Wuthering Heights Chapters 1 and 2

I know the title of this post didn't suggest this at all, but I wanted to write about how disappointed I was by The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. You know, Brad Pitt is a movie idol, a really, really, ridiculously good-looking actor who is a joy to watch. So, just getting to see him do his thing is nice (I think I have an old blog about just watching Brad Pitt). But this movie dragged on so long, and took so many left turns, that by the time it was over, I had no idea what I was expected to walk away with. I was unnerved by the fairy-tale aspect of Benjamin's miraculous reverse aging process juxtaposed with the hyper-realism induced by including hurricane Katrina. I actually think I didn't like it, and that it really wasn't a good movie. The only thing that saves it is Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett are so attractive. I guess what I'm left with is that old age is ugly and it sucks to lose your mind. This was like the antithesis to The Notebook. I read the story to my niece the other day, the original story by Fitzgerald, and Benjamin was never meant to be this benevolent, ageless creature full of wonder and sagacity. Giving the character so little personality caused me to constantly remember that I was watching Brad Pitt. It's a shame, really, to get these A list actors together so beautifully, and get so little out of it.

On to the original intent of this post -- Emily Bronte's tale of the hearth.

Chapter one of Wuthering Heights introduces a rather odd, rather Ishmael-like narrator, Mr. Lockwood. I have a lot of thoughts about this narrator. One concerns his view of what I'll simply call "the gaze." I'm trying very hard to remember the theory I've read about the gaze. I think Butler discusses the importance of the gaze in the subject/object relationship. The subject gazes at the object of desire. In Mr. Lockwood's case, he doesn't particularly care for the gaze to be returned -- especially by a woman. When Lockwood first meets Heathcliff, he gets a little crush on him, he says, because he "felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself." The first woman to meet Lockwood's gaze is the mother dog that jumps on top of him and dominates him. This is the beginning of what seems to be a pattern with Lockwood: out of fear of female dominance, he avoids the returned gaze. He seems to better tolerate Heathcliff's person, and he gives us a little insight into why this is: "I bestow my own attributes over liberally on him." Lockwood likes to look at what he can see himself in, and I don't believe that women can do that for him, but Heathcliff, with his masculine power, wealth, and frustrated heterosexual desire is something that can receive his gaze, precisely because he won't return it. When Lockwood speaks of a failed romance, he confesses that he was interested in a lovely girl, "as long as she took no notice of me." When this girl does look at him (he even insists there was no telling of love, only looks), "at every glance [I} retired colder and farther."

Now, I think for the purpose of the novel, we are to compare Lockwood and Heathcliff, and find the latter far more exciting and masculine. However, aside from Lockwood's inexperience in the country, how are we to distinguish between his frustrated sex life and Heathcliff's? I think it has to do with the gaze, and with power. Lockwood is secure until the object of his desire returns the gaze; Heathcliff is secure until Cathy turns her gaze to something else besides him. Lockwood would have liked it if his aforementioned object of affection had kept her gaze elsewhere. Heathcliff admires an empowered woman, and Lockwood is afraid of one, even if only in the form of a dog. This fear in Lockwood is so off-putting. I feel somewhat sympathetic for him, having stumbled into this mess unknowingly, but when he begins to worm his way into things, I find it don't like him. When he wants to free himself from the Cathy's ghostly arm, he rubs it bloody against the broken window pane. Something about him, his fear and his weak character, make him the great counterpoint to Heathcliff.

I find that he is very much like Ishmael, and Heathcliff is very much like Ahab.

Final Thoughts on Fall 2008

Grades are in! I did even better than I anticipated:

African American Poetry and Drama: A-
Women's Studies: A
Natural Disasters: A- (!)
Shakespeare: A
British Lit 1842 - Current: B+

I couldn't believe it when I found out I got the A- in Natural Disasters (the last general ed/science class of my BA)! I know there are some of you out there who don't expect any less, or who perhaps think I could be getting these grades even if I were sleep walking through class, but I have to say I am pretty darned pleased with myself. Yet, that B+ irks me, for I earned an A- in that class (see the blog on the midterm mishap). I wish I could say that I am rid of that rigid instructor forever, but she is the contact for the masters program. What incentive for transferring to CSU Long Beach! Well, I guess I could just try to pay more attention to directions. It's apparently pretty important, seeing how I got the only other B+ at DH, in syntax, because I failed to notice that homework was 40% of the grade, and didn't turn in the first assignment.

The instructor I had for Shakespeare, Dr. Lois Feuer, was a very intimidating Shakespeare expert. Imagine my delight as she took me aside after I turned in my final and told me she had considered inviting me to audit (?) her graduate course on gender and sexuality in Shakespeare next semester. She told me she was surprised and disappointed that I was a junior -- well, I'm only a junior because I'm compressing my schedule to graduate a semester early -- and that I was already enrolled in five classes for the Spring semester. She has one of the toughest reputations in the department, and she was simply wonderful to me. It more than made up for the rigamarole I went through in British Lit. It's amazing how far personality goes. I'm convinced that I erred in syntax and British Lit mostly because I didn't care for the instructors. Even though I know I'm not telling Dr. Feuer anything she doesn't already know about Shakespeare, I am convinced that she appreciates a good discussion about literature. I felt that Dr. White was more concerned with weighing and measuring, holding us up to the light to check for flaws, than she was with excellent discussion. Yet, I learn from all of it. I learn what kind of teacher I want to be, and what kind I desperately want to avoid being like.

In other news, I got the results for the GRE subject test back. I scored in the 78th percentile. Not my finest hour -- but not bad, especially since I didn't get to study for it, and had to rush through at least 20 questions. I still consider myself pretty great, because I scored with about the top 20 percent of my fellow test takers, which puts me with some pretty good people.

I'm very pleased with all that I got accomplished this semester. I feel like I've returned to the real world, for at least a few weeks. Are you freezing? 'Cause it's FREEZING. I hope this blubber I've been developing lasts through the winter.

"Give my love to everyone!"

After watching the film adaptation of Tennessee William's The Rose Tattoo, I have to admit that I am a little overwhelmed at the complex themes at work here. Before I do any research, I want to discuss some ideas that I have, some thoughts.

I think there is a pretty obvious reference to Italian theater history in this film. I don't remember exactly what the types are, but the notion of the buffoon is pretty strong, especially when it comes to Burt Lancaster's character, who is as tragically goofy as it gets. The other thing that I remember from Italian theater is the use of masks. There are no literal masks in the film, although it could be argued that Sarafina uses "dressing up" as a literal, tangible mask. Even then, I think once again Williams has given us a story that looks at gender and gender expectations as a mask, and discusses the power of this mask through gender-bending characters.

Is Sarafina's problem her husband's infidelity, or her expectation of herself as the ultimate woman, with feminine power enough to keep Della Rosa from straying to the Mardis Gras? What I appreciate about William's vision is his ability to show people who suffer because of their own perceptions of who they are. I think he mostly shows women who are struggling with autonomy, women who are suffering because they must see themselves as objects of male desire, or they are oppressed by others who must keep them within the limits of a very gender-specific expectation. She can't believe that her husband was cheating on her, not because of the kind of man he was or wasn't, but because of what his fidelity would suggest about the power of her femininity. The idea that she isn't feminine enough is implied in the very beginning of the film, when the store keeper has her carry her own groceries. She is reluctant to do so, because (I'm trying to remember the words) she isn't a "common donkey" in the street; she argues that she isn't a beast of burden. Yet, her expectation of her femininity weighs her down so heavily in her marriage, as well as her relationship with her daughter, that she has to implore a goddess, the divine mother herself, for help.

Now, I had another idea, that Williams was heavily relying on the association of the rose with Mary Magdalene, and the sacred prostitute archetype. Perhaps Sarafina, in her rigid demand for fidelity, is actually blaspheming the sacred prostitute. She sure does give it to the other woman at the Mardi Gras, doesn't she?! She breaks a bottle over her face, if I recall. I'm sure the purveyors of myth would go crazy with his movie, but I'm not educated enough in myth to make much more of this allusion.

Lust is a dominant theme in the film, I actually thought Burt's character just wanted to get laid, before he confessed his situation with his "dependents." The daughter is inconsolable when she cannot actualize her desire for the sailor, and her desire to live in the moment means she has a lust for life. So just whose lust is she mirroring? Her mother's lust for a strong man who will confirm her status as a sex symbol, or her father's, who's wild sexual appetite needs more than one partner for satisfaction? I think perhaps we're supposed to imagine both.

Yet, this is Williams, and he never sticks with just one theme, or one comment on that theme. I can't wait to buy his complete works.

My Homage to British Lit

I'm not sure if British Lit will be amused, but I am planning on reading Wuthering Heights over the break and doing my usual running commentary here.

I have simply had a miserable time in British Lit this semester, with mistakes and misunderstandings flying. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't give some authors due attention. I especially avoided James Joyce, Seamus Heaney, and Tennyson. I don't think I had enough time to really give these texts the close reading they demand. I had no real desire to please the teacher, which can go a long a way when you feel overwhelmed by long readings. I knew that if I did the readings we would have the same inane discussion in class that centered around a New Historical perspective, and the same dim wits would give their reader response comments that our instructor would spin according to her wishes. I had to keep myself from sleeping, doing other homework, and indulging in other diversions during this class.

I was actually interested and involved for the first half of the semester, but when she rode me so hard about the midterm mishap, I just tuned out.

Well, the entire time I have spent analyzing Moby-Dickthere has been this small voice saying, "Wuthering Heights...Wuthering Heights... ." I don't know why. There is something about childbirth, the other, and tragedy in this novel that has been echoing around in my mind as I try to understand my ideas about Moby-Dick. I started re-reading this book today, and I already see some similarities.

A full journal will follow, a chapter by chapter discussion. Maybe British Lit will forgive my behavior this past semester, and I can redeem myself with this literature that I love.

To Kill a Ratcatcher

Nine days left in the semester. That's not a very comforting fact, considering the amount of studying I have to do. Today I am playing Mercutio in a scene reading of Romeo and Juliet. He's one of my favorite characters Shakespeare wrote; there's something almost suicidal in his tone -- his "I care not," and his rant about Queen Mab -- there's something very odd going on with Mercutio. If I was a director I would portray him as very troubled -- but kind of mad, in that funny way of his. Anyway, we are going to be wearing mustaches and wielding star wars light sabers, so if anything it will be entertaining. How often do you get to say, "They have made worms meat of me!"

I missed being at Fullerton College today. I love the campus in the winter, when leaves are falling and the air is crisp. The white buildings glow in the glare of the winter sun, and a nap in the new library is so delightful. I miss FC a lot.

I'm going to start planning my break. I have six weeks, and I would like to try to go on at least one outing a week. Must stops:

LACMA: They have a new contemporary space, which my cousin says is awesome. I haven't been in ages, so that will be a fun day.

The Huntington(don?) Library: When I was sixteen I drove my boyfriend and best friend here so we could work on her photography project. We took gothic pictures by the fountain and in the statue garden and rose garden. We must have been a sight -- girls in head to toe velvet and combat boots waltzing around while the older death rocker boy looks on. I think I had red Shirley Manson hair. Compared with the goth look of today, we were pretty mild. Those were simpler times. I'd like to go and look at the collection. What fun.

Hot Springs: I just love hot springs. I know it's a little stinky -- but I think a good soak in mineral baths is very rejuvenating. Let's throw in some acupuncture and massage, too.

Films: I haven't been to the movies much lately, and I want to go all the time on break. I want to say -- yeah, I saw that -- to everything.

Theater: I vow to see at least one big show on break.

The Dick: I will work on Moby-Dick. I wish I had a grant and could buy up all the theory books I want -- but I may just have to hang out at the library. I will make breakthroughs and headway and all of that. Right after I sleep in.

Well, that's enough planning for now. Wish me luck as I go sword fight my heart out.

Old Underdog: New Tricks

Most of the people who follow this page know that I've been stressed out bonkers lately because I'm applying to Ph.D. programs in L.A., and I'm proud to say that I finished uploading my application to USC and DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT IT ANYMORE! It's really been frying my brain. Now I can let it go -- and see if I can get my bundle of papers off to any other local schools before their deadlines. I really only want to go to USC. (Blythe won't like that, but I think even she recognizes that it's a pretty good fit.) I'm under no grand disillusionment; I know they probably won't have me. Yet I'm trying to hope just a little bit that the underdog thing is pulling for me as much as it's hurting my chances of getting accepted.

I know the previous post was WHINY. I haven't been praying or meditating as much as I need to lately, and it's showing in my inability to deal with criticism, and my uncontrollable emotions. It's hard to stay centered when you are trying to promote yourself. Now that the process is over I can let it go and focus on my classes again.

I'm disappointed that I will most likely get a B in that English Lit class -- but I'm moving on. There has been some dyslexic thing hovering over me as I sit in that class. I don't know what it is. I'm a shoe-in for As in Shakespeare, African-American Lit, and Women's Studies. I'll probably get a B in Natural Disasters. Three As and two Bs ain't bad. Next semester is going to be a monster. I may have to use an organizer -- scary stuff.

I won't get any real rest this weekend, as I have projects due and about a hundred (or more?) pages to read. Now that I don't have to worry about the USC app I can take things down a notch. I want to work on Melville and Moby Dick over the break, but what with the stress of applications and finals and final papers, well, I may have to get massages and sleep and meditate for a week before I return to normal. My head actually always hurts now. Some rest will do me good.

And there are tons of good movies I need to go see. Slumdog Millionaire, anyone?

The Paradox of Feeling While Thinking

A student of literature speaks and hears of paradox often while studying poetry. It seems we can't get enough of the heartbreak of joy, or the sublime nature of true happiness. The closer you get to a real experience, it seems the more that experience will be indescribable, and conflict with labels meant to categorize it.

While this feeling (or non-feeling, depending on how you look at it) tends to be associated with high moments, I went through an experience just yesterday that came close to pushing me into the realms of purest humanity. For some reason or other, I took my British Lit midterm a couple of weeks ago without comprehending the directions. When the instructions said to pick two excerpts, I did all of them; when the directions said to choose one topic out of the two provided, I did both. I was as puzzled at my inability to comprehend the directions as the next person, and I tried to chalk it up to brain exhaustion -- I had two other midterms that week that had indeed asked me to write two essays, and British Lit comes at the end of my three class day -- I'm exhausted anyway. I don't tend to do as well in British Lit as I do in any other Literature class, although the reason for that is less discernable than why I did poorly on the test.

Here's the thing. This midterm was worth 15 point total. In spite of taking only a little over half the time allotted for the essay portion (the other half wasted on the second essay) I got a 6 out of the 7 points assigned to that portion. I got all of the "fill in the blanks" correct -- another 3 points. The only thing left was to get the five points for the identification portion. As I stated earlier, I identified three instead of two. In chronological order, the second identification I attempted was wrong. The third one however, was correct. Yet, without explanation, the instructor gave me only half the credit for the portion. Since there were no explanations for this on the paper, I concluded that she marked me off for not following directions. This gave me a C on the paper instead of an B+ or A-. The more I thought about it, the idea came to me that she might have just made a mistake on the identification portion...teachers can get tired brains, too right? In hopes that just maybe this was the case, I went to her office to check. My professor spoke nicely with me, a little patronizing maybe, and looked at my paper. She read aloud the excerpt that I had gotten wrong with great emphasis, and declared to me the correct author, and slightly mocked the guess I had confusedly scrawled out. I told her that I knew I had guessed wrong, but the final one was correct...? She replied, "Oh I didn't even look at that one. The directions were to respond to two; I only graded the top two. You alerted me to the fact that you had accidentally written two essays, but you said nothing of this portion." I agreed that this was true, and commented on how apparently scatterbrained I must have been to have overlooked the directions. She looked squarely at me and said, "Well, that is why they say to read directions three times. That is the advice given to graduate students." I thanked her for her clarification and told her I would see her later in class.

I knew that I hadn't followed directions, but apparently some small but ridiculously hopeful part of me wished that she could have been feeling generous toward probably the sole person in the class who had accidentally gone way above and beyond the call of duty and fulfilled ALL of the demands of the test in 75 minutes, with only one wrong answer. I know there is no reward for failing to follow directions; my mind knows this. I know I should not even imagine that I should receive any kind of special treatment for being smart or studious. Than what? Why did I leave her office and have to shake off tears? I suppose I'm a little fragile right now. With major universities breathing down my neck for grade point averages, and the cat near death...I don't know. Perhaps because I have had such wonderful people in my life who care, not just whether or not I can be perfect, but are concerned about my success, I am a little disgruntled by people who coldly remind me that I'm not really good enough. I suppose I must look for approval elsewhere in life, and stop leaving it up to instructors to reassure me that what I have to say is worthwhile.

It is a paradox, this thinking and knowing that what she did was fair and justifiable and this feeling hurt. It's difficult to know that I set myself up for this kind of inner conflict.

Little stars...

I was either fifteen or fourteen the first time I read Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I had about two years before I would see Baz Luhrmann's film with my then boyfriend, who didn't quite understand why I was so distraught by the film, especially since I was no DiCaprio swooner. The fact of the matter was that just months before I saw the film, I had been through some pretty perilous breakups, and the ideas of romantic suicide, families that hate each other, and even the idea of being star-crossed, all appealed to me and reached the inner, dusky corners of my mind and heart. Rereading the play almost fifteen years later has given me a different vantage point, and I identify more with Mercutio, and Friar Laurence, than say, Romeo or Juliet, but somehow their young love and fierce passion still move me, even to tears.

I have been, probably to the detriment of my learning experience, watching the film as I read, pausing to read the lines that the film skips or delivers out of character or scene. This film is still pretty darn good. Mercutio is expertly played by Harold Perrineau, now of Lost fame, and I really love Clare Danes' portrayal of Juliet. She embodies her as I interpret her from the text; she is witty, and the cleverer of the two young lovers. Her innocence and virginity, so often brought up in the text by her blushing cheek, is balanced by a strong sense of who she is and being true to who she loves, even at the cost of losing her family. Her father's tirade at her, and her mother's dismissal, is crushing in the text, and Danes' is so good at teenage angst that she takes Juliet's despair to very strong, but very realistic level. When she pulls the small pistol from her purse and screams at the Friar that he better hurry up and tell her an answer, because she "longs to die," my heart just breaks for this young girl who seems to see no other way out, and has been spurned by the people she should trust with her life.

Shakespeare seems to have a penchant for rage between father and daughters over marriage. Hero's father, in Much Ado About Nothing, tells her that if she has been sleeping around, and is ineligable to marry Claudio that he would like to kill her, and calls her all sorts of slurs. Capulet similarly yells at his daughter that if she doesn't do as he says and marry Paris, that he would watch her starving, begging in the streets with a blind and callus eye. He calls her a harlot, and tells her never to speak to him again. There is some sort of strange connection between these future sons in law and fathers in law. They are marrying off their only daughters, but they have more of a connection with these idiots than their own valuable daughters; Hero and Juliet are far wiser than their years and experience alone.

At any rate, Shakespeare repeats themes and patterns and even names, in his excellent plays. I don't think the film could move me without his direct dialogue; while it's a pretty movie, it it firmly rooted in Shakespearian sound, and tone. I have yet to watch the church scene, with the glowing blue crosses. It makes me weep. Perhaps it is good to read this play at around the ages the main characters are supposed to be. It is good for depressed young people to know they are not alone, nor have they been alone for hundreds of years. In mourning Romeo and Juliet, perhaps they put off mourning themselves.

Joseph Conrad: A Man Without a Country Knows Best

We are supposed to be reading Heart of Darkness this weekend in Brit Lit, which means we made it through the Victorian period and are on our way into the modernists. Yay, Virginia Wolf! Yay, T.S. Eliot! Okay, Joyce, you can come in, but don't stay long. I don't want to get caught up in a syntactical logic-warp. It's too late for that kind of thing. To kick off our time with the modernists, we have read some of Hardy's poetry -- you have to love this man's cynacism, just don't fall in love with a cynic because they will be skeptical that you love them -- and I have to say, I just love a man who admits that no matter how cheery things seem, there is something wan in even the most colorful of experiences. He's so good as an equalizer and as a response to the Victorian sense that everything that is perfect is right around the corner. Not in this life, Hardy says, and even goes on to say, probably never. Oh, and did you know that we don't actually talk about Naturalism in British Lit? Why is that?

Conrad's work is a whole other ball of wax. Even amidst all the doom and failure of imperialism there is this sense that there are people who are in positions of power who do not accept the traditions that are handed down to them. Well, I'm not sure you would call Marlowe a man in a position of power, but if you look at capitalist societies and view the working class as a group heavy with the possibility of having the most power, then you could see him as representative of a powerful group that rejects the ideals of imperialism, and maybe even look at the superficial end of colonization in this particular manner -- this manner of striking a flag in the ground and declaring this land in the name of whatever (hmmm, freeedom, anyone? democracy, anyone?), and capturing all the inhabitants of a region as chattel. What I mean is the face of imperialism has changed, with possibly less suffering, or different suffering, because people like Marlowe could see that the ends didn't justify the means, by looking at the means. Marlowe sees imperialism in action, and from day one can hardly stomach it.

Yet Conrad is...not British? Oh, right. He's Polish, Swiss, and eventually, British. When you hear this, you smack yourself on the head and go, of course he could write about the evils of imperialism -- he is an alien, a foreigner, an observer. It's so much harder to look at your own country, your own environment, and describe with such clarity and understanding its moral weaknesses and fractured manifestos. The great thing is that Marlowe tends not to cast too much judgement when witnessing injustice. When his aunt declares him practically a saint for taking Western Civilization to Africa, he calls it so much blather and nonsense. He knows he is there to make money, and won't take stock in any of this "civilizing" talk. Then, when the doctor wants to measure his head, he lets him, but he doesn't really think there is anything to it. When he sees the men on the canoe for the first time at sea, he describes them as looking so natural, emphasizing how unnatural his ship and crew are as they motor down the coast. Through the text he speaks the internal questions and reactions that tend to stay hidden. In this way Conrad vocalizes Western guilt and shame. Shame seems to be a dominant theme of the novella.

I know this piece is short, but I wish we were taking more time in discussing it. It is one of the more brilliant things to come out of England. Or Poland. Or the West.

The Hurricane That is Life Right Now

Update: After $200 worth of blood testing, the lab technician informed me that cat seems fine. She then informed me that if I want to pursue further testing, the next few steps would cost me $445. I told her that I would have to examine my financial status and see if I can afford to proceed. That was on Monday; today, my cat actually looks better. I know this sounds incredible, but just a couple of days after I've been bawling because my cat is sick and I can't help him, and I may just have to watch as he gets sicker and sicker until he dies, he seems better. He ate really well yesterday and today, his eyes are wide, he's meowing normally, and purring! My vet said that he felt some "thickening" in his small intestine, and now I'm wondering if he just swallowed something. He loves to eat elastic and tape, and I'm wondering if he just ate something and had to get it through. So, although it seems unbelievable, I think my cat is going to be okay. That makes me feel less stressed.

For the moment.

I'm actually getting ready to go to school in few minutes; today is science day, with Natural Disaster class at 2:30. Can I tell you how much I deplore this class? 1) The original instructor failed to appear the first class meeting, which set the class back a week, 2) the new instructor is a) super boring, b) works for oil companies to find more oil and probably is salivating at the thought of opening up Alaska (but that isn't very nice of me), and c) is disheveled, 3) the class is filled to the brim with a) athletes, b) liberal studies majors, c) and people who have no idea what they are doing in a classroom, 4) the class is called natural disasters, but should just stick to its real name, Geology 100, because there is no real connection between nature and people yet; all we do is talk about nature, that is, geology, that is, difficult science, 5) this class should have been offered online, so that I don't have to drive to campus to learn what is simply in the book.

This is the last class I have to take at CSUDH that doesn't pertain to my major, and I'm taking it hard. Everything about this class reminds me why I am an English major, and reinforces that I am English major-y, and snob-y, as am not appreciating having to take this intolerable class.

In other news, I have gotten As on all midterms except for the science one, so I am maintaining if not raising my GPA in English. I think, if I get As in my English classes next semester, which will also have five classes (this time all English), I will have a GPA of 3.8 in English. Over all I think I will graduate with a 3.4 or .5. That will help with graduate school. Still working on my application. GRE Subject test soon, too.

I'm up to my ears, but I'm still breathing. It's amazing that I haven't gotten sick. I've been drinking 16oz glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice every morning, taking ginko, and going to bed early. I still need all the hopes and wishes I can get.

Staples, Please...

I'm not a bleeding heart liberal, as the phrase is heard so often, but I'm a liberally bleeding heart. My computer dictionary defines this as someone "considered too dangerously softhearted." Softhearted is defined as "kind and compassionate." Apparently there is a danger in being too kind and compassionate; I don't think our nation is suffering from this kind of bleeding heart syndrome; and, I don't think I truly am, either. I think perhaps the word I'm looking for leans closer to hysterical, which means "affected by uncontrolled extreme emotions," and could just be a high-functioning sort of depression, which comes out to, "severe despondency and sadness."

But I try my best to give mad props to my pragmatic side. I think to myself and speak aloud to others: animals die. They are with you for a time and then they die. They are not as intelligent as humans, and probably do not think about why they are sick, or where they are going to be buried. They don't know why they feel sick or if they will get better. They don't know they are going to the vet today to get blood drawn and tested, and find out whether they have diabetes or cancer or whatever it is that making them so lethargic and skinny. They don't weigh treatment options. They don't count the cost of daily insulin injections.

I have always stood by the notion that if an animal has a fatal disease that causes it to be in state of illness and discomfort for the rest of its life, it's better to let that animal go, and not prolong its life for selfish reasons. I have though it ludicrous when animals get organ transplants and are on dialysis, or receive chemotherapy for cancer. Unless that goose lays a golden egg, I can't imagine why pet owners would go to the expense, forget about what pain the animal is in.

My cat Romey (Roman), is about nine years old. He was the runt of a Siamese litter, and has always been a little off in his health. He's very allergic to air borne and food elements, and can't eat chicken, or his body breaks out in Job-like sores on his legs and hips. I have provided him with food made of rabbit and venison, which clears up the sores, but his eyes still run from airborne allergens. Over the past few years, whenever Romey would look itchy, or get very gooey eyes, I would take him to get a cortisone shot, from which the good effects would last for the year. The doctor always warned that if he got too many cortisone shots he could get diabetes, so we really limited the times that he got the shot.

Lately, Romey hasn't seemed himself. He is a yowler -- many times friends have thought I had a baby in the house, due to his loud and long meows; but now he doesn't hardly meow at all, just a strained hiss that lets me know he's hungry. When I brought him home, he was so small he could fit in the pocket of my pants. He was smaller than my fist, even at thirteen weeks. Even though he was a tiny little mouse of a cat, you could hear his purr the minute you stepped in the room. Now, he faintly purrs if I rub his face. Siamese often have crossed eyes, and Romey never seemed to have completely crossed ones, but they were a little sketchy. Now he seems to be struggling to see, and knocks into things. True to the breed, he has always been a skinny cat; but now his spine and ribs are showing through his skin, and he has lost a pound or two -- which could be over 20% of his mass.

Today I will get an assessment on his condition and be told my options. I may get told that he is very far along, and needs either intravenous treatment (this runs in the hundreds of dollars), or that he should be anesthetized. As much as my prideful, tough side would like to return to the former glory days of, "who cares," "it's just a cat," and "animals die," I'm feeling overwhelmed at the prospect of having to grieve my cat right now. On top of all else, it seems the insult to the injury of the current pressure I'm under to keep it together. I know it's just a stupid cat -- but it's a new little tear in my already bleeding heart, and while I know the kind and compassionate thing to do for animals, and humans, in these situations is to let them go -- I'm remembering how difficult it is to practice such detachment. There is an odd sense of shame that I get in letting go -- as if it's not the action love would move one to...

Right now Romey is laying next to me, and every one in a while he twitches as if he's doing something very exciting in dreamland. He's been such a excellent cat: always a lap sitter, always purring, silly, curious, and fun. He would ride on my shoulder, just like the Dylan song. I will be hard to say goodbye, if not now, then whenever the occasion presents itself.

Spring 2009 Update

After swearing off of myspace for a week, I have found that I'm a little antsy and agitated. It's for the best, really. I have so much school work to do, and myspace is bringing me down. The end.

I just got the Spring 2009 schedule of classes, and whoooooopppppiieeeeeeeeee! My senior seminar is called Transnational Studies in American Literature. That is so much better than Fashioning a Renaissance Self, or Fashioning a Medieval Self. I'm so relieved. I'm also going to be taking an interesting class about American Gothic lit after 1700 -- so I'm hoping for maybe...Poe? At least Poe? I've also got early American Lit (a favorite), and Medieval British. I'm not looking forward to Medieval lit, but the instructor is the same one that I currently have for Shakespeare, and she knows her stuff backwards and forwards. She makes reading Henry IV Pt. 1 easy. One of my friends at DH has a huge academic crush on the guy teaching the early American and Gothic lit classes I'll be taking, so I'm excited to see if he's the McAcademy of the English Dept.

Got my first exam back today from African American Poetry and Drama -- A. So good news all around. I can stress enough how relieved I am that my senior seminar is dealing with literature I might actually be interested in, and that the instructor is not the dreaded Gianotti or the brilliant but condescending White. Oh dear, if I had to take a seminar about the Hero's journey or the ideals of the Reformation I might have cried. I kind of tear up just imagining it. This is welcome news, and I'm now really looking forward to next semester.

You wouldn't happen to have any myspace on you? Just a taste?

Please Don't Let Me Be Understood

Eh. Perhaps I should have worried more. I scored an 1060 on the GRE -- 580 on the verbal and 480 on the quantitive. I'm really surprised about the verbal. I never scored below 90% on the practice tests. I don't have the results of the writing test, but I'm fairly sure I did well there, at least a 5. Hopefully the subject test will go better.

I'm disappointed, and worried. I feel like I'm an orphan trying to get adopted. Please sir, I promise I'll be good. I remember having these same feelings of inadequacy when I started apprenticing at a Salon for the first time. Looking back at that experience I can see how much I shortchanged myself. I don't want to do the same with graduate school -- but I can't help imagining that I'm going to be competing with people who not only have brilliant ideas, but also have impeccable writing skills. I didn't even go to high school; I went fifteen years between grammar courses -- until last summer the last time I had been in a grammar class was 1992, and I never made it to diagramming sentences. Even now, rules of syntax get stored under short term status and at some point disappear to make way for new information I find sort of interesting but isn't literature, like the history of geologic time (fascinating, really, but I would send a look-a-like to this class if I could -- without a feeling one shred of guilt). I've always envied people who seem to have it all -- a great balance of creative ideas and the ability to work with numbers...and stuff. How wonderful to have the idea and be able to express it well. My therapist tells me that I believe myself misunderstood -- so perhaps I have actually wired my brain to dismiss structure in order to lower the chances of being understood. Then I can recognize myself and shift blame and forsake responsibility and all of that stuff of suffering.

But you don't want to know all of my secrets. Just thank you to everyone who has shown me support and wished me well. I'm scared to death, but I can't quit now.

Also -- if I have to hear one more person in my Women's Studies class begin a sentence with "as a woman..." I think I'm going to scream. You are not a woman! You are playing one on T.V.!

Whose Literature is It, Anyway?

Whilst writing a scene analysis for the Shakespeare class I'm currently taking, I have come across a conflation of ideas pertaining to how to analyze literature. In class we are discouraged from ever writing that Shakespeare is arguing anything through the text; however, we are encouraged to point out arguments within the text. I get lost trying to make the distinction between an argument in the text, and the argument that the author is making through the text. Am I to imagine that the writer is simply an arbitrary medium through which a text miraculously emerges, devoid of agenda? Am I to lose the writer entirely, and speak of the text as if it occurs for and by itself? My instructor, a venerable Shakespearian scholar, sticks to the dictum that there are no messages in Shakespeare's work -- there is only one message, that being life is complicated. I still can't help wondering, doesn't Shakespeare deserve to be credited with trying to make a point? Is the text doing the arguing? It all seems like such a muddle.

In the class, there is a man who doesn't wear deodorant, and doesn't wash his clothes...often. Compassion only goes so far, then one must being a scented handkerchief to block the smell and stare at the offender in disbelief. I know that many luxuries in life are not equally dispersed, but isn't soap and water quite available? Won't the government actually give you soap? Wouldn't soap be one of the easier things to steal? If you can afford notebook paper, can't you afford soap? Even if you had to use powdered soap -- wouldn't you use it? Also -- why should the teacher have to put all the notes from PowerPoint on Blackboard? If I had a a dollar for every time I heard -- is this going to be on Blackboard -- I'd have at least ten dollars this semester alone. Why should you come to class if every thing is going to be available online? Especially lecture notes? Wouldn't that be an online class? I'm telling you, some students have no shame in being lazy, assuming, and entitled. Ever heard of taking notes? Ever heard of reading the book? Ever heard of body wash? Anti-perspirant? Daily bathing? Electric clothes washing machines?

I'm taking the GRE on Monday. I'm a little scared, but at this point, what could worrying accomplish?

Ohhhhhh, Mexico.

Last summer I knocked out three classes, and graduated from Fullerton with an Associates Degree in English. I had one week in August, the week before Labor Day, to go on a vacation. I found a miraculously low fare from Alaska Airlines, and what with our $50 companion fare ticket saved up, we got to fly to Puerto Vallarta in first class seats for around $1000 total. We were stoked! We booked our stay at the Casa Magna Marriott resort, and used points to cover the cost of our stay. We only paid for food, drink, and taxis.

Todd and I had been to PV before, on a Mexican Riviera cruise. We got to see some of the sights, but nothing like what a week would afford. Traveling to PV in August is a little risky, as it is the rainy season during late summer, and it's quite hot and very humid. However, the weather stayed temperate for our whole trip.

I suppose I could give you a blow by blow -- but I think we've been through that before, and a lot of what we did on this trip was relax and do nothing -- it was hard, actually, because I kept stressing about the Fall semester and applying for grad school -- still stressing, actually.

What I will offer are the details of our trip that had to do with John Huston. I've been on a Huston kick lately, trying to watch most of the movies he directed. One of my favorites is The Night of the Iguana. Already a Tennessee Williams fan(atic?), I have since become a fan of the film, and was delighted that our trip was going to afford us the opportunity to see where it was filmed, and maybe even tour Elizabeth Taylor's old home in PV, which shares a bridge with Richard Burton's old casa accross the street.

We walked from downtown, also known as El Centro, to the street where the homes were. You have to go up several sets of steps, and then the homes are to the right.

Here's Todd at the base of the steps:

Going up the steps:

And then finally making it and seeing the pink bridge (made out of pink marble), and inside the foyer of Casa Kimberly, as Taylor's home was named.




Taylor, although not in the film, was nearly always present during filming, and married Burton at this time. I wonder how she got along with Ava Gardener during shooting; Gardener, who is supposed to be a woman past her prime in the film, simply smolders as she rolls off sassy remarks and frolicks with her "houseboys."

Huston shot the film on a beach just south of Puerto Vallarta called Mismaloya. Todd and I ventured there, as we were told that the ruin of the set was pretty much still there, intact. When we got there we found out the entire set fenced off. It was stil exciting to look through the fence.








After we had stood looking wistfully through the chain link for some time, and were walking back toward the beach, a man magically appeared out of the chain link. We tried to talk to him, but he didn't speak English. Only later did I think of paying him $20 to let us explore the ruins. I'm really such a good girl, at heart. Well, there were also a lot of spiders and since it was the rainy season, knee high grass. It might not have been a good idea at all.

The best part of our trip that had to do with The Night of the Iguana was going to Huston's private home at Las Caletas. The mega-corp Vallarta Adventures has either leased or purchased the lease to the land the Huston used to have a home on. It's south of Mismaloya and hands down the most beautiful piece of property we saw on our trip. It's built up now to suit the needs of the tour group -- large places to eat, beach chairs, etc., but it's still neat to go where he used to stay. There was a large colume of Flannery O'Connor's short stories at the lodge where we ate our lunch. I couldn't help but wonder if it had been his.

There was the brightest little cove there that we wanted to stay floating in forever:



Those were the highlights.

About the film, I have some thoughts about the Revered Shannon. There was some moment in the film, as I was watching it for the third time, where I went - Shannon wants to be a woman. Now that it has been some time since I had this analytical observation, I have forgotten why I thought so. I think it has something to do with the scene where he is tied up on the hammock and yelling something to the tune of, "Every woman wants to see a man in a tied up situation." And then the references to being at the end of one's rope -- well, when a man is at the end of his rope, he could very well take up a female rope, and then he has a whole other rope to go through. I had much better proof than this -- but I'll have to watch it again, or better yet, read the play in order to remember all of my reasons for believing Shannon is not simply having a crisis of faith, but is having a crisis of gender.

Also -- I recently learned that USC has a great Gender/Sexuality area of study in their English program. I'm ironically a little uncomfortable with realizing that it could be my best bet. Me, a Gender/Sexuality specialist. I certainly don't feel qualified. but I'm getting ahead of myself. We'll see what becomes of this application process -- and if I pass the GRE. I can't do math! Its not an overstatement! Well. Wish me success. Please.

Howards End

I finished this novel the other day, and near the quite surprising end, I found myself actually crying. It's a wonderful book -- insightful, beautifully written, interesting, and may very well be a contender for best novel by E. M. Forester, although I haven't reread A Passage to India in quite some time, so it remains to be seen.

Mrs. Wilcox must be the most important character in the novel. She is manipulative, frightening, and embodies an interpretation of the woman's movement in the sense that she is felt more than she is seen, and that her most powerful act in the novel is something she writes. Margaret and Helen do not write, they simply discuss writing, and mostly men's writing. But Mrs. Wilcox is a writer. She goes out with Margaret for stationary, and her note concerning her plans for Howard's End is the most provocative bit of information in the plot, pulling up truths hidden deep within the superficial goings on of the Wilcox family. I don't know if I like Mrs. Wilcox or not -- but her influence on the novel is transcendent, and cannot be denied.

Her involvement with the plot reminds me a little of the women of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness: influencing their husbands, weaving the future of men from small offices of the African Trading Company, and pushing and pulling men out of and into various destinies. Mrs. Wilcox doesn't so much as demand, as she suggests -- but her presence commands, and like many great leaders who become even more persuasive in myth than in life, she appears to control matters when she isn't present.

The forward says Only connect..., which is of great importance to Margaret, who feels Mr. Wilcox's tragic flaw is his inability to connect. But what is this connection she so craves and desires for herself and for others? I want to imagine it as the moments where we break the Subject/Object hierarchy and simply exist together. Yet, I'm not sure much of this connecting occurs in the novel. If it does, it is between Margaret and Helen. I'm almost sure that this book is about sisterhood as much as it is about homes, land, economy, love, family, and nature. I don't know if there is another relationship where the kind of connection described as preferred occurs. It may occur between Helen and Mr. Bast -- but so much social consequence occurred to put them together and break them apart, I feel that option is troubled.

There is so much more in this book -- so much about land ownership, possession, class (of course), women, men, outcasts (Tibby), sons, parenting, fathers, mothers, siblings, friends. It's quite a package. I think the narrator quite unreliable, but who knows.

I think I will read it again, maybe not soon, but certainly. It seems that Forester owes a great deal to Austen, Dickens, Bronte, and probably the whole Victorian era. Its definitely Modernist -- there are passages that seem to be written in stream of consciousness.

I'm getting the film from Netflix in a few days. Can't wait to see Emma Thompson. She just simply is Margaret.

Have you read Infinite Jest?

In 1996 I was seventeen, a high school drop out, in beauty school, and dating a boy who liked to read as much as I did. However, while I was busy reading William Sommerset Maugham, Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the like, my boyfriend was scouring the book review section of the Los Angeles Times for new fiction to read. Ever the insolent competitor, I began to at least try and keep up with him, and bought this new massive novel that all the papers were talking about, Infinite Jest. I managed to read it on breaks in between lessons on how to tint and perm hair. It was funny; it was crass; it was slightly incomprehensible; there were these footnotes that would take forever to get through, but always seemed worth it; I loved it. My snobby soon to be ex boyfriend had the book, but couldn't get through it, and I considered my tackling of it a triumph, and soon began recommending it to those I felt would enjoy it.

Five years later, I would still be recommending it to certain, special people. When I ran into the boyfriend, he would ask me, like a dunce, "oh, did you ever get around to reading Infinite Jest?", and I would have to remind him that I read it before he did. I recall the previous not only in the attempt to prove my ex a pretentious dufus (and myself?), but also to show that even betwixt rancorous old lovebirds there stands the mutual appreciation of David Foster Wallace and Infinite Jest. It's always on my list.

There are others, certainly more well read than I, who have loved this book with a fierceness I haven't approached, yet. Brandon wrote an eloquent and lovely synopsis here. I haven't read the novel in a few years, so I can't remember all of the plot and sub plots that dominate the pages. What I do recall is knowing, even as an uneducated mid-teen, that this book was special, and was something to be paid attention to, and demanded to be shared. It's a guide to an era I am familiar with, but that many fail to understand, or find reason for. It tries. It overachieves and conquers, and yet tragedy befalls it's every turn. It is like Shakespeare. It makes the simple expand into the infinitely complicated. It's so funny.

The novel arrived at a time in my life when my creative energy was gathering a lot of momentum. I was writing all the time: letters, prose, and stories. None of it comes close to the genius of Wallace, but it does remind me that he had this energy that shone out of his work. His energy and prolific writing style were inescapable.

He passed away, yesterday. He apparently committed suicide by hanging. My reaction to this reminds me of when I read that Hemingway had killed himself. Although I believe Hemingway was 20 years older than Wallace, and his suicide occurred long before I was born, I still felt a loss that was indescribable. Valuing someone's art, and even a general consensus that someone's art is valuable, is no real basis for a hope that the individual will feel valued to the extent that life becomes tolerable. And even though I believe in free will, and know that there may be no connection whatsoever, I can't help but be frustrated for the American artist's plight in a culture glutted with false promises of meaning and satisfaction. For some, it never comes.

On the other hand, Wallace's last action doesn't surprise me. The irony of his death is in line with his work. However, the loss remains. The immediate future of American Literature is darkened by his demise. I will miss reading something new from DFW.

Also, as he was an instructor at Pomona College, I would like to take this opportunity to share with you that he was a much beloved professor, and that for those of you who feel you are not appreciated, or not of any use, or fighting a rising tide of apathy that holds no promise of ebbing, let me assure you, you are loved and esteemed as much, if not more, than he was and is. It may not keep you off the ladder, but it is my attempt at consolation for those who search for meaning in existence.

Coming soon...

...an update on my vacation to Puerto Vallarta coupled with an analysis of Night of the Iguana (the film), my progress in the PhD application process, and general exciting news having to do with Shakespeare, poetry, Dickens, Long Beach, smelly people I have to sit by in class, new pictures, and plans. Soon!

First days...

My niece had her first day of kindergarden today. I am usually a little scared for my little ones; elementary school can be so influential on one's life. It was for me, anyhow (see institutionalized prejudice, bullying, bullying by a teacher, sexual harassment, as well as simply falling through the cracks). I have tried to supplement my nieces' government regulated education with controversial ideas like the people living here before Europeans were slaughtered in order for the colonizers to steal their land, homes, and goods, as well as Thanksgiving is a myth, and pressure to participate in religious holiday celebrations like is in violation of the separation of church and state -- including saluting the flag. I'm amazed that parents aren't up in arms about their children's education. I don't think I will send my kids to public school. I'm not a snob! Really! I don't like not having any control over who my children spend time with, and I REALLY don't like not having control over the quality of their education. Of course, I don't have any children. Yet.

I had my first day of the Fall 2008 semester today, at Cal State Dominguez Hills. I have five classes, three are English. I am taking British Lit: Victorian to Modern, Shakespeare, and African American Poetry and Drama. I'm revisiting a lot of lit that I love, including Othello, Romeo and Juliet, Heart of Darkness, and Raisin in the Sun, as well as reading some works for the first time, like Tennyson, Top Dog/Underdog, and Measure for Measure. I'm excited about these classes.

The instructor I have for African American Poetry and Drama is a really good guy. I don't know how to explain why I like him. I like his manner. He's an African American Literature specialist, and he's all about discussion in class. He just seems like a really good person. He also makes a concerted effort to dress and groom well and is always squeaky clean. Very polite, too. He is the instructor I had for Literary Criticism, and despite my frustration with the texts in that class I had a great time with him.

The other two teachers I have this semester are new (to me). There is Fuer, and White. Fuer is the Shakespeare instructor. She opened her introduction today by declaring that if we were taking this class under the impression we wouldn't have to read, write, or think, then we could drop, no questions asked. I loved that. She knows her stuff, she's tough, she wears her feelings on her face (I do too -- it's a blessing and a curse), and she hates nonsense and excuses. Finally. I've heard that her favorite thing to say is where is that in the text. A woman after my own heart.

Finally, the instructor I have for Brit Lit is boring, but not dumb. I have a feeling that it will be my least favorite -- there were already a lot of sub-par discussions in class. I'll try to raise the bar -- but sometimes I'm just outnumbered and banging my head against a brick wall. I LOVE Heart of Darkness, and want to expand my thesis for a paper, so it won't be all bad. And Great Expectations kind of follows that triangle desire diverted thing I've been thinking so much about.

There is a pack of about four or five students that I have all three classes with. One is this kid who looks like Dawson from Dawson's Creek, and who annoyed the heck out of me in Poetry and Restoration Brit Lit last semester. He would give these comments in class that sounded like he was really pleased that he seemed to be thinking critically, and gave them in such a way that he imagined he was doing everyone a favor in speaking his mind. In poetry class, after he tried to suggest that Blake was not using symmetry in his Tiger/Lamb poems I finally had to burst out and say, "What you're saying is absurd. It's not smart. It's not clever. It's absurd." I felt guilty afterward. Then, one day after class he came up behind me and swatted a bee away that had landed on me, I felt really guilty. I'm going to try to be more tolerant of Dawson this time around, but man, THREE classes, back to back. I think it was Blythe who said, it won't be the quality of your work that suffers, but the quality of who you work with will go way down. Have I mentioned that Blythe is right about everything?

I'm sure there will be updates as the semester progresses. The other classes I'm taking are Humanities: Gender, Race, Class, and Natural Disasters. Hey, they kind of sound related! Teehee.

From the Vacation, the mind wanders and wants to get lost.

Being away from the U.S. -- watching American television is depressing. Except for the Simpsons, which is oddly a relief. Watched an episode of Oprah -- most of the cast of the Cosby show was on -- and while my sentiment and nostolgia were aroused, I was mostly saddened that Bill Cosby is apparantly ill or ailing or just old and ill-looking. Growing up, my brothers and I (the four of us shared two rooms) would listen to his comedy tapes as we went to sleep. I suppose he was my mammy at bedtime. He was comforting. When I see him on TV (or like when I saw him in person two years ago), I trust him implicitly. I don't believe for one second he would do anything wrong to me or anyone else. He is my television father. Of course most of my father figures have come from TV. There was Sam from Cheers; he always seemed to be the nice guy, if sex wasn't involved. However, for all the Michael Landons and Mr. Rogers (who I did love), I think Bill Cosby comes out on top as my #1 TV surrogate father.

I remember Bill holding his TV daughters when they had been in some sort of trouble with friends or boys. This is something my father never did. Of course my father held me as a baby, but he didn't hold me when I needed comfort. He was no shoulder to cry on -- he's not a giver of tissue or an offerer of a sleeve. He's a stony man with something more important than your tears on his mind. He's a man who when a lovely speech was being read to him about his daughter and her impact on the school she got herself through and the award she was to receive could be found leafing through the purple program appearing uninterested. He has been the father deathly afraid of being branded a nepotist, failing to understand that he is still free to support, praise, comfort, and love his children. Yeah, if you haven't noticed, I'm working through some issues here.

On Oprah, there was some talk about the Cosby show itself, about how it portrayed an unrealistic situation within a black family, possibly discouraging black viewers. I never knew of this controversy, because I was watching this in a white neighborhood and thinking to my little white self, these are just people -- a big family, like mine, I wish I had such a big house, with my own room -- and I wish I had a dad that cared that much about what was going on in my life and would put his arm around me and tell me I was special and smart. A dad that believed in me. A dad that wanted me to go and get what I wanted out of life.

Listening to BIll Cosby at night before bed stepped in as that voice to say get out, get out of a bad situation and find your own road. I took my dad to see Bill Cosby at the OC Fair last year, and it was less meaningful to him than to me. The reality hits then -- I only have one dad. It's not the funny, charismatic person on the stage. It's the bored and uncomfortable white man down the way.

Saying goodbye to the fantasies that got me through the ideas I held on to in my youth has been hard. It's all part of the death of youth. The countdown to 29-07-09, when I will be thirty years old, with no fanfare, but maybe, with some hope. Kissing things goodbye only means that you create a space for more things to kiss. So here's goodbye to all the stand-in dads that I leaned on in times of dad-abandon. Thanks. I needed that.

Big Baby!

At the Long Beach Museum of Art, a large orange fiberglass baby measuring fifteen feet tall has held court for the last year or so. Amidst the post-nuclear charm and malice that dance around Long Beach's Ocean Blvd. waterfront, the stark and tragically oversized infant has brought a sense of urgency; standing so aloft and so aglow, the Big Baby, as we affectionately called him and yelled out in the car as we passed him, helped us see that our young nation is awkward and lonely, goofy and imposing. I loved it. I thought it powerfully metaphoric, and even a little rebellious, especially for our LBMA, known for it's collection of impressionist works, and strange colored pencil 1980's works.

Well, the Big Baby is gone; now in storage somewhere. The empty space that he once occupied now feels cold and drab. He took with him all the promise of a new Long Beach, an appreciative and refreshingly hopeful Long Beach; a Long Beach that wouldn't tear down it's historical buildings to the tune of 2 million dollars -- and I know, 2 million dollars sounds really good right now -- but you can't get these buildings back, people! Someone laid bricks, someone cut a ribbon, someone (okay, me) found first editions and excellent used copies of her favorite authors in your establishment. Legends are being razed, and we don't even have our Big Baby to turn to.

But I have found a new Big Baby. Marlene Dumas is a painter from South Africa and the Netherlands who paints babies, big.

Her painting, The Painter, currently on display along with dozens of others at the Museum of Contemporary Art on Grand, downtown, is magnetic. It's a painting of a washed out nude threeish year old, with one red hand and one blue hand, and it's breathtaking. Her works are disturbing, but of course that's the point, and I am moved by them. Her more obvious shocking images, like a Marilyn Monroe death mask painting, and several paintings of dead bodies and people hanging from the scaffold, are not joyful, but they are somewhat sublime.

What is even more spectacular is that she is this bubbly blonde European woman with a fast tongue and an eagerness to talk that pleasantly surprises one, as these days you have to be on a New York society page to get coverage as an artist -- see Schnabel (Dumas' work is in an other, vastly superior, realm than his is), or these other connected artists that you could never have a conversation with about zits or sit with and eat a Greek omelette.

I really recommend seeing this show, not only for the NBB (New Big Baby), but for her whole body of work. It is something to see.

Desire Diverted, or Maybe Freud Inverted, and Bros Before Hos

I haven't read Freud, so I don't know why I act the fool and use him to explain ideas floating around in my head. I do sort of know that he had this idea that at a certain age boys want to have sex with their mothers and girls their fathers, and that they become jealous and possessive of them. Yet, in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, it seems that the inversion of Freud's idea is true, as least where males are involved: Brick's troubled relationship with his father and his friend Skipper has diverted his desire for his wife and inspired him to numb his feelings and cares with alcohol. I think it was Blythe who informed me that there is a theorist who suggests that homosexual desire is often sublimated through a third party in literature -- I agree with this observation. I find it apparent in Gatsby, within the relationships between Nick, Jay, Daisy, Jordan, and Tom, as well as in much of Tennessee's work, like Cat, Streetcar, Glass M, and Suddenly.

I don't know just what I can add to that discussion. I don't know enough. But it's something I am thinking about for a paper. I could just stick to Fitzgerald's novel, or try and have a discussion of William's works as a collective. I'm not sure how that kind of paper is received by the academy nowadays, but I suppose there's no harm in trying.

Loosely related, the oft mocked phrase "bros before hos" bears some significance here. Although the poetry of this phrase might give it a modern edge, the meaning behind it is timeless. It is also an idea used to support army life; you have to leave the one you are in a relationship with in order to live with and possibly die for an army of others. Now, in our capitalistic country, the citizens do not have to join any of the armed forces. But when they do, they must employ the BBH philosophy in order to justify putting aside personal commitments to lovers in the name of allegiance to unknown others.

Yet, the BBH philosophy has retained it's strict gender control in a few recent successful films. In Todd Phillips and Judd Apatow's most recent comedies the BBH mentality is taken to a new level of frustrated sexuality. Blythe mentioned to me that Telladega Nights is a good example of this, as well as Old School, and then as I got to thinking...Anchorman, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Superbad...etc. I don't include Forgetting Sarah Marshall, because the "Bros" in effect actually put their love interests before their relationship (making that a sure-fire post ironic film, Brandon? I'm not sure), and even the quintessential "Bro" in the film only puts himself before others -- everyone else in on the same level to him. As far as the other films are concerned, they seem to have BBH as a common thread. Sometimes the Bros in the movies must unlearn their BBH behavior, and come to appreciate their Ho even more than their Bro, as is the case in Telladega Nights and Old School. And it is usually a Bro that doesn't have (or doesn't get many) a Ho, or is tired of his Ho, see Old School's Beanie or Telladega Night's Cal.

Doesn't it seem as the though the BBH mentality is a rationale for the third party sublimation theory, as well as the inversion of Freud's theory? Certainly the BBH philosophy is present in Cat, as Paul Newman is overwhelmed by his self-pity concerning Skipper's death, and must have the love and approval of his Father in order to resume any sexual activity with his wife. He was active with her before, when Skippy was alive, and was there to keep his desire alive. His relationship with his father becomes the new same-sex component of the triangle of sublimation, with a nod to Freud. Big Daddy, indeed.

It's rather complicated and somewhat pedestrian, but I feel like I'm on to something.

Fleshly Things

As a rule, I try not to watch PETA videos. Although I'm sure many would disagree with me, I feel that I do not need to see the violence and torture that animals undergo in order to empathize with them or understand that it is wrong to do such things, or to support those that do. Images of violence do not have a good affect on me. I may, according to some kind of logic, as a human, deserve to have to witness the suffering that my methods of consumption are associated with, but I am not the kind of person that doesn't believe in something until she sees it -- I can very well believe something, or even believe in the possibility of something without witnessing it. If this suggests that I am weak, well then, okay. I still think that I can pretty much put it together that if the material worked with is made of fur or skin, an animal was raised in captivity and then, at some point, skinned for its pelt. I don't like this -- especially the fur part. There is no need for fur. I do not need to see the torture that animals go through in the name of fur.

Leather is not as easy for me to dismiss. I love leather. I have an unholy attachment to shoes and bags and furniture. But we will get to cows later.

I have been thinking about this for some time, and I want to become mostly vegetarian. When I eat steak, chicken, and pork, I can't help but marvel at the fact that I have no idea where this dead animal is from, how long it has been dead, what conditions it was raised and slaughtered under, and how much energy was used in the process. I have seen breakdowns that claim bovine ranching and dairy production to be the most detrimental to the environment, followed, I think, by pig and then chicken farming.

It may sound strange, but I can reasonably cut out chicken flesh from my diet. I don't really like chicken. Once in a while barbecued chicken comes into my life and I marvel at its juicy and tender texture, but I can gross out on chicken pretty quickly. Unfortunately, chicken farming is the least of my worries when it comes to ethics. I mean, I wouldn't agree with or be down with any unethical treatment of animals. For me, this includes feeding them anything other than what they naturally eat, confining them to areas they would not normally restrict themselves to, painful death, or any negligence regarding their health. I always buy organic, free range, and hormone-free chicken and eggs. Yet, I don't really adore chicken. I'm adding to animal suffering by choosing according to convenience instead of maintaining awareness.

I love steak, and some pork dishes are simply delicious -- but don't I owe it to myself to curb my cravings in order to take a stand against inhumane practices?

Yet -- yet -- I really don't want to be one of those people who simply can't eat anything, or go out, or who make veganism their religion and non-vegans their sinful counterparts. I definitely want to simplify. This may mean that I don't shop like I used to, or that I don't eat like I normally do. I just can't continue to eat and wear animals as I have in the past. I don't want to be as associated with killing and consuming as I have been.

You may wonder how I suddenly became so passionate about this. Actually, my concern has been growing incrementally. I don't eat veal or fois gras. As I already mentioned, I don't buy meat that isn't organic and hormone-free. I don't buy fur. But I have asked myself -- is it enough? Can't I do more? I don't ever want to be "done" attempting to simplify my life. I cannot throw it all up into the air at once, though. I mean, that would be traumatic. Of course my dream would be to live in tent I wove myself from cotton I farmed organically...but I have been dealt a hand that I feel I must play respectfully. The bottom line is that I love animals, and I love this planet.

The most recent National Geographic magazine had a article on the eating of endangered monkeys in Africa. The reporter remarked that one baboon that was being roasted looked disturbingly like his three year-old son. I suppose that article struck a chord with me, for I think the element of animal consumption that bothers me the most is how close it seems we come to eating eachother.

Everything is Math, or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Syntax

Long ago, my mom sighed and declared, "Everything is math." I was just a squeak then, and knew nothing of binary code or geometry, or grammar, also known as syntax. I simply knew things. I knew that I liked things, or to be more precise, I knew that I preferred things. I preferred reading to counting. I preferred words to pictures, but I still liked pictures. I definitely preferred words and pictures to numbers, even if those numbers were presented alongside words and pictures. Numbers were for memorizing; words were for comprehending. I do not truly believe that someone "taught" me this (way of comprehending). This, I assert, I knew.

I also assert that before I was ever taught syntax, I knew how to write. This is very clear now, as I'm struggling in syntax class, yet can still write, some might say, beautifully. Once the sentences are broken down into parts, and assigned symbols, language, this thing that I knew, disappears and becomes math, this thing that I do not know. The feeling, the spiritual connection that I have with language, becomes numb. Slowly, when things are explained carefully, I do begin to understand. But it is painful, as that part of my brain has fallen asleep, and the pricks of comprehension sort of tickle and torture my mind.


It is true -- everything is math. Everything is quantifiable. Once, a pseudo-scholar, quite like myself, and I both agreed (with little to no research or evidence) that free will is not quantifiable, therefore God exists in the presence of free will. I don't claim this statement to be true -- but it sounded intelligent at the time (self-comforting rubbish, I'm sure). Whatever its validity, it sort of communicates the feeling I have about math -- its like, I know you math, I know you're here, there, everywhere, but you aren't in my feelings, my spirit(uality), my words. I have a narcissistic relationship with language. I see myself in it, and I feel it reflects me. I think math also has a narcissistic relationship with language. It sees itself through language. Therefore, I also have a narcissistic relationship with math, except that I see math as my shadow side, a reflection of that which I identify with in a positive sense, a negative to the positive reflection. A binary representation of free-floating abstraction. The rigid to my obscene. Why the bit about God? I think it's because it's a tie to the knowing. There are things that I simply knew, without being taught. Is God quantifiable? I'm not really a good scientist. God is both the hardest and easiest thing for me to know.

As the title of this post suggests, I am learning to love syntax, and therefore, math. There are things that make me who I am that I don't like. My shadow side. Math is in there, though it's not as apparent as, say, intolerance, or hypocrisy. I think I have mistrusted math due to its rigidity, it's precise nature. I have always been more attached to Lewis Carroll's idea that a word means exactly what I want it to mean. Oh, there is a science, but there is also poetry. There is choice. There is a place for the abstraction that has no word. There is a look. There is no text where there is a text. I want to imagine that there is a place where there is no math for a word. I imagine this place to be God. I know I create it. I know.

Perhaps the most hopeful thing I can muster is that for something to be both -- the shadow and the material -- it is divine. It is a bond that we can take shelter in. Perhaps the key that unlocks the great mystery of the collective unconscious. Certainly, certainly, it is special. For me, it is home.

The Cold Ripoff, or How I Know I'm Old

I'm old and grumpy. I became aware of this sometime last night, as I, along with hundreds of others, was herded along attending a Coldplay concert.

Coldplay are a very well liked group of musicians. They resonate with people of all ages, and both sexes seem to like them with an equal fervor. The band acts as an equalizer in that way; oh, you like Coldplay? I like them too, etc. Liking them is an American pandemic. So I wasn't surprised to find out they were playing an arena show at the Forum, in Inglewood. I wasn't planning on going anyway, as I have already seen them perform twice, and I don't even have the new album.

My brother, however, loves them. (I must add at this point that it was I, back in 2000, who bade my brother listen to this incredible new album from these English lads, and it was he who replied upon hearing, "Oh.") He and I had already seen them at the Hollywood Bowl, and then again at the Coors Light Amphitheater, when he surprised me with tickets.

I wasn't going to turn him down, even though I was less than enthusiastic about going due to these facts:

It fell on a Tuesday night.

The Forum is less than comfortable.

I don't have the new album.

But, I reasoned:

They do put on a good show.

I love live music.

It's nice to get out during this grueling summer schedule, and I'm not too deep into the second session yet.

I have decided to recount my evening, because at this point I just don't know if I'll ever go to another large venue concert.

Getting from the 405 freeway to the Forum was a nightmarish gridlock with cutting and butting in, and collisions nearly missed, all the while flanked on the sides by aggressive panhandlers, scalpers, and T-shirt sellers. I swore it was the L.A. version of the border line in Tijuana. After that mess, where it took half an hour to go .9 miles, I was directed to drive all the way around the full-to-bursting stadium parking lot, and then to pull into an overflow lot, across the street, then into the lot for the Hollywood Park, two blocks away from the forum. I paid $20 to park two blocks away. MInd you, I was already sore from the extreme fitness routine I'm doing four days a week -- and I was not pleased to get to stretch my legs in this way. For $20 (parking in the Forum lot was $22).

I finally arrived at the stadium, and entered with my brother. Beers were $13, this for a Pacifico, which I believe goes for about $7 for a six-pack. Upon entering the arena, I was overwhelmed by two things -- heat, and marijuana smoke. That is one pungent herb. I don't smoke and being that it was an enclosed, stuffy, and hot place, I wasn't thrilled to be breathing everyone's resinous exhalations -- it's unsanitary. I thought to myself, it's the beginning of the show, I better use the restroom now before things really get going. This is the part of the story that I begin to feel really underappreciated by the folks who are ripping the money out of my wallet faster than I can say, one pretzel, please. There are two bathrooms for a ten thousand+ arena. I would say there were twelve stalls in the bathroom I, eventually, went into, and I imagine that the situation is the same on the other side of the area. 10,000+ people...hmm even if only 5,000 were female (this was an equally female crowd as it was a male crowd) that would mean that there was one stall for 208 women. I considered bribing someone, anyone, to let me use any bathroom, immediately. But, I did have some luck in that when I was just getting to the breaking (water) point, a very popular song came one that sent dozens of line denizens heading for their seats to listen in discomfort. That made things a little easier. A little.

Did I mention it was hot in there? I was in a tank top and capris, and I was standing still, and sweat was rolling down my face.

Did I mention the screaming? I love music. I even love my favorite bands. But the screaming. I don't think I even like raucous screaming anymore. I don't think anything is worth it, really. You're paying $80 to have severely limited access to a toilet, sweat like an athlete, and you're screaming like you've just been cured of cancer? I'm troubled by this. Didn't people pay what I paid? Don't they value the experience, and not just scream their heads off in glee because the band showed up? I mean we paid for this experience, and I'm glad the band showed up too, but I don't think I even got close to having the experience I paid for.

$130 dollars could have got me chorizo-stuffed dates wrapped in bacon, and wine, and unparalleled conversation with loved ones. No sweat, no smoke, no toilet lines, no screaming, no songs I don't know, and no gridlock, and no paying to walk two Inglewood blocks.

It's funny, Coldplay has always had a political agenda, and I've always liked that about them, especially their concerns about fair trade and the Iraq war. I wonder, though, if they care about their fans. I mean, I'm not that picky -- I'll see a show in a dive with NO toilet -- for a $10 ticket and $2 beer. The price does not indicate the experience. There has to be some quality control. I love music -- and I'm considering not going to these events anymore. It becomes insulting.

Summer's Already Half Over -- Or Half Full?

I got my final grades for the two classes I took this summer; I got an A in The Power of Masks, and a B in The History of Western Civilization. I'm pleased as punch with both. Of course I take great pleasure in the A I earned in Masks, because I worked very hard on the M. Butterfly paper. I did some fantastic research on tranvestism, but ultimately decided not to analyze the presentation of tranvestism in the play. Maybe some other time. The instructor apparently didn't find me hard to read (yuk yuk), and gave me such lovely comments as "excellent analysis," and "this is clearly your voice here," and even "great." I got full points -- the second time ever, for a paper.

The B? Well, that's okay. How much can a girl memorize in four weeks, anyway? Plus, when I'm studying fascinating works by brilliant playwrights like Hwang, it's pretty hard to stay interested in things like the Carolingian rule and how the Holy Roman Emperors in Germany were always messing around with the Northern Italian economy. I like to have an overview of history, but to be perfectly honest -- all it does it help me form arguments about literature. I mean, the world is a text, after all. And I'm sure something from that class will help next semester when I'm wading through medieval English Literature. None will compare to Jeanne, but I do hope who ever teaches that class makes it interesting; if not, it's a snoozer. Actually, no, that's not right at all. I'm taking Modern English Lit this Fall, and Shakespeare, African American Poetry and Drama, and Cultural Pluralism (I think I chose the African Diaspora), and a class on Natural Disasters. Well, whatever the case, I'm sure have a small knowledge of the mighty bloodshed that has occurred in France and Germany and Spain and Portugal and Italy and Greece and Turkey and Russia and Israel and Persia...Well -- I'm sure that will come in handy someway, somehow. But seriously, people, the Children's Crusade? They say that it's where the myth of the Pied Piper comes from. So whatever happens, don't follow the man with the flute.

Theater Teachers are Hard to Read

The professor who taught the Power of Masks humanities class that I took this past summer session was very difficult to read. I couldn't tell if he appreciated the work I did in the class or if he was somehow dissatisfied with me. I'm sure by now all who read this on-line journal of mine are aware of how much I like to interact with the instructor of any class I may take, so it may not come as some suprise that it was somewhat alarming to me when I couldn't tell positive feedback from negative feedback. Of course, I'm doing well in the class -- I think at this point I'm only four points shy of the total points possible, so I imagine that means I'm doing fine, and Blythe kind of reassured me when she asked me to remember who my competition is.

Today I gave a speech that was based on the final paper I wrote, which was an argument that the mask in Hwang's M. Butterfly is a composite of several images in the text, and that the mask is only powerful when Gallimard believes in it. For the speech I brought out the fact that we had only read the text in class, and not seen a performance of the play. Hence, from the text you could imagine the mask of "Butterfly" as combining components of Peking Opera costumes, the original impact of Puccini's Madame Butterfly (that of a Western woman in "yellow face"), the traditional dress of Chinese women, and the antithesis of the "Butterfly" mask, that of the image of Anna Mae Wong, an Asian in Western dress. I tried to underscore the idea that Song is not the "Butterfly" mask, that when he appears nude at the end of the play Song has totally lost his power as the mask lays to the side. "Butterfly" realizes its fullest potential as a mask when Gallimard puts it on, because he is the creator of the mask, and it is only the mask he is in love with. The narcissistic nature of the mask is in full force as Gallimard commits suicide as the mask's final "act."

Sometimes I get nervous when I speak, so I hope the progression of my ideas didn't get too jumbled in what probably was a too-fast delivery. I still don't know what the class thought. When the instructor asked the class to give feedback, only a couple of people offered comments -- one said that they liked the way I showed that the mask was narcissitic, and another said that it was a good analysis. Nothing was said of my speaking capabilities, so I figure I must have been too tied to my notes or lacked gestures, or something.

For the next summer session I will be taking a syntax class -- so here's to hoping my grammar will improve. I'm also taking a step-aerobics class four days a week -- maybe my physique will improve as well. After the aerobics class I will be free to apply the scholarship to my current Fall semester (and Spring, I think). Also, there's graduate school to apply for. I'm getting a little burned out -- but I can't look back. Starting in Fall, it's five English classes again -- three of which are British Lit. I made the Dean's List last semester -- let's see if I can do it again. Somehow I doubt it.

I always wanted to be a hobo...

I'm going to take the train places. I'm going to get this figured out.

I have two very good friends that live in the Burbank/Glendale are. This is about 70 miles round trip. My current gas guzzler gets about 14 miles to the gallon (less if it's a sweltering day), so round trip it's $25 dollars in gas I'm spending to see them, and I like seeing them, a lot. Plus I'm over the milage limit on my car lease. I'm not cheap, and I'm especially not cheap when it comes to my friends. I like to lavish time and attention on my friends. But. I hate paying petroleum companies money to see them. I hate oil. I want to take the train.

The train would only cost me about $5 round trip. I know that there is still energy expended, but I like a good rail system, and I think I'm going to buy into it. It's actually not "the train", but it's the train system. It would take three trains to get me to the valley limits. I'm a little scared to, because time tables can be confusing, and we don't teach time tables to little children like we should -- we teach them how to budget for gas. However, I think I'm going to go for it. Todd is horrified at the concept -- he imagines me getting lost, I think. Plus, he loves convenience more than I do.

Did I mention I hate oil? I hate oil. I love Daniel Day-Lewis, but I hate oil with a passion that borders on stupid. However, I love convenience. I love independence. I love cars. I love driving. This, the oil companies and their associates know. But I have to take a stand. Now this doesn't mean I'm going to start riding the bus -- because I hate buses almost as much as I hate oil. But I like trains and I like bicycles, and if I was less of a stumbler, I might even like skateboards. I like scooters, but I don't want to get pulverized by some smoke-belching bus whilst riding on one. Well, maybe for around the neighborhood or something. I also like trolleys -- and sometimes commuter buses, or shuttles, are OK. But big imposing road-hogging city buses are awful to imagine. I would if I had to, but I'd rather not.

So I'm going to pack my usually over sized bag anyway, and try the train. The Long Beach Blue Line heads almost directly to Union Station, and I live less than a quarter of a mile away from the Long Beach Transit station. It's time for those of us who have had our heads up our tailpipes to get on the train. Now I will have no excuse for not finishing A Room With A View -- and who knows, I might even have a conversation about it on the way.

Where is my mind?

Sometimes, especially in the early hours of my day, I forget things. Mostly I forget things like overdue movie rentals and library books, but today I pulled a bigger stunt and forgot my phone and my wallet. I remembered this as I was in my car in the parking garage, but as I was just barely going to make it to class on time if I sped out of the garage immediately, I decided to just go to school without these things for the day. Plus, I figured I could swing back by and pick them up before my class at DH.

Well, when I got on the freeway I realized that I was almost out of gas -- I had maybe thirty miles to go. That's okay, I thought with my exhausted 7AM brain, I'll just get gas on the way to DH.

After the most boring class in the universe ended at 10:30AM, I split to get to DH in time to print out the materials for class. I passed the Chevron on Harbor without a further thought, and as I was trying to merge into traffic I happened to look down at my digital fuel reading: 2 Miles. I instantly get a sinking feeling in my bones, as the last thing I need is to run out of gas on the 91 FWY and have to call AAA...so I exit Brookhurst in a kind of controlled panic, and plead for my car to make it to the Chevron on Orangethorpe. I make it! Yay! I pull out my...my...I don't have my wallet.

I at least have a car phone, a hands-free cell phone built into my car's system, and I called my Mom, who drove over from Whittier and rescued me and gave me $45 worth of gas (10 gallons worth).

As I sat in my car and waited for my Mom to arrive, I thought of how much driving is a part of my life, and how much I take it for granted. I began to be ashamed of myself when I discovered I was a little bit scared that I could be stranded (Todd was in Sacramento today) with no money and no way to contact anyone. I mean, I think I remember how to collect-call someone -- and I think I have at least a couple of phone numbers memorized...actually, I would have been really out of luck. I guess I could have walked back to FC from the gas station and tried to find Blythe, or maybe I would have had to convince Phil that I was worth giving twenty dollars to (I swear I've met Phil at least five times), or maybe I would've had to walk the seven miles to my brother's house.

That would have taken a while.

If we ever have to give up our vehicles we are going to grieve. We are going to feel lost. Of course there is always relief when we lose our attachments, but shoot if it isn't a little bit frightening to think about.