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.

Personal Truth

I recently checked out Judith Butler's book, Gender Trouble, from the university library. I haven't read it yet, but I'm hoping to find some good support for my theory on Gatsby, and maybe just learn something in general.

In related news, I just finished reading M. Butterfly, and if I wasn't at a coffee house I might have let myself shed the tears that welled up in my eyes as I digested this heartbreaker. I like its political comments, especially now that it seems China is more America's master than ever before. But really, of course, I enjoy a good love story, especially one that argues gender as a performance, and quite persuasively I might add. I read this play for the Masks class I am taking for the Humanities requirement, and I wish I was going to write my paper on this play instead of a photograph of a mask. I might be able to -- I might be able to convince him to let me write about a mask in literature (provided I can include as many quotes as possible). That will be a great paper to write, and a welcome break from learning about Western Civilization.

I titled this post personal truth because it something I feel that all literature revolves around. It's not the personal truth of the author alone, but the collective personal truth that lies in the unconscious nature of humanity. It is the tendency to mask that gives us literature. It is overwhelming, and needs a shroud to be understood -- it's sort of like an invisible entity that only appears when a sheet is thrown over it -- the sheet is not the entity, but it is how we can verify that the mass exists. We wield many sheets -- we use many masks to identify this truth. For Rene, the truth about his sexuality lies in the mask that he places over the object of is desire -- he imagines it as woman -- but "woman" is the mask, and the personal truth is revealed as genderless. Words are even a mask. Words are maybe the first mask, the most ancient mask. Without words, we lose more than the ability to communicate, we lose our identities, and maybe, as Westerners, we loose our grip on the fear of death. For without an identity, what do we have to lose? The more we reinforce our identity, with words, with titles, with categories, with names, the more we have to lose.

Chapters SIx Through Nine of Gatsby: "I disapproved of him from beginning to end."

I am dissatisfied with the finale of this book. Hemingway was right, Fitzgerald is so romantic and predictable that he ends up diving headlong into cliche. The Sun Also Rises is much more satisfying as a novel; somehow Hemingway lets all the right people live, and all the right ends left unravelled. Hemingway throws a rotten tomato onto a canvas, and then lets it dry -- Fitzgerald does the same, and then tries to make a torte out of it. Still, I find Gatsby quite fascinating, and I will have such a good time analyzing it.

I think I identify most with Nick. It may seem like I've slammed him in previous posts, but I've really come to love him. He's so scared and confused, and I find myself feeling empathy for the way that he can't tell the truth. He doesn't search himself for the true feeling; instead, he searches his thoughts for right feeling, and then presents such as the honest emotion or the passionate conclusion. That he ever "loves" Jordan is laughable. Their final meeting is so perfect -- it was the only thing I really liked about the ending.

What I didn't appreciate was the violence that suddenly erupted. Compared to the violence in The Sun Also Rises, the death of Myrtle and Gatsby and Wilson left me a little perturbed, but perhaps that was the intent. I much prefer it when everyone gets to suffer indefinitely, as Brett and Jake do, when they vanish into obscurity at the end of the novel.

Last semester I read Judith Butler's 1988 essay "Performative Acts and Gender Constitution," and remnants of this work have been popping up in the my mind as I've examined the characters in Gatsby. Statements like "gender...is an identity instituted through a stylized repetition of acts," and "is instituted through the stylization of the body and, hence, must be understood as the mundane way in which bodily gestures, movements, and enactments of various kinds constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self," have cast a pretty convincing shadow over the novel, and have persuaded me to watch the characters actions and understand them as struggles to form a gender identity. I know the story consistently presents images of money and industry and class structure, but I can't help but see the drama enfold and enter into chaos through confusion concerning gender, and what Butler calls the "heterosexual contract." Lines from this essay are almost essential to my ideas about Moby-Dick and Gatsby, one of the best being:

As Foucault others have pointed out, the association with a natural sex with a discrete gender and with an ostensibly natural "attraction" to the opposing sex/gender is an unnatural conjunction of cultural constructs in the service of reproductive interests.

My only fear is that I'm, as my literary criticism instructor often put it, using literary theory like a sausage machine -- you put the work into the system and get a pristinely packaged thesis. I'm also a novice -- so I consistently have to test out my new legs; they're wobbly, to say the least. I can attest, however, that my ideas about Moby-Dick and gender and reproduction were formulated long before I read Butler or Foucault, and I'm going to allow myself a small measure of pride in authenticity for that, even though it's quite apparent that theorists like Foucault have been such an influence in general that my ideas could have been shaped by him without a formal knowledge of his existence. Still, I don't know that Melville or Fitzgerald have been analyzed in this way yet, and if the essays are any good. I wonder if I have a book of my own on my hands, or just single works.

Also, is my syntax terrible? I need an editor.

Chapters Four and Five of Gatsby: "My family all died..."

I really love that in Gatsby's telling of himself he kills off all his family. I suppose you could form a mythological allusion here -- scream -- Oedipus comes to mind, but I would rather include this in my overarching conclusion that American Literature often features the orphan. Only when people are orphans do we see them having wild adventures at sea (Ishmael has no one/nothing on land), or getting impregnated by a Puritan minister (daddy, where were you?), or controlling the your family from the grave (Addie, and her tale receives double points for both including an orphan hero/villan and also having that hero/villan creating orphans in the story, and I'm sure there are many more examples. I am also aware that there may not be anything highly significant in the American orphan character trend, for it seems that America is in turns an orphan and a parent society. We like to trim our roots and start over here, hopefully with the result being lots and lots of money. Still, I love that Gatsby's mask is first and foremost an orphan. Maybe there is a mask of origin to be analyzed here.

Remember when I discussed Nick's habit of leaving off relationships with women when he feels threatened by another man? Isn't it fascinating that when Gatsby merely mentions his awareness of Jordan and Nick's tea date, that Nick responds in the extreme?

Gatsby: You'll hear about it this afternoon.
Nick: At lunch?
Gatsby: No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you're taking Miss Baker to tea.
Nick: Do you mean that you're in love with Miss Baker?

I mean, come on. It's almost as if Nick wants Gatsby to be interested in Jordan, so that he can dump her.

I also want to bring up the scene where Jordan narrates the times of Daisy's romantic youth. There are several things I'm interested in here.

"...she went with a slightly older crowd -- when she went with anyone at all."
"...her mother found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York...she wasn't on speaking terms with her family for several weeks."
"Tell 'em all Daisy's change' her mine..."

Daisy is awfully mysterious, according to Jordan. Chapter four really drove home for me Nick's infatuation with Gatsby, even if it's just in his way of speaking about himself, and Daisy's role as the rich cheerleader outcast. She rejoins society, but only to become the outcast in her and Tom's marriage.

And what about when Gatsby almost makes a prostitute out of Nick?! The exact terms of Gatsby's "proposition" are not defined and the language used implies that Gatsby is trying to become Nick's pimp; my guess is that Gatsby wants more control over him, and that he is trying to be like his predecessor, Dan, and "adopt" a little poor scamp of his own. The job happens to be "a rather confidential sort of thing,"...hmmm, meaning illegal? Nick says, "...because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there." At first read this just seems like Nick defending his "white collar" status, but in the light of my focus on desire, I like to think of it as his stubborn refusal to be paid by Gatsby instead of loved and valued for other reasons and in other ways. It's like Myrtle saying, "Daisy!", instead of just keeping her mouth shut and buying a new dress. The thing is, Nick is having his relationship with Gatsby through Daisy, a much more fulfilling connection with Gatsby in terms of desire -- if Nick has a secular relationship with Gatsby there's no outlet for desire, but when Nick gets to watch Gatsby and Daisy interact there is a satifcation gained from getting to participate in the connection. It's amazing that when Nick is prompted to stay during Tom and Myrtles liason, he is moved to have his own tryst with McKee, and when Gatsby and Daisy have their first meeting he leaves alone. It's as if his desire for Gatsby is satisfied through Daisy -- but his desire for Tom, if it exists, is not satisfied through Myrtle, who he describes as corpulent in her femininity, and overly sexual (he describes seeing her pump gas when he's in Gatsby's car: "...I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.") The figures of reproduction -- the bodacious female body -- not in fashion in the 20s anyway, although Tamara deLempicka painted some fantasically meaty nude females during this era -- is not exacly rejected entirely, not by Tom, anyway, but defintely seems replusive to Nick. He likes Jordan, this "clean, hard, limited person," who thinks he is an idiot.

Patterns are emerging.