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.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
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?
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?
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
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.!
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.!
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
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?
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?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
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.
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.
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