I miss my summer road trip.
I shall return to Memphis and Rowan Oak.
I am happy.
I am ready to go to University.
Dig it.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
Quoth the raven, "Nevermind."
I'm so glad to be better. A strange illness, this pneumonia was. I still have pain in my lungs when I take a very deep breath, and do you know, I still have some soreness where I got those shots. It really messes with you, on so many levels, too. You stay at home for a month, and you get cabin fever. You finally get to go out, and you're exhausted. You finally get back to a routine that you desperately missed, and then, bang! you miss not just having nothing to do but veg. It's defeating. But papers won't write themselves, much, and there's several good films to see. Life has to resume.
I'm still tired though, and I can't talk for very long without starting to sound like an eldery Italian man. That's a relief, I'm sure, to many.
Oh, and nightmares! I don't know anyone who dreams like I do. Anyone? I have, like, at least three lucid dreams a week. No wonder I'm tired.
Life: Yes! I'm still practicing the guitar. Eight Days a Week sounds nice! My fingers are cracking again, but it's good, so maybe it's like they're crackalacking!
And reading: Yes! Let's talk about Poe. I know what you're thinking, the girl who used to wear black lipstick is going to write about Poe...yawn. No! Well, yes, I did try to be a goth, but man, I really couldn't pull it off. I looked like an idiot, but who didn't -- the 90s were so who cares and no middle ground and cute is even not cute, and I just can't believe I thought I looked good. Thanks, Courtney Love.
Edgar Allen Poe appeals to me on all kinds of Gorey levels. I love his psuedo-mystic-ness. He's like the gypsy woman who is all smoke and mirrors and is really stealing your wallet while you're fascinated by visions of doom. Honestly, I can't follow much of his work. I've never read any Poe critics, but I can't imagine anyone can read his stories without mass confusion. But his poetry...ahhh. I love the madness and force of his poetry. The man has his way with image.
Let's do the Raven.
I love the beginning of this poem. He establishes such a repore with the audience -- comfy in a chair at night, reading, nodding off. Also -- the narrator is recalling this, like remembering a personal myth. Ohh, I like that -- Poe and the Personal Myth (MFA, please.)
Poe's poetry is so confessional. and the narrator of the raven is immediately your best friend. He (for the sake of continuity -- he) offers up a very personal piece of information -- that he is grieving -- and therefore leaves himself totally vulnerable. Plus, this character is wrought with anxiety -- he has to convince himself over and over that the tapping is real, and that the rustling of the curtains is ominous -- but that everything is okay, it's just a visitor. But, of course, it's not a visitor -- line 24 tells us that it is "darkness...and nothing more." Then he wispers "Lenore" and the whisper is echoed back somehow. Interestingly, "Lenore," the character that the narrator is presumably mourning, is only named this by angels, on earth, or "here," she has no name, "for evermore." I originally wondered at this, questioning whether or not the angels re-named her -- but after several rereads I imagine that the point is that it is only angels that converse with her, since she is is no longer in or of the earth. But what of this darkness? I wonder if, before this poem, the cliche of hearing a noise outside, then going to the door to investigate said noise, throwing open the door, and finding nothing but the night spread out before you, was even much of a concept? Poe doesn't say, "the night" though, does he. He says, the darkness. Way more sinister, way more villanesque, way more creepy.
What of the echo? This is a man who is waiting for a dead woman to come back to him. He is Heathcliff shouting "Haunt me!" although I think of Heathcliff as a big meanie, and Poe as a waif. Besides the point. The echo, I believe, is mental. I don't know about you good people, but the thought of hearing voices is probably one of the larger fears in my repertoire. So I have an idea of what hearing voices might be like, and I'm sure much of my idea stems from various episodes of the Twillight Zone, but whispers are right up there, and a murmur is quite terrifying. This is a grieving narrator who is really entertaining some schizophrenia -- but it is too indulged, the reader questions sanity, but so does the narrator, and someone, I tell you, is getting their wallet lifted.
And what is the falseness, the scam? It's lines like this, "fantastic terrors never felt before" and "dreams no mortal ever dared dream before." This is niave. He's trying to build up a tension so that we can prepare ourselves to see a bride-zombie, then be curiously surprised by a blackbird. Really? Really, E? So in comes this antcy raven, and he perches on a bust of Athena. So, who has a bust of Athena OVER their front door? (But that raises a question -- where is this room? if the door is opened, and there is only darkness, and the curtains (purple, no less) rustle oddly, where is this room? It could be anywhere, and there is at least a chair in it, and a fireplace, a door, a window, a bust, curtains, and books. I see it as this room that stands suspended in space, out of time.)
The sight of the raven almost kills the energy of the poem. Soon after the narrator acts all brought back down to earth, and jokes with the little birdie, asking its name. It's name is Nevermore. There's obviously a red flag when the narrator says that this word/Name has "little meaning...little relevancy." So many of Poe's characters are self-deceiving. They imagine they are doing no harm when they are committing atrocities, they see no consequence is behaving cruelly, and then they are confronted by some undeniable force that condemns them and seals their fate. Poe was quite a hopeless fellow. The narrator of The Raven is certainly punished for thinking that this bird's name is meaningless. Following his deduction of the raven and his quoth, the narrator expresses a backwards hope that the raven will take off, but the raven repeats, Nevermore. He imagines that the raven belongs to someone else -- some other tragic figure, but, sadly, no. The narrator finally decides that the raven is an oracle, but one who can only say Nevermore -- by coincidence or providence, so he asks the only questions that he doesn't have the answer to, if he shall ever be united with Lenore...and the raven tells him that he will
1. Never forget Lenore or be free of his memory of her.
2. Never be "cured".
3. Never reunite with Lenore.
plus, the raven adds that it will never leave the narrator. And there's doom in a nutshell. The narrator's soul is now permanently in residence inside the shadow of a hopeless (or just really slow moving and brainless parrotting) raven.
I think there is something pretty heavy going on here. The story is interesting enough. I think Blythe had us investiage Gnosticism and it's bearing on Poe and his poetry -- and there is something to the idea of merging male and female aspects of the psyche until they form a perfect union which results in a union with God. The raven can be seen as how the ego -- namely fear, inhibits one from ever experiencing such a union. So much of Poe's work is seen as the power of belief -- Ligeia, for example -- and how fear is the ultimate weakness and hinderance to enlightenment. Also the notion that the raven is lying is so Miltonian -- if the raven, overshadowing Athena, female wisdom, is Satan corrupting Eve, is the narrator going to give in to this deception? It doesn't look good. The raven is a great symbol for the corrupting domination of the sacred female. The narrator has succumbed to its influence, by giving up hope of Lenore. He wants to merge his spirit (sacred male) with Lenore's (sacred female) but since she isn't physically present, he has lost all hope.
Lest we all succumb to Nevermore! Dreadful!
I'm still tired though, and I can't talk for very long without starting to sound like an eldery Italian man. That's a relief, I'm sure, to many.
Oh, and nightmares! I don't know anyone who dreams like I do. Anyone? I have, like, at least three lucid dreams a week. No wonder I'm tired.
Life: Yes! I'm still practicing the guitar. Eight Days a Week sounds nice! My fingers are cracking again, but it's good, so maybe it's like they're crackalacking!
And reading: Yes! Let's talk about Poe. I know what you're thinking, the girl who used to wear black lipstick is going to write about Poe...yawn. No! Well, yes, I did try to be a goth, but man, I really couldn't pull it off. I looked like an idiot, but who didn't -- the 90s were so who cares and no middle ground and cute is even not cute, and I just can't believe I thought I looked good. Thanks, Courtney Love.
Edgar Allen Poe appeals to me on all kinds of Gorey levels. I love his psuedo-mystic-ness. He's like the gypsy woman who is all smoke and mirrors and is really stealing your wallet while you're fascinated by visions of doom. Honestly, I can't follow much of his work. I've never read any Poe critics, but I can't imagine anyone can read his stories without mass confusion. But his poetry...ahhh. I love the madness and force of his poetry. The man has his way with image.
Let's do the Raven.
I love the beginning of this poem. He establishes such a repore with the audience -- comfy in a chair at night, reading, nodding off. Also -- the narrator is recalling this, like remembering a personal myth. Ohh, I like that -- Poe and the Personal Myth (MFA, please.)
Poe's poetry is so confessional. and the narrator of the raven is immediately your best friend. He (for the sake of continuity -- he) offers up a very personal piece of information -- that he is grieving -- and therefore leaves himself totally vulnerable. Plus, this character is wrought with anxiety -- he has to convince himself over and over that the tapping is real, and that the rustling of the curtains is ominous -- but that everything is okay, it's just a visitor. But, of course, it's not a visitor -- line 24 tells us that it is "darkness...and nothing more." Then he wispers "Lenore" and the whisper is echoed back somehow. Interestingly, "Lenore," the character that the narrator is presumably mourning, is only named this by angels, on earth, or "here," she has no name, "for evermore." I originally wondered at this, questioning whether or not the angels re-named her -- but after several rereads I imagine that the point is that it is only angels that converse with her, since she is is no longer in or of the earth. But what of this darkness? I wonder if, before this poem, the cliche of hearing a noise outside, then going to the door to investigate said noise, throwing open the door, and finding nothing but the night spread out before you, was even much of a concept? Poe doesn't say, "the night" though, does he. He says, the darkness. Way more sinister, way more villanesque, way more creepy.
What of the echo? This is a man who is waiting for a dead woman to come back to him. He is Heathcliff shouting "Haunt me!" although I think of Heathcliff as a big meanie, and Poe as a waif. Besides the point. The echo, I believe, is mental. I don't know about you good people, but the thought of hearing voices is probably one of the larger fears in my repertoire. So I have an idea of what hearing voices might be like, and I'm sure much of my idea stems from various episodes of the Twillight Zone, but whispers are right up there, and a murmur is quite terrifying. This is a grieving narrator who is really entertaining some schizophrenia -- but it is too indulged, the reader questions sanity, but so does the narrator, and someone, I tell you, is getting their wallet lifted.
And what is the falseness, the scam? It's lines like this, "fantastic terrors never felt before" and "dreams no mortal ever dared dream before." This is niave. He's trying to build up a tension so that we can prepare ourselves to see a bride-zombie, then be curiously surprised by a blackbird. Really? Really, E? So in comes this antcy raven, and he perches on a bust of Athena. So, who has a bust of Athena OVER their front door? (But that raises a question -- where is this room? if the door is opened, and there is only darkness, and the curtains (purple, no less) rustle oddly, where is this room? It could be anywhere, and there is at least a chair in it, and a fireplace, a door, a window, a bust, curtains, and books. I see it as this room that stands suspended in space, out of time.)
The sight of the raven almost kills the energy of the poem. Soon after the narrator acts all brought back down to earth, and jokes with the little birdie, asking its name. It's name is Nevermore. There's obviously a red flag when the narrator says that this word/Name has "little meaning...little relevancy." So many of Poe's characters are self-deceiving. They imagine they are doing no harm when they are committing atrocities, they see no consequence is behaving cruelly, and then they are confronted by some undeniable force that condemns them and seals their fate. Poe was quite a hopeless fellow. The narrator of The Raven is certainly punished for thinking that this bird's name is meaningless. Following his deduction of the raven and his quoth, the narrator expresses a backwards hope that the raven will take off, but the raven repeats, Nevermore. He imagines that the raven belongs to someone else -- some other tragic figure, but, sadly, no. The narrator finally decides that the raven is an oracle, but one who can only say Nevermore -- by coincidence or providence, so he asks the only questions that he doesn't have the answer to, if he shall ever be united with Lenore...and the raven tells him that he will
1. Never forget Lenore or be free of his memory of her.
2. Never be "cured".
3. Never reunite with Lenore.
plus, the raven adds that it will never leave the narrator. And there's doom in a nutshell. The narrator's soul is now permanently in residence inside the shadow of a hopeless (or just really slow moving and brainless parrotting) raven.
I think there is something pretty heavy going on here. The story is interesting enough. I think Blythe had us investiage Gnosticism and it's bearing on Poe and his poetry -- and there is something to the idea of merging male and female aspects of the psyche until they form a perfect union which results in a union with God. The raven can be seen as how the ego -- namely fear, inhibits one from ever experiencing such a union. So much of Poe's work is seen as the power of belief -- Ligeia, for example -- and how fear is the ultimate weakness and hinderance to enlightenment. Also the notion that the raven is lying is so Miltonian -- if the raven, overshadowing Athena, female wisdom, is Satan corrupting Eve, is the narrator going to give in to this deception? It doesn't look good. The raven is a great symbol for the corrupting domination of the sacred female. The narrator has succumbed to its influence, by giving up hope of Lenore. He wants to merge his spirit (sacred male) with Lenore's (sacred female) but since she isn't physically present, he has lost all hope.
Lest we all succumb to Nevermore! Dreadful!
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Silver Lining Tarnished
So. I have been in my house for three weeks. Insistent on getting better, I haven't pushed things, haven't gone out of the house unneccesarily, and haven't even talked on the phone too much. I had a date with my friend to see a band last night that I was very excited about, and I figured I could afford the luxury of going out, because it was at a small venue and was very low key. But the night before last I started wheezing. I was up all night with awful wheezing and coughing that wouldn't let me sleep. Nyquil and codine let me sleep for about four hours, but that was it. I had a doctor's appointment on Friday, originally just a check up, and the man was so bummed at my status, "This just a check up! You supposed to be better! You have bronchial athsma, here, here are two shots in the behind and 5 more medicines." Inbetween gasping for air and coughing out crass little phleghem worms, I asked, "So this means that I can't go out tonight?" And he looked at me, "You already have tickets?" And I said yes, and he goes, "If you favorite band was playing tonight, I would say stay home." So that was that, and I tried not cry. Cabin fever is real, ya'll.
And those cortisone shots? Easy going in, plenty of cush, you know, but the medicine hurt like a beating. He also put me back on the massive antibiotic for ten more days, and a low dose of steroid, and serious(er?) cough medicine, and two inhalers. I feel like, I don't know, too many chemicals, chemical mouth.
Back to school Monday, which feels like getting to go to a Broadway show -- the lights! The people! The literature! I could have danced all night!
Thanks for being here through the illness. And while I don't recommend the pnemonia diet, I sure don't mind the extra pounds.
I will say it again, thanks, 2007. You make the medicine that makes the bad germs go away. Although if it wasn't 2007, I might have had to move to a more suppotive climate, like say, the French Rivera, a la Katherine Mansfield.
And those cortisone shots? Easy going in, plenty of cush, you know, but the medicine hurt like a beating. He also put me back on the massive antibiotic for ten more days, and a low dose of steroid, and serious(er?) cough medicine, and two inhalers. I feel like, I don't know, too many chemicals, chemical mouth.
Back to school Monday, which feels like getting to go to a Broadway show -- the lights! The people! The literature! I could have danced all night!
Thanks for being here through the illness. And while I don't recommend the pnemonia diet, I sure don't mind the extra pounds.
I will say it again, thanks, 2007. You make the medicine that makes the bad germs go away. Although if it wasn't 2007, I might have had to move to a more suppotive climate, like say, the French Rivera, a la Katherine Mansfield.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Isn't it annoying when...
You read a book, and you realise you've had this story in you -- but somehow this other person got a hold of characters and setting and details? I don't have this experience often, but recently I read the novel, The Time Traveler's Wife, and I kept thinking...I could have written this. Of course, I didn't write it, and haven't written anything like it in length and breadth, but I kept thinking, if only I wouldn't, gosh, I don't know, it's like I hover over myself, putting myself in the box like it's a punishment well deserved.
I think I should do the novel writing again in November, like we did last Feb(?). I get so frustrated, but I think it's good even to have an abundance of first draft writing to pull from. It's silly that I should fancy myself a writer, because I'm so easily overwhelmed. Writing gets so close to the nuttiestcase part of my being -- it's intimidating, of course, because I want to be only so very slightly a nutcase, not majorly nutcasey.
But I still have to try and try, because I can't keep reading these novels that were, seriously, in my head. I mean this novel didn't even try to deal with the science aspect of time travel -- it just flowed. I was a great novel, if a bit romantic. There were a lot of music references that I liked, and there were a lot of gender aspects that I liked analyzing. Anyway. They're making a movie.
In other news, my lungs feel better. I should be back at school next week, and I'll probably be very embaressed about the coughing. I just hope I don't fart.
I think I should do the novel writing again in November, like we did last Feb(?). I get so frustrated, but I think it's good even to have an abundance of first draft writing to pull from. It's silly that I should fancy myself a writer, because I'm so easily overwhelmed. Writing gets so close to the nuttiestcase part of my being -- it's intimidating, of course, because I want to be only so very slightly a nutcase, not majorly nutcasey.
But I still have to try and try, because I can't keep reading these novels that were, seriously, in my head. I mean this novel didn't even try to deal with the science aspect of time travel -- it just flowed. I was a great novel, if a bit romantic. There were a lot of music references that I liked, and there were a lot of gender aspects that I liked analyzing. Anyway. They're making a movie.
In other news, my lungs feel better. I should be back at school next week, and I'll probably be very embaressed about the coughing. I just hope I don't fart.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Lady Sings the Blues
I normally hate it when people do this in blogs, but oh well.
Its quarter to three,
Theres no one in the place but you and me
So set em up joe
I got a little story I think you oughtta know
Were drinking my friend
To the end of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
I know the routine
So put another nickel in the machine
Im feeling so bad
I hope you make the music dreary and sad
I could tell you a lot
But you gotta to be true to your code
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
Well, you'd never know it
But buddy Im a kind of poet
And Ive got a lot of things to say
And if Im gloomy, you just gotta listen to me
Till its all talked away
Well, thats how it goes
And joe I know youre gettin anxious to close
So thanks for the cheer
I hope you didnt mind
My bending your ear
But this torch that I found
Its gotta be drowned
Or it soon might explode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
Its quarter to three,
Theres no one in the place but you and me
So set em up joe
I got a little story I think you oughtta know
Were drinking my friend
To the end of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
I know the routine
So put another nickel in the machine
Im feeling so bad
I hope you make the music dreary and sad
I could tell you a lot
But you gotta to be true to your code
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
Well, you'd never know it
But buddy Im a kind of poet
And Ive got a lot of things to say
And if Im gloomy, you just gotta listen to me
Till its all talked away
Well, thats how it goes
And joe I know youre gettin anxious to close
So thanks for the cheer
I hope you didnt mind
My bending your ear
But this torch that I found
Its gotta be drowned
Or it soon might explode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
Friday, September 14, 2007
I'm having them framed.
The xrays, that is. They look cool, and although you can sort of see my boobs, it's not as impressive as a good old bathing suit.
The man says that I am getting better. This Doc was SO proud that he was getting me better without going to the hospital. He was like, all eyebrows, and was like, yeah, yeah, you're getting better, you're coughing up more stuff, that's great! See you in a week.
So I may make it back to school next week. Maybe Wednesday.
I have some great ideas about new papers. Especially about Abram/Abraham. There is so much there. I'm ready to write that paper. I'll write the response paper, and see what Brandon thinks. I have a great paper in me about this -- but it's tough not to make it religious/theological. They're just characters. It's tough, but, I'll be okay.
And hey, how come there is no pneumonia awareness month with a ribbon? We should have a mucus green ribbon. Never forget the pneumonia!
The man says that I am getting better. This Doc was SO proud that he was getting me better without going to the hospital. He was like, all eyebrows, and was like, yeah, yeah, you're getting better, you're coughing up more stuff, that's great! See you in a week.
So I may make it back to school next week. Maybe Wednesday.
I have some great ideas about new papers. Especially about Abram/Abraham. There is so much there. I'm ready to write that paper. I'll write the response paper, and see what Brandon thinks. I have a great paper in me about this -- but it's tough not to make it religious/theological. They're just characters. It's tough, but, I'll be okay.
And hey, how come there is no pneumonia awareness month with a ribbon? We should have a mucus green ribbon. Never forget the pneumonia!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Do you smoke? Have you been out of the country?
Man. I haven't been this sick since I was a teenager. When I get sick, I'm always a little thrown off, because I have a high tolerance for discomfort, so I'm like, well, I don't feel good, and my chest hurts, and I can't breathe...but I don't make a big deal, and I just want it to go away...but this time I really am sick. I had to buy this thing, called a Nebulizer, and I have to breathe in this medicine. It's kind of like smoking, I kind of feel like the Caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland when I use it. The Dr. (the second one so far, my regular guy Kaller sent me down the hall to this respitory specialist David) was asking me, do you smoke? And I'm like, No. And he's like, you don't smoke? And I'm like, No...sir? And then he felt my organs through my belly -- which is so strange. I mean, when someone feels your organs, someone that knows what they're doing -- it's an intense experience. It's like hey, that's my liver! Then, of course, while I'm waiting in the exam room, laying down on my paper pillow, I have to cough so hard that I fart! Todd looks at me, and I look at him, and then we just laugh. Being sick is funny sometimes.
Today, I woke up, took a shower, and went to the Dr, then went and got x rays, then went back to the doctor, then went to another Dr., then went to get blood drawn and other...specimens, plus a TB test, then went to Target to get my new prescriptions. I left home at about 9:30am, and didn't get home until 7pm. My poor, wonderful husband. He is an angel.
It's been a long time since I've heard a Doctor say, "If you feel worse, go to the emergency room immediately." Not since the days of mononucleosis have I even considered going to the hospital. Now listen, if I have tubercleosis, that is really going to suck. And also, I'm very grateful that I live in the 21st century and that I live in America, and that we have enough money to treat my pneumonia. I'm very lucky in my misfortune.
I don't know what I'm going to do about school. I can read and write, and email. There's hope!
Today, I woke up, took a shower, and went to the Dr, then went and got x rays, then went back to the doctor, then went to another Dr., then went to get blood drawn and other...specimens, plus a TB test, then went to Target to get my new prescriptions. I left home at about 9:30am, and didn't get home until 7pm. My poor, wonderful husband. He is an angel.
It's been a long time since I've heard a Doctor say, "If you feel worse, go to the emergency room immediately." Not since the days of mononucleosis have I even considered going to the hospital. Now listen, if I have tubercleosis, that is really going to suck. And also, I'm very grateful that I live in the 21st century and that I live in America, and that we have enough money to treat my pneumonia. I'm very lucky in my misfortune.
I don't know what I'm going to do about school. I can read and write, and email. There's hope!
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