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.