Category Archives: Other than literary days….

“A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The beak that grips her, she becomes.”–Adrienne Rich

Yes, my post today is about monsters.  Once again, monsters have solicited my attention (I actually went in search of some of the more literal ones, but more of that anon).  The first monster that I want to write about, however, is the monster of vanity.  As Adrienne Rich points out above, “a thinking woman” (which I like to believe I am) “sleeps with monsters.  The beak that grips her, she becomes.”  Having been gripped by the monster of wounded vanity (why is it, I asked myself, that so often when I write my little heart out fewer people read, and when I don’t write for a whole week, my stats go up?), in my injured pride I said, “Take a holiday from writing, you aren’t being appreciated anyway.”  (So as you see, from only being momentarily attacked by the vain impulse, I let it have its head and actually became that empty being for a week, one who could be writing but isn’t, out of a sort of misdirected, misbegotten spite.)

Then, I found yet another quote about monsters, also apropos of this situation:  as Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes said, “Imagination abandoned by Reason produces impossible monsters:  united with her, she is the mother of the arts and the source of their wonders.”  The fact of the matter is, I wasn’t being reasonable, but was indulging an overactive imagination.  What about the many times when I had written frequently, and been rewarded not only by readers on my stats, but also by “likes” and even more by comments in return?  So, even if sometimes people do seem to be reading more when I don’t write, they are at least reading, and my monstrous vanity should be restrained in its imaginative excesses by a dose of Reason, since I would like to be thought of as somewhat “artful” in my pursuit of literary topics and truths.  This is what I told myself, today when I checked my stats again and was once again puzzled, but decided to write anyway, because I have been busy off fighting game monsters for almost a week now, and felt it was time to stop sulking and do a post.  Maybe compare notes with others who’ve had the same experience?

As George Seferis (Giorgios Sefiriades) made clear in his speech for the Nobel Prize, “When, on the road to Thebes, Oedipus met the Sphinx, who asked him her riddle, his answer was:  Man.  This simple word destroyed the monster.  We have many monsters to destroy.  Let us think of Oedipus’ answer.”  So, it’s not necessary to be an absolute drudge in one’s keeping of a series of posts, only a thinking woman [I take it Sefiriades wouldn’t have excluded Woman from the universal expression “Man”] who says something when she has something to say, and leaves the readers to enjoy what’s there when and if they can get around to it, just as she posts when she can get around to it.  Without fancy excuse or offended rejoinder.  And if by being more a part of Humankind and admitting to some faults one can best slay them, then all to the better.

Finally in my pantheon of notable quotes for the day, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche had this to say about monsters and mirror images:  “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.  And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”  I have been playing (for at least the last five days, off and on) the Monsters’ Den:  Book of Dread follow-up game Monsters’ Den Chronicles.  It’s a new offshoot of the original game and has such weapons as vampiric swords and armor which suck your enemies’ health or power (or both, if you get a really prime piece of equipment), and “shadow” warriors on both sides, who mimic the abilities of the main characters or suborn their powers as their own.  Nietzsche wouldn’t have been amused (or would he?).  In this game, a misguided group of negative religionists have founded a dungeon that the player’s characters must go through, “defeating”–the word “killing” is rarely used–the enemy as best they can.  It’s not a matter of simply having a different religious preference (thank goodness for that, or who in their right mind would want to play it and incur the self-reproach of not being tolerant towards others’ beliefs?); it’s a matter of fighting “real-life” monsters like vampires, nightmares, banshees, ghouls, the general undead, and the acolytes, neophytes, and armored beings who keep them going.  That makes it safe for everyone’s conscience.  Certainly, however, the combative edge one needs to maintain means being ruthless, and many of the weapons and skill sets encourage this.

Why do I play, and what is the main thing I feel this game gives me?  Strategic lessons.  It’s not a multiple explosion, car wreck, violent blood spatter kind of game, but merely a game which occasionally has some imaginative visual effects of spells and potions and hits on enemy targets, and which sedately shows a small pile of bones like the ones on a pirate’s flag when you finally beat each enemy.  It requires careful thought and negotiations between various pieces of equipment you find/purchase in order to get the best “bang for your buck,” and you must constantly be on your guard and calculating the best means of balancing four characters’ differing skills and talents against any number of from one to six opponents of sometimes quite a superior number of “hit points” (life expectancy, potency, abilities).  I feel that my strategic thinking about what weapons to use in life has improved (whether we’re talking about words or tactics for living):  quick calculations of possibilities and potential outcomes is a skill like any other, and while some prefer to work crossword puzzles, I find this game more compelling (at least for now) than the crosswords I used to work so frequently.  And that’s my say (now, Nietzsche might think I’ve looked too long into the abyss and given it a chance to peer too deeply into me in return, but I don’t feel I’m a monster yet, if ever.  I’m extremely unlikely to assault anyone or act out in strange ways, as is the effect of some other sorts of computer games of the more violent variety, and as a really keen incentive, this dungeon system has a shopping emporium!  Could anything be more appealing to your average peaceable warrior than a chance to buy and sell equipment, potions, and miscellaneous items and upgrade all at the same time?).  Seriously, though, having fought my demons (even the vanity one) by taking a few days off and trying not to worry too much about stats (except the gaming kind) has given me a much needed breather from end-of-the-summer doldrums.  I do hope to continue to post regularly, but I thought a small dose of honesty wouldn’t come amiss, just in case you thought I had given up the ghost (let’s see, now, how many hit points does the average ghoul have….?).

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Filed under A prose flourish, Other than literary days....

Not sticking to one’s commitments, or, how one thing so easily leads to another….

Hello, there, readers!  I hardly know how to excuse myself for more than a week’s silence except to tell the truth and say that I’ve had other things going and posting has gone on the back burner for now.  I know, I know, I had just committed myself to posting more frequently.  But first there was a week of pre-adolescent company here at our house (and many thanks to those of you who welcomed my young relatives with your kind comments and observations.  They were suitably proud of themselves to know that they had excited so much comment in the blogosphere).  Then, there was taking room for a breather to get one’s life reorganized when they were gone (we really miss them every day, especially because it’s so quiet now!).

The next part I have no easy excuse for, and that is that for almost a week now, having been a Monsters’ Den:  Book of Dread fan, I’ve been fascinated by their new RPG called Monsters’ Den Chronicles.  I know I’m older than the average player, but I like to think that gives me added experience and wisdom (at least in the dungeons) and anyway after having waited for what seems like three years for the Kongregate website to come out with the new game, I had to try it out for myself.  The news is mostly good, though it will only make sense to those of you who regularly play RPG games on the computer:  I’ve made it past Tier 5 (only one more Tier to go, though Tier 6 is neverending and can be played until you get tired of playing, as it is the last Tier in the game).  But something mysterious happened:  when I got ready to get off last night after being awarded the biggest reward I’ve had yet, and felt like I had earned a well-deserved rest, the computer made a huge clanging sound, like the resonance of a huge door being slammed behind me, and so I’ve got to go back into the dungeon today to find out what that noise portends (it wouldn’t let me back in last night when I decided to look a little more closely at the part of my reward which wasn’t just filthy lucre, as the phrase goes).

Just in case you’re ready to dismiss me as a serious contender for keeping a writer’s/critic’s blog, however, I should tell you that I do have one more respectable chore in hand this week, though, and that is re-reading a friend’s manuscript.  He is going for publication of a worthy, highly intelligent and quite gifted book on rhetoric, and I have asked to see it again as a whole piece of work so that I can put together all the pieces I’ve learned so far.  So, you see, I’m not just resting and goofing off.

I still will be posting on George Sand once I get through the books of hers that I’m reading, just as I originally committed myself to do about a month ago, and the last female progenitor of fiction after that will be Mrs. Radcliffe.  I really also have to apologize, I suppose, for dragging this quest into the literary natures of important writing women out over a whole two months, but I simply can’t cover the reading material in less time than that.  Also, I’ve interspersed other posts in between the ones about our female forebears, so the whole thing has taken a bit longer, though perhaps it has also been lightened up by a little variety; I hope so, anyway.

So, I have once again to ask my readers to be patient with me as I muster my forces to do these things I really want and intend to do and have every intention of finishing.  Probably once the fall comes, my posting schedule will pick up naturally, because I was in academia for so long that I got used to the natural rhythm of the fall and spring semester system, and can be a real workhorse when I once get back into the swing of things.  This whinging, apologetic post is just a stopgap to let you readers know that I haven’t stopped annoying you with my literary pap just yet (in case you were hoping, that is).  For now, I’ll just say “Until next post,” and leave it at that, since I’m sure you’re tired of this apologia already.  Ta! for now, and be watching for a post on George Sand soon.  I really won’t disappoint you for much longer.

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Introducing Layla, Charles, and Jack–appearing as a trio here for the first time….

Hello, readers!  I know, I know, I promised recently to do more frequent posts.  But this week, there is other business (read:  fun) on the agenda.  I have my niece and two nephews staying with me for a few days, and we are busy, busy, busy, in direct proportion to the fact that they are young, young, young (and very vibrant).  They have been to the library here to use the computers, had a near miss with accidentally getting a finger caught in a rolled up car window, gone swimming, watched part of “The Barber of Seville,” read lots of books (they are big readers, all three), drawn fearsome monsters which make my blood run cold (the boys) and a loveable kitty (Layla), eaten ice cream and had good meals, and taken car trips to places they’ve not seen before.

They want me to tell you they are beautiful (Layla), awesome (Charles), and epic (Jack), though were they to approach you in person they would probably be their somewhat shy and polite social selves with strangers and say “Yes, please” and “No, thank you.”  At this exact moment, Layla is reading and eating an apple, the boys are rough-housing in the middle of the floor (as usual, says Layla), and in short, we are getting ready for breakfast and another day.  Such is the life of childhood in the summer for our three young adventurers.

Later this week, I will post (when I have a chance to draw breath and get my older bones and brain into action), but for now I am living vicariously a life I had long ago, when summer was endless and every small event a major happening.  Have a great few days, and try to find an opportunity to share some time with your young people in summer activities:  it always repays the effort put forth.  Shadowoperator

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If the light at the end of the tunnel goes out, or upon re-kindling the spark….

I start today’s post with a decided disadvantage, my short-term memory having decided to play an Alzheimer’s-like trick on me and “disappear” a key phrase I had planned for this post before I could write it down.  But the gist of my remarks was as follows:  when the light at the end of the tunnel goes out, re-kindling the spark of the torch that was there is an arduous and painful proceeding, and one that I was hoping to work through here, with my readers watching and waiting (however impatiently) for me to get to the point.  And then I forgot my line.

How many times, how many times, since appearing on stage in my first student play, have I had nightmares about not having learned my lines and being on stage speechless, or nervous fantasies about having learned the lines with great effort and apparent aplomb, but forgetting them the minute I step upon stage?  As you may have guessed, I’m suggesting that there is something God-given (and God-taken-away) about most inspiration:  you have a window of opportunity to nail the important words, and then shadows of other phrases and sentences and bugbear-like-clichés such as “the light at the end of the tunnel” and “re-kindling the spark” come along and drown out the really innovative and perhaps for-all-time original (maybe) thought you were trying to express.

As far as I can recall, the inspired remark had something to do with finding self-direction after a long period of following in a certain pre-determined path.  I was partly thinking of the long time I spent working on my doctorate, and the let-down and lull I felt after finishing/graduating, and the transition to my website and my renewed work on my novel sequence (published on this website).  I comfort myself with the reflection that so great a soul as Virginia Woolf went into a depressive decline at the end of each of her works, until she took up the next one.  But then I say, pragmatically to myself, “But I don’t want to end up walking into the lake with stones in my pockets, either.”  So I turn again to my reading lists.  It’s true, I have things to do.  And the things are activities that I have elected on my own to do, with no one putting me up to them or prompting me.  But lately, the traditionally acclaimed “spark” has died out a little, and I have felt slow and sluggish, and have blamed it on the weather, on overeating a summertime holiday diet, on not hearing from enough of you (and yes, there is that thrill of communication which has lately been attenuated or missing), on the summer being almost over, on the fact that I’m a year older (why should this matter any more this year than last?–it’s only one more year); in fact I have become a veritable deep resounding well of complaints and caveats, giving forth with my problems every time someone drops a penny in for luck.  Can’t you just hear the echo?

And lo!  At least one part of the mysterious meditation comes back:  the remark was one about “finding inner resourcefulness.”  My inner resourcefulness is what I am in search of, and what I feel is lacking at the moment.  For, it’s not merely a matter of self-direction, one has to be directed from some initial glowing hot coal-bed of creativity to one’s lava-like course down the mountainside called “the path of communication” to where others wait at the end of the course of the rich ash-bed and fertile soil (sorry about this really quite imperfect metaphor–it’s the best I could do with such an impeded “flow” of inspired thought).

“Inner resourcefulness” is the constant mystery, the be-all and end-all of writing and creativity in general, whose inner enemy is the famous “writer’s block” for writers and poets, whatever it may be for musicians, sculptors, and others of the artistic ilk.  How does one court one’s muse, if we should call it that, how appeal to that oracle to get it to trundle forth some truth, some gifted thought, something we can share with our audience, colleagues, and cohorts?  It puts one on the spot, as if one were Cordelia, one of King Lear’s daughters, being asked “[W]hat can you say to draw/A third more opulent than your sisters?”  Duh.  Dunno.  But Cordelia put it better, with the help of Shakespeare, paradoxically doing what she claims in the same words she cannot do, though Lear hears the paradox in simple denial terms, in terms of refusal to cooperate:  Cordelia says, “Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave/My heart into my mouth.”

So, try as I might to “heave my heart into my mouth,” there are some things that remain inarticulate and inexplicable, such as my tendency since about the winter to post less frequently.  Of course, I can give you an excuse, a rationale, an explanation (not quite the same things as reasons, real reasons having a bit more muscle and “bite” to them):  I’ve gone through already a lot of the books I was interested in posting about, and I’m slowed down because I need to read more books to get them under my belt and comment on them.  But this is a “shadow-boxing” sort of reason, because the books I’ve read in my life are innumerable to my own memory, and the ones I could still say something intelligent about are, one trusts, quite a few, had I enthusiasm.  And now we get to the point, perhaps:  I’ve lost some enthusiasm for attempting to craft the well-written literary article, and it’s not because it’s not great fun, or because I don’t think it worthwhile.  It’s because, perhaps, other things in life which I can’t express are beginning to take their toll on my spirit; my daily life is dragging me down.

Yet, just as I express this quibble (and it’s larger than a “quibble,” but I’m trying the rhetorical move of understatement to cut it to size), I feel a certain free flow in my heart, and a desire to say something else:  perhaps the answer is that I have expressed my feeling now, and can go on from there.  Perhaps (following advice I’ve heard from others) the answer is not merely to express the feeling, then, but to insist with myself that I go ahead and post on something more frequently than I have been, even if it’s only an “other than literary days” post like today’s, when I would rather be writing about literature.  Just to keep my hand in.

The downside of this plan?  Why, that you, my loyal readers, may after a while decide that I’m not much fun anymore, and may decide to stop following my site “if all she’s going to do is babble about something other than books.”  For, the undeclared purpose of my site is to write books, to publish my books, and most often predominantly to feature the poems, stories, and books of other writers to whom I feel I owe literary debts.  Yet, I ask myself, is not even such a humble entity as this very self-focused and possibly therefore boring post a type of literary endeavor?  Isn’t reaching out to you and to the great ether beyond us all a sort of creative event?  I do hope you’ll think so, because I have decided to try to post on some topic or other more frequently, though I still hope my posts will feature my thoughts and inspirations more often than not in terms of how they are demonstrated in books and other works of literary merit or concern.  But I can’t promise not to “babble” now and then–I’ve accepted the minute glow at the end of the tunnel as the faith of a tiny spark, and am willing to try this way to re-kindle it:  I hope you’ll make the trip with me, commenting or not, as you see fit, but at least reading.  Who knows, maybe I’ll hit upon something that helps you find your own feet again when you’ve lost your balance temporarily:  and what more can any of us ask of literature or writing endeavors than that they restore to us some of what we lose through the vicissitudes of life?  Such grand aspirations!  But we all need some large hopes to carry us through the day.  Join me, won’t you? and if you can use my odd brand of curative powers, so much the better!

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Filed under A prose flourish, Other than literary days...., What is literature for?

When people die–the thoughts and grief that are called forth from us when we lose friends….

All of us at some time or other either have lost or will lose a friend, family member, mate, or acquaintance, and the older we get, the more of these people we lose to death.  We may decide to interrogate our own mortality with William Shakespeare, in one of his most well-beloved sonnets:

Sonnet 146

“Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth,/Lord of these rebel powers that thee array,/Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,/Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?/Why so large cost, having so short a lease,/Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?/Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, /Eat up thy charge?  Is this thy body’s end?/Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,/And let that pine to aggravate thy store;/Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;/Within be fed, without be rich no more./So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,/And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.”

Thus Shakespeare makes the argument for asceticism, though from what we know of him, he was far from being an ascetic.  But a sonnet is a form sometimes of a particular mood, and in Shakespeare’s sonnets we see him in a number of different moods, from bitingly ironic to loving and joyous.  Here, he is in his final couplet using one of those paradoxes he was so fond of to put an end to death itself, through the life of the soul.  And indeed, for those of us who have been fortunate enough to know someone who feeds their own and others’ souls first and foremost, we can say in our memories of them that we are defeating death:  they have created a sort of immortality for themselves that we prolong as long as we remember and revere them, and pass on their exploits and knowledge of their endeavors to others.

There is always, of course, the belief in God and a more conventional afterlife to aid in our battle against mortality, though even the devout churchman John Donne, in his sonnets, often resorted to word play with paradoxes, puns, and riddles to make his point.  The most famous of his sonnets on death is probably “Death be not proud, though some have called thee”:

“Death be not proud, though some have called thee/Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,/For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,/Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me./From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,/Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,/And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,/Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie./Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,/And dost with poyson, warre and sicknesse dwell,/And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,/And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;/One short sleepe past, we wake eternally,/And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.”

Here, of course, the paradox is that death shall die when our “short sleepe past” (our individual death to earth) is over, and “we wake eternally” to the afterlife in heaven.  And Donne’s riddle (did you spot it?) is one that Shakespeare also used more than once, that the work of art itself outlives the poet and creates a sort of eternal life in the memories of humankind, for itself, its subject, and its author (this is what the partial line “nor yet canst thou kill me,” indicates; that is, the “me” there is the sonnet speaking, for its author).

But if we are not given to poetry reading when a friend or loved one passes (though it might be a good time to start), and instead feel shuttered in with our grief and heartache, we are following the wisdom of more than one species if we attend a memorial service or exchange memories with friends at a wake or funeral (in recent years, biologists have even discovered animal species, like elephants, who mourn their dead and in a sense “pass by the casket” by touching and caressing the remains of their fallen comrades).  This community activity not only acknowledges the loss of a unique individual, but also allows a gathering together around the now empty space and the forging of new bonds across it amongst those remaining, where the person now absent in the flesh will always have a place in the spirit.

Though there are times when nothing seems to serve to break through the sense of loss and futility attendant upon the death of a beloved fellow being, yet our resource is always to look to others and trust them to help us occupy ourselves with those who still live.  If we live in the spirit of those loved ones gone, we will relinquish them in the body and attempt to live the rest of our own lives as they would have enjoyed seeing us do, thus fulfilling the promise of their previous relationship with us:  they would want to be mourned, but they would not want us to let others down who might benefit from us acting well and truly in the spirit they created in us.

I lost my father to cancer when I was eleven and a half, and I can remember walking through my days at the first feeling paralyzed and inert, even though my mother had told me a few months before that the prognosis was not good.  But no one could say anything to break through my wall of grief (I didn’t know much about Shakespeare or Donne then, and chances are they might not have helped at first).  It took a sympathetic aunt whom I rarely saw and my mother saying “It’s all right to cry, Vicki,” to start the (sometimes long) process of grieving in me.  For some reason, there was an attached feeling of shame to no longer having a father that I was hard put to it to shake.  After I once got through the “stiff upper lip” routine at the late age of forty-three or so, however, I realized how much I had missed of the community and friendship I might have had with other people who mourned my father:  I would thus wish for anyone who has lost someone that they might have the sense I lacked as a person growing up, and that they might rely upon those still living to forge strong bonds around the protected emotional areas of losses to death.

Remember, the dead were not always dead or ill or injured:  they were often happy and achieving and full of all the life of the world around them.  Remember them that way, as they are likely to be remembering you from whatever corner of the universe they are in now.  That’s the way truly to have a connection with the infinite, as it is found in other people.

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Filed under Other than literary days...., What is literature for?

What do the philosopher-historian Herodotus and Zippy the Pinhead have in common?

Here I am yet again on a Sunday morning in the summer, sitting inside in the air conditioning and wishing I could open the windows instead.  And it’s not because it’s so hot where I am that I can’t:  but it’s so humid that the moisture in the air makes it seem hotter than it actually is, and so I sit here, thinking about doing a free-style post just for enjoyment’s sake, and wanting to open the windows so that I can hear the sounds of pleasure and excitement drifting up from the sidewalks below where people are passing in their Sunday-funday haze.

Don’t get me wrong, the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping, and there’s no rain in the immediate forecast.  But the air conditioning goes on, relentless fake atmosphere blowing down in my face from the air vents above.  Still, I have decided to go ahead and follow Herodotus’s implicit advice in his remark from Histories, bk. II, ch. 173:  “If a man insisted always on being serious, and never allowed himself a bit of fun and relaxation, he would go mad or become unstable without knowing it.”  Though you may already think I’m unstable without knowing it, because I don’t know it, it’s not a problem.  So, this post is just for fun and games, no serious endeavors intended.  Now that I’ve declared my purpose, however, I’m left with my guests on my hands (you, my audience) and no precise plan of action for how to forge ahead on this fun-expedition.

It’s true, I’ve been slacking off for quite some time now, when I used to post almost every other day.  But just now, I’m engaged in following the somewhat slow and sedate pace of Mrs. Gaskell’s The Cranford Chronicles and am at the section where Miss Matty goes over all the old family letters she’s been saving, and burns them so that no one will desecrate the memories contained in them by reading them when she’s gone.  Frankly, she might as well not have bothered:  the subjects of the letters are tame, and even the narrator reading with her (who is an unnamed friend) clearly finds them so.  It’s rather like Andy Warhol’s eight hour movie about sleeping for eight hours:  I don’t understand why we have actually to experience the reality in order to know that the letters are such as only an old maid in a backward English village would think it necessary to burn.  But having declared my purpose of becoming better educated and covering one if not two of Mrs. Gaskell’s gargantuan novels (at this rate, I don’t know if I’ll ever get through Wives and Daughters as well), I’m committed to my purpose.  I will finish at least this book about Cranford.

“So where’s the fun?” I hear you ask.  “All you’re doing is complaining about the air conditioning and Mrs. Gaskell, and dragging in Andy Warhol to make the whole a little more titillating.  We demand to know, where’s the fun?”  I can see that just as Mrs. Gaskell and Dickens and other writers of the nineteenth century had audiences who expected good value for their money in the way of long, often prosy, and (let me say it again) long narratives which wouldn’t too much offend their Victorian sensibilities (or would at least mitigate the minor scandals contained in their pages by carefully calculated build-up to the surprises and an adequate degree of moralizing in some trusted character’s voice or other), so my own long-suffering audience is wondering where all this is leading, and asking how it can be to fun, since it’s not usually considered fun just to listen to a blogger complain about something he or she finds annoying.  Unless, of course, he or she is a sterling performer, a regular stand-up comedian, which at this precise moment at least I am not.

Let’s just say that I wanted to reach out this morning to my readers without any precise purpose in mind, just to touch base, to let you know I’m still here (which probably won’t thrill everyone equally, but hell, we all have some disappointments in life), and to play little trills and pseudo-musical tricks with my writer’s voice, and to pass off the whole possibly unnerving experience by quoting Herodotus and calling it “fun.”  And now, it’s your turn:  I’ve just quoted Herodotus in his august and seriously-intended and solemn tones of advice, and you can retort with however much irony you see fit in the manner of Bill Griffith’s 1979 comic strip Zippy the Pinhead, “Are we having fun yet?”  I don’t know if you’re having fun or not, but as it’s a free-style post day, feel equally free to retaliate in kind with your own jokes, complaints about the weather, tales of boring reads, or whatever turns you on (as long as you don’t offend my too recently Victorian sensibilities by sneering at my attempts to read Mrs. Gaskell–I will become better educated, I will, I will!).   Enjoy your summer weekend, too–we don’t have many more of them left!  Shadowoperator

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Filed under A prose flourish, Other than literary days....

Mixing up the “Mix-It-Up Day: Sunshine Blog Award” nomination with lazy, sunny, take it easy weather….

Having just returned from a thoroughly delightful trip to Canada to visit my best of friends there, I was kicking back in the 90 degree Farenheit weather (plus air conditioning and fans for the worst of it), when I received a nomination for the “Mix-It-Up Day:  Sunshine Blog Award” from the talented Australian writer D. James Fortescue, who is in the midst of an Australian winter right now.  Feeling thoroughly lazy and still resting up from the long train trip, I decided to take it easy and do as much as I could of the post on the award, and hope D. J. forgives me for not putting all my recuperative energies behind the effort (after all, just as half a loaf is better than no bread, so half-assed is sometimes at least better than not at all).

Here’s how it goes:  The first step is to use the award logo in one’s blog and/or in a post.  Since I am a regular computer dufus who doesn’t manage links well and who doesn’t know how to grab an award logo picture from another site and use it, I’ll just remark that the large zinnia or daisy-family flower that announces the award is bright and cheerful, and matches up with summer in the U.S. just fine (excluding the tornados and flash floods and other natural disasters that we’ve been having and that are continuing to be predicted).

The next step is to link back to D. J.’s site, which I do know how to do, so be it!  Click on the link and enter a wondrous world of fantasy, historical, and science fiction published at regular intervals.

Next are ten pieces of random info about myself (here’s hoping it’s random enough to be individual and interesting):

1.  I have never travelled west of the Mississippi in the U. S. in my life, though I have been to a few countries in Europe, and to Ireland and Canada.

2.  My favorite nuts are cashews, pistachios, and peanuts.

3.  My favorite vegetable is eggplant.

4.  I floss my teeth (gross!) once, sometimes twice, a day.

5.  I’m currently reading Isabel Allende’s Eva Luna, am finding the pace a bit slow, but may do a post on it someday soon.

6.  I had 9 items on this list, then accidentally hit the wrong button and erased several (I can’t remember what they were!).

7.  I am only going to nominate 5 other bloggers, partly because about 10 of the bloggers I used to follow no longer publish regularly and about 5 have told me that they would rather not receive awards.

8.  One of the funniest, most ironic writers I have come to respect and admire is Stanley Fish.

9.  Friday night is the night I usually have a drink or two, though right now I’m finishing up a six-pack of hard pear cider (it’s got a taste of too-sweet white wine that’s gone flat–I don’t recommend it).

10.  Just recently, my brother got me a copy of the book Sh*t My Dad Says, and I happen to find it very funny; not everyone does.  But we’ve all had relatives who like to coin phrases, I think.

Next step:  Name five bloggers who “positively and creatively inspire others in the blogosphere”:

Thinking in Fragments, Several, Four, Many, Book to the Future, Stephen Kelly Creative, Miss Royal Disaster.

Last step:  Tell your nominees about their nomination.  I will shortly be doing that.  For now, it’s g’day to you all (to borrow an Australian expression in honor of my nominator, D.J.).

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Taking a bit of a springtime break, and thanking loyal readers….

For the last two weeks or so, and upcoming at the end of the month of May, I wasn’t and won’t be blogging as frequently.  Though I hope to squeeze in another post or three before the last two weeks of May, or maybe even one just before June begins as well, I can’t predict just now exactly when I will be doing about the next four or so posts, except to say “sometime in May, please don’t forget about me, I’m still here.”  I feel especially grateful that so many readers (according to the stats page) have kept in touch with my blogsite and have been perhaps reading posts they previously missed or especially liked.

Why am I slacking off?  Call it spring fever, and catching up on a lot of reading, and having company, and travelling.  In short, I have a few other pursuits and endeavors keeping me busy during the merry month of May, and have to cry off my preferred frequency of blogging.  I hope to have some interesting things to write about when I return to blogging, especially some new reading material I’ve run across and some old favorites as well.  And I may have something to say about my travels, too.  Until then, please be patient:  like the man said, “I’ll be back.”

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“The most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.”–Stephen Bantu Biko

Finally, as of the weekend it seems (or perhaps I just didn’t notice it before, in the events of the last week), the trees are bursting out with green tips.  The long and soggy winter has given way to a greener, more glorious spring, whereas last spring the grass, due to droughts, came up brown.  The forsythia, dandelions, redbush, hyacinths, and daffodils are out and are waving in gentle spring breezes.  The temperatures have wavered from 50-74 (F) or so, and the world seems a brighter, sunnier, sweeter place in spite of pollen counts vexing some folks and bad weather reports coming in from elsewhere.  It’s possible now to sit by the water and watch the ripples and the current and dream of an impossibly beautiful summer still to come.  And already this morning, there is on the news a report of a five-person shooting in Seattle and a shooting of undetermined number in North Carolina.  This is on the heels of last week’s Boston Marathon bombings and shooting spree and God knows how many separate bombings and shootings and stabbings and slayings and injuries in the last year, some due to verifiable quarrels, some simply due to indescribable malice, others due to mental confusion, others due to doctrinal differences, and others (as seems to be emerging in the Boston bombings) due to apparently unknowable factors.  For, though both of the Tsarnaev brothers were said to be devoutly religious Muslims, the outrage of their relatives and communities speaks I believe genuinely when it declares that they were not acting as sincere Muslims act, but were acting out on their own tick, motivated by unimaginable things even to their nearest family members.  So here we sit, as a nation and a part of the world community, left with another question mark even more noticeable than that of 9/11 because that had an origin of easily determined cause (a particular radical group).

It may sound odd to quote Steve Biko at this juncture, from his own struggle for freedom and dignity, but I would like first to quote and then to explain my frame of reference:  he said “The most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.”  He was abused and jailed and suffered for a cause, and it may seem odd to apply his remark to a whole nation, nay, a whole world enslaved by violence and mayhem, and to pilgrims from other countries “yearning to breathe free.”  But who is it but the convenience store clerk, working the night shift, or the female student, trying to make her way home at night after a late class or library study, the enthusiastic people at a political rally supporting their candidate, or the happy crowds in full daylight enjoying a community spectacle and thinking to get away from chaos and heartbreak for a day’s communal fun, who stand the most to lose when martial law of the streets becomes the norm due to insane and unpredictable explosions and bullets?  We all lose freedom and dignity and the right to keep open minds in that situation, because the caretakers of our nation have to treat us all as potential suspects in order not to miss a real miscreant through carelessness.

Our dilemma is a real one, experienced all over the world in this century, and becoming more and more what a frenzied and frustrated newscaster who was trying to follow up the scene in last week’s day of terror on Friday called it (when the second Boston Marathon bomber was finally cornered):  he referred to our dilemma as “the new norm.”  Is this the truth?  Is terror and looking surreptitiously around oneself constantly in all directions instead of just looking both ways when crossing in traffic to become the new norm?  Is reporting tittle-tattle on possibly innocent new neighbors with some “funny” foreign habits that are not ours to become the new norm?  Is going through numerous checkpoints and security checks and barriers where we need to present identity cards the new norm?  Guess what?  In some parts of the world, it already is, and has been for quite some time.  And maybe it’s time that we in the United States stopped flag-waving in a chauvinistic way and pretending that it can’t continue to happen here just because our individual right to bear guns and apparently kill each other at will is “secure” and instead raise our flag more reverentially and attempt to make realistic adjustments to our new conditions as long as they may last.

For, things change.  They do, though we don’t always notice it right away.  It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, but while a utopia is perhaps not likely, neither is a dystopia absolutely necessary.  We are not the slaves of Fortune, but are instead the controllers of our own souls and hearts and minds, and we can choose to maintain freedom and dignity inside ourselves, in our own hearts and minds, not to forge forward without fear, but to inform ourselves with our fears, of our fears, and then to try to go ahead anyway, heads and hearts not high, but realistically levelled and eyes alert and aware.  The human mechanism is a wonderful entity–you’ll notice I don’t say “thing”–capable of marvelous degrees of adaptation, and because we are not things and are reasonably and within limits self-directed at our best, we can choose to participate in our own enslavement by adverse conditions, or can fight free of the bonds of hysteria and cant, and can ask ourselves what more, under each set of requirements, we can do to keep free of feeling enslaved.

Now is the hour of our choice, a long-overdue choice according to some.  We are now more than ever, as Plato said of himself, “citizens of the world,” and now as then, when the known world was a smaller place by far, we must act according to a different set of responsibilities, a mature set of responsibilities, acknowledging that there are those who perhaps for partially understandable reasons do not like us or fit in with our descriptions of ourselves, whether we label them agitators, lunatics, terrorists, or human ciphers.  We must deal with the anomalous and abnormal in our midst, and must begin by accepting that even as “the old world, she goes on the same as she always did,” that “the world has [also] changed,” that now as never before there is more ferocious firepower and destructive power and wanton energy around to make our task a hard one.  What we must ask ourselves is:  will we, with Steve Biko, refuse to allow our inner beings to become oppressed when we cannot prevent the external being from suffering oppression, will we, as the world has with a resonant voice and Boston has with one unified voice decreed in our stead, be strong?    I think that with respect and acknowledgement for all that was lost on that Monday in Boston and with the same respect for the sufferers and grievers in every like situation, my question answers itself.

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Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.”–James Russell Lowell

The title of my post for today is basically a half-truth, and I don’t have a lot to say about it, but I wanted to call it to my readers’ attention because, quite often when we are bemoaning the fact that something is no longer as it was, we are told by well-meaning but possibly quite wrong-headed friends or family “You just see it that way now.  But don’t you remember at the time when I tried to get you to see it/them/the experience/the day in a positive light, you were full of gloom and doom, and dreaded meeting the persons involved/going to the event?”  That is, there is truth in the statement that once we have overcome a difficulty, the positive aspects of our experience are what we prefer to remember (always assuming that we are not born-again pessimists, who prefer to see things in a negative light anyway.  Or, we might be persons who prefer to remember both halves of an experience or another individual because we believe in the principle of balance).  It is questionable whether or not we can assume that things “always seem fairer” and as well we may argue that through the magic of memory and our ability to create repetition, the “tower” of memory and the past isn’t as “inaccessible” as one might assume from that fact that we look at time most often as something linear, and most often see the past as gone and done with.  In fact, James Russell Lowell’s assertion seems quite valid only from the perspective of the linear, and foregoes any association with living through one’s memories as a way of reanimating the past.  It’s as if he assumes that memory is only an old scrapbook, and our past a faded collection of photographs, which in his day was largely the way memory was thought of.

Of course, we know now (and this might at first seem to make his insistence on his point more justifiable) that memory is imprecise, and that witnesses to scenes are notoriously unreliable even when they are making their best effort to be accurate; yet this very imprecision is what is reassuring, when one thinks about it.  For it is in living through the memories we have, and reanimating them through the agency of this imprecision, that we create new things.  When we come face to face with others who lived through the same times or experiences, we may of course decide to argue as to whose analysis of the past situation is more accurate, and there may in fact be cases in which one person’s memories are wildly inaccurate, for example with those who have Alzheimers.  Yet in a situation in which both people can be assumed to have normal memories, it is part of the adventure of living and loving and part of the risk attached thereto that animates our being and keeps us vigorously discussing “what really did happen.”

Finally, why is it, in Lowell’s poetical figure, that “Longing” is the one in the “inaccessible tower of the past” beckoning?  Longing is what the beholder feels when someone or something else is beckoning–hence the poetical figure itself is askew.  For, Love or Memory or Experience or some other entity is what beckons that causes the person on the plain below–to expand the picture–to feel Longing. Thus my dissatisfaction with the entire image, and my feeling that Lowell was cheating poetically and relying on cheap sentiment at the same time.  May we all “look back” with impunity on good things, forget as far as possible negative things that cause us pain except to keep their lessons in mind in order to avoid repeating them, and not tell ourselves, as Lowell seems to be attempting to do here, that if only we were experiencing things in the present they wouldn’t “seem” as “fair”–Dammit, we know what we like and what has pleased us and displeased us, don’t we?  James Russell Lowell, let’s have no more palavering on the matter–you’re sounding more and more like a grim, dissatisfied type of customer who has nothing good to say about either the present or the past.  Time travel is only possible in our day and age with memory aiding–I say, let’s live it up, past, present, and based upon these two, future, with anticipation of more good things like others we have known fulfilling its role.  And that’s my not-very-intellectual-but-deeply-felt post for this first week of Spring 2013!

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