I’m currently fighting a cold, and all that hand-washing and hand-wringing over “Are my hands clean enough?” and “Will I catch coronavirus on top of this?” is a bit tiring, I must admit. I am a model hand-washer, but I’ve been hit with an obscure feeling of guilt over having a cold, as if the very sight of me sneezing might be enough to send the populace into a panic and the stock markets tumbling. On top of that, I’m having to stay hydrated to keep a mild cold from turning into a bad one, my hands are dry from all the washing, and my nose is turning a becoming shade of red. Good times!
The coronavirus situation was borne in on me the other night when I went in search of sanitizing wipes. There were none to be had in any of the stores I went to; a Walmart employee told me that when the store does get a shipment, they sell out immediately. In the grocery store this morning, the toilet paper aisle was nearly decimated. When I heard about the strict quarantine taking place in Italy, I was amazed: if Italy is making people stay home, things are getting serious. Officials had been telling people in the beginning that there was little to worry about here in the U.S., and technically I suppose that was true—until the first cases appeared.
It all reminds me a little of a disaster movie in which the global threat of a pandemic starts to unravel the underpinnings of civilization and send the world back to the Dark Ages. No big deal not to be able to find Purell at the grocery store, you say. Oh, that’s just what you think. It starts with Purell and then progresses to milk, bread, antiperspirant, and beer. Then they’ll run out of toothbrushes and clean underwear. People start rioting in the streets, and the thin veneer of modernity gets ripped off like a dirty bandage. It’ll be up to a straggly band of hardy survivors to escape the pestilential cities, where people are fighting over stray boxes of Kleenex and tubes of toothpaste, to set up a new coronavirus-free zone in some Edenic setting that resembles Isla Nublar but hopefully contains no dinosaurs.
Well, I hope our structures, institutions, and resolve to hang onto our hard-won evolutionary gains will keep the coronavirus from spinning us all out of control. We’ve been through it before with the flu and other infectious diseases, and there seems to be little to be done other than following reasonable precautions. I haven’t noticed people behaving much differently here. I won’t be going to any large-scale events in the foreseeable future, but I wasn’t planning to anyway. I’ll be nursing my cold, trying to remember not to touch my face, and hoping the shortage of sanitizing wipes doesn’t last much longer (they are handy things to have, but I wouldn’t fight someone to the death over them). I have no large-scale mythological advice to offer beyond “Wash your hands,” and you already knew that anyway.
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
Wednesday, March 4, 2020
Bertha Rochester Was Robbed
For some time, I had been meaning to read Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, a novel that tells the story of Antoinette Cosway, the young island woman who becomes Edward Rochester’s first wife in Jane Eyre. Wide Sargasso Sea was published in the 1960s and is considered a modern masterpiece; it is also a fairly compact novel, which belies its impact, and I sped through it, partly, in all honesty, to “get it over with.” Despite the beauty and vividness of its description of the natural world of the Caribbean, the story is so full of misery and cruelty that I didn’t have any wish to prolong the experience of reading it. It’s an accomplished work, but the story it tells is horrifying.
Edwidge Danticat, who wrote the introduction to the edition, says that she imagines someone else writing an alternative version of Jane Eyre in which Antoinette (later called Bertha) and Miss Eyre get to know one another. I confess I started writing it in my mind right after finishing the book. The most terrible thing about Miss Rhys’s novel is the lack of options open to either Antoinette or her mother once they lose the protection of the men in their lives. The other terrible thing is the background of the story, the period following the era of slavery on Jamaica, in which both upper class plantation owners and former slaves still encounter one another daily, although the terms of the encounters have changed. Hatred, fear, and resentment poison all relationships, and there seems to be no escaping the horrors of the past, which simply perpetuate themselves anew.
Young Antoinette is alive to the great natural beauty of her island home, which is all she has ever known, but she fears it at the same time, realizing even as a child that dangers lurk in the shadows. To the reader, it appears that the only chance of happiness she might have is to leave the islands and go elsewhere to start anew—it’s also obvious that her strong identification with the place of her birth makes it nearly impossible for her to imagine doing this. For her, the idea of England, the place from which her young husband arrives, is almost a fable; to him, it is the island that seems unreal. Even having a fortune does not save Antoinette from disaster, since Rochester marries her for money. Husband and wife seem unable to understand one another, and the difference in their backgrounds and experiences quickly tears them apart.
I imagined Antoinette, already driven mad by the time she and Rochester leave for England, encountering Miss Eyre during one of her nocturnal rambles at Thornfield. I imagined her becoming friends with Jane and possibly recovering some of her equanimity under the influence of Jane’s steadiness and common sense. Miss Eyre, I feel sure, would have the ability to see Antoinette as she really is, not through the filters of resentment and fear she seems to encounter elsewhere. Miss Eyre would be too just in her judgments to overlook the role Rochester himself played in Antoinette’s downfall, so bringing the two women together would change the entire dynamic of the story.
Jane Eyre was in my dissertation, and I admit that I have always enjoyed the novel for its “love among the ruins” mentality, its idea that even people who have previously failed at love sometimes get another chance (and I believe they often do). Of course, Wide Sargasso Sea was written by Jean Rhys, not Charlotte Brontë, and Miss Brontë had her own story to tell in her own way. In Jane Eyre, Rochester is older and wiser, regardless of what he may have been in his youth, and has suffered greatly. I won’t say that it’s impossible to think of Jane Eyre in the same way after reading Miss Rhys’s book, but the idea of some kind of meeting of the two women is intriguing and leads to the question of what would have happened to the love affair of Miss Eyre and Rochester had Antoinette and Jane come to understand one another.
Since I’ve gone this far, let’s say Antoinette and Jane become confidantes, and Jane becomes an advocate for Antoinette’s rights, as I believe she would have. She insists that Edward divorce his wife properly and return her money to her. Maybe St. John Rivers returns from India due to illness, Antoinette helps nurse him back to health, and the two of them find some common ground. I realize this seems too much like tidying up loose ends, and St. John would have to have loosened up quite a bit to be palatable to someone like Antoinette, but we’ll say he’s been humbled by his illness, and having lived in India, is attracted to Antoinette’s “exotic” quality. England seems perhaps a trifle tame to him after the tropics.
How’s this working so far? Not too bad, I think. He and Antoinette eventually marry, and he takes a parish in whatever part of England has the warmest climate, in deference to his wife, though Antoinette never returns to the islands. Rochester is spared the loss of his sight and the disfiguring injury, Thornfield never burns, and Jane (who has meanwhile gotten that bequest from her uncle), travels around, goes to America, and nearly marries someone else but returns to Rochester in the end, saving him from brooding, developing gout, and God knows what else. There has to be some complicating factor that brings her flying to his side, so we’ll say he develops a fever but recovers quickly once his ministering angel returns. Oh, and Blanche Ingram marries an earl and returns to the neighborhood to be a thorn in everyone’s side, and Adele becomes a renowned opera singer.
As you can see, I favor happy endings, so if I wrote it, that’s what we’ll have. I have to say that I don’t fully understand the antipathy Rochester develops for his young wife in Miss Rhys’s novel, beyond the fact that some corrupting influence seems to be at work that ruins everyone on the island. The land itself seems to be cursed due to the injustices that have taken place there, and no one seems capable of breaking the cycle. I believe that Miss Rhys was drawing some parallels between the treatment of slaves and the treatment of women in the early 19th century, but in some ways, the depiction of the relationships between husbands and wives seems a bit dated.
It should fall to someone else to write the story of what happens to the people Antoinette leaves behind on the island, but that will be a book for another day. I was intrigued by the little boy who cried when Rochester left for England, having developed a fondness for him that Rochester coldly brushed aside. Perhaps one day he becomes governor of the island, marries his true love, has five children, and lives happily ever after. If I end up having to write that one, too, that’s what will happen. I’m all for realism, but since when is it unrealistic to expect happiness?
Edwidge Danticat, who wrote the introduction to the edition, says that she imagines someone else writing an alternative version of Jane Eyre in which Antoinette (later called Bertha) and Miss Eyre get to know one another. I confess I started writing it in my mind right after finishing the book. The most terrible thing about Miss Rhys’s novel is the lack of options open to either Antoinette or her mother once they lose the protection of the men in their lives. The other terrible thing is the background of the story, the period following the era of slavery on Jamaica, in which both upper class plantation owners and former slaves still encounter one another daily, although the terms of the encounters have changed. Hatred, fear, and resentment poison all relationships, and there seems to be no escaping the horrors of the past, which simply perpetuate themselves anew.
Young Antoinette is alive to the great natural beauty of her island home, which is all she has ever known, but she fears it at the same time, realizing even as a child that dangers lurk in the shadows. To the reader, it appears that the only chance of happiness she might have is to leave the islands and go elsewhere to start anew—it’s also obvious that her strong identification with the place of her birth makes it nearly impossible for her to imagine doing this. For her, the idea of England, the place from which her young husband arrives, is almost a fable; to him, it is the island that seems unreal. Even having a fortune does not save Antoinette from disaster, since Rochester marries her for money. Husband and wife seem unable to understand one another, and the difference in their backgrounds and experiences quickly tears them apart.
I imagined Antoinette, already driven mad by the time she and Rochester leave for England, encountering Miss Eyre during one of her nocturnal rambles at Thornfield. I imagined her becoming friends with Jane and possibly recovering some of her equanimity under the influence of Jane’s steadiness and common sense. Miss Eyre, I feel sure, would have the ability to see Antoinette as she really is, not through the filters of resentment and fear she seems to encounter elsewhere. Miss Eyre would be too just in her judgments to overlook the role Rochester himself played in Antoinette’s downfall, so bringing the two women together would change the entire dynamic of the story.
Jane Eyre was in my dissertation, and I admit that I have always enjoyed the novel for its “love among the ruins” mentality, its idea that even people who have previously failed at love sometimes get another chance (and I believe they often do). Of course, Wide Sargasso Sea was written by Jean Rhys, not Charlotte Brontë, and Miss Brontë had her own story to tell in her own way. In Jane Eyre, Rochester is older and wiser, regardless of what he may have been in his youth, and has suffered greatly. I won’t say that it’s impossible to think of Jane Eyre in the same way after reading Miss Rhys’s book, but the idea of some kind of meeting of the two women is intriguing and leads to the question of what would have happened to the love affair of Miss Eyre and Rochester had Antoinette and Jane come to understand one another.
Since I’ve gone this far, let’s say Antoinette and Jane become confidantes, and Jane becomes an advocate for Antoinette’s rights, as I believe she would have. She insists that Edward divorce his wife properly and return her money to her. Maybe St. John Rivers returns from India due to illness, Antoinette helps nurse him back to health, and the two of them find some common ground. I realize this seems too much like tidying up loose ends, and St. John would have to have loosened up quite a bit to be palatable to someone like Antoinette, but we’ll say he’s been humbled by his illness, and having lived in India, is attracted to Antoinette’s “exotic” quality. England seems perhaps a trifle tame to him after the tropics.
How’s this working so far? Not too bad, I think. He and Antoinette eventually marry, and he takes a parish in whatever part of England has the warmest climate, in deference to his wife, though Antoinette never returns to the islands. Rochester is spared the loss of his sight and the disfiguring injury, Thornfield never burns, and Jane (who has meanwhile gotten that bequest from her uncle), travels around, goes to America, and nearly marries someone else but returns to Rochester in the end, saving him from brooding, developing gout, and God knows what else. There has to be some complicating factor that brings her flying to his side, so we’ll say he develops a fever but recovers quickly once his ministering angel returns. Oh, and Blanche Ingram marries an earl and returns to the neighborhood to be a thorn in everyone’s side, and Adele becomes a renowned opera singer.
As you can see, I favor happy endings, so if I wrote it, that’s what we’ll have. I have to say that I don’t fully understand the antipathy Rochester develops for his young wife in Miss Rhys’s novel, beyond the fact that some corrupting influence seems to be at work that ruins everyone on the island. The land itself seems to be cursed due to the injustices that have taken place there, and no one seems capable of breaking the cycle. I believe that Miss Rhys was drawing some parallels between the treatment of slaves and the treatment of women in the early 19th century, but in some ways, the depiction of the relationships between husbands and wives seems a bit dated.
It should fall to someone else to write the story of what happens to the people Antoinette leaves behind on the island, but that will be a book for another day. I was intrigued by the little boy who cried when Rochester left for England, having developed a fondness for him that Rochester coldly brushed aside. Perhaps one day he becomes governor of the island, marries his true love, has five children, and lives happily ever after. If I end up having to write that one, too, that’s what will happen. I’m all for realism, but since when is it unrealistic to expect happiness?
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
What I Learned by Eating Pancakes
It’s been years since I regularly attended church, but just to show you how ingrained one’s upbringing is, I’ll tell you that I was actually considering this morning whether I should give anything up for Lent. This all got started because the other day I was looking things up about Shrove Tuesday, a liturgical occasion that I probably hadn’t thought about since, literally, high school. I looked it up to see what it had to do with Mardi Gras, and when I found out that eating pancakes is something one does to mark Shrove Tuesday (because you’re eating up eggs, sugar, and fat, all those things you won’t be eating during the period of abstinence), I decided I’d treat myself to pancakes to mark the day.
With Mardi Gras, you’re throwing beads, eating King Cake, and possibly toasting the occasion with libations. I have to admit that when I hear the word “pancakes,” I don’t immediately think, “Wow—the decadence!” Shrove Tuesday is a devout person’s version of kicking up one’s heels. I sometimes made pancakes at home (not for devotional reasons, but on random occasions) and was always trying to replicate the ones my mother made when I was little. I never succeeded in doing so. Hers were thin, more like crepes than the big, thick ones restaurants serve, and she made them small, no more than four or five inches in diameter. They were delicious in an unassuming way, sort of sweet and savory. No one else’s tasted like hers, although other peoples’ presentation was often more impressive.
I have gotten closer to her way of making them over time, but mine are too soggy, and there’s still something missing flavor-wise. It seems to me that everybody else makes enormous pancakes but relies on toppings for most of the razzmatazz and flavor. My mom’s weren’t like that: you could eat them alone and they would still taste good. I remember eating them with a little bit of butter (actually margarine) or grape jelly and considering them a treat. I wish I had asked her how she did it, but I’m not sure even she would have been able to tell me. Probably, it had to do as much with the ingredients and the skillet she used as with any technique involved. (I do know she used Calumet Baking Powder.)
Well, the gist of it is, I went out for pancakes yesterday, ended up at First Watch eating carrot cake and pecan flavored pancakes, and once again thought to myself, once it was over, “Not bad, but not like Mom’s.” The pancakes were huge, and I couldn’t quite finish them, so I rolled out of the restaurant feeling that I had definitely lived up to my “Fat Tuesday” obligations. Having gotten into the Shrove Tuesday mode, I woke up this morning thinking about whether I might get any benefit from celebrating Lent, and if so, what I might want to give up for it. Then it occurred to me, all at once: Mary! You’re living in your car! You live like a nun, you don’t even have a pillow to lay your head on, you eat hard-boiled eggs, almonds, and salad (admittedly with some potato chips and fries thrown in), and your money goes toward the basics of living. Getting a roof over your head is the main luxury you’re looking forward to at the moment. What could you possibly deprive yourself of that circumstances haven’t taken away from you already?
When you’re raised as a Catholic, you have that “But I could always try a little harder to be good” ethic impressed on you from the get-go, and while I think this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, you do have a responsibility to yourself to say when enough is enough. A person can only be so good before starting to float off into the ether or sail off to heaven in a magic ship like Perceval did. If that sounds good to you, go right ahead, but I’ve spent much of my life trying to learn to embrace earthly life, not leave it behind. Catholicism, as I learned it, probably emphasized the next life a little too strongly. I can see that in the Middle Ages, when life was tough all over, this might have played well and even have given people a lifeline. But I think we’re at point in the 21st century when we have to say to ourselves, “This is where we are. If we don’t like it, how do we go about making the world better?”
So in short, I’m not giving anything up for Lent. I, personally, have had enough character building experiences and in fact probably have extra character to give away, should you be in need of some. It seems eminently more practical to try to hang onto the things I’ve got, though a good Lenten exercise might be to keep in mind that all of us, no matter where we’re situated, have something to say about the kind of world we’re creating. No matter who you are, no matter where you are, your actions affect the world we’re living in, and we can only make this life better if we decide that we want to.
With Mardi Gras, you’re throwing beads, eating King Cake, and possibly toasting the occasion with libations. I have to admit that when I hear the word “pancakes,” I don’t immediately think, “Wow—the decadence!” Shrove Tuesday is a devout person’s version of kicking up one’s heels. I sometimes made pancakes at home (not for devotional reasons, but on random occasions) and was always trying to replicate the ones my mother made when I was little. I never succeeded in doing so. Hers were thin, more like crepes than the big, thick ones restaurants serve, and she made them small, no more than four or five inches in diameter. They were delicious in an unassuming way, sort of sweet and savory. No one else’s tasted like hers, although other peoples’ presentation was often more impressive.
I have gotten closer to her way of making them over time, but mine are too soggy, and there’s still something missing flavor-wise. It seems to me that everybody else makes enormous pancakes but relies on toppings for most of the razzmatazz and flavor. My mom’s weren’t like that: you could eat them alone and they would still taste good. I remember eating them with a little bit of butter (actually margarine) or grape jelly and considering them a treat. I wish I had asked her how she did it, but I’m not sure even she would have been able to tell me. Probably, it had to do as much with the ingredients and the skillet she used as with any technique involved. (I do know she used Calumet Baking Powder.)
Well, the gist of it is, I went out for pancakes yesterday, ended up at First Watch eating carrot cake and pecan flavored pancakes, and once again thought to myself, once it was over, “Not bad, but not like Mom’s.” The pancakes were huge, and I couldn’t quite finish them, so I rolled out of the restaurant feeling that I had definitely lived up to my “Fat Tuesday” obligations. Having gotten into the Shrove Tuesday mode, I woke up this morning thinking about whether I might get any benefit from celebrating Lent, and if so, what I might want to give up for it. Then it occurred to me, all at once: Mary! You’re living in your car! You live like a nun, you don’t even have a pillow to lay your head on, you eat hard-boiled eggs, almonds, and salad (admittedly with some potato chips and fries thrown in), and your money goes toward the basics of living. Getting a roof over your head is the main luxury you’re looking forward to at the moment. What could you possibly deprive yourself of that circumstances haven’t taken away from you already?
When you’re raised as a Catholic, you have that “But I could always try a little harder to be good” ethic impressed on you from the get-go, and while I think this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, you do have a responsibility to yourself to say when enough is enough. A person can only be so good before starting to float off into the ether or sail off to heaven in a magic ship like Perceval did. If that sounds good to you, go right ahead, but I’ve spent much of my life trying to learn to embrace earthly life, not leave it behind. Catholicism, as I learned it, probably emphasized the next life a little too strongly. I can see that in the Middle Ages, when life was tough all over, this might have played well and even have given people a lifeline. But I think we’re at point in the 21st century when we have to say to ourselves, “This is where we are. If we don’t like it, how do we go about making the world better?”
So in short, I’m not giving anything up for Lent. I, personally, have had enough character building experiences and in fact probably have extra character to give away, should you be in need of some. It seems eminently more practical to try to hang onto the things I’ve got, though a good Lenten exercise might be to keep in mind that all of us, no matter where we’re situated, have something to say about the kind of world we’re creating. No matter who you are, no matter where you are, your actions affect the world we’re living in, and we can only make this life better if we decide that we want to.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Is Spring Fever Still PC?
It’s only been a little over two weeks since the groundhog saw its shadow (or didn’t see it—I don’t know which it was this time). Technically, we should be in the depths of winter, and in years past we would have been. Ten years ago we had a cold, dark February that seemed to go on and on, and since I had just gotten back from a vacation in SoCal at the beginning of the month, it seemed even worse by contrast. We’ve had barely any snow this year, and it hasn’t been notably cold, but since our winters seem to be skewing late in recent years, there’s still time for it. I’ve realized that I don’t really mind winter weather that much, except that I don’t enjoy driving in it. It’s the lack of winter that worries me.
An occasional mild winter seems like a reprieve, but a pattern of mild winters several years in a row is worrisome even for someone who loves summer. I sometimes wonder what our world will look like even 20 or 30 years from now. While catastrophic war is always a possibility, the catastrophe that scares me the most has to do with changes in our climate. Of course, many things that happen in nature are outside of our control and could also result in catastrophe, but the lack of urgency about things we could be doing to slow climate change is something I’m afraid we’ll rue sooner than we think.
What’s supposed to happen here in Kentucky is that we suffer through our Vitamin D deficiencies and complain about how dark it is for at least four months and then suddenly leap back to life again sometime in March. It may be early, it may be late—and an early spring is almost always interrupted by more winter weather—but you don’t have to feel guilty about welcoming the first signs of spring once you’ve paid your dues with a proper Kentucky winter. So it is with that preamble that I tell you that I felt a difference in the light this afternoon, that it seemed stronger and warmer, and coupled with the fact that it was still broad daylight when I was on my way to dinner, I felt unseasonably early stirrings of what I can only describe as spring fever. I felt kind of good, and then I felt bad about Feeling Good.
People around here practice a sort of “sympathetic weather magic,” which means you’ll sometimes see someone wearing shorts and a T-shirt at even the barest hint of a crocus blooming or a piece of blue sky appearing. I’m surprised I didn’t see anyone doing that today. It’s quite cold at night still, and for all I know, we could have the blizzard of the century a month from now, but this afternoon there was a distinct feeling that spring is coming on, and it’s not something you really want to say no to, no matter what. Even a mild Kentucky winter is damp and chilly and causes you to feel ready for any spring you can get, though you’re perhaps not as starved for it as you would feel under normal circumstances.
At the grocery store, they seem to have skipped directly from Valentine’s Day to Easter (if there are shamrocks about, I didn’t see any, though that may have been in a different aisle). They’ve even been dropping different songs into the playlist at Kroger after seemingly playing the same loop forever, which is probably a coincidence but has somehow become associated in my mind with an impending change of season. Not only that, but the floral department was a raft of color and bloom this evening, a gorgeous thing to behold, even if it’s only cut flowers.
So here I am, sadly enjoying these harbingers of spring, and not only that, I took pictures of the flowers at the store so that I could go on looking at them in case Old Man Winter suddenly comes back with a vengeance. Things have come to a pitiful state when you feel bad about enjoying the first stirrings of spring, so I’ll try not to let my happiness drag on any further than a few minutes. I’ve also been feeling the effects of pollen, already circulating as per usual, so this smidgen of spring is not an unalloyed pleasure. A burst of spring flowers, a stuffy nose. A chilly overnight, a dose of sunshine. Things could be worse.
An occasional mild winter seems like a reprieve, but a pattern of mild winters several years in a row is worrisome even for someone who loves summer. I sometimes wonder what our world will look like even 20 or 30 years from now. While catastrophic war is always a possibility, the catastrophe that scares me the most has to do with changes in our climate. Of course, many things that happen in nature are outside of our control and could also result in catastrophe, but the lack of urgency about things we could be doing to slow climate change is something I’m afraid we’ll rue sooner than we think.
What’s supposed to happen here in Kentucky is that we suffer through our Vitamin D deficiencies and complain about how dark it is for at least four months and then suddenly leap back to life again sometime in March. It may be early, it may be late—and an early spring is almost always interrupted by more winter weather—but you don’t have to feel guilty about welcoming the first signs of spring once you’ve paid your dues with a proper Kentucky winter. So it is with that preamble that I tell you that I felt a difference in the light this afternoon, that it seemed stronger and warmer, and coupled with the fact that it was still broad daylight when I was on my way to dinner, I felt unseasonably early stirrings of what I can only describe as spring fever. I felt kind of good, and then I felt bad about Feeling Good.
People around here practice a sort of “sympathetic weather magic,” which means you’ll sometimes see someone wearing shorts and a T-shirt at even the barest hint of a crocus blooming or a piece of blue sky appearing. I’m surprised I didn’t see anyone doing that today. It’s quite cold at night still, and for all I know, we could have the blizzard of the century a month from now, but this afternoon there was a distinct feeling that spring is coming on, and it’s not something you really want to say no to, no matter what. Even a mild Kentucky winter is damp and chilly and causes you to feel ready for any spring you can get, though you’re perhaps not as starved for it as you would feel under normal circumstances.
At the grocery store, they seem to have skipped directly from Valentine’s Day to Easter (if there are shamrocks about, I didn’t see any, though that may have been in a different aisle). They’ve even been dropping different songs into the playlist at Kroger after seemingly playing the same loop forever, which is probably a coincidence but has somehow become associated in my mind with an impending change of season. Not only that, but the floral department was a raft of color and bloom this evening, a gorgeous thing to behold, even if it’s only cut flowers.
So here I am, sadly enjoying these harbingers of spring, and not only that, I took pictures of the flowers at the store so that I could go on looking at them in case Old Man Winter suddenly comes back with a vengeance. Things have come to a pitiful state when you feel bad about enjoying the first stirrings of spring, so I’ll try not to let my happiness drag on any further than a few minutes. I’ve also been feeling the effects of pollen, already circulating as per usual, so this smidgen of spring is not an unalloyed pleasure. A burst of spring flowers, a stuffy nose. A chilly overnight, a dose of sunshine. Things could be worse.
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Blue-Eyed Hero
Following the death of actor Kirk Douglas at age 103 last week, a slew of news stories appeared summarizing his life and achievements in the movie industry. I actually didn’t know very much about Mr. Douglas, but he does earn a place on this blog for his portrayal of Ulysses in the 1954 film of that name directed by Mario Camerini. It was my first introduction to Homer on film, and while in many ways it may have been less faithful to the spirit of the Greeks than other adaptations I’ve seen, it was, at the same time, one of the most entertaining versions of “The Odyssey” on record.
I don’t really remember a time when I didn’t have some familiarity with the gods and goddesses of ancient Greece and Rome. I read “The Iliad” when I was a teenager and followed it up immediately with “The Odyssey” but wouldn’t be truthful if I said I got a lot out of it. I remember having a book in junior high school with retellings of the stories of Greek and/or Roman mythology that was more accessible than Homer, Ovid, or Virgil in their original forms if also somewhat simplistic—but even at that stage I was already familiar with the stories. In the same way I absorbed fairy tales, seemingly without effort and from a variety of sources, I came to know ancient mythology without being able to say how it happened.
Even in junior high school, though, I was struck by the fatalism evident in many of myths, which—unlike fairy tales—sometimes ended unhappily. Why did Persephone have to keep going back to the Underworld just because she’d eaten some seeds, I wondered. Why did Daphne have to change her very being just because Apollo wouldn’t leave her in peace? Why couldn’t Icarus have listened to his father and flown a little further from the sun? There didn’t seem to be any answers to these questions except “that’s the way it was,” a sobering fatalism mixed up with all those wonderfully inventive characters and stories.
It wasn’t until I read some of the Greek tragedies that I realized that Odysseus was not always portrayed as the sympathetic, godlike hero I first knew who wandered for many years, enduring many hardships, only to return in triumph at last to his beloved home and family. The Odysseus who was instrumental in sacrificing Iphigenia at Aulis bears little relation to the hale and hearty Ulysses Mr. Douglas portrayed on screen in the 1950s, and to be honest, the big-screen Ulysses is the way I preferred him. He was glorious on screen, fearlessly brawling and maneuvering his way from one adventure to another, maintaining a sense of humor, courage, and elan no matter what happened, and looking good while doing it.
The versions of the myths I heard as a child emphasized the heroic qualities of the characters, while the “adult” versions revealed cruelty, ruthlessness, misogyny, and more. When you see Mr. Douglas’s Ulysses up on the screen, you know that he is truly a hero, that he deserves to defeat his enemies, and that his homecoming is a just reward. Well, who wouldn’t prefer to see him in that light? In Euripides, one finds it difficult to drum up any enthusiasm for the Greek cause because you know the human cost of purchasing the winds favorable to their venture. The Trojan War seems cursed from the outset, and the Greek leaders, including Odysseus, come across as a pack of savages.
While the “adult” versions of the myths make us extremely thoughtful about such things as war, peace, family psychodrama, and expediency, the more playful versions give us heroes and adventures we can follow by proxy. I’m not sure that one type is really that much more superior to the other—there’s plenty of room for multiple retellings of these stories, and there are many different ways to approach mythology. I have to thank Mr. Douglas for giving me my first and most visceral image of Ulysses, even if it is somewhat larger than life, since that is the one I will probably always cherish. I will admit to preferring my heroes to be heroic, even if it doesn’t always happen that way.
I don’t really remember a time when I didn’t have some familiarity with the gods and goddesses of ancient Greece and Rome. I read “The Iliad” when I was a teenager and followed it up immediately with “The Odyssey” but wouldn’t be truthful if I said I got a lot out of it. I remember having a book in junior high school with retellings of the stories of Greek and/or Roman mythology that was more accessible than Homer, Ovid, or Virgil in their original forms if also somewhat simplistic—but even at that stage I was already familiar with the stories. In the same way I absorbed fairy tales, seemingly without effort and from a variety of sources, I came to know ancient mythology without being able to say how it happened.
Even in junior high school, though, I was struck by the fatalism evident in many of myths, which—unlike fairy tales—sometimes ended unhappily. Why did Persephone have to keep going back to the Underworld just because she’d eaten some seeds, I wondered. Why did Daphne have to change her very being just because Apollo wouldn’t leave her in peace? Why couldn’t Icarus have listened to his father and flown a little further from the sun? There didn’t seem to be any answers to these questions except “that’s the way it was,” a sobering fatalism mixed up with all those wonderfully inventive characters and stories.
It wasn’t until I read some of the Greek tragedies that I realized that Odysseus was not always portrayed as the sympathetic, godlike hero I first knew who wandered for many years, enduring many hardships, only to return in triumph at last to his beloved home and family. The Odysseus who was instrumental in sacrificing Iphigenia at Aulis bears little relation to the hale and hearty Ulysses Mr. Douglas portrayed on screen in the 1950s, and to be honest, the big-screen Ulysses is the way I preferred him. He was glorious on screen, fearlessly brawling and maneuvering his way from one adventure to another, maintaining a sense of humor, courage, and elan no matter what happened, and looking good while doing it.
The versions of the myths I heard as a child emphasized the heroic qualities of the characters, while the “adult” versions revealed cruelty, ruthlessness, misogyny, and more. When you see Mr. Douglas’s Ulysses up on the screen, you know that he is truly a hero, that he deserves to defeat his enemies, and that his homecoming is a just reward. Well, who wouldn’t prefer to see him in that light? In Euripides, one finds it difficult to drum up any enthusiasm for the Greek cause because you know the human cost of purchasing the winds favorable to their venture. The Trojan War seems cursed from the outset, and the Greek leaders, including Odysseus, come across as a pack of savages.
While the “adult” versions of the myths make us extremely thoughtful about such things as war, peace, family psychodrama, and expediency, the more playful versions give us heroes and adventures we can follow by proxy. I’m not sure that one type is really that much more superior to the other—there’s plenty of room for multiple retellings of these stories, and there are many different ways to approach mythology. I have to thank Mr. Douglas for giving me my first and most visceral image of Ulysses, even if it is somewhat larger than life, since that is the one I will probably always cherish. I will admit to preferring my heroes to be heroic, even if it doesn’t always happen that way.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
Sending Love to Iowa
I logged onto my iPad yesterday morning wondering how the Iowa caucuses had gone and spent a lively couple of hours reading news articles about how it all went down. I, along with most people, I guess, was expecting to see results first thing, and when I read about the app problem that prevented results from getting through, I figured it would be sometime in the afternoon, at the longest, before we heard anything. Election glitches are nothing new.
In the meantime, I read the news while trying to steer as clear as I could of pundits talking about “what’s broken” and “what a big mess everything is.” Admittedly, I was impatient to find out who had won, but I had the advantage of not having been tuned in the evening before when the caucuses were actually taking place, so I didn’t experience the anxiety and confusion that had unfolded in Iowa in real time. Apparently, nerves were worn to a frazzle (and no wonder) all around as people had to rely on trying to call in their results the old-fashioned way, only to be met with long wait times and hang-ups.
I read words like “debacle” and “disaster” and saw opinions expressed about how we were seeing the beginning of the end of the caucus process in Iowa, and I have to admit: my feelings were rather different. Granted, I was at a remove from it all in time and space, but as I looked at the photos and watched the videos of Iowans taking part in one of our country’s most important participatory processes, that of choosing the person who may be our next president, I was, more than anything, moved.
I was moved by the excitement I could see in people’s faces, by the conscientiousness with which they patiently navigated the ins and outs of the system, by the diversity of the Iowans themselves—including one precinct with largely Muslim constituents—and by the very public nature of the process itself. Nothing hidden or secret there, just people very openly and matter-of-factly sorting themselves into groups to support their preferred candidates. You could actually see democracy at work, right in front of your eyes. I don’t remember the last time I was so touched by anything having to do with politics, but I didn’t have a single sarcastic thought while I was watching the people of Iowa caucus. What I was really thinking was “This is what democracy is all about, and how wonderful for the people of Iowa to get to lead the way.”
From this you will see that I am sharply at odds with the people who keep moaning about what a disaster it all was. The only disaster I saw was in the app that didn’t work, and with the paper ballots completed by the participants, there seems to be no way the outcome will be in doubt once it’s known. I was actually wishing our state had a caucus, because to me there was something fundamentally satisfying about watching people show up with their friends and neighbors and then publicly sort themselves, declaring their candidate preference in front of one and all. There was something sort of New England town hall-ish about it all, democracy with a small d, right down there at the grass roots level. I was (if you don’t mind if I express an old-fashioned thought) just plain proud.
I think it’s wise for the officials in Iowa to take their time about checking the results to make sure that it’s all done properly. While it’s frustrating, it will not prevent everyone from moving on to the next contest. If anything good can be said to come out of it, it is perhaps the fact that the problem with the app was discovered in time to prevent another state, possibly without the easy visibility of the caucus system, from finding itself in similar circumstances with inadequate backup.
Personally, I think it would be a shame if Iowa gave up its caucuses over a piece of software. You guys just keep on keepin’ on, no matter what the experts say. There’s too much genuine joy and excitement in the system you’ve got, and if you can get Wordplay (as cynical as I am sometimes) to say so, you must be doing something really special.
In the meantime, I read the news while trying to steer as clear as I could of pundits talking about “what’s broken” and “what a big mess everything is.” Admittedly, I was impatient to find out who had won, but I had the advantage of not having been tuned in the evening before when the caucuses were actually taking place, so I didn’t experience the anxiety and confusion that had unfolded in Iowa in real time. Apparently, nerves were worn to a frazzle (and no wonder) all around as people had to rely on trying to call in their results the old-fashioned way, only to be met with long wait times and hang-ups.
I read words like “debacle” and “disaster” and saw opinions expressed about how we were seeing the beginning of the end of the caucus process in Iowa, and I have to admit: my feelings were rather different. Granted, I was at a remove from it all in time and space, but as I looked at the photos and watched the videos of Iowans taking part in one of our country’s most important participatory processes, that of choosing the person who may be our next president, I was, more than anything, moved.
I was moved by the excitement I could see in people’s faces, by the conscientiousness with which they patiently navigated the ins and outs of the system, by the diversity of the Iowans themselves—including one precinct with largely Muslim constituents—and by the very public nature of the process itself. Nothing hidden or secret there, just people very openly and matter-of-factly sorting themselves into groups to support their preferred candidates. You could actually see democracy at work, right in front of your eyes. I don’t remember the last time I was so touched by anything having to do with politics, but I didn’t have a single sarcastic thought while I was watching the people of Iowa caucus. What I was really thinking was “This is what democracy is all about, and how wonderful for the people of Iowa to get to lead the way.”
From this you will see that I am sharply at odds with the people who keep moaning about what a disaster it all was. The only disaster I saw was in the app that didn’t work, and with the paper ballots completed by the participants, there seems to be no way the outcome will be in doubt once it’s known. I was actually wishing our state had a caucus, because to me there was something fundamentally satisfying about watching people show up with their friends and neighbors and then publicly sort themselves, declaring their candidate preference in front of one and all. There was something sort of New England town hall-ish about it all, democracy with a small d, right down there at the grass roots level. I was (if you don’t mind if I express an old-fashioned thought) just plain proud.
I think it’s wise for the officials in Iowa to take their time about checking the results to make sure that it’s all done properly. While it’s frustrating, it will not prevent everyone from moving on to the next contest. If anything good can be said to come out of it, it is perhaps the fact that the problem with the app was discovered in time to prevent another state, possibly without the easy visibility of the caucus system, from finding itself in similar circumstances with inadequate backup.
Personally, I think it would be a shame if Iowa gave up its caucuses over a piece of software. You guys just keep on keepin’ on, no matter what the experts say. There’s too much genuine joy and excitement in the system you’ve got, and if you can get Wordplay (as cynical as I am sometimes) to say so, you must be doing something really special.
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
To Celebrate 10 Years of Wordplay, I’m Giving Out the Best Advice You’ll Ever Get
With all the activities that come with the New Year—gathering tax documents, renewing car registration, planning for retirement (more on that in a minute), I frankly forgot to mention an important milestone: Wordplay—Writing & Life’s 10-year anniversary, which occurred at the beginning of the year. Yes, it really has been that long. Though in some ways it’s difficult to believe, since I clearly remember the day I sat down and wrote the first post, in other ways it feels like every bit of 10 years and more—the longest 10 years of my life, in fact.
I was feeling very hopeful when I started this blog. I was about to embark on the great unknown of writing a dissertation, and I was also hopeful of possibly seeing other changes in my life. Successfully completing a three-year course of graduate school while working full-time had given me the confidence that I might be able to do other things I’d never done before, including, but not limited to, moving and getting a new job. I didn’t want the job I was in then to be the job I retired from, and I knew that with a library degree I was probably employable just about anywhere. I wasn’t unhappy to be in Lexington, but the idea of moving had been in my mind for so long that I figured it would probably happen sooner rather than later.
Before I started the myth studies program, I was a writer in search of a subject matter and a spark that I hoped would set something alight in my mind—and that is exactly what happened, though not in the way I thought it would. If you had asked me then what I imagined myself doing 10 years on, I probably would have said: I will be living in California, or at least dividing my time between Kentucky and California. I would have said I will be working in a creative field, publishing books, perhaps teaching part-time, and maybe even exploring my newly formed interest in working with images and film. At that point, I viewed my library career as something I was likely to transition out of. But first things first: there was the dissertation to write.
Although the end of 2009 had ushered in some unexplained and unsettling events, as I have said before, it was really more of a Dada phase in my life, not the full-on Surrealistic Nightmare that was shortly to ensue. At the beginning of 2010, I still felt that I could steer my life in the direction I wanted it to go, and in fact, that’s what I was doing. The main anxiety I had was the pressure of the dissertation, and, while daunting, this was largely a good pressure, one I had chosen for myself.
When I look back, I’m thankful that I had my dissertation to think about once all hell broke loose, because it gave me a focus, an intellectual activity that required me to gather myself together and give it my all. If I hadn’t had it to work on at the end of 2010 and during the latter part of 2011, I don’t know what I would have done. But there I was, doing the things I had always done best, gathering sources, reading, and distilling all of that into writing. In a way, completing the dissertation was like one long writing meditation, although I suppose most people wouldn’t think of an analytical process like scholarly writing as a meditation. In effect, though, it centered me and helped me keep my feet on the ground during an extremely bewildering time.
In Jungian terms, I was in dialogue with the Self throughout it all. In some strange way, despite having been semi-agnostic for long stretches of my life, I felt at that time as if I could sense a divine presence hovering at the edges of things, quietly willing me to succeed. It wasn’t just “succeeding at the dissertation.” It was succeeding at surviving. If you’re an atheist, this will probably make no sense to you, but I was a believer in the goodness of God at that time like I had never been before in my life.
Needless to say, most of the things I had hoped for 10 years ago did not come true. Once I successfully completed my dissertation, it was as if I was at a dead standstill. My ability to land on my feet upon leaving one job, which had never failed me before, had suddenly deserted me. There I was, a newly-minted PhD, with—I felt—more to offer than ever before, unable to get any kind of a job. No matter that I was more focused, more skilled, more valuable as a worker than ever before—none of that availed me. I felt stymied at every turn, even when I applied for jobs I would rather not have had. My 10-year plan certainly didn’t include using up my retirement savings just to live, and yet that is exactly what happened. In my wildest dreams I never imagined ending up homeless, and yet that happened, too.
There has, however, been at least one great good thing to come out of it all, which possibly wouldn’t have happened if none of the above had taken place, and that was that I was forced into myself and my own resources and ended up finding a way to turn my frustration and pain into writing. I had always wanted to write fiction and suddenly found that when I turned my hand to it, instead of hesitation over every word and sentence, the words came tumbling out as fast as I could write them. I was pleased with what I was doing fiction-wise for the first time, and that, friends, is no inconsiderable thing.
I’m not going to make it easy on anyone else by saying that the writing has made the last 10 years all worthwhile; what I really feel is that I succeeded in what I was doing in spite of the last 10 years. I chose to finally shed some of my innocence, to acknowledge the darkness I could not get free of, and finally, to triumph over it to some extent by bringing it to bear on my writing. I feel sure that few of the things that were happening to me were happening because of someone’s good intent—just the opposite—and yet the fight I found myself engrossed in eventually had the effect of giving me (and my writing) some much-needed edge. I would never have described my life prior to 2010 as “uneventful,” but in some ways I feel now that not enough had happened to me. I was still almost a child, comparatively speaking. One thing about fighting for your life is that it gives you heaps of fabulous material, if you choose to see it that way.
So now, the time has come to once again look to the future and answer the question of, “What do you see yourself doing 10 years from now?” And I would say, very much the same things I was thinking I wanted to do 10 years ago, as long as I am in charge of making my own choices. I have never given up on my dreams and hopes and am no further from doing that than I was 10 years ago. I’m reaching retirement age this week and have chosen to apply for social security retirement for economic reasons. Living modestly on social security and wages from Home Depot was never part of my plan but is now my reality, so I intend to make the best of it. I make a small income from my writing business (I don’t make much, but, yes, I make enough that I have to report it to the IRS, so I have in effect been a working writer all this time). Perhaps some day I’ll make more than I do now.
Being a writer is what I am, at my core; I never realized that surviving would one day depend on my holding fast to this, but that’s turned out to be the case. I can do a lot of things, but there has never been anything else that I wanted to do as much. It’s as natural to me as breathing. I also want to add that the timing of Greta Gerwig’s film, Little Women, has been rather fortuitous, because that book, given to me by my aunt when I was seven years old, loomed very large in my imaginative life as a child. The fact that several of the March daughters had talents and aspirations, including—most notably—Jo, the writer, didn’t seem at all remarkable in the book and was simply presented as a given. Ms. Gerwig would have no way of knowing this, but my experience of seeing her film on Christmas Day brought me back to one of my foundational experiences as a reader and a writer, confirming for me that, at least where it really matters, I’m right where I need to be in my creative life. It was as if I had circled back to myself.
Whatever talent or passion you yourself are nurturing, openly or secretly, I encourage you never to let go of it. Pay attention to your soul’s requirements, and you’ll never find yourself agonizing over “what might have been.” Find a way to make it happen, and resist people and situations that pull you away from what you know to be your truest self. Stubbornness, often said to be a vice, is in fact a highly underrated virtue, and one I would advise anyone to cultivate, at least in the things that really matter. It will enable you to stand up for yourself. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate my stubbornness doesn’t need to be talking to me.
Thanks for reading my blog, and maybe we’ll have the same “taking stock” talk 10 years from now. Wordplay is not going anywhere.
I was feeling very hopeful when I started this blog. I was about to embark on the great unknown of writing a dissertation, and I was also hopeful of possibly seeing other changes in my life. Successfully completing a three-year course of graduate school while working full-time had given me the confidence that I might be able to do other things I’d never done before, including, but not limited to, moving and getting a new job. I didn’t want the job I was in then to be the job I retired from, and I knew that with a library degree I was probably employable just about anywhere. I wasn’t unhappy to be in Lexington, but the idea of moving had been in my mind for so long that I figured it would probably happen sooner rather than later.
Before I started the myth studies program, I was a writer in search of a subject matter and a spark that I hoped would set something alight in my mind—and that is exactly what happened, though not in the way I thought it would. If you had asked me then what I imagined myself doing 10 years on, I probably would have said: I will be living in California, or at least dividing my time between Kentucky and California. I would have said I will be working in a creative field, publishing books, perhaps teaching part-time, and maybe even exploring my newly formed interest in working with images and film. At that point, I viewed my library career as something I was likely to transition out of. But first things first: there was the dissertation to write.
Although the end of 2009 had ushered in some unexplained and unsettling events, as I have said before, it was really more of a Dada phase in my life, not the full-on Surrealistic Nightmare that was shortly to ensue. At the beginning of 2010, I still felt that I could steer my life in the direction I wanted it to go, and in fact, that’s what I was doing. The main anxiety I had was the pressure of the dissertation, and, while daunting, this was largely a good pressure, one I had chosen for myself.
When I look back, I’m thankful that I had my dissertation to think about once all hell broke loose, because it gave me a focus, an intellectual activity that required me to gather myself together and give it my all. If I hadn’t had it to work on at the end of 2010 and during the latter part of 2011, I don’t know what I would have done. But there I was, doing the things I had always done best, gathering sources, reading, and distilling all of that into writing. In a way, completing the dissertation was like one long writing meditation, although I suppose most people wouldn’t think of an analytical process like scholarly writing as a meditation. In effect, though, it centered me and helped me keep my feet on the ground during an extremely bewildering time.
In Jungian terms, I was in dialogue with the Self throughout it all. In some strange way, despite having been semi-agnostic for long stretches of my life, I felt at that time as if I could sense a divine presence hovering at the edges of things, quietly willing me to succeed. It wasn’t just “succeeding at the dissertation.” It was succeeding at surviving. If you’re an atheist, this will probably make no sense to you, but I was a believer in the goodness of God at that time like I had never been before in my life.
Needless to say, most of the things I had hoped for 10 years ago did not come true. Once I successfully completed my dissertation, it was as if I was at a dead standstill. My ability to land on my feet upon leaving one job, which had never failed me before, had suddenly deserted me. There I was, a newly-minted PhD, with—I felt—more to offer than ever before, unable to get any kind of a job. No matter that I was more focused, more skilled, more valuable as a worker than ever before—none of that availed me. I felt stymied at every turn, even when I applied for jobs I would rather not have had. My 10-year plan certainly didn’t include using up my retirement savings just to live, and yet that is exactly what happened. In my wildest dreams I never imagined ending up homeless, and yet that happened, too.
There has, however, been at least one great good thing to come out of it all, which possibly wouldn’t have happened if none of the above had taken place, and that was that I was forced into myself and my own resources and ended up finding a way to turn my frustration and pain into writing. I had always wanted to write fiction and suddenly found that when I turned my hand to it, instead of hesitation over every word and sentence, the words came tumbling out as fast as I could write them. I was pleased with what I was doing fiction-wise for the first time, and that, friends, is no inconsiderable thing.
I’m not going to make it easy on anyone else by saying that the writing has made the last 10 years all worthwhile; what I really feel is that I succeeded in what I was doing in spite of the last 10 years. I chose to finally shed some of my innocence, to acknowledge the darkness I could not get free of, and finally, to triumph over it to some extent by bringing it to bear on my writing. I feel sure that few of the things that were happening to me were happening because of someone’s good intent—just the opposite—and yet the fight I found myself engrossed in eventually had the effect of giving me (and my writing) some much-needed edge. I would never have described my life prior to 2010 as “uneventful,” but in some ways I feel now that not enough had happened to me. I was still almost a child, comparatively speaking. One thing about fighting for your life is that it gives you heaps of fabulous material, if you choose to see it that way.
So now, the time has come to once again look to the future and answer the question of, “What do you see yourself doing 10 years from now?” And I would say, very much the same things I was thinking I wanted to do 10 years ago, as long as I am in charge of making my own choices. I have never given up on my dreams and hopes and am no further from doing that than I was 10 years ago. I’m reaching retirement age this week and have chosen to apply for social security retirement for economic reasons. Living modestly on social security and wages from Home Depot was never part of my plan but is now my reality, so I intend to make the best of it. I make a small income from my writing business (I don’t make much, but, yes, I make enough that I have to report it to the IRS, so I have in effect been a working writer all this time). Perhaps some day I’ll make more than I do now.
Being a writer is what I am, at my core; I never realized that surviving would one day depend on my holding fast to this, but that’s turned out to be the case. I can do a lot of things, but there has never been anything else that I wanted to do as much. It’s as natural to me as breathing. I also want to add that the timing of Greta Gerwig’s film, Little Women, has been rather fortuitous, because that book, given to me by my aunt when I was seven years old, loomed very large in my imaginative life as a child. The fact that several of the March daughters had talents and aspirations, including—most notably—Jo, the writer, didn’t seem at all remarkable in the book and was simply presented as a given. Ms. Gerwig would have no way of knowing this, but my experience of seeing her film on Christmas Day brought me back to one of my foundational experiences as a reader and a writer, confirming for me that, at least where it really matters, I’m right where I need to be in my creative life. It was as if I had circled back to myself.
Whatever talent or passion you yourself are nurturing, openly or secretly, I encourage you never to let go of it. Pay attention to your soul’s requirements, and you’ll never find yourself agonizing over “what might have been.” Find a way to make it happen, and resist people and situations that pull you away from what you know to be your truest self. Stubbornness, often said to be a vice, is in fact a highly underrated virtue, and one I would advise anyone to cultivate, at least in the things that really matter. It will enable you to stand up for yourself. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate my stubbornness doesn’t need to be talking to me.
Thanks for reading my blog, and maybe we’ll have the same “taking stock” talk 10 years from now. Wordplay is not going anywhere.
Wednesday, January 22, 2020
Aquarius Rocks, Evidently
Do you ever read those horoscope descriptions of your birth sign characteristics and wonder, “How do they come up with this stuff?” That happened to me last night. Since Aquarius is my sign and we have just entered it, astrologically speaking, there are a number of articles floating around the Internet describing what Aquarius people are like, including tests to help you figure out how you stack up against your fellow Aquarius people. Like me, you probably can’t resist looking at these articles now and then, even though you don’t really believe in horoscopes. You just want to see what they’re saying about you.
I read one article last night that was so flattering about Aquarius people that I thought, “Wow, I guess I’m really kind of cool. Who wouldn’t want to be an Aquarius?” Of course, it left the less flattering things out (and I see no reason to enumerate them here either). I thought that it sounded so much like me that I was truly amazed, the way I was one time when someone “did my chart” and said a lot of things about me that seemed surprisingly accurate. “How does that work?” I wondered. I still don’t know. Though some people say that there is a science to astrology, I sometimes wonder if astrologists don’t have a lot in common with mediums in that they are just very good at reading people and casting their charts accordingly.
Someone once told me that I was very down-to-earth for an Aquarius; I gather that, along with their other good qualities, Aquarius folks are supposed to be zany. I wouldn’t describe myself as “off-the-wall,” and I doubt if most people who know me would either—playful, maybe, but not zany. Some of the things I read in the article sounded a lot like a description of an INFP, which I also am, but there are plenty of INFPs who do not fall under the Aquarius sign. INFPs, and introverts in general, are inwardly directed and do not rely on other people to tell them what to do or how to be. This is apparently a hallmark of Aquarius as well, as they are famous for moving to the beat of their own drum.
I did succumb to taking a test to see how “much of” an Aquarius I am and was pleased to find out that I didn’t match up to the standard too closely. Why be predictable, right, even in unpredictability? I guess what it boils down to is not wishing to be pigeon-holed, or stereotyped, or placed in a category determined by someone else. Whether or not the stars and planets have any influence on our psychology, one always wants to feel that he or she is making his or her own way through life, mistakes and all, moondust and stardust be damned. Cassius was right: The faults do lie in ourselves, and not in our stars—and, hopefully, all the good qualities do, too. I suppose it’s barely possible that old Uranus is in some tiny way responsible for the Aquarius reputation for seeming to be from another planet. But I’m pretty sure the stubbornness and lack of biddability come from being Mary Hackworth.
I read one article last night that was so flattering about Aquarius people that I thought, “Wow, I guess I’m really kind of cool. Who wouldn’t want to be an Aquarius?” Of course, it left the less flattering things out (and I see no reason to enumerate them here either). I thought that it sounded so much like me that I was truly amazed, the way I was one time when someone “did my chart” and said a lot of things about me that seemed surprisingly accurate. “How does that work?” I wondered. I still don’t know. Though some people say that there is a science to astrology, I sometimes wonder if astrologists don’t have a lot in common with mediums in that they are just very good at reading people and casting their charts accordingly.
Someone once told me that I was very down-to-earth for an Aquarius; I gather that, along with their other good qualities, Aquarius folks are supposed to be zany. I wouldn’t describe myself as “off-the-wall,” and I doubt if most people who know me would either—playful, maybe, but not zany. Some of the things I read in the article sounded a lot like a description of an INFP, which I also am, but there are plenty of INFPs who do not fall under the Aquarius sign. INFPs, and introverts in general, are inwardly directed and do not rely on other people to tell them what to do or how to be. This is apparently a hallmark of Aquarius as well, as they are famous for moving to the beat of their own drum.
I did succumb to taking a test to see how “much of” an Aquarius I am and was pleased to find out that I didn’t match up to the standard too closely. Why be predictable, right, even in unpredictability? I guess what it boils down to is not wishing to be pigeon-holed, or stereotyped, or placed in a category determined by someone else. Whether or not the stars and planets have any influence on our psychology, one always wants to feel that he or she is making his or her own way through life, mistakes and all, moondust and stardust be damned. Cassius was right: The faults do lie in ourselves, and not in our stars—and, hopefully, all the good qualities do, too. I suppose it’s barely possible that old Uranus is in some tiny way responsible for the Aquarius reputation for seeming to be from another planet. But I’m pretty sure the stubbornness and lack of biddability come from being Mary Hackworth.
Wednesday, January 15, 2020
Wordplay’s Official Policy on Zombies
The other day, I was making a joke on Facebook about zombies, and here today I want to make a clarification. I wasn’t talking about zombies in the sense of the reanimated dead of Haitian tradition but rather in the pop culture sense familiar to us all, plus I was being a little sarcastic. But please don’t shoot the messenger: I can’t think of another metaphor that better describes some of the strange things I’ve seen in recent years. It really began in earnest in 2016, a year so full of celebrity deaths that I commented to someone that I wondered if some of those folks were really going undercover to work for the government.
I don’t want to be insensitive here, since of course people do die in large numbers all the time and are mourned by the people they leave behind. I’m not trying to create doubt in anyone’s mind about the fates of their dearly departed friends and family. I’ve mourned deaths of loved ones of my own, and as much as I miss them, I have no doubt that I won’t see them again in this life. I’ve told a few people the story of how I once saw someone who looked exactly like my dad, who had been dead for almost 12 years at that point, and I believe I was misunderstood by some of the people I told. I didn’t conjure up a hallucination of my dad, I saw an actual person who looked exactly like him. I’m sure the illusion would have been dispelled had I walked up to the man and talked to him, but I didn’t. It was just another bizarre incident in a string of many at that time.
The puzzle to me was why it happened and how it happened. I recently read an article about the retirement of the CIA’s master of disguises in which some of the agency’s very impressive methods of subterfuge, pioneered by this official, were described. When I read that the capability exists to create a mask of one person that will make a different individual look exactly like the first, the question of “how” such a thing might occur was no longer a mystery. I’m not suggesting that the CIA sent someone made up to look like my dad to the hospital to scare me; I’m merely pointing out that this technology exists and can be used by anyone with access to it. Prior to that, my idea of altering a person’s appearance extended to heavy makeup à la Hollywood; I never dreamed you could actually recreate the face of another person with such exactitude.
As far as the living dead go, I almost feel I should make a statement (or perhaps there is an appropriate Voudon ritual for keeping them away?) to describe my feelings about all of this. In a nutshell, it’s creepy. It’s become common for me to see people who resemble other people but are definitely not them, and that’s weird enough, but seeing people who are supposed to be dead is another category of experience altogether, and not a welcome one. From former English professors to comedians to fiddling musicians, all of whom have been reported as “deceased” by numerous sources, I’ve seen it all over the last few years. And none of these encounters were with people I had any emotional attachment to; it’s just that the feeling of recognition was so strong that I was almost sure I couldn’t be imagining it.
So Wordplay’s official stance on the living dead flitting hither and yon among us is, “We disapprove.” We’d ask you to go haunt someone else, but that really wouldn’t be kind either. We don’t wish that type of experience on anyone, as the times are disconcerting enough without that. Now, that’s not to say there aren’t those whom the world would probably welcome back with open arms, should it turn out that reports of their deaths were greatly exaggerated: no doubt Robin Williams, whom I thought I spotted on the L.A. Red Line in 2017, would be one of these. Prince would probably get a pass, too. But dying is no small matter, to the person doing it or to those left behind, and trifling with death or the appearance thereof seems to me to be bad mojo, unless it is for a very good reason indeed.
The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice demonstrates how hazardous it is to try to come back to the land of the living from the Underworld. If Eurydice, guided by Orpheus, with a special dispensation, couldn’t do it, it indicates that the borders truly aren’t meant to be permeable. Think of your state of mind if all of sudden anyone—from your long-dead grandmother to your bullying deceased ex-husband—might pay you a call at any time from beyond the River Styx. You might think the prospect of getting to see someone you’ve dearly missed again would be wonderful, but just think: if they can get through, anyone can, including that college roommate you did an ill turn for all those years ago or the teacher who terrified you as a child.
If by some chance Robin Williams really is out there somewhere, let me just say that if I actually did see him in L.A., grinning to himself while dressed as an Asian tourist on the subway, that was about the only time I didn’t get a bad vibe from a “zombie” encounter. I can’t really explain why not, except that this person gave off such an aura of good humor that it never occurred to me to be scared or upset. What it was all about, though, I haven’t the foggiest. I imagine you could see a lot of strange things in Hollywood, but if I’m honest, I have to say I was about 80 percent convinced that it really was Robin Williams on the train that day. I’ll leave 20 percent room for doubt because, after all, it was L.A.
Wednesday, January 8, 2020
What the Bee Saw
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”—William Shakespeare (Hamlet, Act I, Scene 5).
I was strolling through the mall one evening at the beginning of the holidays when a window display unexpectedly jogged a memory. A stick-on display in a women’s clothing store featured a large pair of patterned wings that could have been inspired by either a butterfly or an angel. I thought first of a butterfly but then realized that the winged creature I was recalling was actually a bee. It happened like this: In my myth studies program, we had a class in Irish mythology and storytelling, and one of my classmates told a story involving a bee (the particulars of which I can’t remember). She handed out to each of us a small cardboard cutout of a bee, and I took mine home as a memento.
Why that particular pair of wings in the window reminded me of my classmate’s bee I don’t really know. At first, I thought I was remembering the handout as a butterfly, a symbol of the soul, until further reflection brought the rest of the story to light. Instead of putting the bee on a shelf somewhere once I got it home, I had decided to take it into work with me. I remember thinking that the heaviness that seemed to have settled over my office might be alleviated for me, at least slightly, by the presence of this little bee, which I left on the counter in the break room. I viewed it as kind of a talisman of good will and good luck, and I thought that it might also bring a small sense of delight to anyone else who saw it and wondered how it had gotten there. I don’t remember if I told anyone else what I had done, but I don’t think I did. I saw it as a kind of under-the-radar thing.
I thought I would leave the bee there for a while as a sort of magical object, free of charge, for anyone who might notice it. I was taken by surprise when I saw, the next time I went into the break room, that somehow someone else had picked it up and run with it, as it were, by moving the bee and placing it so deliberately in an odd location (perhaps on top of the hot water dispenser or among the tea bags) that it was impossible to think it had gotten there by accident. I moved it to another location, just as deliberately, and there followed a sort of dance between me and an unknown person (or persons) in which the cardboard bee was the connection. The next time I came into the break room, it might be sitting on its head among the swizzle sticks; I might next tip it on one wing and prop it against the soap dispenser. It was a little like passing a paint brush back and forth, though I never actually saw anyone move it, and I didn’t think the other person knew I was moving it either.
It’s hard to describe how this affected my feelings about being in the office. At a difficult time (which was to become much more difficult later, though I didn’t know it then), it was a little magical opening, a feeling of being at play, that I had never felt in the office before, even at the best of times. Someone was responding to my gesture with creativity and humor, and I had never expected that to happen. There was some kind of a meeting of the minds (or perhaps, more accurately, of the souls) taking place, and for some reason the entire episode made me feel that someone perhaps understood me and was validating my impulse to bring the bee into the office. I wondered who was doing it, but I didn’t really want to know. The mystery just added to the ludic quality of the game.
I can’t remember how long this went on, only that it happened in the summer, and that it made me feel better about going into work every day while it lasted. Then one day, the bee was gone. At the time, it made me sad: I thought someone had just thrown it away, and that seemed such an abrupt end to what had been a harmless but nonetheless engaging distraction. All these years later, I now wonder if in fact that is what happened, or if my mysterious interlocutor decided to keep the bee for some reason. It only occurred to me recently that stranger things might have been happening in the office than I was ever aware of—and perhaps not all of them bad, though there was plenty of that, too. You’d probably be amazed if I told you everything I’m thinking about that long ago time . . . a face wise beyond its years that comes into focus from somewhere in my memory, an overheard conversation, an inexplicably sad farewell that I am—rightly or wrongly—now associating with the episode of the bee.
In my mind, I think I have solved the mystery, though I can hardly believe it myself and am certain I was far from being the only one oblivious to a mysterious presence in our midst. Possibly, there was more than one mysterious presence there over time, not all of which were benevolent—though this one was. Sometimes, very significant things might be happening while you are thinking about something else entirely, and you might never be the wiser were it not for a small cardboard bee and a few smatterings of memory.
Am I right or am I wrong? To be determined . . .
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
My New Year’s Eve in Kroger
I want to send a note out to all you baristas: when a customer enters Starbucks on New Year’s Eve with a book and an iPad, they are not looking for nightlife downtown. I thought you might want to keep that in mind when you tell them you’re closing early and they ask you if any other Starbucks are open. Of course, you yourself are free to go downtown, with our blessing. Update your website with current opening hours before you head out the door, though.
My other note is to wish everyone a safe New Year’s Eve and a Happy New Year in 2020. I know what you want to know: what do I think is the biggest thing that will be happening in the new year. Wordplay is not really a prognosticator, but we’ll be happy to give it a try if you insist. I have been thinking a lot about sexism and how it cuts both ways. One thing that has struck me lately is how many young men of style in Hollywood and elsewhere have been wearing bright colors and styles normally associated with women and doing it with quite a bit of panache. Wordplay is just a lone Kentucky girl far from any major style centers, but we feel compelled to ask: is this a thing? And if so, why is it a thing?
We do not know, but one reading from a depth perspective that may not be too far off the mark is that these young men are taking on sexism in their own way. It’s usually acceptable for women to adopt menswear styles and for girls to be tomboys, but God help the male who decides to flaunt his inner female, even in the smallest way. I read an article last night with comments from men (I believe it was from a reddit thread) about what they would do “if it weren’t for the patriarchy,” and their ideas were quite interesting. I’m inclined to think the young men challenging these gender norms through fashion are doing something much more substantial than it would seem, and that it’s actually a powerful statement they’re making. They have my respect and admiration.
What would you do it if “weren’t for the patriarchy”? Wordplay would never recommend that you do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but what about something you would love to do but don’t do because you know it makes others uncomfortable? Not talking about breaking laws, but what about unwritten norms?
My wish is that 2020 will not only be the year of feminism but also the year of masculinism. We are all made up of yin and yang, and I believe we’re better people for getting in touch with our undeveloped qualities. May 2020 help us all to be kinder not only to others but also to ourselves.
Update: BuzzFeed article, “16 Things More Men Would Do If It Weren’t for the Patriarchy”
My other note is to wish everyone a safe New Year’s Eve and a Happy New Year in 2020. I know what you want to know: what do I think is the biggest thing that will be happening in the new year. Wordplay is not really a prognosticator, but we’ll be happy to give it a try if you insist. I have been thinking a lot about sexism and how it cuts both ways. One thing that has struck me lately is how many young men of style in Hollywood and elsewhere have been wearing bright colors and styles normally associated with women and doing it with quite a bit of panache. Wordplay is just a lone Kentucky girl far from any major style centers, but we feel compelled to ask: is this a thing? And if so, why is it a thing?
We do not know, but one reading from a depth perspective that may not be too far off the mark is that these young men are taking on sexism in their own way. It’s usually acceptable for women to adopt menswear styles and for girls to be tomboys, but God help the male who decides to flaunt his inner female, even in the smallest way. I read an article last night with comments from men (I believe it was from a reddit thread) about what they would do “if it weren’t for the patriarchy,” and their ideas were quite interesting. I’m inclined to think the young men challenging these gender norms through fashion are doing something much more substantial than it would seem, and that it’s actually a powerful statement they’re making. They have my respect and admiration.
What would you do it if “weren’t for the patriarchy”? Wordplay would never recommend that you do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but what about something you would love to do but don’t do because you know it makes others uncomfortable? Not talking about breaking laws, but what about unwritten norms?
My wish is that 2020 will not only be the year of feminism but also the year of masculinism. We are all made up of yin and yang, and I believe we’re better people for getting in touch with our undeveloped qualities. May 2020 help us all to be kinder not only to others but also to ourselves.
Update: BuzzFeed article, “16 Things More Men Would Do If It Weren’t for the Patriarchy”
Thursday, December 26, 2019
A Holiday Not Particularly Good, But It Had Its Moments
The day you go back to work after Christmas, people will naturally ask if you had a nice holiday. Truth compelled me to tell people today that, no, I didn’t particularly have a good one (although I’m very good at seeing whatever good there is to see, even I can’t make a cashmere glove out of a rotten pumpkin). It started out OK, with egg nog, chocolates, holiday movie sessions, and a brief respite from work. I was cozy enough on Christmas Eve with all the afore-mentioned, but then I decided to go out on Christmas Day to see a movie and have dinner.
I decided, with some trepidation, to go see Little Women on its opening day. This was probably the first “chapter book” I read as a child, but this is the first time I’ve seen a filmed version. A previous production with Susan Sarandon just never pulled me in because none of the well-known actors in the cast corresponded to my idea of the March family and their friends. In this case, I was able to contemplate seeing the film with a reasonable level of equanimity because a number of the cast members were unknown to me. While I thought this film was well-made, and I enjoyed a number of the performances (Meryl Streep as Aunt March and Timothée Chalamet as Laurie were particularly inspired choices), the March girls seemed a little too modern and raucous to be the March girls I remember. I believe that was an intentional choice by director Greta Gerwig, and while I think she’s made a very good film, it wasn’t quite the film I wanted. (Do not, however, let that stop you from seeing it.)
After popcorn and a movie, I went to Denny’s for dinner and was told they’d had a number of workers call in. I have to cut them a little slack, because I think they were being asked to do the impossible by even being open and serving people. My choices on where to have a turkey dinner were limited (it was Denny’s or nothing), so I toughed it out, and while it was not the way I had pictured it (and I burned my mouth by eating food that was simultaneously too hot (in some spots) and too cold (in others), I did get my turkey and dressing, which was my goal.
If you want some short quotables to take with you on sort of a non-starter Christmas (that is not, however, the worst Christmas I ever had), here are my thoughts on the day, summarized.
1. If you don’t have a husband, waking up with a hot water bottle is probably the next best thing, but if I could only get my belongings out of storage, I have a fake lynx coat hot water bottle cover from Restoration Hardware that would have made it a little cozier on Christmas morning and less medicinal-seeming, but OK . . . at least I had a hot water bottle.
2. Is it my imagination, or have I gotten so used to sleeping in my car that a nearly empty hotel is no longer that much better a place to spend a holiday (except for getting to watch TV) than the back seat of my car?
3. The eggnog I got from the store was good, but I suspect they slipped non-fat milk into that carton because it didn’t taste as rich as I was expecting. Look, if I want low-fat, I’ll get it myself, OK?
4. There are certain holiday movies that, once you’ve seen them, you don’t really feel the need for repeat viewings. I watched Elf for the first time this year, and while it’s really pretty goofy, at least I had never seen it before, and somehow Will Ferrell is able to pull it off.
5. If you find yourself watching Jurassic Park on Christmas Eve, that’s probably a sign. Not a good sign, but a sign. Switch the channel.
6. Hotels shouldn’t list movies on their channel guide if you are unable to watch them. This was the first time I became aware that not all of the movies listed on the in-hotel viewing guide are actually something you can view. I’m talking about Oscar-nominated (excuse me, Oscar-winning, what was I thinking?) films, not something you need parental permission to see (though I’m past the age for parental permission in any case).
7. If you wake up to “Do You Hear What I Hear?” being played at a very high volume in the middle of the night, go back to sleep. This is probably not anything you want to investigate in person.
8. You will find that if you have a Christmas Day like I had, you will have had your fill of Christmas by the time you get back to your hotel. Travel Channel content on people who thought they were possessed by demons and others who had spooky encounters in the mountains around Asheville, North Carolina, with what may or may not have been a strange combination of scary people and weird special effects meant to make these unfortunates question their sanity will, in this case, begin to seem like something you might actually learn from, as unlikely as it may seem. Ditto, programming on Bigfoot and the Alaskan wilderness.
In conclusion, Happy St. Stephen’s Day, and Wordplay will still be here this time next week, if Grandma doesn’t get run over by a reindeer.
I decided, with some trepidation, to go see Little Women on its opening day. This was probably the first “chapter book” I read as a child, but this is the first time I’ve seen a filmed version. A previous production with Susan Sarandon just never pulled me in because none of the well-known actors in the cast corresponded to my idea of the March family and their friends. In this case, I was able to contemplate seeing the film with a reasonable level of equanimity because a number of the cast members were unknown to me. While I thought this film was well-made, and I enjoyed a number of the performances (Meryl Streep as Aunt March and Timothée Chalamet as Laurie were particularly inspired choices), the March girls seemed a little too modern and raucous to be the March girls I remember. I believe that was an intentional choice by director Greta Gerwig, and while I think she’s made a very good film, it wasn’t quite the film I wanted. (Do not, however, let that stop you from seeing it.)
After popcorn and a movie, I went to Denny’s for dinner and was told they’d had a number of workers call in. I have to cut them a little slack, because I think they were being asked to do the impossible by even being open and serving people. My choices on where to have a turkey dinner were limited (it was Denny’s or nothing), so I toughed it out, and while it was not the way I had pictured it (and I burned my mouth by eating food that was simultaneously too hot (in some spots) and too cold (in others), I did get my turkey and dressing, which was my goal.
If you want some short quotables to take with you on sort of a non-starter Christmas (that is not, however, the worst Christmas I ever had), here are my thoughts on the day, summarized.
1. If you don’t have a husband, waking up with a hot water bottle is probably the next best thing, but if I could only get my belongings out of storage, I have a fake lynx coat hot water bottle cover from Restoration Hardware that would have made it a little cozier on Christmas morning and less medicinal-seeming, but OK . . . at least I had a hot water bottle.
2. Is it my imagination, or have I gotten so used to sleeping in my car that a nearly empty hotel is no longer that much better a place to spend a holiday (except for getting to watch TV) than the back seat of my car?
3. The eggnog I got from the store was good, but I suspect they slipped non-fat milk into that carton because it didn’t taste as rich as I was expecting. Look, if I want low-fat, I’ll get it myself, OK?
4. There are certain holiday movies that, once you’ve seen them, you don’t really feel the need for repeat viewings. I watched Elf for the first time this year, and while it’s really pretty goofy, at least I had never seen it before, and somehow Will Ferrell is able to pull it off.
5. If you find yourself watching Jurassic Park on Christmas Eve, that’s probably a sign. Not a good sign, but a sign. Switch the channel.
6. Hotels shouldn’t list movies on their channel guide if you are unable to watch them. This was the first time I became aware that not all of the movies listed on the in-hotel viewing guide are actually something you can view. I’m talking about Oscar-nominated (excuse me, Oscar-winning, what was I thinking?) films, not something you need parental permission to see (though I’m past the age for parental permission in any case).
7. If you wake up to “Do You Hear What I Hear?” being played at a very high volume in the middle of the night, go back to sleep. This is probably not anything you want to investigate in person.
8. You will find that if you have a Christmas Day like I had, you will have had your fill of Christmas by the time you get back to your hotel. Travel Channel content on people who thought they were possessed by demons and others who had spooky encounters in the mountains around Asheville, North Carolina, with what may or may not have been a strange combination of scary people and weird special effects meant to make these unfortunates question their sanity will, in this case, begin to seem like something you might actually learn from, as unlikely as it may seem. Ditto, programming on Bigfoot and the Alaskan wilderness.
In conclusion, Happy St. Stephen’s Day, and Wordplay will still be here this time next week, if Grandma doesn’t get run over by a reindeer.
Thursday, December 19, 2019
That’s the Spirit!
How do I love thee, Christmas? Let me count down my favorite things about Christmas 2019.
1. Putting a rude customer in their place by absolutely killing them with politeness. You know that you are totally within the bounds of the holiday spirit because you are building their character even as they attempt to drag you down into the mud where they currently dwell. Perhaps they’ll thank you for it someday?
2. Looking at pictures of anything related to eggnog—actual eggnog, eggnog cake, eggnog cookies, eggnog pie, etc. Eggnog is the banana pudding of Christmas: you never see a bad picture of it.
3. Sending just the right card to family and friends and enjoying the thought of them knowing that you are thinking of them (for real). Putting on the stamps is also really fun, for some reason.
4. Going into Starbucks, because Starbucks always looks festive around the holidays and has very evocative holiday beverage names. This has not always been an unalloyed pleasure in the past, but they are doing better this year.
5. Going into the mall at off-peak hours just to enjoy the window displays and general holiday splendor.
6. Knowing that, regardless of what happens in the future, you will doubtless never, for the rest of your life, lose the attitude of superiority that comes with knowing you survived living in your car for a year and a half, including at Christmastime. You try to picture specific individuals you know doing it and nearly collapse with laughter.
7. Hearing either of these two songs come on the radio: “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” or “Last Christmas”—or any holiday song sung with true elan.
8. Looking at presents under a tree, even if only in your mind.
9. Seeing an arched doorway outlined with a string of blue lights and imagining yourself saying, “Mellon.”
10. Glowering at the person attending the Salvation Army kettle in front of the grocery store.
11. Looking forward to Christmas dinner.
12. Watching Christmas movies while tucked into bed (special treat).
13. Imagining the smell of a real Christmas tree in whatever future home you will someday have.
14. Having visions of sugar plums. (Just what is a sugar plum, anyway? Possibly there is some room for interpretation on this, but you know it has to be something good. It’s one of those poetic phrases like “cloth of gold” that instantly evoke enchantment.)
15. Hearing the song “Do You Hear What I Hear?” and wondering if in fact the mighty king, in his palace warm, does know what you know—which is in no way a problem and entirely a good thing if he does. Doubters.
16. Reminding yourself that there are always those less fortunate than you and thinking about what you would do to help them in some future life should you ever be able to do so.
1. Putting a rude customer in their place by absolutely killing them with politeness. You know that you are totally within the bounds of the holiday spirit because you are building their character even as they attempt to drag you down into the mud where they currently dwell. Perhaps they’ll thank you for it someday?
2. Looking at pictures of anything related to eggnog—actual eggnog, eggnog cake, eggnog cookies, eggnog pie, etc. Eggnog is the banana pudding of Christmas: you never see a bad picture of it.
3. Sending just the right card to family and friends and enjoying the thought of them knowing that you are thinking of them (for real). Putting on the stamps is also really fun, for some reason.
4. Going into Starbucks, because Starbucks always looks festive around the holidays and has very evocative holiday beverage names. This has not always been an unalloyed pleasure in the past, but they are doing better this year.
5. Going into the mall at off-peak hours just to enjoy the window displays and general holiday splendor.
6. Knowing that, regardless of what happens in the future, you will doubtless never, for the rest of your life, lose the attitude of superiority that comes with knowing you survived living in your car for a year and a half, including at Christmastime. You try to picture specific individuals you know doing it and nearly collapse with laughter.
7. Hearing either of these two songs come on the radio: “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” or “Last Christmas”—or any holiday song sung with true elan.
8. Looking at presents under a tree, even if only in your mind.
9. Seeing an arched doorway outlined with a string of blue lights and imagining yourself saying, “Mellon.”
10. Glowering at the person attending the Salvation Army kettle in front of the grocery store.
11. Looking forward to Christmas dinner.
12. Watching Christmas movies while tucked into bed (special treat).
13. Imagining the smell of a real Christmas tree in whatever future home you will someday have.
14. Having visions of sugar plums. (Just what is a sugar plum, anyway? Possibly there is some room for interpretation on this, but you know it has to be something good. It’s one of those poetic phrases like “cloth of gold” that instantly evoke enchantment.)
15. Hearing the song “Do You Hear What I Hear?” and wondering if in fact the mighty king, in his palace warm, does know what you know—which is in no way a problem and entirely a good thing if he does. Doubters.
16. Reminding yourself that there are always those less fortunate than you and thinking about what you would do to help them in some future life should you ever be able to do so.
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
What’s Up With That?
I feel obligated—even as a person who came to HBO’s Game of Thrones very late in the game—to mention how surprised I was to hear of the series only being nominated for one Golden Globe award. I’m sure a lot of fans are similarly surprised, if not shocked. This is not to take anything away from anyone else who may have been nominated: I’m sure there are many deserving individuals and projects, and obviously there’s a certain amount of subjectivity in any awards selection process. Having said all that, I still say that something about this doesn’t seem to add up. Not even nominated, with the exception of one acting nomination for Kit Harington? With extremely high production values across the board and an excellent cast from top to bottom?
Of course, you know I’m old and cynical, but it almost seems to me that GOT and/or the people behind it must have gotten on someone’s blacklist. Maybe you’re about to suggest some other programs I might want to see that you consider superior to GOT, and I won’t argue with anyone’s choices—but if there truly are that many programs equal to or better than a cultural behemoth like GOT, I’m stunned. Television as a whole must be more quality-based than I realized.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to look at many things differently, and my pleasure in watching awards programs is never really unalloyed. Hollywood is just as political as any other place, if not more so, and you have to wonder what goes on behind the scenes of some of the industry organizations. The degree to which people respect the institutions and the nominating processes determines the actual and perceived value of winning—after all, who wants to be the recipient of a rigged award? Nobody wins in that case.
It’s possible that some Hollywood Foreign Press Association members thought GOT had peaked already and regarded the last season as less worthy of recognition based on all the fan controversies about unexpected plot developments and the respective fates of various characters, although to me that should have little bearing on the way an industry organization chooses to recognize quality. Some of the conversation about story directions got rather heated at the time, which is kind of understandable considering how many loyal viewers the program had and how embedded GOT was in the cultural psyche over the course of its run. Naturally, fans have opinions, which weren’t always expressed graciously but sprang, I think, from a genuine love for the series and a reluctance to see it end at all, much less in a way unfavorable to beloved characters.
I had much less invested in this series than people who had watched it from the beginning, but I still found myself developing favorites and feeling that I would be unhappy if this person or that person didn’t survive the Battle of Winterfell or the Battle at King’s Landing—in fact, I wasn’t happy with the final outcome on some levels, although that didn’t stop me from thinking the episodes were quite well done. I actually admired the show’s writers for having the courage to make some controversial choices, and certainly having everyone anyone remotely liked survive would not have seemed realistic either.
I would think fans would be more up-in-arms about GOT being nearly excluded from awards in its final season than they are about unpopular plot choices. Although it would make no difference in decisions that have already been made and would be largely symbolic, to me it would be more appropriate to start a petition scolding the Hollywood Foreign Press Association for overlooking, in its final season, one of the finest and most well-produced spectacles ever to hit the small screen than to continue to agitate for rewrites. I mean, the opening credits! The dragons, my God! The battles! The cinematography! The costumes! The dialogue! Good heavens, it boggles the mind.
Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid of an earlier era, I’m having to ask myself, of the HFPA, “Who are those guys?” Did they collectively drink a six-pack apiece and pass out during the screenings? Did they read the Cliff Notes version of the scripts? Did they have a mass hallucination?
Of course, you know I’m old and cynical, but it almost seems to me that GOT and/or the people behind it must have gotten on someone’s blacklist. Maybe you’re about to suggest some other programs I might want to see that you consider superior to GOT, and I won’t argue with anyone’s choices—but if there truly are that many programs equal to or better than a cultural behemoth like GOT, I’m stunned. Television as a whole must be more quality-based than I realized.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to look at many things differently, and my pleasure in watching awards programs is never really unalloyed. Hollywood is just as political as any other place, if not more so, and you have to wonder what goes on behind the scenes of some of the industry organizations. The degree to which people respect the institutions and the nominating processes determines the actual and perceived value of winning—after all, who wants to be the recipient of a rigged award? Nobody wins in that case.
It’s possible that some Hollywood Foreign Press Association members thought GOT had peaked already and regarded the last season as less worthy of recognition based on all the fan controversies about unexpected plot developments and the respective fates of various characters, although to me that should have little bearing on the way an industry organization chooses to recognize quality. Some of the conversation about story directions got rather heated at the time, which is kind of understandable considering how many loyal viewers the program had and how embedded GOT was in the cultural psyche over the course of its run. Naturally, fans have opinions, which weren’t always expressed graciously but sprang, I think, from a genuine love for the series and a reluctance to see it end at all, much less in a way unfavorable to beloved characters.
I had much less invested in this series than people who had watched it from the beginning, but I still found myself developing favorites and feeling that I would be unhappy if this person or that person didn’t survive the Battle of Winterfell or the Battle at King’s Landing—in fact, I wasn’t happy with the final outcome on some levels, although that didn’t stop me from thinking the episodes were quite well done. I actually admired the show’s writers for having the courage to make some controversial choices, and certainly having everyone anyone remotely liked survive would not have seemed realistic either.
I would think fans would be more up-in-arms about GOT being nearly excluded from awards in its final season than they are about unpopular plot choices. Although it would make no difference in decisions that have already been made and would be largely symbolic, to me it would be more appropriate to start a petition scolding the Hollywood Foreign Press Association for overlooking, in its final season, one of the finest and most well-produced spectacles ever to hit the small screen than to continue to agitate for rewrites. I mean, the opening credits! The dragons, my God! The battles! The cinematography! The costumes! The dialogue! Good heavens, it boggles the mind.
Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid of an earlier era, I’m having to ask myself, of the HFPA, “Who are those guys?” Did they collectively drink a six-pack apiece and pass out during the screenings? Did they read the Cliff Notes version of the scripts? Did they have a mass hallucination?
Wednesday, December 4, 2019
Wordplay Advises the Lovelorn
“Oh, so you want to know what I think?”
Dear Wordplay,
I can’t seem to meet any eligible men where I live. I’ve tried taking classes, going to cultural events, going on blind dates, and using dating apps. People tell me I’m too picky, but when I finally like someone (which happens occasionally), they say I’m not picky enough. (Those usually don’t work out either, BTW.) Do you have any advice? —Pining
Dear Pining,
Yes. From what you’ve described, you’ve taken sensible actions that have yielded no results. You suggest that perhaps it’s the place you live in, and there could be some truth in this. My suggestion is to follow your interests a little further, to travel to places that interest you and see what happens. If you’re not ready to move yet, consider an extended vacation or sabbatical in a place where you think you might meet interesting men. Wherever you think that might be, you’re probably right.
Dear Wordplay,
I don’t know what to do. I heard some gossip about a girl I’ve liked for a long time, and it concerns her boyfriend. I heard that when she moved away from their hometown to take a job in another city, he tried to have her offed. No, seriously. That’s how pissed he was. She doesn’t seem ever to have heard this, because she moved back home, and they got back together. I’m not exactly a disinterested party, because her boyfriend knows I had a big crush on her for a long time, and I’m afraid that if I say something and it turns out not to be true, I’ll look like a jealous turd. The problem is, I heard this from more than one source, and it seems like it could be true. For years, I’ve been heartsick over it and just hoping it never happened. Should I say something to her?—Caring but Rational
Dear Caring but Rational,
I have just made the decision for you. By publishing your concern on the Internet, I’ve ensured that it will catch someone’s eye and get back to whoever needs to know. If no truth, you remain anonymous, and little (probably) harm done, but if the shoe fits—well, your conscience is at ease. What people do with the information is up to them, but I think a real friend would want someone he cared about to know. Like you, I’m hoping it isn’t true, but neither your hope or mine has any bearing on what may or may not have happened.
Dear Wordplay,
I’m a gay man who has been in a long-term relationship. My partner has a close female friend that I have lately discovered I have romantic feelings for. Neither she or my partner has any suspicion that I am bisexual. I’m having trouble disguising my feelings and really think this woman may be my soul mate. Is there any hope that if I let her know how I feel, she might reciprocate the feelings? We all get along well and have a great time when we’re together.—All But Married
Dear All But Married,
I suspect that if you make your feelings known, the situation you described in your last statement will immediately cease to exist. Since both the woman and your partner think you are gay, any suggestion otherwise on your part is likely to be unwelcome to both of them. If you really think you want to be with a woman instead of your partner, it’s time to think about whether a separation might be in order, but before you do that, try to figure out what’s really going on. Is this woman just a safe object for your feelings because you know she’ll never reciprocate them? Are you investing emotional energy in this crush to avoid facing things in your current relationship? If you really want to be with her, how likely do you think it is that she’ll throw her close friend over for someone she’s always thought of as gay? Would that perhaps be a little awkward? Lots of questions for you to consider.
Dear Wordplay,
I’m an FBI agent and have been married to my current spouse for 25 years. The spark has gone out of our marriage entirely as far as I’m concerned, though I think I’ve mostly kept my feelings concealed from my wife. She seems content with the house and kids, but I feel sometimes that I’m suffocating and don’t know how to break it to her. There are opportunities professionally for me to go undercover; for instance, I could develop a rare form of cancer, “die,” and be placed in another city with a new identity. I’m good at my job (cyber crime), and my superiors would jump at the chance to place me in another setting. I’m wondering what you think about the ethics of changing my life in this way. I’d be serving my country and getting out of a painful situation at the same time.—Public Servant
Dear Public Servant,
Wow, how selfless you are. Glad to know there are people like you out there. I suggest, though, that using your job to end your marriage is going about it in the wrong way. If you really want to get out of your marriage, consider a trial separation, and then if you still feel the same way after, say, a year, ask your wife for a divorce. You will both feel better for the honesty. A spouse of 25 years deserves more than a fake funeral.
Dear Wordplay,
I fell in love with a woman after I spied on her while she was skinny-dipping in a hotel pool. I don’t really want to go into the whys and wherefores of how I happened to be there, but seriously, I was caught off guard. What I mean is, I was watching her from my window, and I didn’t know she was going to take her robe off, but she did, and I haven’t been the same man since. I have reason to think that she might one day return my feelings, and I just want to know—am I obligated to tell her what happened? I mean, actually, I was following her, and it’s kind of a long story, but . . . The problem is, she’s a big privacy advocate, has given lectures on it for the local university, has made it known in no uncertain terms what she thinks of spying (in a general way, not as it relates to skinny dipping). She’s practically a Fourth Amendment scholar.—Trying to Do What’s Right
Dear Trying to Do What’s Right,
1. Do you, by any chance, have any connection to the public servant in the previous question? There just seems to be an awful lot of spying going on.
2. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Dear Wordplay,
I feel like this fellow I don’t know well is trying to let me know that he likes me. A story got back to me that he happened to be looking out the window when I took a 2 a.m. skinny dip in a hotel pool while on vacation years ago. It’s kind of an odd story, but I have no reason not to like him. The funny thing is, I know what he looks like without his clothes on, too, though I’d rather not go into that part of it. Do you think there’s any possibility that something that started out like this could have a future? Technically, he was spying on me.—This Will Sound Strange, But . . .
Dear This Will Sound Strange, But,
I may have to erect an ethical barrier here. I’m starting to feel like the Wall in Pyramus and Thisbe. To answer your question, I don’t really see a problem based on what you’ve told me so far. How many people get a chance to check out the goods, not to put too fine a point on it, before they’ve even had dinner-and-a-movie? And technically, you waived your right to privacy by taking your clothes off in public, although I’ll grant you, most people would expect to go unobserved at that hour of the night. For the future, I suggest that you try to meet sometime when both of you have your clothes on. I am kind of curious as to your side of the story, but I’m too much of a professional to take a prurient interest in something that’s none of my business.
Dear Wordplay,
I can’t seem to meet any eligible men where I live. I’ve tried taking classes, going to cultural events, going on blind dates, and using dating apps. People tell me I’m too picky, but when I finally like someone (which happens occasionally), they say I’m not picky enough. (Those usually don’t work out either, BTW.) Do you have any advice? —Pining
Dear Pining,
Yes. From what you’ve described, you’ve taken sensible actions that have yielded no results. You suggest that perhaps it’s the place you live in, and there could be some truth in this. My suggestion is to follow your interests a little further, to travel to places that interest you and see what happens. If you’re not ready to move yet, consider an extended vacation or sabbatical in a place where you think you might meet interesting men. Wherever you think that might be, you’re probably right.
Dear Wordplay,
I don’t know what to do. I heard some gossip about a girl I’ve liked for a long time, and it concerns her boyfriend. I heard that when she moved away from their hometown to take a job in another city, he tried to have her offed. No, seriously. That’s how pissed he was. She doesn’t seem ever to have heard this, because she moved back home, and they got back together. I’m not exactly a disinterested party, because her boyfriend knows I had a big crush on her for a long time, and I’m afraid that if I say something and it turns out not to be true, I’ll look like a jealous turd. The problem is, I heard this from more than one source, and it seems like it could be true. For years, I’ve been heartsick over it and just hoping it never happened. Should I say something to her?—Caring but Rational
Dear Caring but Rational,
I have just made the decision for you. By publishing your concern on the Internet, I’ve ensured that it will catch someone’s eye and get back to whoever needs to know. If no truth, you remain anonymous, and little (probably) harm done, but if the shoe fits—well, your conscience is at ease. What people do with the information is up to them, but I think a real friend would want someone he cared about to know. Like you, I’m hoping it isn’t true, but neither your hope or mine has any bearing on what may or may not have happened.
Dear Wordplay,
I’m a gay man who has been in a long-term relationship. My partner has a close female friend that I have lately discovered I have romantic feelings for. Neither she or my partner has any suspicion that I am bisexual. I’m having trouble disguising my feelings and really think this woman may be my soul mate. Is there any hope that if I let her know how I feel, she might reciprocate the feelings? We all get along well and have a great time when we’re together.—All But Married
Dear All But Married,
I suspect that if you make your feelings known, the situation you described in your last statement will immediately cease to exist. Since both the woman and your partner think you are gay, any suggestion otherwise on your part is likely to be unwelcome to both of them. If you really think you want to be with a woman instead of your partner, it’s time to think about whether a separation might be in order, but before you do that, try to figure out what’s really going on. Is this woman just a safe object for your feelings because you know she’ll never reciprocate them? Are you investing emotional energy in this crush to avoid facing things in your current relationship? If you really want to be with her, how likely do you think it is that she’ll throw her close friend over for someone she’s always thought of as gay? Would that perhaps be a little awkward? Lots of questions for you to consider.
Dear Wordplay,
I’m an FBI agent and have been married to my current spouse for 25 years. The spark has gone out of our marriage entirely as far as I’m concerned, though I think I’ve mostly kept my feelings concealed from my wife. She seems content with the house and kids, but I feel sometimes that I’m suffocating and don’t know how to break it to her. There are opportunities professionally for me to go undercover; for instance, I could develop a rare form of cancer, “die,” and be placed in another city with a new identity. I’m good at my job (cyber crime), and my superiors would jump at the chance to place me in another setting. I’m wondering what you think about the ethics of changing my life in this way. I’d be serving my country and getting out of a painful situation at the same time.—Public Servant
Dear Public Servant,
Wow, how selfless you are. Glad to know there are people like you out there. I suggest, though, that using your job to end your marriage is going about it in the wrong way. If you really want to get out of your marriage, consider a trial separation, and then if you still feel the same way after, say, a year, ask your wife for a divorce. You will both feel better for the honesty. A spouse of 25 years deserves more than a fake funeral.
Dear Wordplay,
I fell in love with a woman after I spied on her while she was skinny-dipping in a hotel pool. I don’t really want to go into the whys and wherefores of how I happened to be there, but seriously, I was caught off guard. What I mean is, I was watching her from my window, and I didn’t know she was going to take her robe off, but she did, and I haven’t been the same man since. I have reason to think that she might one day return my feelings, and I just want to know—am I obligated to tell her what happened? I mean, actually, I was following her, and it’s kind of a long story, but . . . The problem is, she’s a big privacy advocate, has given lectures on it for the local university, has made it known in no uncertain terms what she thinks of spying (in a general way, not as it relates to skinny dipping). She’s practically a Fourth Amendment scholar.—Trying to Do What’s Right
Dear Trying to Do What’s Right,
1. Do you, by any chance, have any connection to the public servant in the previous question? There just seems to be an awful lot of spying going on.
2. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Dear Wordplay,
I feel like this fellow I don’t know well is trying to let me know that he likes me. A story got back to me that he happened to be looking out the window when I took a 2 a.m. skinny dip in a hotel pool while on vacation years ago. It’s kind of an odd story, but I have no reason not to like him. The funny thing is, I know what he looks like without his clothes on, too, though I’d rather not go into that part of it. Do you think there’s any possibility that something that started out like this could have a future? Technically, he was spying on me.—This Will Sound Strange, But . . .
Dear This Will Sound Strange, But,
I may have to erect an ethical barrier here. I’m starting to feel like the Wall in Pyramus and Thisbe. To answer your question, I don’t really see a problem based on what you’ve told me so far. How many people get a chance to check out the goods, not to put too fine a point on it, before they’ve even had dinner-and-a-movie? And technically, you waived your right to privacy by taking your clothes off in public, although I’ll grant you, most people would expect to go unobserved at that hour of the night. For the future, I suggest that you try to meet sometime when both of you have your clothes on. I am kind of curious as to your side of the story, but I’m too much of a professional to take a prurient interest in something that’s none of my business.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
Thanksgiving Greeting
Wordplay wishes you a Happy Thanksgiving. We’d like to blog about something profound, but our thoughts are too full of turkey and dressing, as yours are, too, no doubt. I will say that while I was driving across town around five o’clock this afternoon, the autumn light was beautiful. There’s really nothing else to say about that, though.
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Taking Martin Scorsese Up on It
I thought previously about devoting a post to director Martin Scorsese’s comments on the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but I hadn’t had time to read the original interview in which the comments were made. I gathered that Mr. Scorsese felt his comments had been misconstrued in some quarters and wanted to understand for myself what he was saying. This morning I read both the Empire magazine article in which he responded to a question about Marvel superhero movies and a follow-up New York Times opinion piece in which he clarified and expanded on his earlier comments.
If I’m understanding Mr. Scorsese correctly, his objection to the films is two-fold: he perceives that they are 1.) designed, packaged, and marketed by studio executives with a cynical eye toward the bottom line and a wish to spoonfeed what’s essentially pablum to the public and 2.) they are also essentially “dead” artistically (though not without fine production values in many cases). The first objection is easily understood, but I’ve been sitting here thinking about the second one for at least an hour. It concerns me as someone who studies myth because the Marvel universe is full of superheroes who are, if not directly out of some ancient pantheon or other—like Thor and Loki—then more recently created mythic characters with attributes and histories of their own.
What Mr. Scorsese said separates cinema from this mass-distributed audiovisual entertainment is the lack of risk undertaken by the latter, the impossibility of anything unexpected or revelatory taking place within a Marvel-type movie. I believe he views Marvel movies as formulaic, paint-by-numbers products aimed at the lowest common denominator. I think I’m characterizing what he meant correctly in saying that he views a cinematic experience as a ritual in the true sense of the word: film actually has the power to effect change in the person watching, to transform his or her thinking, emotional range, moral sense, or view of the world, and I completely agree with him that cinema can do all these things (as can other art forms).
Mr. Scorsese seems to perceive superhero movies, on the other hand, as falling into the category of spectacle: showy, frequently impressive on the visual level, and capable of stimulating some primal place in the brain that responds to grandiose gestures, noise, color, and gross physical action. In this representation, superhero movies are more circus performance than film, capable of manipulating the viewer with heart-stopping visuals that are nonetheless scripted and predictable. They may entertain you, but they will not change you.
Of course, I’m referring here to the categories of ritual and spectacle outlined by anthropologist John J. MacAloon, which can be used to make sense of various types of public events and performances. I’ve found Mr. MacAloon’s categories helpful in thinking about performances as diverse as the Olympic Games, bullfights, and State of the Union addresses, and they certainly seem applicable in this case. So if I were to characterize what I think Mr. Scorsese is saying in terms of Mr. MacAloon’s thinking, true cinema is transformative, like Greek tragedy, and superhero movies are mere spectacle, like the Colosseum extravaganzas of Ancient Rome.
Like Mr. Scorsese, I am a strong proponent of the individual artistic voice, and I do agree that projects produced “by committee” (no matter what type of project we’re talking about) are in danger of being homogenized or smoothed down by “groupthink.” I don’t want anyone else telling me how to write, and here I may be an exception, because plenty of people are proponents of writer’s workshops and craft classes. I have tried both and am not opposed to them but came away with the feeling that you learn to write by reading, writing, and living. Certain things are hard to transmit to someone else, as I learned during my stint as a writing teacher.
You can explain punctuation and mechanics to people and show them examples of good writing, but . . . Style? Voice? That instinctual je ne sais quoi that helps you find your way to just the right way of saying something so that people will remember it and be moved by it? You absorb other people’s writing through your pores without thinking about it too much, but when you go to do it yourself, you have to shut everyone else out and go with what’s in your head and heart.
To that extent, I agree with Mr. Scorsese that individual voices and points of view are vital. I guess I part ways with him on the notion of superhero movies having no “soul,” if you want to put it that way. I would probably place movies like his and the Marvel films on the same sliding scale, according to whether they are more or less subtle in the way they embody archetypes and present mythic themes. The superhero movies may paint with broad brushstrokes and rely more on action and special effects than a film like Mr. Scorcese’s The Age of Innocence (just to pick an example); in them, archetypes are writ large so that they are instantly recognizable, and the heroic themes are plainly evident. I would argue, though, that these films are just as ritualistic as anything a more nuanced filmmaker might create.
Don’t think someone can’t be inspired by or feel the power of a heroic character in a movie just because it’s an “audiovisual spectacle.” I’m remembering the fan who commented online that in his severe health struggles (with diabetes and some other issues, as I recall), he asked himself what Tyrion, his favorite character in Game of Thrones, would do in his shoes, and that is what helped him get through the experience. This may be a controversial idea in some quarters, but I don’t think it’s any different than someone finding strength by calling on the gods of his religious beliefs, whatever they may be. To paraphrase Carl Jung, as I did recently, I believe the gods have become our movie heroes (and our athletes and our rock stars). They have in no way disappeared, even if you’re not religious. There’s a certain responsibility that comes with the territory of celebrity that not everyone wishes to take on (or even believes in), but nevertheless it’s there.
In films that rely more on dialogue, plot, and understated themes, you may have to think about the characters and events to understand the archetypal content behind them, but I’m arguing that even in original screenplays with no reference to any preexisting story, the same basic categories of human experience are the building blocks, whether or not you call them archetypes or myths. People combine them in new ways, and new myths can always be created. I haven’t seen Mr. Scorsese’s latest, The Irishman, but I’m willing to bet that if I went to see it, I’d be able to find just as many mythic characters as there are in The Avengers—they may initially look just as ordinary as you or me, but that’s the point. When we react to a mythic character or image, we’re projecting something that’s actually inside of us; most of us look rather ordinary on the outside, but what about what’s inside?
By the way, and I say this respectfully, Mr. Scorsese’s movies, in my experience of them and from what I know of the ones I haven’t seen, are pretty heavy themselves on the spectacle end of things. I realized today, while looking at a catalog of his films, that the half dozen or so I have seen are the ones that are somewhat untypical of the vast body of his work. Violence and crime are themes he explores extensively (and graphically, if the descriptions I hear are accurate). I have seen none of those for the plain reason that I find visual depictions of extreme violence to be disturbing. I’ve missed a number of highly acclaimed films for that reason. The one film of Mr. Scorsese’s I most regret not seeing is Raging Bull, and I plan to rectify that omission now that I have a temporary subscription to Amazon Prime. Whether it will leave me sleepless or have me feeling bruised for days, like other films by other directors have in the past, I can’t say at this point. At least it doesn’t seem to involve weapons.
I suppose the final point I’m making is that I don’t see the division between ritual and spectacle that I think Mr. Scorsese is using as the criterion for differentiating between true cinema as opposed to mass entertainment. His own films are full of spectacle, as are those of many other distinguished directors. Many of the superhero movies are full of transformative characters, themes, and episodes. Is it possible to make a movie that truly is devoid of any transformative content? Maybe, but I would place all of them on the same sliding scale I was talking about. Part of the power of any movie depends on how skillfully the story is told, and even a respectable production with famous names and a big budget may miss the mark if no one gets it.
If I’m understanding Mr. Scorsese correctly, his objection to the films is two-fold: he perceives that they are 1.) designed, packaged, and marketed by studio executives with a cynical eye toward the bottom line and a wish to spoonfeed what’s essentially pablum to the public and 2.) they are also essentially “dead” artistically (though not without fine production values in many cases). The first objection is easily understood, but I’ve been sitting here thinking about the second one for at least an hour. It concerns me as someone who studies myth because the Marvel universe is full of superheroes who are, if not directly out of some ancient pantheon or other—like Thor and Loki—then more recently created mythic characters with attributes and histories of their own.
What Mr. Scorsese said separates cinema from this mass-distributed audiovisual entertainment is the lack of risk undertaken by the latter, the impossibility of anything unexpected or revelatory taking place within a Marvel-type movie. I believe he views Marvel movies as formulaic, paint-by-numbers products aimed at the lowest common denominator. I think I’m characterizing what he meant correctly in saying that he views a cinematic experience as a ritual in the true sense of the word: film actually has the power to effect change in the person watching, to transform his or her thinking, emotional range, moral sense, or view of the world, and I completely agree with him that cinema can do all these things (as can other art forms).
Mr. Scorsese seems to perceive superhero movies, on the other hand, as falling into the category of spectacle: showy, frequently impressive on the visual level, and capable of stimulating some primal place in the brain that responds to grandiose gestures, noise, color, and gross physical action. In this representation, superhero movies are more circus performance than film, capable of manipulating the viewer with heart-stopping visuals that are nonetheless scripted and predictable. They may entertain you, but they will not change you.
Of course, I’m referring here to the categories of ritual and spectacle outlined by anthropologist John J. MacAloon, which can be used to make sense of various types of public events and performances. I’ve found Mr. MacAloon’s categories helpful in thinking about performances as diverse as the Olympic Games, bullfights, and State of the Union addresses, and they certainly seem applicable in this case. So if I were to characterize what I think Mr. Scorsese is saying in terms of Mr. MacAloon’s thinking, true cinema is transformative, like Greek tragedy, and superhero movies are mere spectacle, like the Colosseum extravaganzas of Ancient Rome.
Like Mr. Scorsese, I am a strong proponent of the individual artistic voice, and I do agree that projects produced “by committee” (no matter what type of project we’re talking about) are in danger of being homogenized or smoothed down by “groupthink.” I don’t want anyone else telling me how to write, and here I may be an exception, because plenty of people are proponents of writer’s workshops and craft classes. I have tried both and am not opposed to them but came away with the feeling that you learn to write by reading, writing, and living. Certain things are hard to transmit to someone else, as I learned during my stint as a writing teacher.
You can explain punctuation and mechanics to people and show them examples of good writing, but . . . Style? Voice? That instinctual je ne sais quoi that helps you find your way to just the right way of saying something so that people will remember it and be moved by it? You absorb other people’s writing through your pores without thinking about it too much, but when you go to do it yourself, you have to shut everyone else out and go with what’s in your head and heart.
To that extent, I agree with Mr. Scorsese that individual voices and points of view are vital. I guess I part ways with him on the notion of superhero movies having no “soul,” if you want to put it that way. I would probably place movies like his and the Marvel films on the same sliding scale, according to whether they are more or less subtle in the way they embody archetypes and present mythic themes. The superhero movies may paint with broad brushstrokes and rely more on action and special effects than a film like Mr. Scorcese’s The Age of Innocence (just to pick an example); in them, archetypes are writ large so that they are instantly recognizable, and the heroic themes are plainly evident. I would argue, though, that these films are just as ritualistic as anything a more nuanced filmmaker might create.
Don’t think someone can’t be inspired by or feel the power of a heroic character in a movie just because it’s an “audiovisual spectacle.” I’m remembering the fan who commented online that in his severe health struggles (with diabetes and some other issues, as I recall), he asked himself what Tyrion, his favorite character in Game of Thrones, would do in his shoes, and that is what helped him get through the experience. This may be a controversial idea in some quarters, but I don’t think it’s any different than someone finding strength by calling on the gods of his religious beliefs, whatever they may be. To paraphrase Carl Jung, as I did recently, I believe the gods have become our movie heroes (and our athletes and our rock stars). They have in no way disappeared, even if you’re not religious. There’s a certain responsibility that comes with the territory of celebrity that not everyone wishes to take on (or even believes in), but nevertheless it’s there.
In films that rely more on dialogue, plot, and understated themes, you may have to think about the characters and events to understand the archetypal content behind them, but I’m arguing that even in original screenplays with no reference to any preexisting story, the same basic categories of human experience are the building blocks, whether or not you call them archetypes or myths. People combine them in new ways, and new myths can always be created. I haven’t seen Mr. Scorsese’s latest, The Irishman, but I’m willing to bet that if I went to see it, I’d be able to find just as many mythic characters as there are in The Avengers—they may initially look just as ordinary as you or me, but that’s the point. When we react to a mythic character or image, we’re projecting something that’s actually inside of us; most of us look rather ordinary on the outside, but what about what’s inside?
By the way, and I say this respectfully, Mr. Scorsese’s movies, in my experience of them and from what I know of the ones I haven’t seen, are pretty heavy themselves on the spectacle end of things. I realized today, while looking at a catalog of his films, that the half dozen or so I have seen are the ones that are somewhat untypical of the vast body of his work. Violence and crime are themes he explores extensively (and graphically, if the descriptions I hear are accurate). I have seen none of those for the plain reason that I find visual depictions of extreme violence to be disturbing. I’ve missed a number of highly acclaimed films for that reason. The one film of Mr. Scorsese’s I most regret not seeing is Raging Bull, and I plan to rectify that omission now that I have a temporary subscription to Amazon Prime. Whether it will leave me sleepless or have me feeling bruised for days, like other films by other directors have in the past, I can’t say at this point. At least it doesn’t seem to involve weapons.
I suppose the final point I’m making is that I don’t see the division between ritual and spectacle that I think Mr. Scorsese is using as the criterion for differentiating between true cinema as opposed to mass entertainment. His own films are full of spectacle, as are those of many other distinguished directors. Many of the superhero movies are full of transformative characters, themes, and episodes. Is it possible to make a movie that truly is devoid of any transformative content? Maybe, but I would place all of them on the same sliding scale I was talking about. Part of the power of any movie depends on how skillfully the story is told, and even a respectable production with famous names and a big budget may miss the mark if no one gets it.
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
The Deer and the Serpent
(A Short Story)
In the autumn of the year of her recovery, she wakened from a dream in which someone had been speaking to her, and it had seemed important, but she was unable to recall what had been said. Elaine had noticed a new sensitivity to light, sound, and touch, which she was unsure whether to attribute to a lingering side effect of the sickness or the result of having been confined to a darkened room for so long. She clearly remembered herself as she had been in the last days before she fell ill, never suspecting the sudden change that was about to take place. She felt like the same person she had been, only somehow—stretched? Or was it diminished? Even her own face in the mirror did not reveal the answer. Was she stronger for having overcome what everyone had said would be terminal, or would she forever be less than she could have been? She had had many hopes before disappearing into the netherworld of illness.
As the weeks went by, Elaine grew impatient to feel at home again in her own life, but the quality of reality itself seemed to have changed. People smiled at her and were kind, even people she didn’t know well. Everyone, even strangers, somehow seemed to understand that she’d been through something monstrous. It was curiously unsettling to be sitting in a restaurant or walking down the sidewalk and have a stranger give her what appeared to be a knowing look. What she at first attributed to the speed with which news of a calamity traveled she later began to think was simply odd. The city she lived in was not that small, so there seemed to be no explanation for the way in which the number of people who knew about her could have grown so large.
She was unsure sometimes whether people were speaking to her or to someone else; she found herself pondering pieces of overhead conversation that seemed inexplicably to have some meaning for her. I’m losing my mind, she thought to herself . . . But trying to ignore the sensation was only partially successful. Going home and lying down in the dark, away from people, was the very thing she didn’t want to do, and yet merely going to the grocery store was sometimes enough to exhaust her and drive her into seclusion for the remainder of the day.
Not long before her illness, she had been stalked by an acquaintance, and the strangeness of that experience remained with her, so that she was unable to tell if the feeling she had lately developed of having someone always watching her was an echo of that experience, or a new development. Something seemed constantly to be hovering just outside the corner of her eye, a vague presence, but when she looked straight at it, there was never anything there. Once, at the library, she had the impression of someone disappearing around a corner just as she was turning in that direction. Another time she caught sight of curtains twitching closed above her, just as she looked up, preparing to enter a friend’s apartment building. In both cases, she knew someone had been there, but she could not have given a single identifying detail. She did not feel threatened, exactly, but unsettled rather, and uncertain.
Once she found a purple calla lily on her windshield and could not determine how it had gotten there. Another time she was sure she heard a man’s voice call her name as she driving down a seemingly empty street, the second syllable trailing off mournfully as her forward momentum carried her away. Then there was the time she went to the Y, certain she had two bathing suits in her gym bag but only able to find one of them, no matter how thoroughly she searched pockets and compartments. Later that night, when she began to rearrange the contents of her bag, she found the missing suit and was unable to account for how she could have missed it earlier. It seemed to have been removed and then replaced, as strange as that explanation seemed.
She began to wake up in the mornings from dreams of having had someone with her throughout the night, some of which were mere impressions of a soft voice and an embrace, and some of which were electrically erotic, though the sheets and bedclothes were always exactly as they had been when she went to bed. She had no impression of anything in the room having been disturbed, but something in herself seemed to be stirring, like a slowly uncoiling snake. Once, on an unusually warm Indian summer night, she stayed out on the sleeping porch, awakening with an impression of stars being tangled in her hair and a crescent moon hanging from her ear. When she sat up and looked toward the backyard, orange and yellow leaves were eddying down from gently swaying branches, and there was a susurration in the air, a long-drawn out sigh, though the night was cloudy, and there was no moon. The night is alive, Elaine thought, wondering why that was true. And then she thought, why do I feel so strange?
Finally, she decided to tell her friend Moxie, one day over lunch, what had been happening. “You know, Moxie, if I didn’t know better, I’d say I have a ghostly lover. I don’t know how else to describe it,” she said, as they were lingering over coffee one damp November day. After she described the things that had taken place, Moxie, who was a physicist at the university and nobody’s fool, looked her right in the eye. “Well, you’ve already been through menopause, so we can eliminate hot flashes from the list of suspects.”
“Yes, I thought about that. It’s more like being an adolescent again, without the acne. Well, not quite that. It’s a little more mysterious.”
“An incubus?”
“Well, I hope not. I don’t know quite what that is, but it doesn’t sound like something sustainable.”
“I was going to ask you if you’d been reading “Kubla Khan” again.
Elaine laughed then. “Oh, ‘Beware, Beware, his flashing eyes, his floating hair.’ Something like that, I suppose. But that could also describe a falling angel.”
“What does he look like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t see him clearly,” said Elaine, who was not about to admit that she had glimpsed his face in her dreams and that he was spectacularly handsome. “I don’t know what I’ve got on my hands here, an overly active imagination, lingering effects of disease, or someone real who’s actually hanging on the margins of my life somehow. I don’t suppose either an angel or a demon can open the trunk of a car.”
“Well, that’s the part that makes it difficult for me to dismiss,” said Moxie, putting down her coffee cup. “I remember you putting that extra suit in the gym bag that day we were going to the beach because you didn’t know which one looked better. And how big can a gym bag be? It’s not bottomless, surely.”
“I don’t know, Moxie. Half the time it seems like this magical thing, something I hadn’t looked for at all, and half the time it reminds me of all that trouble I had with Josie following me around. Too ephemeral to put your finger on. Why would someone hover like that?”
“Everybody knows about your illness and all that business before. Maybe someone’s just a little hesitant.”
“Thanks for not dismissing it. I just wish I could figure out what’s happening and why.”
“I think we don’t have enough evidence to decide one way or the other,” Moxie said judiciously. “So we’ll just have to wait for further developments.” She was always practical. As indeed, Elaine had always considered herself to be.
Later that night, while driving home on the expressway, Elaine glanced at the freeway sign hanging over her lane. She was unable to say later whether it actually said, “You’re in my dreams, too” or “Two miles to Deane Street” because she was distracted by the sight of a falling star in her left field of vision. (She and Moxie had been discussing the Leonids meteor shower just a few hours previously, so this was not a totally unexpected event, just an astonishing one.) Ten miles farther on, she was passed by a fast-moving car in the next lane over. She had a chance to read “ILU VYU” on the license plate before the car sped away, disappearing into the night under a blue-black sky brimming with stars.
When she got out of the car in her driveway a few minutes later, a large shape detached itself from the shadows under the oak tree on the lawn and moved slowly away: a deer, crowned with antlers.
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Election Day Blues
Election Day was not a holiday for me, and I find myself here at the end of it a little tired and without a topic. Some people in the store today were talking politics, and while I at first gave my opinion freely, I later decided to stay out of it. I respect people having different opinions from mine and was actually rather envious of people who came into the store with “I Voted” stickers. It’s been a while since I felt sure enough of anything politically to be convinced I knew what I was doing when I went to the polls. The more I read and thought about things deeply, the more confused I got. Once I realized that figuring out people’s positions on the issues really wasn’t enough, and that people whose ideas were much like mine weren’t necessarily the best people to vote for for other reasons, I was both sadder and wiser but more clueless than ever.
I think I would have a difficult time teaching information literacy these days when it comes to politics. Perhaps it’s asking too much to expect people to read the politicians’s souls and see into their minds, and simply making a choice and voting for someone is the best you can do, but I feel I was a little too blithely unaware in the past when I developed enthusiasms for people, and “Once bitten, twice shy.” I felt that way about Bernie Sanders during the last election—I really liked a lot of his ideas and the things he stood for, but something would not let me be wholeheartedly enthusiastic. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and this was despite the fact that I saw he was being treated unfairly by the media, especially early on. Any time Bernie Sanders is made out to be clueless on race relations, something he has been passionate about all his life, you know there’s a tremendous amount of spin going on. But I kept thinking, “What don’t I know about him? And not just about him, but all of them?”
One of these days, I’ll get back into full participation mode in our democracy, and I look forward to that happening. It’s not out of apathy that I have been hanging back, but rather out of literal fear that endorsing the wrong person would bring about tragic, irreversible consequences, and this is despite the fact that I know there are good people in both parties. It’s been a long time since I was that teenage girl whose dad drove her to the polls to vote in her first primary, so elated later on that fall to have voted for the winning candidate.
I think I would have a difficult time teaching information literacy these days when it comes to politics. Perhaps it’s asking too much to expect people to read the politicians’s souls and see into their minds, and simply making a choice and voting for someone is the best you can do, but I feel I was a little too blithely unaware in the past when I developed enthusiasms for people, and “Once bitten, twice shy.” I felt that way about Bernie Sanders during the last election—I really liked a lot of his ideas and the things he stood for, but something would not let me be wholeheartedly enthusiastic. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and this was despite the fact that I saw he was being treated unfairly by the media, especially early on. Any time Bernie Sanders is made out to be clueless on race relations, something he has been passionate about all his life, you know there’s a tremendous amount of spin going on. But I kept thinking, “What don’t I know about him? And not just about him, but all of them?”
One of these days, I’ll get back into full participation mode in our democracy, and I look forward to that happening. It’s not out of apathy that I have been hanging back, but rather out of literal fear that endorsing the wrong person would bring about tragic, irreversible consequences, and this is despite the fact that I know there are good people in both parties. It’s been a long time since I was that teenage girl whose dad drove her to the polls to vote in her first primary, so elated later on that fall to have voted for the winning candidate.
Monday, October 28, 2019
Seemingly Abandoned Places in the Mind
I’ve searched high and low for something else to blog about this week and couldn’t find anything other than what’s really arrested my attention, a video (now almost a year old) that came across my radar only recently. I’m speaking of Hozier’s “Movement” video, starring Ukrainian ballet dancer Sergei Polunin, directed by Christopher Barrett and Luke Taylor. Occasionally, I get interested in something to the point that I end up studying it closely; this week, I’ve almost felt I was in film school, so many times have I pored over this short film, scene by scene.
I first heard the song, an ardent expression of sexual love, at Starbucks, and liked the music and Hozier’s passionate performance without really hearing all of the lyrics. When I found the video online, my initial reaction was, “This is an unforgettable performance, and some of the scenes really resonate with me in a strange way, though I don’t know why.” (The film itself is sensual but not explicit.) Mr. Polunin is the only actor in the film, appearing as three (no, make that four) different characters.
The ballet sequences are extraordinary for their sheer physicality and expressiveness, and Mr. Polunin also has a remarkable ability to convey emotion even when he isn’t dancing. I’ve never seen a more mesmerizing performance by a male dancer. If you think of male ballet dance performance as sissified, this video will knock that idea entirely out of your head forever. While I recognize some classical technique in the video, there seems to be a mix of styles in the performance. (Bouncing off the walls, literally, isn’t something I’ve often seen in ballet.)
At the beginning, Mr. Polunin’s character, dressed in street clothes, appears to be having an internal debate of some kind and seems both troubled and weary. He gets out of the van he’s sitting in and walks up the steps to an abandoned industrial building. As he pauses on the threshold, another Mr. Polunin (seemingly out of nowhere) emerges from the van behind him, from the opposite door. The second character, in torn clothes and showing signs of some barely suppressed but strong emotion, follows the first character into the building. What follows is a series of solos, duets, and group performances as the characters dance their way through the building from the ground floor to the roof.
The first character appears most interested in dancing solo and at times seems unaware of the presence of any other characters. I related to the first character as someone absorbed in creating or expressing himself without reference to what anyone else is doing. His relationship to the second character is difficult to gauge; at times they dance in tandem, but the overall impression one gets is that the first character is continually moving away from the second one, while at the same time dealing with some strong, unresolved emotion concerning his presence. The second character is almost hungrily appreciative of the first character while also seeming angry; the first character continually runs away while seeming at times to be waiting for the second character to appear.
But then who is the strange, almost ethereal figure in white who appears in the second half of the video, seemingly anticipating the arrival of Character 1 while erecting a barrier between them? Why are there two Character 1s in the same scene, one dancing, and one sitting almost unnoticed against a pillar in the foreground? Why is Character 2 continually stumbling, recovering, and hitting the wall? Why does Character 1 suddenly seem fearful while fleeing to the roof in the final sequence, with Character 2 in hot pursuit? And if he is fearful, why does he, at the last, stand with his back to the other character, seemingly unconcerned as the latter approaches him at high speed with his hand outstretched?
You know enough by now to realize that I cannot answer these questions definitively and that there is likely a lot of layering going on. I think I saw myself in all of the characters at one time or another and possibly you would, too. My general feeling is that Character 2 feels a passion for Character 1 that is being both encouraged and rebuffed, which explains 2’s somewhat haggard appearance. He appears at one point in a doorway, not quite patient but certainly in command of himself and expectant, only to have Character 1 slip by him once more.
The dreamlike quality of this video doesn’t lend itself to a clear, linear explanation. From a depth perspective, I can see all of the characters as different aspects of a single person, the ego, the id (the hungrily pursuing Character 2 who obviously thinks it’s time to come out to play), and the superego, the third figure. Perhaps what appears to be a duplicate of Character 1 is actually the Self, the fourth factor that completes the personality, although he does not appear to be altogether down with everything transpiring behind him.
I encourage you to watch the video and see for yourself. As a piece of visual, musical, dramatic, and dance art, it’s spectacular; as a type of shadow play depicting the workings of the unconscious, it’s eerily on point (or en pointe, maybe); and as a story of passion and sexual tension, it’s spellbinding. Character 2’s appearance in the doorway with all his tattoos on display as he watches and waits is the central image of the film around which all else is built. Character 1 seems to be leaving him behind after that, and yet the final scene on the roof tells a different story. While seemingly in a reverie, Character 1 has allowed Character 2 to erase almost all the distance between them. What will happen when Character 2 touches him with his outstretched hand?
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