mouth had been craving. She relished in the coconut cream of curries and humble lentils, in saffron yellow paellas and the thick red of fresh jams. The world was to be seen, not of nations and markets, but of pomegranates and eggplants, of herbs and greens, and she began to note her travels by the tastes and smells each city would bring. Geneva was rich with fondues of chocolates and cheese; Aleppo studded with roasted pistachios; Shanghai calmed by tiny cups of tea; and Cairo congested with the steams and sizzles of street meats. Occasionally she met a sweet or a dip she disliked, but she did not allow this minor disagreement to disrupt the completion of her quest for the mouth’s best.
And then, some time later, on a holiday’s eve, she realized what she had been longing for. For even though she sought refuge in the colorful concoctions of fantastic foods, and had learned from the most exotic of epicures, it was the modest, homemade pie that warmed her heart. Simple—sugared and spiced with only cinnamon and a dash of salt—served with a single scoop of vanilla cream, was what she loved most.
end time: 10:23 am
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
laughing and crying
start time: 1:40 pm
NPR's All Things Considered has this contest, "Three Minute Fiction," for listeners to submit original pieces of fiction that can be read in three minutes (or are 600 words) or less.
I've never submitted anything, but I like to think of the prompts as practice.
Here is an about-130-word-too-long piece I've been working on. The prompt, "laughing and crying," asks for one character to laugh and another to cry.
---
He just won't stop. He won't. Not even for a second.
"I'm feeding him at least every two hours--shit, Ma, my nipples are killin' me. And I swear to God I'm changin' him like every second."
I try the whole bouncing and rocking and singing and cuddling and cooing and humming and swaddling, but nothing works. He still makes that noise that makes me want to cry like I did on my wedding day.
"It's normal, honey. Every new mommy goes through this," Ma assures me, her voice breaking through the plastic receiver. "It'll get easier, you'll see."
Well it's been three weeks and I haven't slept more than an hour a night for any of it. Besides, I can't bear to talk to her much anymore. Not as the big disappointment I am, the one who coulda "gotten out" with that scholarship but got knocked-up halfway through junior year. And now I can't even calm a newborn.
And it's not like Jim's been any help, either. He needs his rest so he can "put food on the table." Yeah, right. He's never even once put food on our table. No starch, no vegetable, and certainly no meat. Except maybe me, that one night about a year ago, after we'd shared beers at that self-loathing pool hall and drunkenly stumbled back to this dump, clothes only half off as he hoisted me onto the round formica. Oh, but since I'm the only one able to feed our little bundle of joy, he says, there's no use in both of us getting out of bed three times a night. So there I sit, alone, raw tit out in zombie-gaze.
"I can't..." I try to talk to him about it before he leaves in the morning, but he's always rolling out of bed with seconds to spare.
"I've got my own job to think about," he snaps over his shoulder and buttons up his shirt on his way out the door.
I've called him while he's at work a few times, but his supervisor refuses to stop the line and let me talk to him. He always gives me shit about it later, so I've given up there.
"What about those nice old ladies on your street?" Ma asks.
Those blue-haired maids stop by every other afternoon to "see how the little guy's doing." The funny thing is that whenever they walk in with their matching shoes and pocketbooks, he transforms from the monster he is with me to the wide-eyed, bald-headed gerber baby, bouncing pleasantly on a lumpy lap, mouth forming that annoying little o.
"What a little darling!"
And there I am, on the farthest edge of the couch, bags under my eyes, hair pulled up in a messy knot, grinding my teeth behind a forced grin.
"No matter what, he's just givin' me that look," I whine to Ma.
I wish I could send him back to wherever he came from, back to that night with the lonely beers and the unstable table, before the secondhand white dress and city hall. But I don't tell her that, of course. Gotta keep pretending that this was what I wanted, that I didn't really wanna be a nurse. Too much schooling, in all, ya know?
"It just takes some time," she reassures me before I hang up and free myself from the twisted cord.
I set him in his crib next to a stuffed bunny and a duck, and he makes that unbearable noise. "I guess this is it, bud." I make a run for it, the screen door slamming behind me in protest.
I don't get to the sidewalk before I'm caught under the searchlights of our block, sirens wailing.
But it's only Jim, and he catches me with a gentleness that's so, well, not Jim. He rocks me in his arms, humming in my ear, but it's no use. The sobbing won't stop, the tears keep flowing.
"Come on, let's go inside," he cooes. "Together."
We enter the sky-blue nursery and the noise pounds against my eardrums once again. "See what I'm sayin'? I can't take it!"
Brow furrowed in frustration, he picks up the baby and returns to the Jim I know, "Penny, what the hell is wrong with you? He's laughing for Christ's sake!" Then he tickles his little chin with a finger, coaxing out that aural beast from the tiny body.
end time: 3:04 pm
NPR's All Things Considered has this contest, "Three Minute Fiction," for listeners to submit original pieces of fiction that can be read in three minutes (or are 600 words) or less.
I've never submitted anything, but I like to think of the prompts as practice.
Here is an about-130-word-too-long piece I've been working on. The prompt, "laughing and crying," asks for one character to laugh and another to cry.
---
He just won't stop. He won't. Not even for a second.
"I'm feeding him at least every two hours--shit, Ma, my nipples are killin' me. And I swear to God I'm changin' him like every second."
I try the whole bouncing and rocking and singing and cuddling and cooing and humming and swaddling, but nothing works. He still makes that noise that makes me want to cry like I did on my wedding day.
"It's normal, honey. Every new mommy goes through this," Ma assures me, her voice breaking through the plastic receiver. "It'll get easier, you'll see."
Well it's been three weeks and I haven't slept more than an hour a night for any of it. Besides, I can't bear to talk to her much anymore. Not as the big disappointment I am, the one who coulda "gotten out" with that scholarship but got knocked-up halfway through junior year. And now I can't even calm a newborn.
And it's not like Jim's been any help, either. He needs his rest so he can "put food on the table." Yeah, right. He's never even once put food on our table. No starch, no vegetable, and certainly no meat. Except maybe me, that one night about a year ago, after we'd shared beers at that self-loathing pool hall and drunkenly stumbled back to this dump, clothes only half off as he hoisted me onto the round formica. Oh, but since I'm the only one able to feed our little bundle of joy, he says, there's no use in both of us getting out of bed three times a night. So there I sit, alone, raw tit out in zombie-gaze.
"I can't..." I try to talk to him about it before he leaves in the morning, but he's always rolling out of bed with seconds to spare.
"I've got my own job to think about," he snaps over his shoulder and buttons up his shirt on his way out the door.
I've called him while he's at work a few times, but his supervisor refuses to stop the line and let me talk to him. He always gives me shit about it later, so I've given up there.
"What about those nice old ladies on your street?" Ma asks.
Those blue-haired maids stop by every other afternoon to "see how the little guy's doing." The funny thing is that whenever they walk in with their matching shoes and pocketbooks, he transforms from the monster he is with me to the wide-eyed, bald-headed gerber baby, bouncing pleasantly on a lumpy lap, mouth forming that annoying little o.
"What a little darling!"
And there I am, on the farthest edge of the couch, bags under my eyes, hair pulled up in a messy knot, grinding my teeth behind a forced grin.
"No matter what, he's just givin' me that look," I whine to Ma.
I wish I could send him back to wherever he came from, back to that night with the lonely beers and the unstable table, before the secondhand white dress and city hall. But I don't tell her that, of course. Gotta keep pretending that this was what I wanted, that I didn't really wanna be a nurse. Too much schooling, in all, ya know?
"It just takes some time," she reassures me before I hang up and free myself from the twisted cord.
I set him in his crib next to a stuffed bunny and a duck, and he makes that unbearable noise. "I guess this is it, bud." I make a run for it, the screen door slamming behind me in protest.
I don't get to the sidewalk before I'm caught under the searchlights of our block, sirens wailing.
But it's only Jim, and he catches me with a gentleness that's so, well, not Jim. He rocks me in his arms, humming in my ear, but it's no use. The sobbing won't stop, the tears keep flowing.
"Come on, let's go inside," he cooes. "Together."
We enter the sky-blue nursery and the noise pounds against my eardrums once again. "See what I'm sayin'? I can't take it!"
Brow furrowed in frustration, he picks up the baby and returns to the Jim I know, "Penny, what the hell is wrong with you? He's laughing for Christ's sake!" Then he tickles his little chin with a finger, coaxing out that aural beast from the tiny body.
end time: 3:04 pm
Saturday, November 5, 2011
chocolate and copulation--part 1
start time: 11:39 am
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (1964), and its sequel, Charlie and the Glass Elevator (1972), is the story of a young boy, Charlie Bucket, who is extremely poor. He lives with his four grandparents, who are extremely old, and his two parents, who are extremely tired. They eat little more than boiled cabbage, except on Charlie's birthday, when Mr. and Mrs. Bucket pool all of their savings together to buy a single Willy Wonka chocolate bar. Charlie loves chocolate more than anything in the world, but is only able to have it once a year. He savors it for as long as he can, resting it on top of his bookshelf, not opening it for as long as he can bear, then eating only tiny pieces so that the single bar lasts him for over a month!
The worst part about the entire situation, is that the Buckets live right next to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory! No one has ever seen anyone go in or out, but the smell of boiling and brewing chocolate confections escape at all hours of the day, teasing Charlie's deprived taste buds with his most coveted treat.
Word comes out that Willy Wonka himself is giving away five passes to his factory for children. The passes will be distributed as golden tickets hidden in bars of his famous chocolates. The first four go quickly--and all to children of either extreme wealth or with the stench of being spoiled rotten (or both). One day, Charlie's Grandpa Joe, the liveliest and most enthusiastic about the secret genius of Willy Wonka of his family members, gives Charlie money he's been saving for ages. More than anyone else in the world, Grandpa Joe thinks, Charlie should get that ticket. So Charlie takes his grandfather's savings and buys one candy bar. And he does not find the golden ticket.
A few months go by, and the last ticket continues to remain. One day after school, Charlie finds a 50 pense piece in the snow, and buys a chocolate bar. After he swallows the glorious candy, he decides to buy just one other, and then donate the remaining money to his starving family. It is in this bar he finds the final golden ticket, and--what luck!--just a day before the factory opening!
He arrives at the factory just on time with Grandpa Joe as his adult companion, and chaos and wonder combine to create the most delicious, intriguing, and slightly sinister world imaginable. A sense of impeding doom saturates the pages like honey does baklava; it's as if more than a bite of this sugared reality is too sweet to be palatable. In the end, all of the other obnoxious children are punished for their greed and indulgence, and readers are reminded the importance of patience, modesty, frugality, and obedience all while being exposed to the waste and ridiculousness of our consumption-focused lifestyles. Willy Wonka announces to Charlie that he will hand down the chocolate factory to him, so that he may continue the tradition of creating the most wondrous and fantastical sweets in the universe. The book ends with Charlie, Grandpa Joe and WIlly Wonka in his glass elevator, trying to convince the rest of Charlie's sad, old, and starving family to join them.
And this is exactly where Charlie and the Glass Elevator picks up. More bizarre than the first book, the sequel takes place half in space, where the glass elevator gets trapped in orbit, is almost attacked by the United States government who believes The Buckets and Mr. Wonka to be terrorist aliens attempting to destroy the newly launched "Space Hotel, U.S.A," and a battle with the most formidable, terrifying creatures called Vermicious Knids (the "k" pronounced) in the galaxy ensues. The other half of the book occurs in the factory, where the old grandparents take too much of Vita-Wonk and Wonka-Vite, substances that make one grow older or ungrow younger, and Willy Wonka and Charlie must venture into the depths of the factory to save them.
Once again, readers are exposed to comments on capitalism and consumption, on overindulgence and impatience. This installment is obviously more political, as it not-at-all-indirectly points at the silliness and absurdity of our governmental systems and the international balance of power. Though children may not obviously recognize the aspects of the social criticism that are more political, adult readers will find them amusing though (thirty years later) somewhat overstated.
My Uncle Oswald--Roald Dahl's "first book for grownups"--is not for children. It may be the most un-child friendly book that could be written by a praised children's author. And what's more amazing is that his children's stories and poetry continued to be published until 1991, a year after his death.
The story is a large journal entry, released by our fictional protagonist's nephew, who is never heard of again for the remainder of the book. Uncle Oswald has taken upon himself in his old age to create an archive of his life. While some of those archives focus on "the art of fornication and copulation," this archive will tell how he made his riches, though fornication and copulation are ever present throughout the tale.
And here's how it goes:
As a young scientific genius, Oswald Cornelius is offered a scholarship to study at Cambridge. He is however, only 17 years young and cannot begin his studies until the following year. His father decides to send him to France for the year, so that he can experience life on his own before buckling down and beginning his career.
The evening before his departure, a small gathering of Oswald's closet friends receives an unexpected visitor. This visitor, a military general who becomes quite drunk and not-at-all reserved, begins to tell the story of how he accidentally consumed the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world--the Sudanese Blister Beetle--and the steamy events that followed.
Oswald goes to France and spends an evening with an unimpressive French family whom is father has arranged for him to live with. After an evening of bland food and bland conversation, as well as an eye-opening sexual encounter with the oldest daughter, Oswald hops on a ferry to Alexandria, where he then makes his way to Khartoum. In Khartoum, he finds the powered version of this beetle he's been lusting for, spends half of his father's allowance and returns to France, where he makes pills of the splendid drug in his bedroom and a fortune to return with him to England.
While studying at Cambridge, he reveals his story of his secret wealth to his advisor, Professor A.R. Woresley. After indulging in the juicy details, the professor reveals a secret of his own: he had discovered a way to preserve and divide sperm, and had used stolen pedigree bull semen to impregnate his brother's cattle that then gave birth to milk-productive heifers, making him a comfortable dairy farmer.
After many bottles of wine and sherry, Oswald convinces his professor and his dripping-with-sex acquaintance, Yasmin, to team up with him for a game that will surely make the lot of them extremely wealthy. His plan: to obtain, divide, and preserve the precious sperm of the most powerful and influential men of the day--kings, artists, politicians, thinkers, and musicians--and sell them to depressed, middle aged women with lots and lots of money to spare.
And so the book goes on describing their quest. Oswald and Yasmin travel throughout Europe drugging the greats of the time (the 1920s) with a perfect combination of a single dose of the Blister Beetle embedded in a luxurious Belgian truffle (a scarcity during the war) and a sexier-than-imaginable delivery goddess. They succeed in obtaining the sperm of (to name just a few) Alfonso XII, King of Spain; Renoir; Monet; Stravinsky; Picasso; Matisse; Proust; James Joyce; Freud; Einstein; H.G. Wells; George Bernard Shaw; and Boris III, King of Bulgaria.
The story is full of indulgence, of good food, good sex, good scandals, good money, and good deception. At the very end of the book, we find that Yasmin and the professor run away to get married, and take all of the precious sperm with them (except Proust, who Yasmin found to be a strange little man), off of which they make a fortune and retire to the Cote d'Ivoire.
But how did Oswald make all of his money, then? Well, he did what any resourceful soon-to-be millionaire would do! He returned to Khartoum, where he bought all of the land inhabited by the Blister Beetle, and monopolized its capture and production. He eliminated all poachers, and started a factory to produce Professor Yousoupoff's Famous Potency Pills--the exact same he had produced in his bedroom in France--and distributed them world wide.
Though Oswald is scammed by his partners (whom, I should mention, he was planning on scamming himself), he never "gets what he deserves" as the greedy little children do in the Charlie books. The story is raunchy, and quite entertaining, but I found myself waiting and waiting for a moral, for Uncle Oswald's awakening. I should have known it wasn't coming, considering Uncle Oswald narrates the tale in his aged, successful, upper-class tone, but I kept my hopes up.
Readers aren't completely disappointed at the end of the novel, however, but are reminded of the reality that wealth and nepotism often lead to power, a theme that also radiates from the Charlie books. Though the greedy children are punished in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, we do not know whether or not they learn from their mistakes. All we see is them leaving the factory, though somewhat altered physically, with their truckloads of candy.
Yet the difference is, however, between My Uncle Oswald and the Charlie books, is that the children are punished, graphically and intensely. Through the vivid and dark punishments, Dahl clearly critiques our over-indulgent, rotten lifestyle. The irony of it all, and the satirical quotes threaded throughout (Grandpa Joe joyfully proclaiming "Terrific! It will change the world!" when first witnessing the power of the chocolate-transporting TV, bringing Willy Wonka's confections right into your living room!) are made apparent because the environment is so unbelievable and fantastical. The scenario in My Uncle Oswald is equally as inconceivable, but without the fantasies of "roasting coffee and burnt sugar and melting chocolate and mint and violets and crushed hazelnuts and apple blossom and caramel and lemon peel." The characters do not enter a curious and mystical world; instead they are grounded--no matter how high-class--in reality. The critique is, thus, less clear to readers.
Or maybe it is simply less clear to adults. While adult readers appreciate the critique of society in Charlie, surely children will not instantly recognize the entirety of the dangers within the chocolate factory, as Grandpa Joe in his candy-revived youth and Charlie do not, because it fulfills their most desired dreams. As adults, have our curiosities have moved from chocolate to copulation? Are we blinded by our most indulgent fantasies of sex and food and money and power that we cannot see the critique? Are children distanced enough from them that they would appreciate it?
Dahl seems to have hope in children. It is possible that they have the ability o change the future, and that adults are too embedded in the system to hope for any change. We can choose to abandon all skepticism and become youthful, as Grandpa Joe does, or, to take advantage of what status and power we've got, and not accept anything less than the very best, as Uncle Oswald does. Which is more dangerous?
end time: 1:08 pm
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (1964), and its sequel, Charlie and the Glass Elevator (1972), is the story of a young boy, Charlie Bucket, who is extremely poor. He lives with his four grandparents, who are extremely old, and his two parents, who are extremely tired. They eat little more than boiled cabbage, except on Charlie's birthday, when Mr. and Mrs. Bucket pool all of their savings together to buy a single Willy Wonka chocolate bar. Charlie loves chocolate more than anything in the world, but is only able to have it once a year. He savors it for as long as he can, resting it on top of his bookshelf, not opening it for as long as he can bear, then eating only tiny pieces so that the single bar lasts him for over a month!
The worst part about the entire situation, is that the Buckets live right next to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory! No one has ever seen anyone go in or out, but the smell of boiling and brewing chocolate confections escape at all hours of the day, teasing Charlie's deprived taste buds with his most coveted treat.
Word comes out that Willy Wonka himself is giving away five passes to his factory for children. The passes will be distributed as golden tickets hidden in bars of his famous chocolates. The first four go quickly--and all to children of either extreme wealth or with the stench of being spoiled rotten (or both). One day, Charlie's Grandpa Joe, the liveliest and most enthusiastic about the secret genius of Willy Wonka of his family members, gives Charlie money he's been saving for ages. More than anyone else in the world, Grandpa Joe thinks, Charlie should get that ticket. So Charlie takes his grandfather's savings and buys one candy bar. And he does not find the golden ticket.
A few months go by, and the last ticket continues to remain. One day after school, Charlie finds a 50 pense piece in the snow, and buys a chocolate bar. After he swallows the glorious candy, he decides to buy just one other, and then donate the remaining money to his starving family. It is in this bar he finds the final golden ticket, and--what luck!--just a day before the factory opening!
He arrives at the factory just on time with Grandpa Joe as his adult companion, and chaos and wonder combine to create the most delicious, intriguing, and slightly sinister world imaginable. A sense of impeding doom saturates the pages like honey does baklava; it's as if more than a bite of this sugared reality is too sweet to be palatable. In the end, all of the other obnoxious children are punished for their greed and indulgence, and readers are reminded the importance of patience, modesty, frugality, and obedience all while being exposed to the waste and ridiculousness of our consumption-focused lifestyles. Willy Wonka announces to Charlie that he will hand down the chocolate factory to him, so that he may continue the tradition of creating the most wondrous and fantastical sweets in the universe. The book ends with Charlie, Grandpa Joe and WIlly Wonka in his glass elevator, trying to convince the rest of Charlie's sad, old, and starving family to join them.
And this is exactly where Charlie and the Glass Elevator picks up. More bizarre than the first book, the sequel takes place half in space, where the glass elevator gets trapped in orbit, is almost attacked by the United States government who believes The Buckets and Mr. Wonka to be terrorist aliens attempting to destroy the newly launched "Space Hotel, U.S.A," and a battle with the most formidable, terrifying creatures called Vermicious Knids (the "k" pronounced) in the galaxy ensues. The other half of the book occurs in the factory, where the old grandparents take too much of Vita-Wonk and Wonka-Vite, substances that make one grow older or ungrow younger, and Willy Wonka and Charlie must venture into the depths of the factory to save them.
Once again, readers are exposed to comments on capitalism and consumption, on overindulgence and impatience. This installment is obviously more political, as it not-at-all-indirectly points at the silliness and absurdity of our governmental systems and the international balance of power. Though children may not obviously recognize the aspects of the social criticism that are more political, adult readers will find them amusing though (thirty years later) somewhat overstated.
My Uncle Oswald--Roald Dahl's "first book for grownups"--is not for children. It may be the most un-child friendly book that could be written by a praised children's author. And what's more amazing is that his children's stories and poetry continued to be published until 1991, a year after his death.
The story is a large journal entry, released by our fictional protagonist's nephew, who is never heard of again for the remainder of the book. Uncle Oswald has taken upon himself in his old age to create an archive of his life. While some of those archives focus on "the art of fornication and copulation," this archive will tell how he made his riches, though fornication and copulation are ever present throughout the tale.
And here's how it goes:
As a young scientific genius, Oswald Cornelius is offered a scholarship to study at Cambridge. He is however, only 17 years young and cannot begin his studies until the following year. His father decides to send him to France for the year, so that he can experience life on his own before buckling down and beginning his career.
The evening before his departure, a small gathering of Oswald's closet friends receives an unexpected visitor. This visitor, a military general who becomes quite drunk and not-at-all reserved, begins to tell the story of how he accidentally consumed the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world--the Sudanese Blister Beetle--and the steamy events that followed.
Oswald goes to France and spends an evening with an unimpressive French family whom is father has arranged for him to live with. After an evening of bland food and bland conversation, as well as an eye-opening sexual encounter with the oldest daughter, Oswald hops on a ferry to Alexandria, where he then makes his way to Khartoum. In Khartoum, he finds the powered version of this beetle he's been lusting for, spends half of his father's allowance and returns to France, where he makes pills of the splendid drug in his bedroom and a fortune to return with him to England.
While studying at Cambridge, he reveals his story of his secret wealth to his advisor, Professor A.R. Woresley. After indulging in the juicy details, the professor reveals a secret of his own: he had discovered a way to preserve and divide sperm, and had used stolen pedigree bull semen to impregnate his brother's cattle that then gave birth to milk-productive heifers, making him a comfortable dairy farmer.
After many bottles of wine and sherry, Oswald convinces his professor and his dripping-with-sex acquaintance, Yasmin, to team up with him for a game that will surely make the lot of them extremely wealthy. His plan: to obtain, divide, and preserve the precious sperm of the most powerful and influential men of the day--kings, artists, politicians, thinkers, and musicians--and sell them to depressed, middle aged women with lots and lots of money to spare.
And so the book goes on describing their quest. Oswald and Yasmin travel throughout Europe drugging the greats of the time (the 1920s) with a perfect combination of a single dose of the Blister Beetle embedded in a luxurious Belgian truffle (a scarcity during the war) and a sexier-than-imaginable delivery goddess. They succeed in obtaining the sperm of (to name just a few) Alfonso XII, King of Spain; Renoir; Monet; Stravinsky; Picasso; Matisse; Proust; James Joyce; Freud; Einstein; H.G. Wells; George Bernard Shaw; and Boris III, King of Bulgaria.
The story is full of indulgence, of good food, good sex, good scandals, good money, and good deception. At the very end of the book, we find that Yasmin and the professor run away to get married, and take all of the precious sperm with them (except Proust, who Yasmin found to be a strange little man), off of which they make a fortune and retire to the Cote d'Ivoire.
But how did Oswald make all of his money, then? Well, he did what any resourceful soon-to-be millionaire would do! He returned to Khartoum, where he bought all of the land inhabited by the Blister Beetle, and monopolized its capture and production. He eliminated all poachers, and started a factory to produce Professor Yousoupoff's Famous Potency Pills--the exact same he had produced in his bedroom in France--and distributed them world wide.
Though Oswald is scammed by his partners (whom, I should mention, he was planning on scamming himself), he never "gets what he deserves" as the greedy little children do in the Charlie books. The story is raunchy, and quite entertaining, but I found myself waiting and waiting for a moral, for Uncle Oswald's awakening. I should have known it wasn't coming, considering Uncle Oswald narrates the tale in his aged, successful, upper-class tone, but I kept my hopes up.
Readers aren't completely disappointed at the end of the novel, however, but are reminded of the reality that wealth and nepotism often lead to power, a theme that also radiates from the Charlie books. Though the greedy children are punished in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, we do not know whether or not they learn from their mistakes. All we see is them leaving the factory, though somewhat altered physically, with their truckloads of candy.
Yet the difference is, however, between My Uncle Oswald and the Charlie books, is that the children are punished, graphically and intensely. Through the vivid and dark punishments, Dahl clearly critiques our over-indulgent, rotten lifestyle. The irony of it all, and the satirical quotes threaded throughout (Grandpa Joe joyfully proclaiming "Terrific! It will change the world!" when first witnessing the power of the chocolate-transporting TV, bringing Willy Wonka's confections right into your living room!) are made apparent because the environment is so unbelievable and fantastical. The scenario in My Uncle Oswald is equally as inconceivable, but without the fantasies of "roasting coffee and burnt sugar and melting chocolate and mint and violets and crushed hazelnuts and apple blossom and caramel and lemon peel." The characters do not enter a curious and mystical world; instead they are grounded--no matter how high-class--in reality. The critique is, thus, less clear to readers.
Or maybe it is simply less clear to adults. While adult readers appreciate the critique of society in Charlie, surely children will not instantly recognize the entirety of the dangers within the chocolate factory, as Grandpa Joe in his candy-revived youth and Charlie do not, because it fulfills their most desired dreams. As adults, have our curiosities have moved from chocolate to copulation? Are we blinded by our most indulgent fantasies of sex and food and money and power that we cannot see the critique? Are children distanced enough from them that they would appreciate it?
Dahl seems to have hope in children. It is possible that they have the ability o change the future, and that adults are too embedded in the system to hope for any change. We can choose to abandon all skepticism and become youthful, as Grandpa Joe does, or, to take advantage of what status and power we've got, and not accept anything less than the very best, as Uncle Oswald does. Which is more dangerous?
end time: 1:08 pm
Friday, October 21, 2011
stories and foxes
start time: 11:57 am.
A few weeks ago, after just finishing an incredible short story collection by our at-the-moment-favorite short story writer, George Saunders, Maurice looked at me and said, "Ya know? I've started to think about how central stories and storytelling is to what we're interested in and with what we want to do." My eyes opened wide in that way they always do, and I leaned forward in excitement, grabbing his hand with mine, "yeah, I know!"
And then we began to list it all:
-Maurice's work at the Texas After Violence Project
-my love of This American Life
-our obsession with the New Yorker (and Maurice's aspiration to write for them some day)
-our need to explore the unknown unknown of America
-our recent move to Cairo
-my fascination with religion
-Maurice's recent interest in journalism
-our post-graduate rhythm involving reading as much fiction as possible
-my borderline out-of-control need to always have a few books on me "just in case"
-the way we read to each other on long drives
(I could go on, but the list is quite endless.)
stories.
It's a short and simple word whose bookend "s"es support hundreds of variations and interpretations. There's fiction and non-fiction, fairytales and folklore; stories for children and those for adults; ones that make us laugh, others that make us cry; those of mystery and drama; there are some that are short, some that are never-ending; stories of exile and return; stories of how we met and fell in love; stories of nationalism and triumph, struggle and perseverance; stories that represent reality, others that are completely imaginary; stories that are factual and true, stories that are comprised solely of lies; stories that are broadcast in the news, others on daytime TV; stories of hope and dreams of a bright future, and those of the end times.
stories.
Like the dozens of floors in a skyscraper, each of these categories is different, distinct. Though possibly related, each is separated from one another. Yet they are all connected by the sinews and veins of stairways and elevators, effortlessly transporting us through space and time, allowing us to travel from one experience to another, from one world to the next, from my reality to yours. Though it is by no means a novel idea, stories--how we think about them, how we tell them, how we listen to them, how we re-tell them and change them--are how we come to know ourselves, how we relate to another, and how we come to understand the world. It is a ritual relevant to people of all cultures and times, connecting us with those in our present, past, and future.
jesus spoke in parables so that the people would understand.
And so do we. But whether we are telling tales or writing memoirs, the reality of the story is irrelevant. What is so important, however, is how we interpret the stories, let them travel through the tunnels and passageways of our memory and experience, how we make them our own. At a recent lecture at the American University of Cairo, Lebanese novelist Elias Khoury said that the best stories are those in which its author is forgotten. Like the Thousand and One Nights, fables, and folklores, these stories become the readers'. The tales are no longer property of the author, but instead belong to those who read and listen to them, interpret them, and make them relevant to their lives. To him, Bab As-Shems (Gate of the Sun), though published in 1998, is an unfinished book. As it is read, and re-read, it is changing, organically evolving into something different and new.
Mr. Fox.
Helen Oyeyemi's Mr. Fox beautifully plays with storytelling. Based on the English folktale "Bluebeard," the novel is, essentially, a complicated love story between an arrogant, controlling, emotionally absent author, St. John Fox, his delicate, timid, and self doubting wife, Daphne Fox, and his imagined muse, Mary Foxe, set in Depression Era America. Though we follow these characters throughout a narrative, feel them suffer and grow, readers are not confined to them, nor to a particular place or time, nor to a specific version of "Bluebeard."
Other than hearing the title mentioned throughout my life, I had no personal connection with the story of Bluebird. To be honest, I knew absolutely nothing about it. But after some wikipedia reading and google-ing, here are the basics of the tale:
Bluebeard is one of the wealthiest men in all the land, though he is blemished by his long, hideous, blue beard. His physical shortcomings were not overcome by his riches, however, and he was married many times to many beautiful women.
But each of them disappeared. No one knows exactly where and why they left, but Bluebeard is always suspect. One day, he asks to marry a fair young maiden, Mary. After touring his palace and is wooed by his fine charms, she accepts the proposal, leaving her beloved sister behind.
Shortly after their wedding, however, Bluebeard must leave town urgently. He gives Mary a key to each room, telling her that she may explore the treasures and mysteries of their endlessly huge home. Yet before his departure, he gives her a final key, telling her that it unlocks a room in the cellar, the only room which is forbidden to her. Immediately after he leaves, she rushes to the cellar, where she finds the skeletons of Bluebeard's former wives, dismembered and arranged gruesomely. She drops the key in a vat of blood, which she is unable to wipe clean.
He returns to find the blood-stained key, and knows instantly of her sin. He has decided that she will experience the same fate as her predecessors, but feels mercy upon the poor girl, and sends her to the highest tower so that she may have one final prayer. Her sister hears her cries for distress, and rushes to the palace with her brothers. The sisters are reunited, and the brothers slay Bluebeard before he is able to do his deed.
...
As a writer, St. John Fox writes. He spends hours in his study, ignores his wife, and is tempted by his seductive mistress. But what he writes, isn't simply written. Instead it becomes reality. The "other woman" in his life is his own creation, but a creation with her own free will. She ignites chaos in the lives of St. John and Daphne, experiences all-too-relatable human emotions, and transports herself and St. John to different times and lands, to the stories he has written and to those which will come to exist in his future, our present.
Readers are similarly transported from place to time. With each chapter--many which are named after the various versions of Bluebeard--Oyeyemi introduces us to a new narrator and voice, a new set of characters, a new setting, and a different time. We jump from Depression Era America to mid-century France; from a Prep School in London to war torn Iraq. And while the style and point of view varies from chapter to chapter, each story is connected. Some characters transcend their own stories and take a new form in another. Certain plots and situations mirror those in previous chapters, and the image of a fox looms throughout every tale. The narrative of the love triangle is non-linear yet ever present, alluded to throughout.
But aside from these basic links, each story also evokes the sensation of a fairytale or fable. Fantastical elements (yet those which are always grounded in reality), abrupt endings, unclear but seemingly present morals, and a quest for love and hope suggest to readers the power of stories, of folktales and fables. Like certain religious traditions, they are something if not completely recognizable, vaguely familiar to each of us, evoking similar sensations within us all, regardless of time or place.
Through these various stories, readers are forced to confront issues of male emotional limits, female empowerment, conflicting realities, and our fear of past regrets. As we discover each Bluebeard's skeletons in his closet, we have a look into Mr. Fox's mind. It's full of stories--and of creations--but it is also unable to ground itself in the present. Is Oyeyemi suggesting the same for all writers, for herself?
After ten chapters, he novel ends perfectly, written as if it were a storyteller performing an age-old epic for an attentive audience. The storyteller divides this final section into three, telling us the stories of two types of foxes, and we come to personally know this section's characters: they become "our fox" and "our girl." This narrator in this section is distinct from those in others. She flawed, as she makes mistakes and forgets details, but is aware of herself and her audience. This awareness is most seen in the final section, closing the book:
"I almost forgot to mention another fox I know of--a very wicked fox. But you are tired of hearing about foxes now, so I won't go on."
And neither will I. But I hope I've inspired you to read it.
end time: 1:22 pm.
A few weeks ago, after just finishing an incredible short story collection by our at-the-moment-favorite short story writer, George Saunders, Maurice looked at me and said, "Ya know? I've started to think about how central stories and storytelling is to what we're interested in and with what we want to do." My eyes opened wide in that way they always do, and I leaned forward in excitement, grabbing his hand with mine, "yeah, I know!"
And then we began to list it all:
-Maurice's work at the Texas After Violence Project
-my love of This American Life
-our obsession with the New Yorker (and Maurice's aspiration to write for them some day)
-our need to explore the unknown unknown of America
-our recent move to Cairo
-my fascination with religion
-Maurice's recent interest in journalism
-our post-graduate rhythm involving reading as much fiction as possible
-my borderline out-of-control need to always have a few books on me "just in case"
-the way we read to each other on long drives
(I could go on, but the list is quite endless.)
stories.
It's a short and simple word whose bookend "s"es support hundreds of variations and interpretations. There's fiction and non-fiction, fairytales and folklore; stories for children and those for adults; ones that make us laugh, others that make us cry; those of mystery and drama; there are some that are short, some that are never-ending; stories of exile and return; stories of how we met and fell in love; stories of nationalism and triumph, struggle and perseverance; stories that represent reality, others that are completely imaginary; stories that are factual and true, stories that are comprised solely of lies; stories that are broadcast in the news, others on daytime TV; stories of hope and dreams of a bright future, and those of the end times.
stories.
Like the dozens of floors in a skyscraper, each of these categories is different, distinct. Though possibly related, each is separated from one another. Yet they are all connected by the sinews and veins of stairways and elevators, effortlessly transporting us through space and time, allowing us to travel from one experience to another, from one world to the next, from my reality to yours. Though it is by no means a novel idea, stories--how we think about them, how we tell them, how we listen to them, how we re-tell them and change them--are how we come to know ourselves, how we relate to another, and how we come to understand the world. It is a ritual relevant to people of all cultures and times, connecting us with those in our present, past, and future.
jesus spoke in parables so that the people would understand.
And so do we. But whether we are telling tales or writing memoirs, the reality of the story is irrelevant. What is so important, however, is how we interpret the stories, let them travel through the tunnels and passageways of our memory and experience, how we make them our own. At a recent lecture at the American University of Cairo, Lebanese novelist Elias Khoury said that the best stories are those in which its author is forgotten. Like the Thousand and One Nights, fables, and folklores, these stories become the readers'. The tales are no longer property of the author, but instead belong to those who read and listen to them, interpret them, and make them relevant to their lives. To him, Bab As-Shems (Gate of the Sun), though published in 1998, is an unfinished book. As it is read, and re-read, it is changing, organically evolving into something different and new.
Mr. Fox.
Helen Oyeyemi's Mr. Fox beautifully plays with storytelling. Based on the English folktale "Bluebeard," the novel is, essentially, a complicated love story between an arrogant, controlling, emotionally absent author, St. John Fox, his delicate, timid, and self doubting wife, Daphne Fox, and his imagined muse, Mary Foxe, set in Depression Era America. Though we follow these characters throughout a narrative, feel them suffer and grow, readers are not confined to them, nor to a particular place or time, nor to a specific version of "Bluebeard."
Other than hearing the title mentioned throughout my life, I had no personal connection with the story of Bluebird. To be honest, I knew absolutely nothing about it. But after some wikipedia reading and google-ing, here are the basics of the tale:
Bluebeard is one of the wealthiest men in all the land, though he is blemished by his long, hideous, blue beard. His physical shortcomings were not overcome by his riches, however, and he was married many times to many beautiful women.
But each of them disappeared. No one knows exactly where and why they left, but Bluebeard is always suspect. One day, he asks to marry a fair young maiden, Mary. After touring his palace and is wooed by his fine charms, she accepts the proposal, leaving her beloved sister behind.
Shortly after their wedding, however, Bluebeard must leave town urgently. He gives Mary a key to each room, telling her that she may explore the treasures and mysteries of their endlessly huge home. Yet before his departure, he gives her a final key, telling her that it unlocks a room in the cellar, the only room which is forbidden to her. Immediately after he leaves, she rushes to the cellar, where she finds the skeletons of Bluebeard's former wives, dismembered and arranged gruesomely. She drops the key in a vat of blood, which she is unable to wipe clean.
He returns to find the blood-stained key, and knows instantly of her sin. He has decided that she will experience the same fate as her predecessors, but feels mercy upon the poor girl, and sends her to the highest tower so that she may have one final prayer. Her sister hears her cries for distress, and rushes to the palace with her brothers. The sisters are reunited, and the brothers slay Bluebeard before he is able to do his deed.
...
As a writer, St. John Fox writes. He spends hours in his study, ignores his wife, and is tempted by his seductive mistress. But what he writes, isn't simply written. Instead it becomes reality. The "other woman" in his life is his own creation, but a creation with her own free will. She ignites chaos in the lives of St. John and Daphne, experiences all-too-relatable human emotions, and transports herself and St. John to different times and lands, to the stories he has written and to those which will come to exist in his future, our present.
Readers are similarly transported from place to time. With each chapter--many which are named after the various versions of Bluebeard--Oyeyemi introduces us to a new narrator and voice, a new set of characters, a new setting, and a different time. We jump from Depression Era America to mid-century France; from a Prep School in London to war torn Iraq. And while the style and point of view varies from chapter to chapter, each story is connected. Some characters transcend their own stories and take a new form in another. Certain plots and situations mirror those in previous chapters, and the image of a fox looms throughout every tale. The narrative of the love triangle is non-linear yet ever present, alluded to throughout.
But aside from these basic links, each story also evokes the sensation of a fairytale or fable. Fantastical elements (yet those which are always grounded in reality), abrupt endings, unclear but seemingly present morals, and a quest for love and hope suggest to readers the power of stories, of folktales and fables. Like certain religious traditions, they are something if not completely recognizable, vaguely familiar to each of us, evoking similar sensations within us all, regardless of time or place.
Through these various stories, readers are forced to confront issues of male emotional limits, female empowerment, conflicting realities, and our fear of past regrets. As we discover each Bluebeard's skeletons in his closet, we have a look into Mr. Fox's mind. It's full of stories--and of creations--but it is also unable to ground itself in the present. Is Oyeyemi suggesting the same for all writers, for herself?
After ten chapters, he novel ends perfectly, written as if it were a storyteller performing an age-old epic for an attentive audience. The storyteller divides this final section into three, telling us the stories of two types of foxes, and we come to personally know this section's characters: they become "our fox" and "our girl." This narrator in this section is distinct from those in others. She flawed, as she makes mistakes and forgets details, but is aware of herself and her audience. This awareness is most seen in the final section, closing the book:
"I almost forgot to mention another fox I know of--a very wicked fox. But you are tired of hearing about foxes now, so I won't go on."
And neither will I. But I hope I've inspired you to read it.
end time: 1:22 pm.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
In the Beginning...
start time: 8:13 pm
"Okay, so it looks like you are E, N, F, P," my best friend Danielle said to me after proctoring my Myers-Briggs Personality Test, an oral exam that asked me to recall details of a farm scene from memory and to describe my most perfect vacation, amongst other things. My results indicated that I was an individual of Extraversion, iNtuition, Feeling, and Perception, a personality category shared by approximately 4-9% of Americans, including my close friend, Laurel.
Danielle read aloud my personality traits, which, for the most part, were really nothing more than ego-boosters, igniting a tiny flame of confidence and self worth inside my head: "Warmly enthusiastic and imaginative." Ooh, that's nice... "See life as full of possibilities." Hmm, I like to think I do... "Want a lot of affirmation from others, and readily give appreciation and support." I suppose you could say that about me... "Make connections between events and information very quickly, and confidently proceed based on the patterns they see." Well, I guess you're right! "Spontaneous and flexible." Wow I'm pretty awesome! "More starts than finishes." uhhhh...
After a second or two, I broke my ego's silence of skepticism. "Well, that's definitely true," I said, thinking about my lofty and frequent ambitions, which in the past two years, have included the not-at-all realistic goals of growing my own vegetables, visiting a different religious institution every weekend, writing a 120-page undergraduate thesis in one semester, becoming fluent in Arabic, moving to a foreign country, such as Syria or Texas, reading basically every book I hear about, going to space, and learning how to play the piano, all while perfecting the delicate art of the cake ball.
Other than the kids' interactives and Program Notes I've written for Ballet Austin, I haven't had a need to put much down on paper since graduating. To be honest, it has been quite refreshing to be freed from the pressures of meeting deadlines and cramming for prelims, however nostalgically I think of those somewhat-productive, seemingly unending hours I spent in the library their subsequent, bone chilling 2 am walks home. (Even just thinking about them raises my heart in a sort of breath-taking longing.) And while I've certainly chipped away at my ever-growing book list and am on my way to becoming a loyal citizen of the Republic of Texas, I haven't taken the time to reflect on these new experiences, to allow myself to think about an interesting argument I heard or an emotionally affective story I read, and to make something of it. I've had exposure to just as many intellectual and creative stimulants that I had in college, and they are arguably even more meaningful since it is all because I want to, not because I will eventually receive a grade for it, but I haven't done anything with them. It has been all input, and no output. It's an addictive hoarding--though of stories and recipes and new experiences, as opposed to wooden canes and styrofoam plates and tupperware--that I never do anything with; they just pile up and get lost somewhere in my easily distracted mind, or they are forgotten about and put off in my chaotic and inconsistent schedule.
It was certainly that output, that creation, that I loved so much about college. Not that I always (or ever, for that matter) produced a profound piece of literature or a nobel peace prize contending solution to the "immigrant problem" in France, but I learned so much--about myself and everything else--from that analytical, creative process. So, in an attempt to bring some stability to my life completely free of constraints or deadlines, I'm going to commit to a little ritual and take seventy-five minutes, 3 times a week to do something with these liminal, fleeting ideas; to continue to try new things, to take in the beauty of fiction or the excitement of a rodeo parade, but to then to bracket off the time and reflect upon them in a positive way with this blog--a specific, defined space; to momentarily return to the to stacks of the library with my coffee and type away; to externalize the internal; to see what I can make or do or try, whether it be with creative non-fiction, a description of my culinary adventures as I work my way through my incredible Indian cookbook, a short story, an incoherent rant, or a photographs of a recent tourist trap I visited.
Seventy-five minutes. 1.25 hours, or 4500 seconds (don't worry, I will not attempt to sing "Seasons of Love" at the moment). It's more time than most Americans spend eating (only 1.2 hours--how do we eat so much in such little time?!), but less time than they spend watching TV (a whopping 2.8 hours), per day. It's about how much time we all spend in traffic commuting to and from work. It's less than the length of a blockbuster movie, but slightly longer than a Sunday morning (or Friday afternoon, or Saturday morning, for that matter) service. In college, it was the length of those longer lectures that allowed us to get into things a little deeper than the typical 50-minute lectures, but shorter than the two-hour seminars that either kept us on the edge of our seats or left us longing for our beds. It's really not that much time, but it's one way I can try to collect all of those scattered thoughts and make something of them. Maybe, it will let me add a few more finishes to those starts. Or, it will simply be further documentation for all of those inconclusive beginnings. Either way, I'm sure it will contribute to my personal self-cultivation as I delight in this liminal, unstable, chaotic, transitive time of my life.
end time: 9:31 pm
"Okay, so it looks like you are E, N, F, P," my best friend Danielle said to me after proctoring my Myers-Briggs Personality Test, an oral exam that asked me to recall details of a farm scene from memory and to describe my most perfect vacation, amongst other things. My results indicated that I was an individual of Extraversion, iNtuition, Feeling, and Perception, a personality category shared by approximately 4-9% of Americans, including my close friend, Laurel.
Danielle read aloud my personality traits, which, for the most part, were really nothing more than ego-boosters, igniting a tiny flame of confidence and self worth inside my head: "Warmly enthusiastic and imaginative." Ooh, that's nice... "See life as full of possibilities." Hmm, I like to think I do... "Want a lot of affirmation from others, and readily give appreciation and support." I suppose you could say that about me... "Make connections between events and information very quickly, and confidently proceed based on the patterns they see." Well, I guess you're right! "Spontaneous and flexible." Wow I'm pretty awesome! "More starts than finishes." uhhhh...
After a second or two, I broke my ego's silence of skepticism. "Well, that's definitely true," I said, thinking about my lofty and frequent ambitions, which in the past two years, have included the not-at-all realistic goals of growing my own vegetables, visiting a different religious institution every weekend, writing a 120-page undergraduate thesis in one semester, becoming fluent in Arabic, moving to a foreign country, such as Syria or Texas, reading basically every book I hear about, going to space, and learning how to play the piano, all while perfecting the delicate art of the cake ball.
Other than the kids' interactives and Program Notes I've written for Ballet Austin, I haven't had a need to put much down on paper since graduating. To be honest, it has been quite refreshing to be freed from the pressures of meeting deadlines and cramming for prelims, however nostalgically I think of those somewhat-productive, seemingly unending hours I spent in the library their subsequent, bone chilling 2 am walks home. (Even just thinking about them raises my heart in a sort of breath-taking longing.) And while I've certainly chipped away at my ever-growing book list and am on my way to becoming a loyal citizen of the Republic of Texas, I haven't taken the time to reflect on these new experiences, to allow myself to think about an interesting argument I heard or an emotionally affective story I read, and to make something of it. I've had exposure to just as many intellectual and creative stimulants that I had in college, and they are arguably even more meaningful since it is all because I want to, not because I will eventually receive a grade for it, but I haven't done anything with them. It has been all input, and no output. It's an addictive hoarding--though of stories and recipes and new experiences, as opposed to wooden canes and styrofoam plates and tupperware--that I never do anything with; they just pile up and get lost somewhere in my easily distracted mind, or they are forgotten about and put off in my chaotic and inconsistent schedule.
It was certainly that output, that creation, that I loved so much about college. Not that I always (or ever, for that matter) produced a profound piece of literature or a nobel peace prize contending solution to the "immigrant problem" in France, but I learned so much--about myself and everything else--from that analytical, creative process. So, in an attempt to bring some stability to my life completely free of constraints or deadlines, I'm going to commit to a little ritual and take seventy-five minutes, 3 times a week to do something with these liminal, fleeting ideas; to continue to try new things, to take in the beauty of fiction or the excitement of a rodeo parade, but to then to bracket off the time and reflect upon them in a positive way with this blog--a specific, defined space; to momentarily return to the to stacks of the library with my coffee and type away; to externalize the internal; to see what I can make or do or try, whether it be with creative non-fiction, a description of my culinary adventures as I work my way through my incredible Indian cookbook, a short story, an incoherent rant, or a photographs of a recent tourist trap I visited.
Seventy-five minutes. 1.25 hours, or 4500 seconds (don't worry, I will not attempt to sing "Seasons of Love" at the moment). It's more time than most Americans spend eating (only 1.2 hours--how do we eat so much in such little time?!), but less time than they spend watching TV (a whopping 2.8 hours), per day. It's about how much time we all spend in traffic commuting to and from work. It's less than the length of a blockbuster movie, but slightly longer than a Sunday morning (or Friday afternoon, or Saturday morning, for that matter) service. In college, it was the length of those longer lectures that allowed us to get into things a little deeper than the typical 50-minute lectures, but shorter than the two-hour seminars that either kept us on the edge of our seats or left us longing for our beds. It's really not that much time, but it's one way I can try to collect all of those scattered thoughts and make something of them. Maybe, it will let me add a few more finishes to those starts. Or, it will simply be further documentation for all of those inconclusive beginnings. Either way, I'm sure it will contribute to my personal self-cultivation as I delight in this liminal, unstable, chaotic, transitive time of my life.
end time: 9:31 pm
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)