That's all folks

Well, we're wrapping up our Post-WWI American Lit class this week. All in all it was a great class. I had only read one of the books before - Ellison's Invisible Man. One of the most interesting things to be able to do was to see how one book led to another, the topics and the experiences of the characters, as they were placed along the continuum of the twentieth century. We touched on the African American experience (Ellison and Morrison's Paradise), the Beats (On the Road), the women's movement (Erica Jong's Fear of Flying), gays and Latinos (Michael Nava's Rag and Bone) . . . and I just realized I've written about each and every one of the books in this blog in past weeks, so I'm being redundant. Anyway . . . I learned a great deal about the American experience from the reading and perhaps even a greater amount from the discussions that took place with the other students on the forums.

So now I'm moving on, continuing to read - as I always do - for fun, for my own edification. I just finished a great book called His Illegal Self by Peter Carey. This was something apart from anything I've read before. It's about revolutionaries of the sixties and seventies. It's about a little boy who experiences life on Park Avenue and on a commune in the Australian outback. I recommend you check it out.

Keep reading!

Dr. H lets us kick back and relax a little

Ahhh. Yes, that is a sigh of relief. Don't get me wrong; I enjoy my literature classes. I mean, I get to read and get a grade for it. Is that great or what? And fortunately for me, I'm just twisted and analytical enough to come up with all kinds of explanations and hidden meanings for the stuff I read. Yippee! Anyhoo . . . This week was quite relaxing compared to the rest of the course. I've been a fan of Grisham and Connelly for a while - you know, lawyers, cops, and detectives running around solving mysteries? Well, that's just the type of thing we got to read this week: Rag and Bone by Michael Nava. Really just an enjoyable read: not too taxing, dome nice plot twists. But in this class, American Fiction Since WWII, this work was entirely appropriate, not because of style or genre, but because of the characters and the issues they addressed. The protagonist here is Henry Rios a lawyer whose partner, Josh has recently died. The novel goes on to address issues like drug use, alcoholism, bisexuality, adoption, gangs, religion - I could go on, but I won't. Any number of these would have been taboo, or at least not dealt with in a positive, compassionate way, a few decades ago. I wanted to dance a jig as I was reading this. Again, one of my classmates doesn't agree - something about treating homosexuality like a limp - but I don't see it. No, this isn't the greatest piece of literature ever written. But it is a wonderful example of the gradually opening minds of the American people. Perhaps this book - and others like it - will help us along.

Digging in their heels

So, this week's novel in class was Toni Morrison's Paradise. It was sometimes hard to follow, but certainly had some hard truths to tell. The story takes place in the mythical Ruby, Oklahoma, a black community established in the wake of the further disenfranchisement of freedmen in the south. The founders of the community were push from Mississippi and Louisiana to their first "Haven." When things stagnate there, a splinter group eventually moves on to Ruby. But, in any closed community, stagnation and dissatisfaction are inevitable. A society that doesn't change is destined to fail. Humanity is meant to continue to grow, to learn, to adjust. Differences beget advancement. The danger in Ruby is not only physical inbreeding, which is beginning to produce deformed children, but the mental inbreeding which produces a deformed mind and conscience.

"Hollywoodizing" Hollywood Debauchery

I loved the movie Less Than Zero when it came out 21 years ago. I watched it many times. I cried many times. All those pretty people leading meaningless lives, and pretty Andrew McCarthy as Clay trying to save his friends from that meaninglessness. Now I've read the novel, and Clay isn't quite as sympathetic a character in print as he was on film. And the characters in the book weren't just doing drugs and having casual sex. I don't really want to give too much away. It's still a good, depressing read, just as I found the movie to be good and depressing. I understand Ellis has been given a hard time about his writing - all the loose morals, gratuitous violence and such. But, when being a good American means, primarily, being a good consumer, why not numb yourself. It seems to me that Ellis is trying to point out that when your goals and interactions are meaningless - there's not one relationship of any depth among the characters - you have to escape somehow. I think when Hollywood cleaned up the story for the movie, they squelched its impact. The parents of the movie actually seemed to be concerned for their kids. Not so in the book. Ellis's felony indictment of American society is reduced to a misdemeanor. My recommendation: see the movie for the brooding performances of Andrew McCarthy and Jami Gertz and the realistic, stunning, and ominous performance of Robert Downey Jr. Read the book to really get the point.

Erica Jong and Francesca Lia Block

So, we were reading Erica Jong's Fear of Flying for class this week. And coincidentally, I picked up a book at the library (I always have to have something I'm reading just for me) called Quakeland, by Francesca Lia Block. Both books are about women trying to navigate the perils of romantic relationships in the feminist world. Both are about women trying to figure out just who they are. I must admit, I preferred Quakeland. It had a spirituality to it that was lacking in Fear of Flying. But both books were certainly realistic, just from points of view of different types of women with similar problems. Much of the difference comes from the different eras - Jong wrote in the early '70s; Block's book came out this year. Yet both books touched me deeply. I am, after all, a woman in the feminist world. I was raised during those first couple of decades of feminism. Intellectually, I understand that my life is my own intellectually. But my role models hadn't quite internalized those changes that feminism brought about. Block's Katrina, Jong's Isadora, and I are still trying to make independence and self-reliance work, to find out what a healthy relationship means to feminists like ourselves. I hope I figure it out soon.

Why haven't I read this guy before?

You know, I don't consider myself a conservative stick-in-the-mud, but I just read my first Thomas Pynchon novel, and that's sure how I felt. See what happens when I get shoved outside my comfort zone? I've always loved to read, but this was certainly something new. I'm used to your standard novel - standard conflict, standard exposition, standard climax - you get the picture. A nice normal story arc, easy to follow, easy to analyze. Pynchon knocked me on my ass! What the hell is going on here? I asked myself. No standard stuff here. The novel was all over the place, with observations from Oedipa, the main character, about life, love, the postal service, sex, drugs, men, business - the list goes on and on. And is she having a paranoid fantasy, is her dead ex-lover playing a posthumous practical joke on her, or is she really involved in some underground scheme to foil the U.S. Postal Service, traditional love, and the gods know what else.

And even though Pynchon - through his mouthpiece Diblette - tried to discourage me from analyzing the novel, by the gods I did my best. Well, I had to write my essay on something. But it was a puzzle to be sorted out anyway. I had to try to extract some kind of meaning from it. Ha! I really don't want to give it - or what I think it is - away. My own convoluted little brain added its own ideas to the mix and came away with the meaning best suited to me. That might be just what Pynchon had in mind.

I'm On the Road!!!

Well, what a coincidence! This week of On the Road in class, I am on the road (well, actually, I was in the air). I'm back home in Peoria for my 21st class reunion. Yes, 21st. Nobody ever got our 20th planned, so here we are with the class of '88. Really, the adventures of Sal & Dean remind me of some of the craziness of my late high school/first aborted attempt at college. Doing what I wanted just because I could. Experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Going, going, going nowhere. Someone once told me that all those people I called "friends" (nobody take this personally if you know me!) weren't really "friends." More like partners in crime, I guess. Did I lack a moral compass? You betcha! Do I regret the whole period? Not necessarily. I learned what I was capable of. I finally learned self-control. I eventually learned to love myself. Like Sal, I learned that even if you love someone, you don't have to follow them down the destructive path they're on.

Walk On By

So, this week in my (by "my," I mean the class I am taking) Post-WWII American Fiction class, we (by "we," I mean each student individually) read Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. This is a novel I had begun reading before, but never finished, not because I didn't enjoy it, but because I didn't have time. In my previous reading, I focused on the issues of identity in the novel. I mean, that narrator tries on personality after personality after being convinced by those who want to "help" him that they have the perfect role for him.

However, when I was reading this time, I caught on to another theme - the impersonality of modern society. And, with the idea of the individual as invisible, this certainly reflects the anonymity one feels when walking down a crowded city street. Okay, my thought process was definitely influenced by something else I read recently - Dark Ages America: The Final Phase of Empire, by Morris Berman. He proposes, among other things, that American (and, increasingly, global) society is so focused on individualism as to preclude most authentic relationships between people. Neighbors don't do a lot of hanging out in their yards anymore; we're too busy watching TV - or blogging!

Invisible Man explores the same phenomenon in an earlier form. One reason the narrator is able to remain "invisible" is the limited scope of the connections he does make. Work - a means of getting the cash to buy more things - while scarce in the 1930s, was fast becoming the primary focus of American society, perhaps more so during the Depression because of its scarcety. But, as Berman claims, we've lost the human connections that really make life worthwhile. Personally, I often find myself lonely, though I have classmates, church friends, and family. Maybe if I commit myself more fully to the full-fledged consumerism that defines American, I won't notice the loneliness anymore.

Television is no longer a vast wasteland

Yes, TV can be used for good. You can tell me that there are no original ideas. You can tell me that TV is for amateurs, that the only serious film is one on the big screen. But sometimes television moves me. I was sitting here watching Jericho tonight. I was watching a worst-case-scenario . . . Well, no, I guess it's not really the worst case, but . . .

I was watching a small Midwestern U.S. town which had been declared insurgent by a U.S. military officer. In my mind's eye, though, I was seeing an Iraqi town, filled with families and friends and merchants and the law and the clergy, all trying to make the best of a bad situation, trying to protect their own and have some semblance of a normal life. I saw them enduring want - of food and water and light, of safety and privacy. I also saw that army officer, stuck in Iraq in an untenable situation, trying to do what's right, for his country but also for humanity, of which every Iraqi and every American is a member.

I really don't know how far to go with this. I'm probably talking to the ether anyway. But, it tears me up. It twists my heart to see what human beings can do to other human beings.

Enough. Good night.
No poems today.

One final post for class.

Well, this blog started out as an assignment. This is the last post for the class. I've put my poetry out here. I've made some minor political commentary. I've gotten some nice responses from my classmates. I still haven't decided if I'm crazy or just eccentric. And I'm not sure if what I have to say is worth posting for everyone to see. But, I know that I need to write. And if this blog inspires me to do so, well maybe I should continue. We'll see.

Brain farming

Till the field of mind,
Make tunnels for the muses:
Poetic? Insane?
They worm their way, chewing up
Spitting out fertilized thought.

McCain Flap Follow-up

I see I'm not the only one who thinks that the NYT McCain article was poorly written, not wrongly written. There was a brief and to-the-point opinion piece (I use that word loosely) in USA Today Friday. Again, I encourage everyone to read the Times article for him- or herself. Don't let the boob tube crew tell you what was said, read it and analyze it for yourselves.

Are we really connected?

I've been in some discussions lately about just how connected we really are these days. The internet, email, cell phones, texting . . . In theory, all these things should allow us to remain "close" to those from whom we are geographically separated. I just don't know if that's really the case.

Signal Interrupted

Connected not
connected
Broadcasting

receiving

nothing.
Signal interrupted.

How many terminals?
How many channels?
How many decrypters?
How many keys?
How many codes?

Exponentially exponential..
Line upon line
filtered and
refiltered.

Code degradation.

Internal software error.

Static on the line.
Nothing on the line.
Dead air.

McCain Flap

I'm gonna keep this brief. I used to respect John McCain. Back in 2000, I thought he must be a good guy because of the vile ways in which the Bush campaign attacked him:

". . . during the South Carolina Republican primary the George W. Bush-Karl Rove smear machine unleashed a torrent of racist attacks against McCain, including the now infamous push-poll phone calls to white suburban voters asking: "Would you be more or less likely to vote for John McCain if you knew he had an illegitimate half-black baby?" Rove's racist calls referred to McCain's adopted child."

Joseph A. Palermo at The Huffington Post, 2/14/08

But, since he lost out in 2000, McCain seems to have rolled over and done Bush's bidding with few exceptions. I grew to believe that McCain was like most other politicians, with maybe a few more scruples and a more refined sense of fair play. Thursday's New York Times article has confirmed this for me.

Now, when I first heard all the uproar on morning TV, I was astonished. The way the article was presented, it seemed like one of two things was going on here: either McCain had been caught in a sexual indiscretion with a lobbyist or the NYT had irresponsibly reported on a non-event. Since I'm a cynic, I didn't buy what MSNBC and CNN were saying without reading the article for myself. As far as I can tell, the main issue the article was addressing was that John McCain, who himself decried even the appearance of impropriety by legislators (after being caught at just that as part of the Keating 5), had once again been spending a little too much time with special interests and their lobbyists. While the morning news folks were up in arms about unnammed sources who claimed a romantic involvement between McCain and the lobbyist, the bulk of the article was ignored.

Again, read the article for yourself. Think for yourself. I saw two mentions of the possibility of a "romantic" relationship between McCain and Iseman, and those were cited only as suspicions by McCain staffers. Everyone interviewed for the story seemed to agree that McCain was being seen with Iseman too often. The report confirmed that staffers even confronted him about it. What The New York Times seems to be guilty of is reporting on a non-story: a congressman who hangs out with lobbyists! Wow!!! Unbelievable!

'Nuff said.

Where was I going?

Map This

How many times have I believed
I've come to the journey's end -
when I arrived at a certain age,
made a momentous decision,
reached a significant milestone?

This, I think, defines me.
This makes me into someone new.
Now I am . . .

a teen
a driver
an adult
a mother
a career woman
a wife
a "displaced worker."

Is life a succession of endings then?
Or a weaving trail of new beginnings?

Perhaps, instead, an assortment of intertwining paths
which sometimes curve back upon themselves,
or veer off into unknown territory -
the deep, dark forest
which holds both the frightening
and the fascinating,
or parallel the roads of others,
sharing views but not perspectives.
All paths without end or with ends unknown ~~

Where do the unwritten poems go?

Blowing in the wind
Originally uploaded by dotlyc

I was thinking lately about the ideas that come to me at just the wrong time - when I can't or won't write them down. Where do they go?

A slip of an idea
barely formed
so fragile
so delicate
able to be whispered away,
scattered with a breath.

Why was I crying in church this morning?

As we go through life, our tastes change. I used to hate broccoli. Now I enjoy it. The same is true of classical music: it used to be something to be endured, not appreciated. Now I take pleasure in the interplay of the instruments and their dynamics. But I never would have thought that I could gain an appreciation for PMS.

Most women dread those few days each month when their bodies and their emotions go crazy. I, however, have begun to feel a distinct feeling of gratitude for that time. When else is a woman allowed to show her feelings? When else is it "okay" to cry, to criticize, and even to yell a little? People may turn to me with a look of incomprehension when I sit weepy-eyed, discussing racism in a class. What place do tears have in a scholarly discussion? When I sit sniffling with my children in front of the television, watching the "Feed the Children" infomercial, I can take comfort in the fact that I am allowed to feel sympathy and regret at these images. After all, my hormones won’t let me get by with being just a casual observer. That emotional control which society so values and encourages can be thrown aside for a few uninhibited days. I can show how I feel, and if anybody asks, I can say, "Oh, it’s just PMS."

Forced Wallowing

I try not to wallow in the past, try not to have any regrets. But sometimes, something triggers a flashback.

Time Warp

It creeps up when least expected
And – BAM! – a sucker-punch to the brain.
Cringing, pulling away.
Unh! Where did this come from?
Unrelated to the now
A sudden fracture in time.
Dragged through the portal to act it out again
There, in that when, as surely as she is here now.
One second a woman,
The next, a teen in a moment of utter humiliation
Or a five-year-old crying in shame
Or a twenty-year-old biting her tongue too late.
Then sucked back into the present, shuddering.
Safe harbor after time-travel.

P.S. The fibromyalgia study didn't pan out.

Things to Do: Be More Socially Relevant

I am feeling a bit guilty that my blog has turned out to be more of a personal journal, self-analyzing, home-therapy type than a socio-political commentary on the state of our world. This is what comes from using my poetry as a springboard for my comments, I suppose.

However, recent events - specifically the possibility of having an African American candidate for President in the general election - have me thinking about ethnic conflict in America. I mean, sad as it is, it still exists. Some people still hold on to the notion that different means inferior. Get it through your heads people: each of us is different, but we are all human! The thought that some people cannot grasp this sometimes sends me to the brink of despair. I, however, still have hope that we (humanity) can get beyond this. I doubt that I'll live to see it, but I do believe it will happen. Can't say the same for everyone else, though.

Never Say Never

I refuse
I reject
The brick wall of never.

Never
Word of terrible weight
Depressing, strangling
Barrier to possibilities.
Never brings tears to eyes
Hopelessness to hearts
Shrivels belief
Kills promise.

I prefer
I embrace
Not in my lifetime
or
Not in the foreseeable future
or
Not until human hearts can be open.

Never is eternal
Guilt and regret
The sins of the parents
Visited on the sons and daughters
The nation
In perpetuity.

Give me a someday
A brilliant future
Of hope, light, and harmony.

But I will never accept never.

The Pain Remains the Same

So, no fibromyalgia study yet. Had to stay home with my sick kid. I'll make it through okay; I always do. As I've said, my body is falling apart. I guess part of it is just aging. And those pounds don't come off as easily as they used to. It's funny. I've always claimed to be comfortable in my body, to happy with the weight I am. But now, after thinking that I had gotten over the terrible years of self-loathing and low self-esteem, I'm finding that my looks do matter to me - more than I thought. Hopefully I can pull myself back up and not let it rub off on my daughter. I've tried so hard to make sure she knows that the exterior is not important. I'd hate to ruin all my work now.

That brave former
Miss America
on television just now
said she visited the White House
once.
Met Eleanor Roosevelt.
But poor Eleanor . . .
that woman said
she would never win
a beauty contest.
Poor Eleanor.
She was saddled with
intelligence, courage,
and compassion.
How many points for those?

Anticipation . . .

I suppose that title could be intriguing, but this is the anticipation of an old body waiting for relief. See, I'm falling apart at 38. Been diagnosed with osteoarthritis, IBS (if you don't know, you probably don't want to), had bunyon surgery, get the occasional severe headache (haven't bothered to find out if these are really migraines), etc . . . Turns out that these are all symptoms of something called fibromyalgia. I've known this for a while but have never talked to my doctor about it. Tuesday, I'm going in to see if I get a diagnosis and can qualify for a study. This is positive either way, as I will know what I'm truly dealing with.


While I was reading about fibromyalgia at the Mayo Clinic website, I learned that moodiness, anxiety, and depression, which I have been experiencing with increasing frequency over the years, are also symptoms.


So, this leads to another poem. When I started writing it, it was kind of a joke. I've mentioned before my desire to hide under things when I get stressed out. I'm not kidding. Whether it's a school desk, my desk at home, or the bed, if I'm feeling stressed, I imagine myself climbing underneath and hiding. I haven't done it yet. I guess the day it actually happens will be the day I know I have to get help. I've been trying to write about it for a while. I tried a short story, then a poem. The poem did not have the wry humorous tone I was shooting for. It was the first time I realized there actually might something serious beneath (no pun intended) my strange pre-occupation.

letting go

i did it –
finally stopped struggling
gravity got me after all –
pulled me right under

finally stopped struggling
i’d held my ground so many times
pulled me right under
the dragging weight – at last

i’d held my ground so many times
voices clamored from every corner
the dragging weight – at last
comes the call, irresistible

voices clamored from every corner
this time I let go
comes the call, irresistible,
and I find myself sliding, sliding

this time I let go
i did it
i find myself sliding, sliding –
gravity got me after all

How Did This Turn Into My Poetry Blog?

Not that I mind, really. I enjoy writing it and Lord knows I could use some feedback.

One person’s cheese (product)

With thanks to Linda McDonald

Someone once said:
“One person’s cheese
is another person’s salvation.”
Well, my sights are set a little lower.
So lay off.
This cheese (product) is mine.
I’ll melt it and drizzle it
all over the page if I want.
You can use the Brie or Camembert
and save the world,
but I’ll stick with the cheese (product).
It may be smooth and bland,
but I find it comforting.
So while you’re out worshipping the Gruyere,
I’ll be curled up on the couch with a margarita,
some chips and salsa,
and my cheese (product).

Thought I'd better lighten up a little. Believe it or not, some of my stuff is mighty depressing. But the thought that what might be cheesy to one person might actually touch someone else helps me to be a bit less contained when I write.

Obsessing Over My Children

Glad you all got it and enjoyed it. My craziness may also show in my obsession with my (fantastic) children. That picture on my first post was of my (crazy) daughter. Here's another question: Am I crazy if I anticipate problems with my children, when there are none evident?

Turnaround

Here she comes.
Sticky with popsicle residue – human flypaper
Filthy feet fly, legs pump their scabby knees closer
Fingers coated with dirt and God-knows-what
Pure sensation wrapped in slime, dust, and bacteria
And what is that smell?
Joyful sparkle in the eye
Running toward mother’s love

Wash up before you jump on me!

There she goes.
Painstakingly coiffed tresses
Lean, tanned arm terminating in manicured nails
Healthy, scrubbed cheeks
Tinted lips
Each lovely toe tipped with sapphire
Seen in profile, gliding out the door into the night
A last cool glance, wave of the hand

Wait! If I let you roll in mud, will you sit on my lap?

Does anyone else dread the day when their kids won't hug them anymore?

Am I Crazy?

Am I Crazy?

If my interior monologue leaks out from time to time
If I was embarrassed yesterday for something I did a decade ago
If I occasionally get the urge to run away from home
If I wonder how people will feel when I die
If I feel 20 even though I'm pushing 40
If I still lie to my mother to avoid conflict
If I get the urge to crawl under something when I'm stressed
Am I crazy or brilliantly eccentric?

Obviously this blog could be about a lot of things - the approach of middle age, family relationships, fair-to-middling poetry, or insecurity, to name a few. Actually, in my family, we're pretty proud of our craziness. I've even taught my kids that it's okay. Craziness or brilliant eccentricity, whatever you want to call it, seems like a pretty decent topic to me.