Last week, I wrote about watching "The Wizard of Oz" during a windstorm (life imitating art, right?). This week, I'm writing about traveling to a job interview during a Southern California firestorm. There was a wildfire in So Cal back in the summer, but it broke out after I left, and I was glad to escape it. I'm sure everyone was hoping the wildfire danger was passing this late in the year, but obviously it wasn't.
Most of these fires broke out either the day before or the day of my scheduled interview in L.A., and there was at least one burning as my plane was approaching the airport. I saw what looked like smoke from my window and wondered if there was indeed a fire; I couldn't smell anything downtown, though, and didn't realize how bad things were until later. Even in Santa Monica, I couldn't smell smoke that evening, and I didn't make the connection between fires and the couple of people I saw wearing masks; one was a child near a hospital and the other a woman inside a business who had one around her neck. I wondered if the flu was going around.
In fact, my interview was cancelled because of the Skirball Fire, which broke out, as I understand it, early in the morning on the day of my interview. Since I had only flown in for the interview and had only two days in town, I was unable to reschedule for the next day. That fire, in Bel Air, was the closest to where I was, but I still couldn't smell any smoke and kept looking at the sky near my hotel, which remained clear, adding to the surreal nature of the entire episode. I started to worry about smoke coming in through the heating/air conditioning unit, but it never did.
People at the hotel were almost preternaturally calm, so it was little like being in a bubble, especially when I looked at what was happening elsewhere on television. When the mayor of Los Angeles told people to be prepared to move quickly, I wondered if it was possible Santa Monica would be affected and I'd have to leave my hotel. It seemed unlikely that a wildfire would make it that far, but I don't have much experience with them.
With all the suffering and harm these fires have caused, it doesn't seem right for me to focus on how seriously inconvenienced I was, financially and time-wise, by what happened, but the truth is that I was. Once it was clear that I couldn't reschedule the interview, I was told by the person who had scheduled me that she was surprised I'd been willing to fly in from out of town for an opening that only entailed a few hours a week. That was the first I'd heard of that; I couldn't believe what I was hearing, as the email I'd gotten initially suggested that multiple shifts were available, including one that was 30 hours a week.
I went back and read the email again and wondered how I could have misunderstood so badly. I blamed myself for not asking more questions, but the truth is that the email I got said nothing about offering only three to six hours (rather, it gave the opposite impression). In my experience, part-time position announcements usually make a low number of hours clear at the outset. There are many people, even if they lived in the same town, who wouldn't bother to interview for a three-hour job. I had flown two-thirds of the way across the country for one.
Although the institution I was supposed to interview with allegedly has a good reputation, I have to wonder about the quality of library service a student gets if the librarians helping them only work a few hours a week. It takes a lot of on-the-job time to become familiar with the resources a particular institution has, and this is especially true in a generalized collection such as an academic library. When I worked as a graduate assistant in my university's library, I often wondered how effective I was at helping people because the number of resources was so vast. A patron could come in at any time and need help with a database I had zero familiarity with, and this actually happened a lot.
Fifteen hours a week of on-the-job training allowed me to scratch the surface, but that was all. If you're dealing with someone who only works three hours a week, you might as well be working with a trained monkey. Literally, if they took you in off the street and asked you to be a librarian, you would probably be nearly as effective as someone working so few hours; he would have no time to become familiar with the collection and the patrons by experiencing a lot of varied requests and repetitive database searches.
So not only was I out of pocket for expenses I couldn't really afford, I was left to feel I was silly for having bothered to come out in the first place. It seemed to me, though, that the institution was remiss for not having stated the requirements more clearly (and also for being willing to hire multiple trained monkeys to attempt to serve their patrons). None of it made any sense; I almost had the impression they were being dishonest with me in some way. As I told them, it seemed bad form to complain too much in the face of the fire situation, but having been inconvenienced in a pretty major way, I felt I should point out the desirability of their being clearer in their job descriptions in the future.
So that was how I spent two days in L.A. I can tell you it's possible to get from the airport to Santa Monica via the Metro, though it's a wearying journey, and I can tell you this isn't the first time I've felt jerked around in my job search process--far from it. If I derived any other benefit from this experience, I have no idea what it is, but I do know that I deserve far better and would likely not have enjoyed the experience of working for this college even if I had gotten the job. Initial impressions can be quite revealing.
Saturday, December 9, 2017
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Watching 'The Wizard of Oz' in a Gale
A couple of weeks ago, on a wild and windy Saturday night, I happened to catch The Wizard of Oz on television. It seems to me that it used to be traditional to televise this movie in the spring, but everything else is different now, so I guess seasonal viewing has gone the way of the dodo, too. Here's a memory for you: I can remember huddling in my child-sized rocking chair, age 7, in front of the TV, in fear of the Wicked Witch but determined to peek through my fingers if I had to so as not to miss anything. I believe I was snacking on a bowl of ice cream.
I don't even remember the last time I saw this movie, but I think it was sometime in the '80s. I came across it by accident that recent Saturday night, but when you stumble on The Wizard of Oz, it's hard to think anything else that might be on is going to be more worthwhile. This was the first time I remember watching it when weather conditions outside approximated those in the film (though those were probably straight-line winds and not a cyclone I heard ripping around). It was quite cozy to curl up in front of the TV under a dry roof and watch while the November storm roared through the trees outside. My only regret was not having any popcorn.
You come to this movie as an adult perhaps slightly less intimidated by the Wicked Witch, more inclined to be amused than frightened by certain things, and less able to recapture the sense of wonder you once felt that a cyclone could take you to such a fantastical place as Oz. But maybe there are other things that strike you much more forcibly than they used to. The movie includes a charming dedication to viewers who are "young at heart." I don't think they were just saying that. I think the makers of the film knew and expected that viewers of different ages would experience this movie with varying levels of sophistication but would all embrace the film's underlying sweetness and optimism.
What struck me the most, something I only half-understood as a child, was the fact that all three of Dorothy's companions feel they are lacking some essential quality that in truth they already possess. The Scarecrow is quite wise in his way, the Tin Man is most tender-hearted, and the Cowardly Lion, while lacking in fierceness, is more than valiant when it really comes to it. They are full of self-doubt, but traveling with Dorothy and helping her to defeat the Wicked Witch helps them to realize what they really are. The Wizard only points out to them what has already become clear.
Dorothy's conflict, an uncertainty as to whether there is a better place than the familiar family farm where she feels a bit in the way and unappreciated, was a little harder to unravel. Was she wrong to dream of a place "Over the Rainbow"? One hardly thinks so--doesn't everyone dream of someplace better at least now and then? What she learns from her sojourn in Oz is not so much that leaving home is wrong but that if one is true to herself she carries home inside of her wherever she goes. Dorothy's new friends in Oz are remarkably similar to her old friends in Kansas (in fact, they are the same). Only Auntie Em and Uncle Henry do not appear there, as if to emphasize that leaving home represents growing up and standing on one's own, starting to figure things out for oneself. The crisis that precipitates Dorothy's running away, the wish to save her dog, Toto, is completely understandable but something Auntie Em and Uncle Henry are unable to do for her. She must act on her own for that to happen.
I wrestled with Dorothy's conclusion that she would no longer look any farther than her own backyard for her heart's desire, but I think I know now what that means. Dorothy is really saying that everything she needs, and everything she will ever need, is what she already has, her own sense of self and the love of those closest to her. It's easy to make life more complicated than that, but the wisdom of owning your own power and worth is what it all comes down to, no matter where you are. I don't think the conclusion is that one shouldn't travel and reach out for better things but rather that in doing so you should understand that the purpose of every journey is to bring you closer to yourself.
The easy affection and simple loyalty Dorothy and her friends have for each other had me a little teary-eyed at the end (sniff, sniff). It's much easier to take those things for granted as a child; the true value of these qualities only becomes apparent when you're older. As a little girl, I always felt content at the end of the movie, satisfied with the conclusion of a story well told, but I don't know that I ever felt like crying, so that was new to this viewing. There are some who would likely say that a world of such uncomplicated affection as Dorothy's is just as much a fantasy as any place "Over the Rainbow," but I think The Wizard of Oz is meant to be an antidote to such cynicism.
Ask yourself: Is there nobody you would risk your life for in battling the Wicked Witch of the West? Really? But why? Why would you do such a thing, why put yourself out like that, with the world being such a dreary place and all? What? What was that? Love? Love? What kind of a silly idea is that?
You really are getting sentimental in your old age, and Wordplay commends you.
I don't even remember the last time I saw this movie, but I think it was sometime in the '80s. I came across it by accident that recent Saturday night, but when you stumble on The Wizard of Oz, it's hard to think anything else that might be on is going to be more worthwhile. This was the first time I remember watching it when weather conditions outside approximated those in the film (though those were probably straight-line winds and not a cyclone I heard ripping around). It was quite cozy to curl up in front of the TV under a dry roof and watch while the November storm roared through the trees outside. My only regret was not having any popcorn.
You come to this movie as an adult perhaps slightly less intimidated by the Wicked Witch, more inclined to be amused than frightened by certain things, and less able to recapture the sense of wonder you once felt that a cyclone could take you to such a fantastical place as Oz. But maybe there are other things that strike you much more forcibly than they used to. The movie includes a charming dedication to viewers who are "young at heart." I don't think they were just saying that. I think the makers of the film knew and expected that viewers of different ages would experience this movie with varying levels of sophistication but would all embrace the film's underlying sweetness and optimism.
What struck me the most, something I only half-understood as a child, was the fact that all three of Dorothy's companions feel they are lacking some essential quality that in truth they already possess. The Scarecrow is quite wise in his way, the Tin Man is most tender-hearted, and the Cowardly Lion, while lacking in fierceness, is more than valiant when it really comes to it. They are full of self-doubt, but traveling with Dorothy and helping her to defeat the Wicked Witch helps them to realize what they really are. The Wizard only points out to them what has already become clear.
Dorothy's conflict, an uncertainty as to whether there is a better place than the familiar family farm where she feels a bit in the way and unappreciated, was a little harder to unravel. Was she wrong to dream of a place "Over the Rainbow"? One hardly thinks so--doesn't everyone dream of someplace better at least now and then? What she learns from her sojourn in Oz is not so much that leaving home is wrong but that if one is true to herself she carries home inside of her wherever she goes. Dorothy's new friends in Oz are remarkably similar to her old friends in Kansas (in fact, they are the same). Only Auntie Em and Uncle Henry do not appear there, as if to emphasize that leaving home represents growing up and standing on one's own, starting to figure things out for oneself. The crisis that precipitates Dorothy's running away, the wish to save her dog, Toto, is completely understandable but something Auntie Em and Uncle Henry are unable to do for her. She must act on her own for that to happen.
I wrestled with Dorothy's conclusion that she would no longer look any farther than her own backyard for her heart's desire, but I think I know now what that means. Dorothy is really saying that everything she needs, and everything she will ever need, is what she already has, her own sense of self and the love of those closest to her. It's easy to make life more complicated than that, but the wisdom of owning your own power and worth is what it all comes down to, no matter where you are. I don't think the conclusion is that one shouldn't travel and reach out for better things but rather that in doing so you should understand that the purpose of every journey is to bring you closer to yourself.
The easy affection and simple loyalty Dorothy and her friends have for each other had me a little teary-eyed at the end (sniff, sniff). It's much easier to take those things for granted as a child; the true value of these qualities only becomes apparent when you're older. As a little girl, I always felt content at the end of the movie, satisfied with the conclusion of a story well told, but I don't know that I ever felt like crying, so that was new to this viewing. There are some who would likely say that a world of such uncomplicated affection as Dorothy's is just as much a fantasy as any place "Over the Rainbow," but I think The Wizard of Oz is meant to be an antidote to such cynicism.
Ask yourself: Is there nobody you would risk your life for in battling the Wicked Witch of the West? Really? But why? Why would you do such a thing, why put yourself out like that, with the world being such a dreary place and all? What? What was that? Love? Love? What kind of a silly idea is that?
You really are getting sentimental in your old age, and Wordplay commends you.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
No Country for Home Chefs
How do you celebrate Thanksgiving when you're living in temporary quarters and separated from all of your kitchen gadgets? I usually try to make an occasion of Thanksgiving, and this year isn't any different, though I'm limited in what I can do. I'm having a circumscribed dinner, but there will be pie; I had to give up cranberry sauce, though, since I'm not in a position to make any and rejected the idea of buying it in a can. I'm pretty sure it's the ginger that makes my homemade version successful, and I didn't think the store-bought kind would measure up, so I saved the $2 the canned variety would have cost.
With little to do in the way of cooking (other than taking the pie out of the freezer), I spent part of the morning watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. The last time I watched it (a few years ago), it was a little trippy, as if maybe the organizers had gotten into the eggnog and hot buttered rum a little ahead of time. It almost seemed to me that part of someone's Halloween parade had sneaked in there by accident, as some of the dancing skulls and whatnot were a little macabre; perhaps the theme that year was "Nightmare Before Christmas" and I just didn't hear about it. This year I approached with caution and didn't watch the whole parade, but I got to see Smokey Robinson, there were some great balloons and floats, and someone sang "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" in suitably spirited fashion. I enjoyed it.
Earlier this afternoon, I read a New York Times article on the Internet that enumerated the various ways in which the original "Thanksgiving" was different from the way we have been taught it was. The article actually didn't have any major reveals (unless you've always thought the Pilgrims ate the same things you do on Thanksgiving), but it got me started on a little research into religious freedom in the American Colonies. Like many other Americans, I was taught that most people (not counting those who were forced to come) arrived in America seeking freedom and opportunity. Is it really true that the principle of religious freedom in colonial America was a myth with little basis in fact, as the article seemed to suggest?
We know, of course, that there was much intolerance in the Colonies, as the dominant groups frequently tried to force everyone else to believe as they believed and to worship as they did. I don't think that comes as a shock to anyone, since the Salem witch trials are as familiar to most of us as the arrival of the Mayflower. Many of those who arrived in the colonies were pursuing religious freedom, but what this often amounted to in practice was their freedom to impose their religious ideas on others, as the Times article points out. It's also true that some of the colonists did believe in freedom of religion for everyone, and though they were frequently persecuted, they persisted, and their ideas did, too. Many of the most influential founding fathers of the United States derived from this latter group.
Among the things we celebrate on holidays like Thanksgiving and Independence Day are the freedoms enshrined in our Constitution--freedom of religion and freedom of speech chief among them. I think most of us know that the reality sometimes falls far short of the ideal. There's what our Constitution guarantees us, and then there's human nature, as well as the fact that our democratic experiment always was and always will be a work in progress.
If there's one thing I've learned it's not to take anything for granted. So while I'm thankful for the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and the other things that most of us hold dear, I'm not sure we always appreciate that upholding these principles is never a job you can safely leave up to someone else. The myth of the "Land of the Free" is very pervasive and easy to celebrate with fireworks and flags; the task of making it a reality requires determination and courage, sometimes far beyond the common measure. I think most of us assume a certain amount of safety just by virtue of being American citizens that I'm not sure is really justified by the facts in all cases.
So now you know the answer to the question of what happens when Wordplay is separated from its kitchen appliances on Thanksgiving: we wax philosophical. Separate a home cook from her pie pans and clay roasting pot, and this is what happens. Your natural reaction is probably, "Reunite this woman with her kitchen implements as fast as possible! Any chance that next year you'll give us your recipe for cranberry sauce instead of a column on the Bill of Rights?" And my answer is, "I'm with you." The sooner I get back in a kitchen of my own, the happier I'll be. And I'll consider your request for the cranberry sauce.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.
With little to do in the way of cooking (other than taking the pie out of the freezer), I spent part of the morning watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. The last time I watched it (a few years ago), it was a little trippy, as if maybe the organizers had gotten into the eggnog and hot buttered rum a little ahead of time. It almost seemed to me that part of someone's Halloween parade had sneaked in there by accident, as some of the dancing skulls and whatnot were a little macabre; perhaps the theme that year was "Nightmare Before Christmas" and I just didn't hear about it. This year I approached with caution and didn't watch the whole parade, but I got to see Smokey Robinson, there were some great balloons and floats, and someone sang "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" in suitably spirited fashion. I enjoyed it.
Earlier this afternoon, I read a New York Times article on the Internet that enumerated the various ways in which the original "Thanksgiving" was different from the way we have been taught it was. The article actually didn't have any major reveals (unless you've always thought the Pilgrims ate the same things you do on Thanksgiving), but it got me started on a little research into religious freedom in the American Colonies. Like many other Americans, I was taught that most people (not counting those who were forced to come) arrived in America seeking freedom and opportunity. Is it really true that the principle of religious freedom in colonial America was a myth with little basis in fact, as the article seemed to suggest?
We know, of course, that there was much intolerance in the Colonies, as the dominant groups frequently tried to force everyone else to believe as they believed and to worship as they did. I don't think that comes as a shock to anyone, since the Salem witch trials are as familiar to most of us as the arrival of the Mayflower. Many of those who arrived in the colonies were pursuing religious freedom, but what this often amounted to in practice was their freedom to impose their religious ideas on others, as the Times article points out. It's also true that some of the colonists did believe in freedom of religion for everyone, and though they were frequently persecuted, they persisted, and their ideas did, too. Many of the most influential founding fathers of the United States derived from this latter group.
Among the things we celebrate on holidays like Thanksgiving and Independence Day are the freedoms enshrined in our Constitution--freedom of religion and freedom of speech chief among them. I think most of us know that the reality sometimes falls far short of the ideal. There's what our Constitution guarantees us, and then there's human nature, as well as the fact that our democratic experiment always was and always will be a work in progress.
If there's one thing I've learned it's not to take anything for granted. So while I'm thankful for the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and the other things that most of us hold dear, I'm not sure we always appreciate that upholding these principles is never a job you can safely leave up to someone else. The myth of the "Land of the Free" is very pervasive and easy to celebrate with fireworks and flags; the task of making it a reality requires determination and courage, sometimes far beyond the common measure. I think most of us assume a certain amount of safety just by virtue of being American citizens that I'm not sure is really justified by the facts in all cases.
So now you know the answer to the question of what happens when Wordplay is separated from its kitchen appliances on Thanksgiving: we wax philosophical. Separate a home cook from her pie pans and clay roasting pot, and this is what happens. Your natural reaction is probably, "Reunite this woman with her kitchen implements as fast as possible! Any chance that next year you'll give us your recipe for cranberry sauce instead of a column on the Bill of Rights?" And my answer is, "I'm with you." The sooner I get back in a kitchen of my own, the happier I'll be. And I'll consider your request for the cranberry sauce.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Vitamin D Deficiency: What Not to Do
Holy moly! It's Vitamin D deficiency time here in Kentucky, with sunshine in short supply and cold rain in plenty. I feel suspended in time and space, as if I'm lingering in C.S. Lewis's "Wood Between the Worlds," a sort of twilight place in one of the Narnia books in which nothing much happens unless you jump into one of its numerous ponds. Each one of these is a portal that might lead just about anywhere, and you have no way of knowing in advance where that might be.
I haven't been jumping into many ponds, unless you count library books and job applications as portals to other worlds, which in a sense, they are, of course. In the Narnia book (I believe it was The Magician's Nephew), two children begin to explore the ponds in the Wood Between the Worlds out of curiosity, unleashing some rather powerful consequences. One would hope that the innocent choice of a library book or a job opening wouldn't have such dire implications, though you might be wrong in that hope, from what I've seen.
I try to be responsible in the books I choose to review, but suspended here as I am, living without a permanent address, not sure where I'll be or what I'll be doing a month from now, hoping something better awaits me than public assistance, I do end up reading a lot to pass the time. I will admit to being a more suspicious and skeptical reader than I once was (as you may have noticed), and this especially pertains to recent books, which I sometimes suspect of having a political subtext buried within whatever plots or themes the author has chosen to explore. This happens even with writers I respect, and it annoys me.
Let me be clear on what I'm talking about. I would expect that political themes and ideas could play a legitimate role in any work should an author wish to pursue them. Politics is a part of life. What bothers me is when I start to read something and get distracted by what seem to be coy, half-hidden, half-revealed references to things outside the scope of the fictional world itself. Yes, I know Dante's Inferno is full of topical references to events and people that he didn't even bother to disguise--and I know it's a great work of literature--but that is the thing I dislike most about it.
I think a work of art is powerful to the extent that it takes a particular instance and makes it universal (or you could say it happens the other way around). Literary conceits like taking potshots at people or sending hidden messages make me question the author's motives. I come to a book assuming the author's integrity and desire to tell a good story, maybe even to create a great work of art. If I start to feel that he/she is dropping names, manipulating me, or trying to send messages that will only be recognized by Abyssinian eunuchs or Macedonian spies, I start to feel that the contract between reader and writer, based on trust, has been violated. It makes me much less likely to bother with that author in the future.
Of course, I have reviewed some books recently that seemed to me to be referring to things slightly out of my ken, and I said so. One of them was Gregory's Maguire's After Alice, but I have to say that Mr. Maguire's book, while it startled me at times, did not offend me. Why not? It was simply a feeling I got that while parts of Mr. Maguire's novel were a little opaque to me, he was not trying to hit me over the head or sell me anything. It was a delight, rather than otherwise, to realize that some of his allusions were beyond me and not amenable to instant unraveling. His book wasn't reductive, in other words; it was more poem than mathematical equation. It raised questions without necessarily answering all of them, and I wanted to recommend it to other people to see what they would find in it.
This past week, I read a book about a World War II pilot who returns to France years later to reconnect with people he knew during the war. It was a good story and well written, but somehow I felt rather empty at the end of it. So why can I not recommend this book to you? Let me state that I know nothing of the author's intentions, so my reactions are strictly to the book itself. While it explored such laudable themes as memory, responsibility, humanity, and inhumanity, I just felt beaten down at the end of it. I kept getting distracted by names and references rather than feeling they were a seamless part of the story. I kept wondering why certain choices were made. And for a novel whose themes seem to be worthy and life affirming, it had a curiously deflating ending.
The pilot, who had succeeded in sneaking out of France during the war, reprises his escape decades later with the woman who assisted him years before but had never done the crossing herself. He hadn't wanted to relive the experience, for reasons that become clear, but the woman, with whom he has become romantically involved, insists on it, almost (it seemed to me) bullying him into it. Her motives somehow seem impure, though she is presented to the reader as a remarkable and courageous freedom fighter. Right about here, the author lost me completely. Why would this character, with so many painful memories of her own, insist that her lover relive one of his most painful war episodes? It all seemed a little sadistic.
I admired the author's skill in bringing the war vividly to life, but at some point, the plot and I parted company. Why did the pilot's life after the war suddenly seem to count for nothing until he returned to France? Perhaps that did not quite ring true to me. Why did he end up traipsing across the mountains after a vertigo-inducing journey by car that he hadn't wanted to make? I felt I had been left hanging. OK, so maybe this book wasn't the best choice for a cloudy week in November (though I don't think reading it on the beach in Cancun would have improved matters much). Something about it bothered me, making me wish I had chosen something more straightforward, or at least more straightforwardly opaque.
Picking library books is more of a crapshoot than it seems sometimes. I have no way of knowing how often anyone who reads my column seeks out books and films I've written about--maybe it never happens. But just in case you decide to track this book down, I recommend reading it by a sunny window or underneath a sunlamp, at the very least. I wouldn't want to be responsible for inadvertently adding to anyone's Seasonal Affective Disorder, and though it's quite possible you would respond to it differently, I can only tell you that I heard a giant whooshing sound as half the Vitamin D in my body seemed to escape when I turned the last page. It takes a lot of Ben & Jerry's to replace that much Vitamin D.
I haven't been jumping into many ponds, unless you count library books and job applications as portals to other worlds, which in a sense, they are, of course. In the Narnia book (I believe it was The Magician's Nephew), two children begin to explore the ponds in the Wood Between the Worlds out of curiosity, unleashing some rather powerful consequences. One would hope that the innocent choice of a library book or a job opening wouldn't have such dire implications, though you might be wrong in that hope, from what I've seen.
I try to be responsible in the books I choose to review, but suspended here as I am, living without a permanent address, not sure where I'll be or what I'll be doing a month from now, hoping something better awaits me than public assistance, I do end up reading a lot to pass the time. I will admit to being a more suspicious and skeptical reader than I once was (as you may have noticed), and this especially pertains to recent books, which I sometimes suspect of having a political subtext buried within whatever plots or themes the author has chosen to explore. This happens even with writers I respect, and it annoys me.
Let me be clear on what I'm talking about. I would expect that political themes and ideas could play a legitimate role in any work should an author wish to pursue them. Politics is a part of life. What bothers me is when I start to read something and get distracted by what seem to be coy, half-hidden, half-revealed references to things outside the scope of the fictional world itself. Yes, I know Dante's Inferno is full of topical references to events and people that he didn't even bother to disguise--and I know it's a great work of literature--but that is the thing I dislike most about it.
I think a work of art is powerful to the extent that it takes a particular instance and makes it universal (or you could say it happens the other way around). Literary conceits like taking potshots at people or sending hidden messages make me question the author's motives. I come to a book assuming the author's integrity and desire to tell a good story, maybe even to create a great work of art. If I start to feel that he/she is dropping names, manipulating me, or trying to send messages that will only be recognized by Abyssinian eunuchs or Macedonian spies, I start to feel that the contract between reader and writer, based on trust, has been violated. It makes me much less likely to bother with that author in the future.
Of course, I have reviewed some books recently that seemed to me to be referring to things slightly out of my ken, and I said so. One of them was Gregory's Maguire's After Alice, but I have to say that Mr. Maguire's book, while it startled me at times, did not offend me. Why not? It was simply a feeling I got that while parts of Mr. Maguire's novel were a little opaque to me, he was not trying to hit me over the head or sell me anything. It was a delight, rather than otherwise, to realize that some of his allusions were beyond me and not amenable to instant unraveling. His book wasn't reductive, in other words; it was more poem than mathematical equation. It raised questions without necessarily answering all of them, and I wanted to recommend it to other people to see what they would find in it.
This past week, I read a book about a World War II pilot who returns to France years later to reconnect with people he knew during the war. It was a good story and well written, but somehow I felt rather empty at the end of it. So why can I not recommend this book to you? Let me state that I know nothing of the author's intentions, so my reactions are strictly to the book itself. While it explored such laudable themes as memory, responsibility, humanity, and inhumanity, I just felt beaten down at the end of it. I kept getting distracted by names and references rather than feeling they were a seamless part of the story. I kept wondering why certain choices were made. And for a novel whose themes seem to be worthy and life affirming, it had a curiously deflating ending.
The pilot, who had succeeded in sneaking out of France during the war, reprises his escape decades later with the woman who assisted him years before but had never done the crossing herself. He hadn't wanted to relive the experience, for reasons that become clear, but the woman, with whom he has become romantically involved, insists on it, almost (it seemed to me) bullying him into it. Her motives somehow seem impure, though she is presented to the reader as a remarkable and courageous freedom fighter. Right about here, the author lost me completely. Why would this character, with so many painful memories of her own, insist that her lover relive one of his most painful war episodes? It all seemed a little sadistic.
I admired the author's skill in bringing the war vividly to life, but at some point, the plot and I parted company. Why did the pilot's life after the war suddenly seem to count for nothing until he returned to France? Perhaps that did not quite ring true to me. Why did he end up traipsing across the mountains after a vertigo-inducing journey by car that he hadn't wanted to make? I felt I had been left hanging. OK, so maybe this book wasn't the best choice for a cloudy week in November (though I don't think reading it on the beach in Cancun would have improved matters much). Something about it bothered me, making me wish I had chosen something more straightforward, or at least more straightforwardly opaque.
Picking library books is more of a crapshoot than it seems sometimes. I have no way of knowing how often anyone who reads my column seeks out books and films I've written about--maybe it never happens. But just in case you decide to track this book down, I recommend reading it by a sunny window or underneath a sunlamp, at the very least. I wouldn't want to be responsible for inadvertently adding to anyone's Seasonal Affective Disorder, and though it's quite possible you would respond to it differently, I can only tell you that I heard a giant whooshing sound as half the Vitamin D in my body seemed to escape when I turned the last page. It takes a lot of Ben & Jerry's to replace that much Vitamin D.
Thursday, November 9, 2017
Turning of the Year
I'm pretty sure we reached the tipping point this week weather-wise, the point at which early fall slips into late autumn and those glorious October days morph into the gloomier part of November. When I came back here at the end of the summer, I was happy to at least be far away from the wildfire then burning in Southern California and the hurricanes down in the Caribbean. Late summer was still in the air, so it was hot at first, the humid, Kentucky kind of heat I'm used to. Then a period of rain set in, and I enjoyed watching it, as I had seen very little of that all summer in L.A.
I watched The Weather Channel as one hurricane after another headed toward the United States, but the weather here was generally calm. I'm not in the greatest area for taking walks, but I took them anyway, occasionally combining an errand in another part of town with the chance to park the car and walk through a leafier neighborhood. Those occasions were special treats. I have been reluctant to go back to my old neighborhood for walks, though--I have too many bad memories of an area that has changed radically from the way it used to be. Revisiting those streets would make it seem too much as if I had never left.
Last Sunday, I decided to walk near Ashland, the historic home of Henry Clay, knowing that the mild, sunny days of autumn were probably drawing to a close and wanting to make the most of those that remained. Obviously, a lot of other people had the same idea, and unlike on previous occasions, there were just too many other people out and about to make a solitary walk possible. Some of the foliage was breathtaking, and the sun was warm, but I was practically tripping over other people, so I finally called it a day.
We have had a good bit of rain off and on lately, and one or two very windy nights that seemed to mark the turn toward winter. In the last week, I've been reminded of what I dislike most about the weather in Kentucky: the cold, gray days that are so frequent from November to March. While the sameness of the weather throughout my summer in California didn't compare favorably in my mind with summer in Kentucky, just a little bit of winter in Kentucky goes a long way. Of course, with climate change, it could be a while before we see true winter (although I did see sleet and flurries one morning last week, nothing stuck). What we'll probably get is a protracted autumn.
You know it's starting to get cold when a sunny day of 54 degrees feels warm to you. We'll probably have more of those here and there, but I'm always surprised at how early November can fool you into thinking that the mild days and colorful foliage will just go on and on only to yield, almost overnight sometimes, to leafless branches and a pervasive, damp, end-of-the-year gloom. It never ceases to amaze me how different a rainy day in June is from a rainy day in December.
Friday, November 3, 2017
Insolidity
A number of years ago, I stayed in an extended stay hotel while renovations were being done on my apartment building after a fire. While there, I had cable TV, something I did not have at home, and I often watched it. Other than movies, my favorites were The Weather Channel and Animal Planet, both of which I could watch for two or three hours at a time.
This year, while staying in extended stays and motels, I've also had access to cable TV, but I find that overall the viewing experience is a lot less fun. Almost everyone seems to be selling something. I don't know exactly when this trend started, but it's frequently the case that, despite having dozens of channels to choose from, I'm not interested in any of them. In some cases, I enjoy the commercials much more than the actual programs; they often have more style and charm, which doesn't say much for the overall state of television land, but it's true.
One channel I do enjoy overall is HGTV, and if I were going to psychologize the reasons for this, I might say that it's the archetype of home drawing me in at a time when I don't have one of my own. There's probably some truth in this, but it's also true that I've always been interested in looking at houses and the different ways people go about using space in their homes. If I had access to HGTV back in the summer of the fire, I don't remember watching it much, but many of the programs they have today, which feature people making decisions about buying, selling, and renovating houses, fascinate me.
The big question with "reality TV" is how "real" or how "scripted" the programs are, and I think about that when I'm watching. Most of the series I watch are presented as if the people and situations are genuine, and even though I question that sometimes, I'm usually willing to accept that they are. My favorite is Property Brothers, though I also enjoy Fixer Upper and House Hunters (which apparently is heavily staged, or has been in the past). I was watching House Hunters one night when I suddenly became convinced that one of the people was an actor, and whether or not I was right in that instance, I often get the feeling that, just as elsewhere on the TV dial, there is some sleight-of-hand taking place. Nevertheless, I still enjoy watching.
The process of "demo," a prominent feature of many of these programs, has been a particular revelation to me. I always assumed that houses, floors, and walls are all more solid than they actually are, that is until I saw the gusto with which the Property Brothers and their clients rip down cabinets, tear out toilets, and knock down walls. (I still think it would be harder for me to take out a kitchen cabinet than it would be for Jonathan or Drew, who do it all the time, but some of their clients seem to have quite a knack for it.) I've also learned that what sells today is a much sleeker style than I would probably go for in a home of my own. The houses always look beautiful after they're renovated, but I sometimes prefer the pre-renovation, lived-in decor of homes that bear the imprint of the people living in them, even if the post-demo reconfiguration is usually a great improvement.
I enjoyed the Property Brothers segment in New Orleans in which the brothers competed against one another in renovating the two halves of a shotgun house. I would have had a hard time picking a winner; I liked Drew's kitchen and dining area better but preferred Jonathan's bedrooms. There was another program featuring historical renovation that I also liked, hosted by two women who fixed up a Montana farm house for a young married couple. I liked the way they were sensitive to the rugged, traditional style of rural Montana while completely updating the house and managing to make it both practical and cozy.
What else? Well, I've learned the term "shiplap," even if I'm not sure what it is. I've learned that my taste in bathrooms, far from being extravagant, is pretty much the norm in reno land. I have yet to see a kitchen that quite matches one I would pick for myself if I could, but I'm inclining much more to the open-concept floor plan than I used to. I was thoroughly charmed by an upstairs porch with a fireplace in a Knoxville home and have decided that, despite several years of fascination with the mid-century modern style, I am probably more a Craftsman person myself.
The irony of being further away financially than I have ever been from home ownership while digesting all of these HGTV shows isn't lost on me, and I'm occasionally offended by the demands and expectations some of the TV clients have when I think of the homes other people make do with (or don't make do with). On the other hand, I suppose it's a mark of optimism that I still enjoy watching these programs and seeing what's possible, despite my own circumstances. I still hope to have a home of my own some day, and while I have only a general idea right now of what it might look like, there is one thing on the top of my wish list besides a rainfall showerhead: no shared walls. Especially after seeing what flimsy things they can be.
This year, while staying in extended stays and motels, I've also had access to cable TV, but I find that overall the viewing experience is a lot less fun. Almost everyone seems to be selling something. I don't know exactly when this trend started, but it's frequently the case that, despite having dozens of channels to choose from, I'm not interested in any of them. In some cases, I enjoy the commercials much more than the actual programs; they often have more style and charm, which doesn't say much for the overall state of television land, but it's true.
One channel I do enjoy overall is HGTV, and if I were going to psychologize the reasons for this, I might say that it's the archetype of home drawing me in at a time when I don't have one of my own. There's probably some truth in this, but it's also true that I've always been interested in looking at houses and the different ways people go about using space in their homes. If I had access to HGTV back in the summer of the fire, I don't remember watching it much, but many of the programs they have today, which feature people making decisions about buying, selling, and renovating houses, fascinate me.
The big question with "reality TV" is how "real" or how "scripted" the programs are, and I think about that when I'm watching. Most of the series I watch are presented as if the people and situations are genuine, and even though I question that sometimes, I'm usually willing to accept that they are. My favorite is Property Brothers, though I also enjoy Fixer Upper and House Hunters (which apparently is heavily staged, or has been in the past). I was watching House Hunters one night when I suddenly became convinced that one of the people was an actor, and whether or not I was right in that instance, I often get the feeling that, just as elsewhere on the TV dial, there is some sleight-of-hand taking place. Nevertheless, I still enjoy watching.
The process of "demo," a prominent feature of many of these programs, has been a particular revelation to me. I always assumed that houses, floors, and walls are all more solid than they actually are, that is until I saw the gusto with which the Property Brothers and their clients rip down cabinets, tear out toilets, and knock down walls. (I still think it would be harder for me to take out a kitchen cabinet than it would be for Jonathan or Drew, who do it all the time, but some of their clients seem to have quite a knack for it.) I've also learned that what sells today is a much sleeker style than I would probably go for in a home of my own. The houses always look beautiful after they're renovated, but I sometimes prefer the pre-renovation, lived-in decor of homes that bear the imprint of the people living in them, even if the post-demo reconfiguration is usually a great improvement.
I enjoyed the Property Brothers segment in New Orleans in which the brothers competed against one another in renovating the two halves of a shotgun house. I would have had a hard time picking a winner; I liked Drew's kitchen and dining area better but preferred Jonathan's bedrooms. There was another program featuring historical renovation that I also liked, hosted by two women who fixed up a Montana farm house for a young married couple. I liked the way they were sensitive to the rugged, traditional style of rural Montana while completely updating the house and managing to make it both practical and cozy.
What else? Well, I've learned the term "shiplap," even if I'm not sure what it is. I've learned that my taste in bathrooms, far from being extravagant, is pretty much the norm in reno land. I have yet to see a kitchen that quite matches one I would pick for myself if I could, but I'm inclining much more to the open-concept floor plan than I used to. I was thoroughly charmed by an upstairs porch with a fireplace in a Knoxville home and have decided that, despite several years of fascination with the mid-century modern style, I am probably more a Craftsman person myself.
The irony of being further away financially than I have ever been from home ownership while digesting all of these HGTV shows isn't lost on me, and I'm occasionally offended by the demands and expectations some of the TV clients have when I think of the homes other people make do with (or don't make do with). On the other hand, I suppose it's a mark of optimism that I still enjoy watching these programs and seeing what's possible, despite my own circumstances. I still hope to have a home of my own some day, and while I have only a general idea right now of what it might look like, there is one thing on the top of my wish list besides a rainfall showerhead: no shared walls. Especially after seeing what flimsy things they can be.
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Mythology for the Literal-Minded
It came to my attention this week, quite by accident, that author Mark Haddon included a piece in his collection The Pier Falls and Other Stories that retells the myth of Ariadne and Theseus. Neither is named, but the plot parallels the events of the myth closely enough (on a literal level, at least) that anyone familiar with the story will recognize what is meant. I'll be honest in saying that I didn't like the story, nor the one that preceded it, which was not myth-based, though it seemed to bear an odd kind of kinship to "The Island," the story I'm writing about. Both deal with horrific loss of life near the sea.
I sometimes feel that it's worth staying with an unpleasant book or sitting through an unpleasant movie, depending on what I perceive the artist's intent to be. I watched Munich, for instance, even though I found it difficult, because the theme was compelling. The question of just where the dividing line is between terrorists and anti-terrorists is a very real and important one, and it was brought home to me in a way I'll never forget in that film. It was worth sticking it out for the lesson it taught me.
Likewise, Mr. Haddon may well have a purpose in mind with his book, and if so, I may have gleaned it from the first two stories, though it's probably unfair to characterize the whole book without having read it all the way through. I guess what I'm saying is that if Mr. Haddon's purpose is to reveal the coarser side of human nature and the unfortunate tendency many people have of being drawn to the grisly and horrific events that befall others simply for the thrill of it, then I get what he's saying and thank him for his efforts, but I won't be reading any further. It may be that the rest of the book deals with other themes, but when I started on the third story and still found myself in carnival sideshow territory, I felt it was time to call it a day and go on to something else.
It's probably obvious to anyone who's read my book that I look at the story of Ariadne, Theseus, and the labyrinth as very symbolic and, underneath it all, life-affirming. My way of looking at it is not the only way, of course. Mr. Haddon's version is a horror story that nevertheless stays pretty close to the actual outline of the myth; the devil is in the details. His story even begins as quasi-realistic, as if Ariadne and Theseus might have been actual people--Ariadne a spoiled but sheltered princess who makes a fatal error in betraying her people for a man she's besotted with and Theseus a calculating and manipulative brute.
Mr. Haddon's way of dealing with the Dionysus part of the myth is not one I had seen before and conjures up the destructive aspect of the god. This side of Dionysus certainly appears elsewhere in mythology but not in the context of this myth, at least not to my knowledge, so it seemed to me a bit like mixing bad apples and worse oranges, though of course one has the creative license to do just that in a story of one's own telling. Ariadne's marriage to Dionysus in the classical version of the myth is a much more benign event than Mr. Haddon makes of it and supports the idea that Ariadne herself was viewed, at an earlier period of Greek history, as a powerful goddess. In some versions of the myth she, a goddess, was already married to Dionysus when she decided to help Theseus, so that perhaps the marriage on Naxos in later versions is a way of linking Ariadne, now a mortal, back to her original husband.
I discussed in my book some of the thinking about Ariadne's role in the myth, which centers on the idea that the labyrinth may originally have had a powerful religious meaning. I tend to see Ariadne as a positive figure guarding the secrets of life itself, the labyrinth in this sense becoming a symbol for birth, and even more than that, for becoming human. In that regard, her pairing with Dionysus makes sense, because he, too, is deeply connected with life in his associations with wine and the life cycle of the grape.
Whereas Demeter oversees agriculture in general, Dionysus's connection with the vine speaks of something that, paradoxical as it seems, is in some ways even more nuanced and refined. I'm talking about the life cycle of the grape and of how many things have to go just right in order for the winemaker to produce a fine wine. Dionysus presides over all of this, not just the growing of the grapes. The wine distills some of the essence of everything that goes into its making, the soil, the water, the sunlight, the container it's placed in, and, in no small amount, the soul of the winemaker, whose care of the vines has a great deal to do with how the wine turns out. Every vintage is unique, just as every person is.
By the way, I'm indebted to the movie Sideways for revealing to me so evocatively this nurturing aspect of Dionysus. That the main character, Miles, has a difficult relationship with wine, the very thing he loves and appreciates so well, is both a sad irony and a reminder that Dionysus does indeed have two sides, though bookish Miles is in some ways really more an Apollo kind of guy. Miles's boorish friend Jack, who has no appreciation for the subtle beauties of wine, embodies the dark side of Dionysus much better than Miles does. Miles's love interest, Maya, combines characteristics of both Demeter and Aphrodite, which really makes her the Ariadne to Miles's Dionysus.
All of this is just to say that in my reading of the labyrinth myth, Ariadne and Dionysus are both nurturing figures, and there is some support for this in scholarship. I was honestly rather shocked by Mr. Haddon's story, and even though I think most people realize there are many ways to read a myth, I want to point out, in this era of sensationalism and over-emoting that takes place everywhere from The Weather Channel to the nightly news, that the most shocking interpretation of a story isn't necessarily the best one and definitely isn't the only one. You can look at life through the eyes of love as a rich adventure filled with beauty and interest (despite its many serious problems) or you can look at it as a carnival sideshow, with one freakish event screaming for your attention until another one even worse comes along to take its place. I recommend that you not be that guy. (You know the one I mean.)
I don't know whether to thank Mr. Haddon for a lesson in the dangers of literal-minded mythology or to wash his mouth out with soap, but I rather suspect he had a reason for telling the story the way he did. As an example of literature as shock therapy, I'm not sure I've ever seen its equal. It's like a literary hairshirt. A tiny dab of that may be edifying, but more than that is going overboard. Whether he even expects you to finish the book or not is a question I'm not sure I can answer.
I sometimes feel that it's worth staying with an unpleasant book or sitting through an unpleasant movie, depending on what I perceive the artist's intent to be. I watched Munich, for instance, even though I found it difficult, because the theme was compelling. The question of just where the dividing line is between terrorists and anti-terrorists is a very real and important one, and it was brought home to me in a way I'll never forget in that film. It was worth sticking it out for the lesson it taught me.
Likewise, Mr. Haddon may well have a purpose in mind with his book, and if so, I may have gleaned it from the first two stories, though it's probably unfair to characterize the whole book without having read it all the way through. I guess what I'm saying is that if Mr. Haddon's purpose is to reveal the coarser side of human nature and the unfortunate tendency many people have of being drawn to the grisly and horrific events that befall others simply for the thrill of it, then I get what he's saying and thank him for his efforts, but I won't be reading any further. It may be that the rest of the book deals with other themes, but when I started on the third story and still found myself in carnival sideshow territory, I felt it was time to call it a day and go on to something else.
It's probably obvious to anyone who's read my book that I look at the story of Ariadne, Theseus, and the labyrinth as very symbolic and, underneath it all, life-affirming. My way of looking at it is not the only way, of course. Mr. Haddon's version is a horror story that nevertheless stays pretty close to the actual outline of the myth; the devil is in the details. His story even begins as quasi-realistic, as if Ariadne and Theseus might have been actual people--Ariadne a spoiled but sheltered princess who makes a fatal error in betraying her people for a man she's besotted with and Theseus a calculating and manipulative brute.
Mr. Haddon's way of dealing with the Dionysus part of the myth is not one I had seen before and conjures up the destructive aspect of the god. This side of Dionysus certainly appears elsewhere in mythology but not in the context of this myth, at least not to my knowledge, so it seemed to me a bit like mixing bad apples and worse oranges, though of course one has the creative license to do just that in a story of one's own telling. Ariadne's marriage to Dionysus in the classical version of the myth is a much more benign event than Mr. Haddon makes of it and supports the idea that Ariadne herself was viewed, at an earlier period of Greek history, as a powerful goddess. In some versions of the myth she, a goddess, was already married to Dionysus when she decided to help Theseus, so that perhaps the marriage on Naxos in later versions is a way of linking Ariadne, now a mortal, back to her original husband.
I discussed in my book some of the thinking about Ariadne's role in the myth, which centers on the idea that the labyrinth may originally have had a powerful religious meaning. I tend to see Ariadne as a positive figure guarding the secrets of life itself, the labyrinth in this sense becoming a symbol for birth, and even more than that, for becoming human. In that regard, her pairing with Dionysus makes sense, because he, too, is deeply connected with life in his associations with wine and the life cycle of the grape.
Whereas Demeter oversees agriculture in general, Dionysus's connection with the vine speaks of something that, paradoxical as it seems, is in some ways even more nuanced and refined. I'm talking about the life cycle of the grape and of how many things have to go just right in order for the winemaker to produce a fine wine. Dionysus presides over all of this, not just the growing of the grapes. The wine distills some of the essence of everything that goes into its making, the soil, the water, the sunlight, the container it's placed in, and, in no small amount, the soul of the winemaker, whose care of the vines has a great deal to do with how the wine turns out. Every vintage is unique, just as every person is.
By the way, I'm indebted to the movie Sideways for revealing to me so evocatively this nurturing aspect of Dionysus. That the main character, Miles, has a difficult relationship with wine, the very thing he loves and appreciates so well, is both a sad irony and a reminder that Dionysus does indeed have two sides, though bookish Miles is in some ways really more an Apollo kind of guy. Miles's boorish friend Jack, who has no appreciation for the subtle beauties of wine, embodies the dark side of Dionysus much better than Miles does. Miles's love interest, Maya, combines characteristics of both Demeter and Aphrodite, which really makes her the Ariadne to Miles's Dionysus.
All of this is just to say that in my reading of the labyrinth myth, Ariadne and Dionysus are both nurturing figures, and there is some support for this in scholarship. I was honestly rather shocked by Mr. Haddon's story, and even though I think most people realize there are many ways to read a myth, I want to point out, in this era of sensationalism and over-emoting that takes place everywhere from The Weather Channel to the nightly news, that the most shocking interpretation of a story isn't necessarily the best one and definitely isn't the only one. You can look at life through the eyes of love as a rich adventure filled with beauty and interest (despite its many serious problems) or you can look at it as a carnival sideshow, with one freakish event screaming for your attention until another one even worse comes along to take its place. I recommend that you not be that guy. (You know the one I mean.)
I don't know whether to thank Mr. Haddon for a lesson in the dangers of literal-minded mythology or to wash his mouth out with soap, but I rather suspect he had a reason for telling the story the way he did. As an example of literature as shock therapy, I'm not sure I've ever seen its equal. It's like a literary hairshirt. A tiny dab of that may be edifying, but more than that is going overboard. Whether he even expects you to finish the book or not is a question I'm not sure I can answer.
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