Mourning Rituals

Looks like Julie's presentation came right on time. I found out after coming home from Ale Works after class that my dog (who lives w/ my parents in Pennsylvania) has been missing for about a week. :( At least now I know I'm in the denial stage and will hopefully end up at acceptance.

A dorky dream

I have been really bad about posting dreams and/or thoughts on class. I guess all of my writing lately has been dedicated toward the paper.

I did have a dream last night, however, that was too good not to share:

I was at a piercing salon on the west side of Bozeman considering a nose piercing. I decided I needed more time to think about it and headed home. As I approached the east side of Main, I saw Dr. Amy Thomas in a strange get-up: her hair was done up in a very Jane-Austen-like fashion and she was wearing a dress obviously inspired by Regency clothing. Obviously, this seemed out of the ordinary. A few blocks later, I saw a sign saying that Bozeman was having a festival dedicated to Jane Austen. There was a woman outside doing women's hair and a stand next door where women could pick out Regency-era dresses. I was so excited, I drove straight home and told my roommates. My cousin Emma was intrigued, so we headed down to get our hair done and get our dresses. When I sat down to get my hair done...Nathan woke me up for breakfast.

Alas! Looks as though I'll have to wait a little longer to partake in an Austen-dedicated affair!

Poem and Response to Lucie Brock-Broido

Ashlyn

I.
As the knife pierced the flesh
She kept on cutting.
It wasn’t until she saw the blood
Mixing with the tomato juice
That she lifted her finger
And stuck it in her mouth.
She felt the blood shoot out,
Warm and wet,
It trickled down her throat,
But the finger remained numb
And unfeeling.
It would be the last time her mom
Would ask her to chop.

II.
They said she might not be allowed
To play with the other kids.
She kept pinching the boy
Until his skin turned red and started
To swell.
Her homeroom teacher had pulled her
Off of him. She didn’t know
What she had done wrong.
She said she liked the boy
And that they were just playing.
His parents had him transferred
To a different class.

III.
“Ashlyn, stop doing that!”
Her mother scolded.
She giggled and jumped
Off the ledge one more time.
“But it’s fun!” she squealed.
Her mom grabbed her by the arm,
Her nails digging into her skin,
And forced her inside.
Maybe a time out
Will force her to learn.

IV.
She never understood why
They gave her parents such a hard time.
It had only been their fourth visit
This month. The men in the white coats
Always had a list of questions for her
When her parents were out of the room.
No matter how much she insisted upon the truth,
They continued to look on her with disbelief.
They would stand outside in a circle and mutter
Peering in once or twice.
When they finally got home, her mom would lock
Herself in her bedroom.
Ashlyn pretended not to hear her cry.


Response to Lucie Brock-Broido

I am indecisive this week, so I decided to expand upon a previous poem and to write a short response to Lucie Brock-Broido
Although Brock-Broido’s poetry is different from my style of writing, I really enjoyed it. When I first read through, I was intrigued about where she got her ideas. I knew there were notes in the back, but I initially refused to read them, thinking it would give me too much information. However, after Melanie, told me that she enjoyed the notes, I read them after finishing the book.
Initially, I enjoyed reading the poems without the notes. For example, my favorite poem was “Elective Mutes.” I was completely intrigued reading about these two twins and wondering what was going on between them. I was able to theorize or wonder about them through the first reading. After reading the notes, I liked the poem even more. Brock-Broido was able to capture the twins and present them in a way that gave the reader enough idea about what was going on but still leaving an element of wonder. In the end, I actually enjoyed knowing the full story about the twins and where Brock-Broido got her information.
I would have to say my favorite thing about Brock-Broido, despite just her writing style, is where she gets the idea for a lot of her poems. Although I usually enjoy confessional poetry more, it was refreshing to read somebody who got their inspiration elsewhere. I started to realize this (without the notes) when reading “Edward VI on the Seventh Day” because of a previous fascination with Henry VIII. After reading the notes on “Jessica, from the Well” and “Elective Mutes,” I truly appreciated what Brock-Broido is doing.
I would also like to note that with Brock-Broido, I liked a lot of her poems as a whole as opposed to liking certain lines. There were not as many lines that captured me, like with Michael Earl Craig and Jim Harrison, but I really enjoyed most of her poems after reading them in their entirety.

Poetry inspired by Jim Harrison and Lucie Brock-Broido

Ashlyn

As the knife pierced the flesh
She kept on cutting.
It wasn’t until she saw the blood
Mixing with the tomato juice
That she lifted her finger
And stuck it in her mouth.
She felt the blood shoot out,
Warm and wet,
It trickled down her throat,
But the finger remained numb
And unfeeling.

A similar thing had happened
When she broke her arm.
She fell down hard
And fast
But it wasn’t until people gawked
At her arm hanging limply
Off her shoulder
That she decided to give merit
To that snapping sound she had heard.

She knew she had to be careful.
But why live in fear
Of ever cut
And scrape
And bump.
So she went along her usual business
And waited for her anesthetized killer.



The Rules of Feminism

I’m not supposed to want it.
The husband.
The kids.
The white picket fence.
I know what I’m supposed to want.
The high-power career.
The long hours.
Trying to get ahead of men
To make things more equal in the world.
So sometimes when they’re not looking,
I stop and watch the kids on the playground
And iron while watching reruns
Of Desperate Housewives.
But that gets tucked away the next day
As I keep on heading toward that career,
That next degree.
To make things more equal in the world.

Response to Jim Harrison

When I first started reading Jim Harrison’s The Theory & Practice of Rivers and New Poems, I was not sure how I felt. I think my initial dilemma is the fact that I am resistant to long poems with no plot. It is probably more of a mental block than anything else, but it always seems as though I am supposed to find the one basic meaning that runs throughout and I can’t always seem to find it. (I also do not think that the subject matter of water in the first poem helped since I am writing a paper in the other class on oceans.) So while reading the poem “The Theory & Practice of Rivers,” I focused more on some brilliant wording that stuck me. Here are some lines that I really liked:

• On page 5, “The inside of the eye, vitreous humor, is the same pulp found inside the squid.” - This was just a neat image/analogy.


• On page 7, “I will never wake up and be able to play the piano.” – I think we have all had thoughts like this about something we want to be able to do but do not want to put all the time in that would be necessary. Secretly, I think we all hope that we would be able to just do something we have always wanted to do.


• On page 11, “My throat a knot of everything I no longer understand.” - This just gave me such a clear image of the feeling when you are just about to cry.


• On page 20, “The river pulls me out, draws me elsewhere an down to blue water, green water, black water.” - Since I have water on the brain, this stuck out to me. It really gets the idea across about water sucking you down, which is usually tied in with rivers opposed to placid lakes.


• On page 21, “One is a carpenter who doesn’t become Jesus, one is a girl who went to heaven sixty years early. Gods die, and not always out of choice, like near-sighted cats jumping between building seven stories up.”

I was able to get a more firm grasp on some of Harrison’s shorter poems; however, it was still a few lines in poems that really stuck out to me. Here are some more lines that I enjoyed:

• In Kobun on page 31, “The head’s a cloud anchor that the feet must follow.” – This is probably my favorite line out of this book. It is just such a neat idea that has never occurred to me before. It quite literally flips the notion of gravity on its head.


• I really enjoyed “The Brand New Statue of Liberty to Lea Iococca (another Michigan boy)” as a whole. The image of the necklace of bones around the statue of liberty was quite striking.


• In “What He Said When I was Eleven” on page 57, “The fly-strip above the table idled in the window’s breeze, a new fly in its death buzz. Grandpa said, ‘We are all flies.’ That’s what he said forty years ago.” – This part just really portrays the idea of being trapped. Grandpa feels like a fly in his old age, but it is obviously not because of his age that he feels this way. He felt trapped forty years ago and apparently continued to do so.


• “My Friend the Bear” on page 61 as a whole but especially the lines: “There’s a tunnel to the outside on the far wall that emerges in the lilac grove in the backyard but she rarely uses it, knowing there’s no room around here for a freewheeling bear.” And “Privately she likes religion – from the bedroom I hear her incantatory moans and howls below me.”


• In “Rich Folks, Poor Folks, and Neither” on page 67, “I shot the copy machine with my rifle. No more copies, I thought, everything original!” – because haven’t we all wanted to cry out against technology at some point in our lives?

Overall, I am still trying to “figure it all out.” His style seems to be pretty comfortable and accessible but not in the same way as Billy Collins. I am not too sure what it is, but I do think I would have a hard time replicating his style. Either way, I am looking forward to see what my classmates have made of it and hopefully Jimmy will be able to enlighten us since he has been able to study Harrison extensively.

Poetry

I am really not happy with this week's poetry. But here it is:


Assateague

As I lay in my canvas abode
listening to the waves wash up on shore,
I heard the clip-clop footsteps
of the approaching animal.
With one glance I realized
I was the only one;
my sisters were snuggled and sleeping
soundly in their sleeping bags,
finally escaping the itch of the mosquito bites
and sand.
Laying as still as I could,
I watched the silhouette of the beast
near our tent until it stopped outside of my open window.
The horse turned its head
and seemed to look inside.
I could feel its hot breath through
the sheer polyester window.
It seemed to look right at me,
and I stared right back.
With one last breath, it broke
our connection
and turned to leave,
possibly to visit another camp
in hopes of food.


Okinawa

He never does talk about it.
When I was young,
I figured he didn’t think I would
understand. But now that I’m older,
I still haven’t heard the stories
about the base in Okinawa.
He says he did it so he could go to college
and he figured he’d be going either way,
so why not go willingly?
He says Japan is a beautiful country
that he would like to go back and visit.
He says he fixed helicopters and airplanes
but refuses to acknowledge that it cost him
his hearing.
Despite his silence,
every year I give him a Veteran’s Day card.
He says thanks, pretending it is like any other
card, and with one last glance,
tucks it on the bookcase
out of sight.

England

This is not really related to either of my classes, but it does have to do with my summer class and with me as a person. I just finished booking a flight to London for a week in July. I have been trying to get this trip going for the past 3 years and it is finally happening! :) Now it is time to yank my head out of the clouds and get some actual work done.

Contemporary Poetry and Its Use of Nature

I would like to preface this paper by saying that I hate defining something, because I think things can’t always be classified or defined in simple terms. Life and literature is too complicated for that. So instead of describing what contemporary poetry is (because who am I to attempt such a classification?), I am going to make some hopefully astute observations about what I noticed in my study of contemporary poetry thus far.

Contemporary poetry can be either very personal or can be applicable to anybody who reads it. It seems as though some poets use poetry as a release to express something that is very near and dear to their hearts. Sometimes the reader can relate but oftentimes the subject is far beyond the reach of the average man or woman. However, even if the subject matter is very personal, the poet can help the reader see or feel how they feel in their personal situation. For example, Yusef Komunyakaa’s poem Facing It is obviously about something that the majority of the population can’t relate to personally, because it is about being a veteran of the Vietnam War. He makes his personal connection to the war clear when he writes, “I’m inside/ the Vietnam Memorial/ again, depending on the light/ to make a difference./ I go down 58,022 names,/ half-expecting to find/ my own in letters like smoke.” However, although most people could never experience this feeling personally, Komunyakaa’s description is vivid, and it becomes a little easier to imagine how viewing the Vietnam Memorial as a veteran may feel.

Other contemporary poems are about everyday occurrences or thoughts that almost anybody could relate to personally. For example, in William Stafford’s poem Traveling through the Dark, Stafford writes about a doe who has been hit by the car, which is a common occurrence or sight to anybody who lives anywhere near deer. In Mary Oliver’s poem Mockingbirds, Oliver writes about the ideas of the importance of people even if they outwardly seem unimportant (like the old couple in the Greek myth she tells) and the unimportance of everyday obligations because of the importance of the moment (in her telling of watching mockingbirds play instead of going onto the planned days activities). These are thoughts that I’m sure a lot of people have had. It is so easy to think that we are small and insignificant (as the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’s Total Perspective Vortex shows us), but at times, it is important to think that there is still value in our boring, seemingly insignificant lives. And haven’t we all frittered away time when we could and/or should be doing something useful? By addressing common thoughts, Stafford, Oliver, and other poets are clarifying thoughts and experiences that the everyday man or woman has encountered.

Contemporary poetry is not always about the rich and the powerful but about the everyman. In Gary Snyder’s poem Hay for the Horses, Snyder does not tell about a lush lifestyle many people strive for; instead, Snyder tells about a man who gathers and stacks bales of hay for a living. This may not be the everyday occurrence to everybody who reads the poem, but it is about somebody who may be on the fringe of modern society. This poem also seems to speak directly to the reader. Snyder includes dialogue: “’I’m sixty-eight,’ he said,/ ‘I first bucked hay when I was seventeen./ I thought, that day I started,/ I sure would hate to do this all my life./ And dammit, that just what/ I’ve gone and done.” This dialogue helps the poet drag the reader into the poem. The reader is not longer a casual observer but an active part of the poem.

Nature in contemporary poetry plays a number of roles. Some authors keep the spiritual beautiful vision of nature. In Mary Oliver’s Mockingbirds, she stops and watches mockingbirds “ spinning and tossing/ the white ribbons/ of their songs/ into the air.” This seems to be a common vision of nature as a source of beauty and reverence. Oliver also writes about natural forms in her poem The Chance to Love Everything: “All summer I made friends/ with the creatures nearby - / they flowed through the fields/ and under the tent walls/ or padded through the door,/ grinning through their many teeth.” This also seems to have a positive outlook on animals and nature. This poem, however, also shows a dark, fearful side to nature: “I heard a sound/ outside the door, the canvas/ bulged slightly – something/ was pressing inward at eye level./ I watched, trembling, sure I had heard/ the click of claws, the smack of lips/ outside my gauzy house - / I imagined the red eyes,/ the broad tongue, the enormous lap./ Would it be friendly too?”

In his poem Traveling through the Dark, William Stafford addresses a gruesome side to nature. He tells the story of deer roadkill and how it is best to “roll them into the canyon.” He writes, “By glow of the tail-light, I stumbled back of the car/ And stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;/ She had stiffened already, almost cold./ I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.” This poem shows the seedy underbelly of nature that previous poets writing about nature left out. It tells about something that most people don’t want to think about but are faced with. However, Stafford doesn’t write about it to gross his readers out; instead, he finds some strange beauty in his experience with the dead doe. He seems to find or search for a connection or meaning with the doe’s death. He feels her unborn fawn and pauses to think before rolling her off the road. It is disgusting, no doubt, but beautiful in its own way.

Preliminary thoughts on oceans

in order to whittle my paper down to a reasonable subject, I am planning on looking at oceans that the role they play in literature and some film and/or television shows. However, even though this is more specific than my previous paper, it still seems to be way too big for a 20-page paper. Here is what I have in mind thus far.

While reading Hillman, Heraclitus, and others when researching water, several thoughts came to mind. First of all, the depth of the water comes to mind initially. When one is wandering the deep, blue sea, they never know how deep it is beneath their feet (without new nifty technologic devices) and they also do not know what lies beneath. This gives the sea a degree of uncertainty. Nobody knows what evil lurks beneath and where or when it will rear its ugly head. Uncertainty also exists with the success of traveling the seas with weather. Nobody can perfectly predict the weather, and when one is traveling for a long length of time, they are bound to run into turbulent waters. Now, Heraclitus says that the soul (the Hillmanian image-soul) delights in water because it delights in death. When I read this, I thought that when one travels water, the ocean in particular, they truly are delighting in the possibility of death. No doubt after traveling the seas for a long time one becomes in tune with the method, but that possibility of death remains. It takes a certain personality, a certain bravery really, to risk ones life to travel the open seas. When you depart from the port, you never know what's coming from above or from below.

However, although an uncertainty exists with water, I must keep in mind that all elements have a duality. Yes, oceans are vast and deep and foreboding, but water also has the ability to heal and purify things. On a clear day, the ocean may not look intimidating but quite beautiful instead. I also must keep in mind that in theory we are all made up of the elements and are thus part water. We are, in some ways, one with water.

Thus far I am revisiting some books, movies and tv shows that deal with water. Bookwise, I am currently looking into The Old Man and the Sea, The Odyssey, Moby Dick, and possibly Gulliver's Travels. My fiance said the film The Abyss would work well, but I am not familiar with it and will have to look into that more. The television show Lost comes to mind as well, because in the show there is the sense that there is no way to escape; the water plays the role of a fence and anybody who attempts to leave gets pulled back to the island (although I'm going to try to stay away from sounding like I'm ripping off Ryan's thesis here). I've checked out some books from the library that would hopefully be helpful: some on travel narratives, some on Greek theory and Heraclitus. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!!! I'm still trying to find my footing and am having a hard time coming up with one main point I want to make. Any suggestions there are greatly appreciated as well!!

Poetry

WITH A CONFIDENT AND DETERMINED HAND

With one movement of the hand,
another piece of clay falls to the floor.
After a few more strokes,
a figure begins to appear.
Somehow, he always seems to find
the art within the clay.

I could never do it.
The blob of clay remains a blob
despite my endeavors to make something beautiful.
Even after years of watching,
my hands have failed to imitate his movements,
or, at least, produce the same result.

The problem is, he makes it seem
so easy. His eyes determined and unblinking
with his lower lip jutted out in a pout,
he sees something others can’t
and he knows just how to let it emerge.
I could watch him for hours,
pushing and molding the clay
with tools until it is just so.
When he begins to use his hands,
you know he is in the final stretch.
His large, masculine hands move the clay
more delicately than one could imagine.

It is worse when he draws.
When he begins, the whole page seems like a mess of scribbles,
but the more his hand moves over and around the page,
the lines become more defined
and the figures materialize.
As he presses harder upon the pencil,
the details I wouldn’t have thought of come out:
the dimple in her left cheek,
the mole on his right forearm,
that one strand of hair that won’t stay in place.

He says anybody could learn.
He tried to teach me once.
With my awkward, inexperienced hand,
I mimicked his movements and confidence and followed his instructions,
and a face appeared.
It was not a face that I foresaw,
but it was a face.
Sometimes when he’s not around, I open a notebook
and try to replicate his movements
once more,
but nothing comes out
but scribbles on a blank page.



Here is an attempt at prose-poetry:


MUSE

When did it become so hard? Writing words on a page without any intent or purpose used to be what I did for fun after a long day of school in the fourth grade. I pumped out poems, short stories, and even short books quicker than my family could keep up reading them. I looked forward to submitting my words to writing contests and took pride in the fact that I won a ribbon or two. I was going to become a writer; there was no doubt in my mind. As time went on, our ’94 Gateway began to gather more and more dust. I would go back and tweak previous works, but I had felt as though I had run out of words to write and things to say. Eventually, I abandoned it all. My dad bought a new computer six years after my writing career, and in the transition, all my work was lost. When he told me, I shrugged. I had moved on to bigger and better things. I was going to become a veterinarian. And now I had a boyfriend. Sometimes I think about going back under the basement stairs and pulling out the computer that once held my prized works. Maybe that was my muse. But I doubt I ever will. Instead, I need to seek new words to say, more stories to tell.

Response to Sandra Alcosser

I really don’t like saying that I don’t like certain poems, but overall, Sandra Alcosser’s poetry really didn’t do anything for me. I liked certain lines, images, or stanzas, but I’m not sure if I liked a complete poem of hers. So I guess I will comment on observations I made and some images that I did like.

Alcosser seemed to address some “isms” that previous poets we have studied have not acknowledged. What initially comes to mind are feminism and racism. The feminism was a little more prevalent; in fact, by the poem in the section Sugary Heat had undertones about comments she was making about men. The poem “Pale Boat at Honey Island” had a lot of sexual imagery (“the way he pushes deeper,” “he poles deeper”), but the imagery is more disturbing than pleasant. For example, Alcosser follows “the way he pushes deeper” with “into everything I hate” (7). She also uses words like “silt,” “muck,” “rotten breath,” and “sweat the odor of crawfish” about her lover; not exactly what one would expect (or want) to hear about a sexual experience.

A similar but different comment about feminism was made in the poem “A Warrior’s Tale” where a man tells the horrific story about a woman who had been raped, pushed over a cliff, and left to die. At the end of the poem, a woman who heard the story, Rachel, breaks down and cries in another room where the men could not see her. This seemed to be a comment about women not wanting to show fear in front of men. This made me wonder, if a woman shows fear in front of a man, does this give him power over her? Why do some women choose to act tough in front of men but breaking down once they leave their presence. It is an interesting comment on genders: what is a heroic story to the man who found and called attention to the attacked woman is a story of absolute horror to a woman to a woman.

Another poem that had some comments on women was in “In the Jittering World” (20). The line that made the comment was “Perhaps we both are lost in our landscape, woman and chameleon always changing to save our skin.” This seems to comment on the way the woman role has changed so much since the beginning of time but probably more in recent times with women’s lib. There is the pressure for women to change from the roles they used to be forced play (being only a wife and mother). Women are now supposed to want a high-powered career and to be able to fulfill a role that was traditionally reserved for men. This idea also seems to be present in “Wildcat Path” (where Alcosser writes “When I serve my family at the kitchen table, they lick their lips, turn toward me – mother, wife, teacher no longer, but now the woman who walked with a lion” (49).

The other “ism” (racism) was addressed in the poem “Worms,” but I won’t go into detail because that was a lot more upfront an obvious than some of the feminist imagery.

What I do like about Alcosser is her strong imagery and the way she played with the poetic form. Some poems seemed more like prose (“The Red Dress” [35]), some had a less conventional shape (“In the Jittering World” [20] and “Wildcat Path” [48-49]), some looked like their subject (“Throughout the Duration of a Pulse a Heart Changes Form” [57]), and some changed back and forth between poetic form and prose form (“Buying the Carnival [27-29]).

Dreams and wedding dresses

Over spring break, I purchased my wedding dress, and afterwards found a few interesting things about it. First of all, the dress is part of a collection by the designer called Dreams. Secondly, the name of the dress is oleaje, which is spanish for surge, which brings me right back to water and waves.

I don't think I'll ever be able to do anything again without thinking of this class!!

Golems

Last night, I could not get elements out of my head. And then I remembered an X-Files episode I had watched a few days before that was about the Golem. Naturally, I started thinking about how the element of earth functions in the Golem.

The golem is part of a Jewish folklore where man tries to emulate God by making a being out of mud. Golem actually means "raw materials." Once the golem was created, he was unable to disobey its creator. Having a golem servant is the ultimate sign of wisdom and holiness. However, no matter how holy the creator appears, the creature they create will always be a shadow of the creatures God has created. Golems are hindered from some things that are everyday for normal humans. For one thing, they are unable to speak, because if they spoke, they would have a soul. Golems are not very intelligent either; they are brainless and are either obedient to man or hostile toward man. Golems do have some special powers, such as invisibility, a heated touch, and the ability to summon spirits of the dead.

Now, it is important to remember that the name Adam actually means earth. In some theories, God created Adam himself out of mud. It is interesting to consider what the implications are when making beings out of the earth. The earth is cold and is associated with the underworld. The earth is also the only element humans have any real control over. One cannot control fire, air, and water, but in some ways, they do have the ability to control some aspects of the earth, such as growing plants, destroying mountains, building cities. Despite catastrophes, such as earthquakes, the earth is also predictable.

So what does it mean if humans are made of mud initially? Even if we're not, what are the implications when people attempt to make servants out of mud to do our bidding? If we are also made out of mud, why don't we have the ability to communicate with the underworld like the golem?

I want to look deeper into the golem. Not sure if it will be very fruitful, but I am interested about these men made of earth.

550: an attempt at surrealism

I am having a really hard time writing surrealist poetry. I can't seem to let go control. Well, here's what I have so far.


BLOODSTAINS

I.
You look nice today.
Did you get that sweater
at thrift shop? Because I made one
just like it
and donated it.

II.
Blood, blood,
bloodstains, but the casket
was two feet shorter
than the man who lay
inside.

III.
The bunnies hopped
out of his mouth
and scrambled across
the green grass.


TODAY’S DATE

I like the idea
of people running
for office. There’s a positive
effect when you run
for office. Maybe some will run
for office and say, vote
for me, I look forward
to blowing up America.
I don’t know,
I don’t know if that will be their platform
or not. But it’s –
I don’t think so.
I think people who generally run
for office say, vote
for me, I’m looking forward
to fixing your potholes,
or make sure you got
bread on the table.

-President Bush on 16 March 2005

510: Early musings on the elements and literature

As a way to organize my thoughts as to how elements relate to certain seasons and genres of literature, I drew a diagram. My fiance, the photoshop genius that he is, illustrated my amateurish diagram to the diagram below (although he was nice enough to try to give me credit for doing it).

Here is the diagram that helped me visualize all of this (an explanation follows):



What is important to realize is that the elements of earth and fire are both dry and do not change. They are consistent, just like the genres of irony and romance. Unlike earth and fire, air and water are wet and do have the ability to change. Air rises as it is warm and is thus closer to the sky. Water cools and sinks, both in rainfall and in currents in the sea, and is thus closer to the earth. Therefore, air resembles comedy (with the upward movement) while water resembles tragedy (where everything goes down toward the underworld).

Although some of the elements differ in their ability to change or remain sturdy depending on their wetness or dryness, the temperature of the element also gives them some attributes. Fire and air, for example, are both hot. Since fire is romance, the story begins well and by the end, not much has changed besides the fact that the hero has gone on a mission and succeeded. Air, on the other hand, starts off cool, just how comedy begins with some sort of problem that the hero has to solve. By the end of comedy, however, the hero has defeated the problem and lives happily ever after with the hero from romance. Therefore, warmth seems to be associated with a happy ending, as indicated by the upward movement toward the heavens.

Likewise, the endings of earth and water are similar because both of them are cold. Earth is irony, so things start off with a negative tone and that negative tone remains until the end. Tragedy, on the other hand, starts off with a "divine" hero who seems to have everything going for him when fate catches up and s/he falls. Earth and water both have a downward movement, toward the earth, and often have a more "real" tone.

Well, there is the basis of my paper. You'll have to wait until Wednesday for everything else.

510: Waking Life

All this talk about dreams being in the underworld made me think of the movie Waking Life. For those of you who has not yet been enlightened by this film, a large part of the film has to do with lucid dreaming, which is when you realize you are dreaming and are able to make decisions while in sleep.

One way that the makers of the film suggest you can do this is by flicking light switches on and off during your daylife, because in dreams, you cannot adjust light levels. Therefore, you will get in such a habit of switching switches that when you do it in your dream, you will be able to determine you are dreaming when you are unable to turn the light off and on (this is, of course, assuming your dayworld invades your underworld, which Hillman would disagree with). After you realize you are dreaming, theoretically, you are able to make decisions and do pretty much whatever you like in the dream.

When it comes to Hillman, however, I am not sure how to apply this theory. If the dreams belong in the underworld, are we or can we control them? In class today, we said that dreams are supposed to be where you let go of the real world and let the underworld take over. If we do find a way to become an active role in our dreams, should we? Would Hillman acknowledge this phenomenon of lucid dreaming? Where does lucid dreaming belong in the underworld?

It seems as though, according to Hillman, we should not be able to control our dreams in any facet. If the person is aware enough to know they are dreaming, I wonder if they have even entered the underworld. If you are consciuos enough to make rational decisions, then it would seem as though the dayworld is invading the underworld. This is interesting, because Hillman thus far has only addressed the problems of bringing the underworld into the dayworld after the person has woken up and began to analyze the dream. Where do dreams lie if the dayworld is seeping into the underworld when the person is physically in the state of dreaming? Are they still in the underworld or have they reentered the realm of the dayworld?

This really intrigues me, because in my own experience, I have at times been able to realize I'm dreaming and been able to make decisions. For example, at one point in a dream, I was in the woods and became face-to-face with a tiger. At first, I was understandably frightened for my life. A moment later, I realized I was sleeping and I could fight the tiger. So I fought the tiger and won.

I am not a big fan of being able to control my dreams. My fiance has always been jealous; he's wanted to lucid dream for years and to no avail. I do think I think that dreaming is when the dreamer can let go and let the dream take over. I don't want to be able to make rational decisions; I have enough rational decisions to make in the dayworld.

So am I infringing on the underworld when I realize I am dreaming and decide to take action and possibly change the outcome of the dream? Or am I still in the underworld?

550: Response to Michael Earl Craig and Surrealist Poetry

After dating an artist for five years, one would think that I have a firm grasp on the art movements, and in some ways, I do. However, although my significant other has made some surrealist-influenced art (which I may bring pictures in), surrealism has always seemed to slip between my fingers. Even in art history classes and in literature classes that have addressed surrealism, I have had a hard time wrapping my brain around what it all means and how it functions.

Needless to say, when I started reading Michael Earl Craig’s Yes, Master the usual anti-surrealism grunts began to escape my lips. So I forced my fiancé to read some of the poems and show me how and why they are surrealism. I am going to assume that others have had a hard time “getting” surrealism so here are some things that he told me that helped me grasp the idea (kind of…):

• A common surrealist saying is that surrealism is the unexpected meeting of an umbrella and a sewing machine on a dissection table

• Surrealism has to make just enough sense to make sense (it made sense to me when he said it, although writing it out makes it not seem to make sense… maybe that is a surrealist way of explaining surrealism.) For example, it is like saying something smells like purple. It's a fundamental truth that you can only explain in a way that doesn't make sense.

• Surrealism takes you where you least expected to go

With those explanations in mind, I jumped back into Craig, and I think I can now see some of the ways characteristics of surrealist poetry.

“Piece” was one of my favorite Craig poems even without the surrealism explanation. One of my favorite parts is, “After living with it for a short while he had the house removed” (4). Pre-explanation, I thought this was an interesting line, and after talking to Nathan, I realized that this is part of what makes this a surrealist poem: it is unexpected. Who would think that somebody would remove a house from a particular piece of art. From then on, the poem is harder to relate to, because the whole idea of removing a house and just putting pieces of art on the lawn is so far beyond reality. At the same time, however, it still kind of makes sense. It is not so absurd that the reader cannot imagine somebody doing this. The last stanza also seem hard to grasp but a vivid image nonetheless: “Because the neighbors were believers they could say among other things that they saw his strange wheelbarrow parked outside in the snow with its human ankles for handles” (4). In some strange way, this could be real, but it also hard to grasp and vague. What exactly did the neighbors believe in? Is the wheelbarrow part of the art? Are the human ankles the “he” found throughout the poem or are they also part of the artwork? I can almost see the wheelbarrow with the ankle handles and the neighbors peering out through the curtain at it, but I am still unclear as to what it actually is.

Throughout the rest of the book I just marked places where there were unexpected turns or lines or stanzas that seemed to come out of nowhere. Here are some of the interesting twists and turns Craig takes us on:

• In “The Interview”: “They make me think of potatoes, it’s the first thing I think of, and they’re in my underpants” (8). Unexpected: takes reader by surprise. Not sure what it means, but it's an amusing stanza

• In “Axiom”: “For who among us has not stood on the bank and thought about it, and wondered about the others? Then a
meteor shower came down and hit the man” (9). This is an unexpected event/turn in the poem.

• In “In the Januaried Mountains”: “I think about how a butterfly, if permitted, will crawl neurotically all over a soldier’s face for half an hour” (11). Well, I guess that could happen, but I never imagined somebody would think this or assume a butterfly would do this.

• The whole poem “Edward” (20) seemed random and didn’t seem to connect, in any obvious way anyway.

• In “Glass of Vodka”: What is the word for when a nun rolls a boulder away from the mouth of a cave or tomb?” (31) Here there is imagery of Jesus’s tomb; however, before Jesus rose, there was no Catholicism and thus no nun to roll away the boulder. Also, there is no word for this, and why would anybody think there would be? At this point in the poem, the person in it is looking at somebody through the bottom of a glass, so I get the feeling that this poem is about distorted imagery (maybe explaining the presence of a nun at Jesus’s tomb).

• In “Albert Often Cracked His Knuckles,” there are a few changes. First, there is a change from third person to first person: “The man on the ground started laughing, which was uncharacteristic for this man, I know because I am him” (34). There is also a change when there is “a knock at the bedroom door” forcing the reader to think this whole thing has been somebody else’s writing. Then the poem ends with “’No, Albert, this isn’t your mother” (35) making the knocking at the door an actual part of the story.

• In “We Picture the President,” Craig describes the president doing very specific things and assuming that everybody pictures him doing this. However, the things are so strange and specific, I doubt anybody besides Craig has thought about it, despite the fact that he seems to assume everybody has thought about it.

I’ll stop here before this paper becomes too long. I did also want to mention that there is a surrealist game called An Exquisite Corpse that is very interesting and actually fun. Let me know if you want to know more about it. We may even be able to play it over blogs.

Here is a picture of one of Nathan's surrealist-inspired sculptures:

510: Thoughts on oceans

After having water dreams for years and giving a presentation on water in class, I have become fascinated by the idea of water being the image-soul’s delight in death and the ego-soul’s fear of drowning. I still haven’t wrapped my brain around it completely, but hopefully after more research and exploration into theories on water and water in literature, I will understand it more completely. Here are my thoughts thus far:

Hillman expressed the importance in looking at the type of water that is in the dream. For example, a river has the ability to suck you down whereas a vast deep lake has the ability to hold you up and allow you to float. My fascination lies in the ocean, not only because of my big waves dream but also because of the vastness. The ocean seems to contain aspects of rivers and lakes: at times it is placid and could allow you to float but at other times, the waves are large and it then has the ability to suck you in deeper than a river would. The ocean is unpredictable.

I have also thought about literature and real life stories that have portrayed men and women who travel across oceans. It seems as though people who go out seeking new land may in fact delight in the possibility of death. As I’ve already stated, the ocean is unpredictable, and nobody can know when a storm will be so bad to sink a ship. Or the explorer could have placid seas throughout the trip. They don’t know; they are going out into the unknown knowingly risking life and limb.

I still need to do a lot more pondering and research on the subject. Any suggestions of places to look/books to consider are more than welcome.

510: Dream

In the dream my parent's Jack Russell terrier, Dozer, had taken to chewing tobacco. He was walking around the living room gnawing on a clump of tobacco, and since he lacks control of his lips, yellow liquid seeped out of his mouth and onto the floor. My nana commented on how disgusting it was and asked us why we let him continue with such a "nasty habit." My dad started to explain how we let him do as he chooses, and if wanted to chew tobacco, he could chew tobacco.

510: Dream

The whole dream takes place in a courtroom. I arrive and find out that Luke has been arrested and is not on trial for murder. I instantly feel bad because Luke had called me earlier and I failed to answer it and call him back. I am sure he called to let me know about his situation. All of the graduate students and teaching assistants are there to support Luke during the trial. I wake up before the trial actually begins.

550: Valparaiso-inspired poems

After having trouble doing a formalist poem, I decided to find another poem to replicate. The poem "Going Blind" really hit home with me. My father started to lose his hearing when he was in the Air Force based in Okinawa during the Vietnam War, so throughout my life I have seen the progression and the way the hearing goes and the way people try to make up for the loss. I was a little hesitant about writing it about such a similar thing, but the idea came as soon as I read "Going Blind" and I was inspired.

GOING BLIND

What happens is that one eye loses interest.
His children's faces look like painted plates.
His wife walks into the wallpaper and the cat
disappears completely.
He doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't complain.
He calls it his bad eye and gets used to it.
The other eye sees better than before.
Nothing is difficult.

When he sees nothing with the eye he closes it
to watch the shapes that float behind shut lids.
Still there a candle in the window lightning over water.
His talent is for special effects.
He quits his job and seldom leaves the house.
The good eye shifts to heroic scale.

Each day he wakes to catch a different scene.
The patterns are landscapes unpeopled and remote
places he has never seen. These are the hills of Samarkand
he thinks the Costa Brava Patagonia
there is so much to see.
He can easily ignore three whiskers thick as broomsticks
and his own life-sized reflection in the closing green ellipse
pleading Feed me. Feed me.


© by Annette Basalyga


So I attempted to replicate it:


GOING DEAF

First, it is just an added hum.
The hum overshadows other sounds:
The shouts of the children are mere words
thrown at one another, the wife’s dialogue
is blocked out by the uncontrollable hum.
He shrugs it off. It’s just the way things go,
he tells himself. The other ear will just work overtime.
Everything is normal.

When the audio from the television miss the ear,
the hand rises, scooping up the noise
like one scoops up water from a river to drink.
Social gatherings are harder, with noise attacking the one ear
from every direction, while the other continues on with it’s vacation.
The excuses start. Why leave the house
when we have invigorating company right here?
The right ear trundles on.

The hearing becomes selective.
The left ear learns when to tune in
and when to carry on in its own thoughts.
The ear hears what it wants to hear.
Regular conversations would sound like shouting matches
to anyone outside the house.
Repetition becomes a way of life.
The right ear begs the left ear to pay attention,
but the left ear is gone.


Like Melanie, I also had a hard time to find a poem I didn't like, so did Ed's poem choice for last week, "34-Counter" (no offense Ed). I chose it because I really dislike football for several reasons and therefore dislike most things dealing with it. Here is that poem:


34-COUNTER


There is something in the silence
between huddle and the line.
Somewhere between tickling sweat
trickling down the plinko-board hair
on our arms, the dog breath panting through
full-caged masks, the calls of eagles, audibles
of confusion, some place where within this war
there is a much needed turning point.

There is no cold, no numb, no pain, no guilt;
in the silence exists just grass, lines, us
and the enemy. The trick lies in not leaning
when pulling, to play it bluffed, and when
the cadence beats, the hike comes, the steamroll takes
hold, guard and tackle, foot-for-foot, toe-to-heel,
belly out the war cry of the single greatest
tool in ground-to-ground warfare.

© by Jason Huskey


Here is my parody:


34 – COUNTER
(Whatever that means)

There is something in writing poems
among sports fans.
Somewhere between references
that go over some people’s heads
who do not enjoy the sport, the language
of the sport that some people may not
pick up on, some place within this poem
there is a much needed explanation.

There is no point, no goal, no deeper meaning;
in the poem exists just references, sports analogies,
that are only useful to people who are in-the-know.
The trick is to possibly lead the unaware reader
that they’re reading about something else,
and when a sports fan reads it, the explanation comes.
The realization takes hold, wonderment and astonishment.
Belly out the frustration of the single greatest
agony of reading a poem about football.



And here is my attempt to replicate it:


PHILLIPS

There is something in the silence
in the moments before mounting the beam.
Somewhere between the butterflies
fluttering next to the stomach lining,
the shaking hands that in moments will need
to be still, the sound of judges announcing
previous scores, some place where in the body
something needs to take control.

There is no time to worry, no time to feel previous pains;
in the silence exists just the beam, the chalk,
and me. The trick lies in not just leaping on
when the salute is given, to take that extra moment, and when
the footsteps beat against the mat, the mount arrives, the control takes
hold, flip and leap, hand over head, feet pointed always,
belly out the sigh of relief of sticking the mount
and saluting the judges before the shaking returns.

510: Plagiarized dream

Yes, it is true. Last night I stole my fiance's dream. Yesterday morning he told me about his dream, and then last night I had almost the exact same dream. I wonder what that means.... Here it is:

I was at a high school, although I didn't recognize it as being any high school that I've been at before. Somehow I knew I was still in Bozeman. Whatever event I had been at had just finished and it was time to go home. Instead of driving home, however, everybody started getting on planes that would take them to their neighborhood. When I sat down, Sue sat next to me and Melanie was in a seat across the aisle. I don't know where they were at the time, but I knew that my mom, my little sister, Nina, and Nathan were there. We took off smoothly, but after a few minutes in the air, the pilot started to veer the plane to the left, a soft turn at first but a sharper turn as time went on. Sue started asking what on Earth the pilot was doing, because it was obvious that we were now going in the wrong direction. As we kept turning, we noticed that we were also getting lower and lower to the ground and that we were no longer over the town but over red, rocky terrain. Sue became upset and started shouting out that the pilot was attempting to make an emergency landing. As we turned and sank, I looked out the window as I frantically put on my unlatched seatbelt. We seemed to be going in slow motion, almost like on some circular slide slowly taking us down to the ground. Eventually, the ground rushed up to meet us, and the plane skidded on the side. I was pressed against the side of the plane and could feel rocks and dirt grind up against the plane as though the side consisted of a tarp. After we stopped, everybody got off of the plane. I met up with my mom, my sister, and Nathan. When we got outside, everybody was crowded around the nose of the plane. As I got closer, I noticed small hole near the windshield (is it called a windshield?) of the plane. Everybody then took out their cell phones and started taking pictures of the hole.


On another note, I've been worried about coming up with a topic for the upcoming paper. I really have no idea where to begin coming up with a topic. Any suggestions?

550: Comments on "On Goodbyes"

Valparaiso Review Poem:
“On Goodbyes” by Ned Balbo


I’m not sure what made me pick this poem. Maybe Collins put me in the mood for poetry about the seemingly mundane, which this poem is about. Or maybe it was about something I never really thought of in depth before. Either way, something struck me about it.

On second reading, I was pretty surprised that I picked this poem. It took me until the second read to realize that it rhymed in parts. Unfortunately, I had been brainwashed in my undergraduate creative writing course to avoid rhymes like the plague (which I am trying to break out of that habit now). But the rhyming in this poem was subtle. It didn’t seem as though the poet went out of his way to make sure his poem rhymed, but that the rhyming in the poem was a happy coincidence. If it had been more obvious rhyming, it may have felt to me that the poem was forced, that the author didn’t write from the heart but wrote to make it sound pretty (not that there is anything wrong with that, but I do think I fall into the category of a confessional poet).

Now, after analyzing the use of rhyme in the poem, I think I like this poem because it seems to fall somewhere between formalism and confessional. Although it seems to lean more toward the latter, there are traces of an underlying form. For one thing, the rhyming seems to be more old school, although it was done very tactfully. For another thing, there are three lines in ever stanza until the last one, which has four. Although I am more of a confessional poet, I do still have respect for formalism, being the overly-organized person that I am. Anyway, it was nice to see a poet not just doing what is the norm in society or doing what their English professor told them to do (as mine in undergrad told us to never rhyme).

On the other hand, I also like the confessional, free verse style of the poem. As I’ve already stated, this poem is about an everyday occurrence that anybody can relate to. Like Collins’s poems, this helps the reader relate to it. However, the author did write things in a way that made the reader think more than they would have with some of Collins’s poems in order to grasp what the author means.

One thing I did like from my previous creative writing class was playing with line and stanza breaks, and I like the way Ned Balbo did this. For example, the end of the first stanza says, “but those that take us by surprise, the dead” and ends there. The reader has to get to the next stanza to know that the author was not talking about dead people but about “air empty in their wake.” The anticipation of what comes next or where the author is going to go on the next line was well done. The author easily could have taken it in a different direction, and he started to lead the reader in that direction, but quickly brought it back into his intended direction. Then, at the very end of the poem, Balbo ends it with “I hate goodbyes: from those – to those – we dread and need, who take or leave us, like the dead.” So the author did actually end up taking us there afterall.

As I’ve already stated, I also like the subject matter. Although I did like Collins’s accessibility, I did like the fact that even after reading it several times, I don’t feel as though I grasped everything in the poem. Every time I’ve read it, I’ve walked away with a different or new interpretation and I’m sure I will every other time I read it. There is something to be said about a poem that requires more reading. I will keep going back to it until I think I’ve figured it all out.

550: Valparaiso Review Poem

ON GOODBYES
by Ned Balbo


I hate goodbyes. I don't mean those we dread,
foresee or bring about, that shadow us,
but those that take us by surprise, the dead

air empty in their wake. The words are less
important than that someone cuts the cord
quickly: so much already shadows us

we dare invite no more, no single word
or phrase beyond a short God-be-with-you,
Farewell, Good Night. We want to reach accord

cleanly, without rancor, then cut through
the crowd, escape, forget. Speak soon enough,
before someone can say "goodbye" to you,

or else, you'll watch it happen, hear the laugh
meant kindly, simulated through the noise
of crowds still trapped, not leaving fast enough

to drown the false cheer carried in a voice.
The need to part is real. The words are noise.
I hate goodbyes: from those—to those—we dread
and need, who take or leave us, like the dead.


(comments coming soon)

510: Thoughts on Frye and class

As I get deeper and deeper into Frye's book, I feel as though I'm addicted. I tried to get ahead on reading this week for next week and ended up reading all of next week's reading by Wednesday. Although I, like Ariana, was hesitant to categorize literature, I'm not as averse to it as I thought I would be. Although I don’t think categorizations work in every situation, because literature is a complex device, I am enjoying reading about archetypal criticism and the mythos of spring, summer and autumn (and soon winter). The more I read and think about the books I’ve read in recent past, including nonfiction books, the more I see how archetypal criticism works and the way the plot devices and characters in the different mythos function. I don’t know if I’ll ever read another book the same way.

The idea of everything being a displaced myth is also fascinating. When Dr. Sexson talked about it in class, I was skeptical at first. So after class I went home and thought about my favorite book and tried to see if I could connect my favorite book, Pride and Prejudice, to a myth or fairy tale. It only took me a minute to figure out that it could be another version of The Frog Prince (maybe I unconsciously picked that fairy tale to displace for that reason). Although Mr. Darcy isn’t ugly and actually from outward appearances seems an agreeable suitor, the story is the same. Elizabeth Bennett is prejudiced against Mr. Darcy from her first few encounters with him. It isn’t until she sees his true goodness that she realizes her first impression was mistaken. Of course, there are other plot points in the book that may not tie in directly, but I’m sure if I read up on more myths and fairy tales I could bring some more connections.

510: New dream and a recurring dream

Had a Catholic guilt dream last night. In the dream I received a letter in the mail declaring that the Catholic Church has decided to execute me by hanging. This all seemed to make sense in the dream but was daunting nevertheless. It explained that I was going to be hanged, but all of the charges were in Latin so I was unable to figure out what exactly I had done wrong. Nathan told me to calm down and to go see a religious studies professor at MSU, because they should be able to help me out (even though I don't even know if MSU has a religious studies program). It was a pretty strange dream considering the fact that I detached myself from the Catholic church years ago. Maybe I feel guiltier than I thought about not having a Catholic wedding.


As promised, I will delve into a recurring dream I started having around my freshman year in undergraduate school. They aren't as consistent as my T-rex-dinosaur dreams, but I do have them quite regularly; more often than dinosaurs these days. The situation, place, and people around are always different. I've been at a hotel, at my sister's friend Jamie's wedding, visiting my deceased grandmother, etc. Giant waves are the only consistency. Sometimes I am on or near a beach, sometimes I am unaware that water is near by, but waves will just all of a sudden become extremely high (not going to estimate the height; I am terrible at judging distances). They are so high, I end up getting swept in while I am violently attempting to escape. I never stay asleep long enough to find out if I make it out alive. Not sure if the dreams are linked to my fear of natural disasters (specificly tornados and tsunamis) or if they're linked to something else. My research into my praxis presentation on water next week will hopefully help.

510: Dream text

Blogging sure is addicting. At least to me it is. Having sufficiently filled my mind with Frye for this week's class, I will spend my remaining free time relaying one of my two recurring dreams.

One of the silliest dreams I have had since I was around 9 years of age has been about dinosaurs. They aren't silly really; quite frightening actually. Silly really that I am having dreams of dinosaurs. It merits some kind of explanation (although I am really going to age myself as the youngest person in the class).

When I was around 9, my father took me to go see my first PG-13 film: Jurassic Park. I, along with many people at the time, was absolutely frightened but exhilarated by the film. After seeing for a second time, I went to the library and took out Crichton's book as well as the sequel (same name as the second film, but completely different). The book scared me so badly, I had the shut the blinds on the window next to my bed because I kept imagining velociraptors standing outside my window while I was sleeping.

Around that time I started having the dinosaur dreams. Little did I know, these dreams would remain. For the first ten years of having the dream, it was always a similar situation, although a different location. I would be somewhere familiar, sometimes at home, often at my high school. All of a sudden, people were running and screaming toward me. I look up and see the T-Rex pounding toward me. Although everybody around me is running, I hesitate. There is always some instinct in me telling me that I have to save anybody. I always wake up before I realize who I need to save or whether I escape the dinosaur's wrath.

In my late teens/early twenties the dreams changed for the worse. These dreams main tyrant are velociraptors, making the T-Rex seem like friendly dog you would want to bring home. Sometimes I am somewhere familiar, although sometimes I am somewhere that I have never been before. One dream even thrust me into the future into a house that was more like a maze. No structure exists in these dreams. They are always different and I never know when the beasts of prey are going to pop out. Some of the dreams have eggs, which I am desperately attempting to find and destroy to make my battle against the raptors a little less hopeless. Needless to say, I miss old Rexy. I never know what's coming with these terrors and know once they come into my dream, the rest of my night will be filled with tossing and turning and a lot of pillow punching.

Next recurrent dream to come: waves.

510: Dream text

Finally, a dream stuck with me when I woke up. Nothing exciting or as interesting as last week's dreams, but here goes:

I am at some kind of fair with my older sister. I hear from somebody that one of my favorite professors from my undergraduate school is in the book section, so I head there in order to see her. However, when I reach the room that used to contain the books, a bar greets me instead. At the bar, I see Derek, a fellow RA last year who I sat duty with and befriended. Although he was not and still is not old enough to be at a bar, he was in my dream. I greeted him with surprise and sat down to chat and catch up. Last year he seemed lost and not sure of what he wanted to do with his major or if he wanted to stay at IUP. In the dream (and in real life), it turns out he transferred to Penn State and switched his major to engineering. He seemed really happy and content with his life. He also seemed to have matured quite a bit since I last saw him.

Suddenly I am in a large truck (not semi-large, but F-350 large) with my little sister and Meghan's parents. (I was good friends with Meghan from 3rd grade until she seemed to fall off of the planet senior year.) We didn't talk about where we were going, but I knew that we were heading to Boston. I was telling them about my meeting with Derek and tried to explain who Derek was and why I was so happy for him since they did not know him.


The appearance of people from my past is probably remnant from my guilt of never calling or keeping in touch with anybody. I probably dreamed of Derek because our mutual friend Cody called me last week. Cody and Derek, apart from being friends, were kind of like two peas in a pod.

550: Collins-inspired poems

§ Sitting in a Busy Downtown Coffee Shop on a Thursday Afternoon

I can’t help asking myself,
“Doesn’t anybody have a job?”

And if they do, how can I get a job like that,
with enough free time and relaxation
to visit a coffee shop and read a novel.

A man in a black suit sits in a brown leather couch
reading Dickens and glancing at his Rolex.
What is the suit for?
How can a Thursday-afternoon patron of coffee shops afford a Rolex
if he spends his business hours in coffee shops.

Then I wonder if he is a poet,
taking moments out of his day to scribble down his thoughts
and then returning to David Copperfield.

What a bum.




§ Airport

She stands in the terminal
nervously peeling off her red nailpolish.
She glances back and forth
between the arrival gate and the television
that flashes a green sign “Arrived.”

She begins to pace.
It seems as though she’s making all the other waiting people anxious.
What is the rush?
Should we be worried too?

When the passengers begin to pour down the ramp,
she becomes more frenzied.
Red chips fly off of her
like water off of a wet dog
attempting to shake himself dry.

When she sees him,
the one she was waiting so frantically for,
a wave of calm rushes over her face,
and her hands abandon her fingernails
as they wrap themselves around his neck.

510: Response to Pans Labyrinth

In lieu of forcing myself to watch the Superbowl, I went to go see Pans Labyrinth, which I think is applicable to our class. The film was set during the Spanish Civil War and followed the story of a young girl who becomes acquainted with a faun who tells her she's the princess of the underworld. Although this part of the story was fantastical and seemed to be part of a fairy tale, the other part of the film portrayed not only the girl's hardships but also the hardship on the Spanish people during the Civil War. Although most of the film was realistic (with people telling young Ofelia to get her head out of books filled with fairy tales), there were fairy tale elements that I thought were especially relevant to what we were talking in class with the displaced fairy tales. Of course, by the end a question is stuck in the viewer's head: was it all inside her head? Did the fairies and faun visit her or was she creating hope and another world in order to attempt to escape her own personal turmoil.

I still haven't had time to wrap my brain around the film and come up with something eloquent to say, so I will just recommend that the rest of the class go see it.



Poetry coming soon. Mustering up the courage now to post them.

510: Dream text

Haven't been dreaming as much this week, which is strange for me. I usually remember my dreams. Finally one stuck last night.

In the dream, these two sisters had some kind of artistic ideas, ways to sell their art and/or use their artistic talents. Can't remember the first sister's idea but the second one was quite shallow and wanted to do drawings of ridiculously good-looking people (or something like that). Anyway, Nathan gave suggestions to both of the sisters in order for them to market their ideas to the public. The sisters did not like his advice, obviously, because they sued him. Don't remember the charges, but the jury returned a guilty verdict.



In a different part of the dream, we ran into one of Nathan's old college friends, Fred, in a deli. Nathan didn't even recognize him until I pointed out who he was. He had two women with him. That's all that I remember from that dream.

510: Dream text

The details of the dream are fuzzy; I can't remember most of it, but some things definitely stand out. I am in Michigan with Nathan, my family, and some of the Henley family. I am playing with a blond-haired, blue-eyed baby. I suddenly realize that the baby is me. I continue to play with the baby and observing its behavior, trying to understand how I went from that to what I am now.

510: Displaced fairy tale

It wasn’t until Kathy’s foot spilled out of her shoe that she discovered the broken strap. Cursing at her new Manolo Blahniks, Kathy hopped over to a nearby bench to assess the damage. It wasn’t until his shadow blocked out the sun that she realized a man had stopped in front of her. Knowing the danger of acknowledging another human being in Central Park, Kathy hesitantly looked up.

“I see you’ve broken your shoe,” said the short, stout man in a very bland woolen coat.

Knowing that under normal circumstances she would never speak to such a frumpy person in public, she attempted to brush his presence off.

“It’s not big deal. I have a hundred pairs at home,” Kathy said, not making eye contact in hopes he would leave.

“They look expensive,” the man pressed.

“They are. But like I said, I have more at home,” Kathy sneered.

Undeterred, the man remained.

“You’re in luck. I used to repair shoes.”

Her interest slightly peaked, Kathy looked up and inquired on the cost. To her dismay, the man’s only request was to hang out the following Sunday.

Kathy paused and pondered. The thought of spending a whole day with the man frankly made her stomach turn. But it was Sunday, and her usual shoe-repair shop was not open, so Kathy agreed to the man’s conditions.

After the man finished sewing the loose strap, Kathy quickly slipped the shoe back on and walked away. The man called after her, reminding her that she had failed to give him her phone number, but Kathy kept walking and did not look back.

That Sunday, the encounter with the man was forgotten. As she ate breakfast with her father, however, the doorbell rang. A minute later, the maid appeared and told Kathy a man was there to see her.

When Kathy reached the door and saw the stranger from the park at her door, she quickly shut the door without saying a word. Kathy returned to the table. Unfortunately for her, her father was in an inquisitive mood.

“Who was that, dear?” asked the old man.

“Oh, nobody,” said Kathy. “Just some guy who fixed my shoe last week and actually thought I would hang out with him.”

“Did you tell him you would?” asked her father.

“Well, I kind of implied that I would,” said Kathy, “but he couldn’t think that a girl like me would actually hang out with a complete stranger. Especially one who repairs shoes.”

Upon hearing this, Kathy’s father rose and walked toward the foyer. When he returned, he was followed by the stranger from the park, who introduced himself as Doug. Kathy cursed to herself; she had forgotten how her father felt about promises. Her father and Doug talked throughout breakfast while Kathy pushed her eggs around her plate.

After the maid had cleared the plates, Kathy attempted to dart from the room. Before she could reach the door, however, Doug asked if she would join him for a matinee and some coffee. As Kathy began to make an excuse, her father told Doug that Kathy had no plans and could certainly join him. Seeing no way out, she conceded.

After the film, Kathy led Doug to an obscure coffee shop where none of her friends would see them. As Kathy sipped her skinny café mocha, Doug started to talk. Curiously enough, as Doug relayed his life story, Kathy became intrigued. It turned out that Doug’s parents were killed in a car accident when he was small, forcing his older sister to raise him and his brother. Unfortunately, his sister ended up squandering most of the parents’ money on some business scam, and he and his siblings were basically homeless. Luckily, Doug won a scholarship to college and had gotten himself and his sister and brother out of the streets.

Upon hearing his story, Kathy began to regret how she had treated him. When Doug dropped Kathy off at her townhouse, she felt the inevitable question approaching. Surprisingly, when Doug asked Kathy if she would have dinner with him, she accepted. As the two made dinner plans for the following Saturday night, Kathy couldn’t help but think how silly she had been for brushing off a man who knew how to fix a pair of Manolo Blahniks.



Can you figure it out??

510: Dream text

In the dream, I am supposed to be at the house of my best friend/cousin Christine and her husband Chuck's, although it is not the house they live in. Their two younger sons are playing on the floor. Christian looks his current age of three and a half, but although Chuckie is almost two, he looks like he did when he was one. Christian walks up to Chuckie and pushes him over. Chuckie falls over backward and immediately sits back up and starts to cry. Between sobs, however, Chuckie begans talking smoothly and effortlessly, much like an adult. He vents his frustration about being being the youngest and being too small to fight back against his bigger brother. He continues to wail like a baby but talk like an adult for the rest of the dream.

This dream really stuck out to me. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to analyze my dreams in a Freudian way in this blog, but I will.

The different house is significant, because Christine has been talking for about a year about trying to move out of their current house (which is much too small for three boys and the grandparents that live with them). Other things that stick out to me is the relationship between Christian and Chuckie in the dream seems to be reversed. In reality, Chuckie is more apt to push Christian around despite the fact that he is younger and smaller. Christian is also more likely to cry about being pushed around. Chuckie is not prone to crying much and he is also not a big talker. I seemed to reverse Chuckie in several ways: he is younger and talks more than he does now.

550: Thoughts on Billy Collins

After feeling as though poetry is dead to most Americans, it was refreshing to read Billy Collins, not only because he was a contemporary poet, but also because I felt as though his poetry has the ability to transcend into something that people would actually read and not write off as inaccessible poetry. Needless to say, I liked his stuff.

The first thing that struck me about Collins was the humor. In the first poem I read in the book Picnic, Lightning, “A Portrait of the Reader with a Bowl of Cereal.” Directly after the title, Collins included a quote from Yeats: “A poet … never speaks directly as to someone at the breakfast table.” Collins then proceeds to write a poem about him talking to somebody at the breakfast table. This somebody was not in the poem; instead, this somebody appeared to be the reader. This technique put the reader in what seems to be a fairly awkward situation. The poem was very personal, so it was like having a stranger saying things to the reader that would normally only be uttered to a close acquaintance.

On top of bring the reader into the poem, Collins allows his reader inside his head. In the poem “Fishing on the Susquehanna in July,” Collins seems to be just thinking out loud, giving the reader an insight into his thoughts. Collins does this again in “I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of ‘Three Blind Mice.’” This is similar to stream of consciousness writing where the reader can visualize exactly how and why the author came to their conclusion. Once again, it was very personal.

One thing I noticed was how Collins used specific details in his poems where some people would have generalized. For example, in the previously stated fishing poem, he could have just used the word river but instead opted for Susquehanna. Once again, Collins uses the specific when he wrote “Journal:” “a snippet of Catullus, a snippet of Camus, a tiny eulogy for the evening anodyne of gin.” Although what Collins wrote about may or may not be true, the details really added to the poems.

Moving into the second section of poems, these poems seemed to be more about his surroundings and the landscape. He retained some of his humor, although it was not as “in your face” as some of his previous poems. Once again, Collins used a lot of detail, allowing the reader into his head once more. One image he created that really stuck with me was in the poem “Splitting Wood” when he correlated an axed piece of wood to “two lovers, once secretly bound, might stand revealed, more naked than ever.”

I also found it interesting when Collins seems to attempt to replicate formats of poems when poetry was bound to a specific form. For example, in “Paradelle for Susan,” Collins uses the French paradelle format (which seems more complicated than it is worth). Now, I may be wrong due to my lack of knowledge about the paradelle, but it seems as though he was also poking fun at the form when he ended stanzas with “the” and “to.” I’m not sure if that is how some paradelles are, but it seemed to me that it may have been Collins’s humor rearing its head once more.

I think Collins was a great poet to start the class off with, because he was first and foremost accessible to people who have been out of the poetry world or have never entered the contemporary poetry world. I will end this paper with my favorite Collins ending: “’Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.’”