What are the limits of community-oriented thinking? How tightly woven are gender, skin color, history and relationships into the everyday?
I wonder about the limits of obligation, because constantly thinking of myself in terms of all these aspects of my identity creates an overwrought sense of obligation
I realize this is a function of not being a 'neutral'; as a woman, a person of color, of Caribbean origin and so on.
In no way would I trade this awakened consciousness for the self deception of a gender blind world, or angst for political apathy. However, I do have more empathy for the Clarence Thomases of this world. In fact, if I can step back from anger, he is kind of a tragic character, and pathetic in the dramatic sense of the word. Clarence Thomas is a pathetic character, self deceiving. Not so much because of his insistence that the world is fair and hard work is all that matters, but because his political conservatism is born out of pain, and his decision to close his eyes and walk away from it.
If the world were a fair place, and I did not have to think of myself in relation to the places I belong, I could think of and be myself, no questions asked. Just float along in my own world, as me, just me. It would certainly be less complicated, less distressful. And I could ignore the astronomically high rates of incarceration of young black men, or unconscionable lack of healthcare for the working poor.
However, because I think that an orientation toward community is morally right, that is what matters, not what feels best to myself. And that is why Clarence Thomas, even though he turned toward political conservatism for understandable reasons, is wrong to leave the pain of racism that he experienced behind, and pretend it doesn't exist in his opposition to affirmative action. Until economic realities reflect the race-neutral society we all hope would exist one day, it is wrong to act as if this were true now. It ignores present injustice.
To use an everyday example: I could act as though my family doesn't exist, and make my own schedule irrespective of who needs a ride, or childcare for my nephew. But these relationships come with moral obligation, and it would be wrong to ignore these. While the kinship of race and gender is not as strong a bond as familial relationship, or friendship, it is forged by economic circumstances, and real, material injustice. So ignoring my skin, or my gender, would mean that I close my eyes to factual realities that exist out there, in the real world and affect others' lives, as they would do mine, if I were in their circumstances.
Having said that, I do acknowledge that it is an inconvenience. But closing my eyes makes neither me nor the world invisible. It is annoying sometimes.
But, a moral life is seeking to do what is right, as best as I can, not seeking my own happiness, regardless of the cost.
September 30, 2007
September 28, 2007
Wonderbread Fiction: Quasi Magical Realism and Pseudo Tragedy
I came across this article called Wonder Bread, by Melvin Jules Bukiet in The American Scholar. In it, he identifies a brand of writer, mostly young, hailing from the nether borough, writing in a particular style, that he calls Brooklyn Books of Wonder. He takes on the recent books of Jonathan Safran Foer, Dave Eggers, Nicole Krauss and others. Read the entire article here, it is quite entertaining. How could you not enjoy Manhattanite sniping at 'latte-swilling sensitives' over in Park Slope and beyond.
This article caught my attention because I've been thinking about emotion and art, reading Aristotle's Poetics and considering the experience of emotion in response to a work of art. Unlike Plato, Aristotle did not disdain imitation, or mimesis. In direct contrast to Plato Aristotle regards catharsis, the experience of emotion in response to drama, as edifying.
The Brooklyn Books of Wonder, or BBoW, are self indulgent pseudo-profound preening, according to Bukiet, that use trauma to provoke mawkish sentimentality instead of a robust confrontation with the human condition. In other words, a BBoW is kitsch.
He takes issue with these writers, leveling the charge of narcissism against them. Using tragedy as a backdrop, they disguise solipsism as profundity. He also finds common threads of sentimentalism in their writing, and is impatient with its self obsession. For all its apparent 'dark' subject matter, he calls them 'sheeps in wolves clothing.' In his view, their books resemble young adult novels, "that ostensibly face “issues” but pull punches for their tender audience." This is because "Like many YA novels, which are constructed for a pedagogical market, the BBoWs insist on finding a therapeutic lesson in their dark material."
If the whole point of this memoirish trend is that the author "learns something," this fails to satisfy. Why might this be?
First, it sands down the edges of the human condition, where there isn't always a lesson in every tragedy. Things don't always happen for a reason. Second, the text hovers between an orientation towards plot, which moves toward a resolution, and characters, who strain toward action. Hovering, but unfurling neither plot nor character, these characters think, and they think about thinking. A lot.
Bukiet is particularly harsh toward Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones:
Hands down the best sentences I've read all year:
This is not a disdain for wonder. Philosophy begins with wonder, as Socrates famously said. Rather, I think Bukiet is impatient with literary tricks.
This distinction between art and kitsch rests on the conviction that art reveals something about the world, beyond a writer's solipsism. Even when the subject is the self, as in memoir and other autobiographical writing, when it is good it turns the reader outward.
Writing helps us to see and understand the world better. Kitsch, on the other hand, is a mirror that we hold up and look into and smile and laugh and cry with, experiencing the self and not the world.
I share Bukiet's feeling that The Lovely Bones sifted out the grist, leaving refined white flour, soft 'everything happens for a reason' wonderbread.
Art fails where 'I learned something from it' is the height of understanding. That's after school special shit. The experience of emotion through drama is instructive, but not more about me - more about humanity in general, and the world.
In evangelical churches one abhorrently mawkish form of storytelling is the conversion 'testimony,' where someone tells of the good that came out of their two year old's death from leukemia, because the parents were there every day and they got to tell the hospital staff about Jesus (yes, I have been in an congregation where someone really did tell that story about a couple who lost their child.) Repulsive.
Finally, Bukiet also unmasks a few their tricks - pop culture references, blending 'high' art with 'low' and the profligate use of hyphens, for example. I cannot comment on that criticism, except to say that as a reader I do dislike seeing the strings, so to speak. Thinly veiled metaphors, MFA constructions like 'morning sharp as the back of a fish' are a turnoff. (Again, I say this as a reader)
It does feel as though contemporary writing has taken a magical realist turn, as with the current hoopla over Junot Diaz' The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
Whatever you make of Bukiet's criticism, wonder is here to stay, for a while at least. But absurdity without reprieve is a recipe for insanity, so I understand the inclination toward a softer version, soft in the middle and devoid of substance.
This article caught my attention because I've been thinking about emotion and art, reading Aristotle's Poetics and considering the experience of emotion in response to a work of art. Unlike Plato, Aristotle did not disdain imitation, or mimesis. In direct contrast to Plato Aristotle regards catharsis, the experience of emotion in response to drama, as edifying.
The Brooklyn Books of Wonder, or BBoW, are self indulgent pseudo-profound preening, according to Bukiet, that use trauma to provoke mawkish sentimentality instead of a robust confrontation with the human condition. In other words, a BBoW is kitsch.
He takes issue with these writers, leveling the charge of narcissism against them. Using tragedy as a backdrop, they disguise solipsism as profundity. He also finds common threads of sentimentalism in their writing, and is impatient with its self obsession. For all its apparent 'dark' subject matter, he calls them 'sheeps in wolves clothing.' In his view, their books resemble young adult novels, "that ostensibly face “issues” but pull punches for their tender audience." This is because "Like many YA novels, which are constructed for a pedagogical market, the BBoWs insist on finding a therapeutic lesson in their dark material."
If the whole point of this memoirish trend is that the author "learns something," this fails to satisfy. Why might this be?
First, it sands down the edges of the human condition, where there isn't always a lesson in every tragedy. Things don't always happen for a reason. Second, the text hovers between an orientation towards plot, which moves toward a resolution, and characters, who strain toward action. Hovering, but unfurling neither plot nor character, these characters think, and they think about thinking. A lot.
Bukiet is particularly harsh toward Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones:
Every impulse in every sane reader must shriek No! at this pabulum. It’s not lovely that Susie’s been slaughtered, hacked, and dumped in a pit. It’s not lovely that icy Mr. Harvey gets his comeuppance by a conveniently dropped icicle as the pit containing Susie’s body parts is being drained, leading us to assume that her remains will be found and that she will finally get a lovely stone.
Hands down the best sentences I've read all year:
Unfortunately, it’s false to all human experience to find “growth” in tragedy. In fact, the dull truth is that pain is tautological. The only thing suffering teaches us is that we are capable of suffering.
This is not a disdain for wonder. Philosophy begins with wonder, as Socrates famously said. Rather, I think Bukiet is impatient with literary tricks.
"BBoWs are escape novels, albeit garnished with intellectual flourishes. They’re kitsch, which Milan Kundera defined as “the translation of the stupidity of received ideas into the language of beauty and feeling [that] moves us to tears of compassion for ourselves, for the banality of what we think and feel.”
Serious fiction, literature, even if it’s fabulist, sharpens reality. BBoWs elude reality to avoid the taint of anger or cynicism or the passion for revenge felt by real people in similar situations. Instead of telling a story of brute survival, BBoWs indulge in a dream of benign rescue."
This distinction between art and kitsch rests on the conviction that art reveals something about the world, beyond a writer's solipsism. Even when the subject is the self, as in memoir and other autobiographical writing, when it is good it turns the reader outward.
Writing helps us to see and understand the world better. Kitsch, on the other hand, is a mirror that we hold up and look into and smile and laugh and cry with, experiencing the self and not the world.
I share Bukiet's feeling that The Lovely Bones sifted out the grist, leaving refined white flour, soft 'everything happens for a reason' wonderbread.
Art fails where 'I learned something from it' is the height of understanding. That's after school special shit. The experience of emotion through drama is instructive, but not more about me - more about humanity in general, and the world.
In evangelical churches one abhorrently mawkish form of storytelling is the conversion 'testimony,' where someone tells of the good that came out of their two year old's death from leukemia, because the parents were there every day and they got to tell the hospital staff about Jesus (yes, I have been in an congregation where someone really did tell that story about a couple who lost their child.) Repulsive.
Finally, Bukiet also unmasks a few their tricks - pop culture references, blending 'high' art with 'low' and the profligate use of hyphens, for example. I cannot comment on that criticism, except to say that as a reader I do dislike seeing the strings, so to speak. Thinly veiled metaphors, MFA constructions like 'morning sharp as the back of a fish' are a turnoff. (Again, I say this as a reader)
It does feel as though contemporary writing has taken a magical realist turn, as with the current hoopla over Junot Diaz' The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
Whatever you make of Bukiet's criticism, wonder is here to stay, for a while at least. But absurdity without reprieve is a recipe for insanity, so I understand the inclination toward a softer version, soft in the middle and devoid of substance.
September 26, 2007
Is confession inappropriate for 'serious' women writers?
Being politically and emotionally aware, I find myself grappling with what 'face' I want to present as a writer. It does seem as though I have to choose, between breasts and a steel breastplate.
As I experiment with prose, and some poetry, developing skills and finding my voice, I do worry about self presentation.
And so when I read The Feminist Who Made Me Blush, by Rebecca Traister in Salon.com, I wonder, still, if it will always be one or the other for women, forever and ever amen. In this article, Rebecca Traister considers Learning to Drive, a collection of intensely honest first person essays by Katha Pollitt, political writer at The Nation.
Showing a vulnerable side means exclusion from 'serious' scholarship and writing, it seems. And, Traister describes how other women writers, herself included, reacted with embarrassment, a horrified need to avert their eyes at this serious woman writer showing her underpants in public. This reinforces the different reception that male and female confession receives.
The essays are intensely honest. Pollitt tells of blow jobs in the morning (or the lack thereof) and admits to ill treatment at the hands of a philandering boyfriend.
Here is where a man and a woman are definitely regarded differently. In writing of relationship drama, Pollitt ventures into an area ordinarily reserved for women columnists and not serious political writers.
Are women judged differently, for confessional writing? It certainly is the case with illness memoir; The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon and Darkness Visible by William Styron are memoirs of depression that received critical acclaim. Prozac Diaries, by Lauren Slater, was roundly dismissed as whingeing. Now, of course, many variables factor in to postive and negative book reviews - the cultural moment, the writer's previous work, the reviewers own preferences.
Still, given that women are already assumed to be hysterical, the bad reviews that Slater's book received express that assumption. Therefore, it is understandable that a woman who wants to be taken seriously will avoid displays of emotion.
Traister suggests that the scathing reviews Pollitt received from women reviewers in the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times is a desire to distance themselves from the hysterical woman, to hang on to their poker faced columnist cred.
I admit, I feel like it taints me, when someone of my skin color or my gender behaves in ways that look like a stereotype. But don't my shame and distancing implicitly agree with the charge of hysteria and the relegation of a woman's interior life to the sidelines, outside the limits of real writing.
Memoir is a self indulgent genre, that precludes any sort of respectable distance from self-revelation. It's called dirty linen for a reason; it is showing one's underthings.
And so, male authors who write wallowing pathos, confessing weaknesses, and failings, and struggles, are considered brave because stoicism is expected of them. They flout convention when they confess. Because it is against conventional ideas of maleness, it does take courage to write about emotional subjects, I agree.
Imagine there's no sexism. What if I wrote whatever I wanted, about whatever I wanted, in whatever voice I chose? What if I lived as though gendered tropes do not exist, writing whatever the hell I want, stereotypes be damned?
That makes me uncomfortable. Why?
Aspazia over at Mad Melancholic Feminista blends the personal and the political. It seems seamless, but of course I am not privy to her creative process.
Life does include relationships, and work does have a personal dimension. Binding up the interior life, to make sure we don't appear hysterical, only reinforces the constraint, on men and women alike. Shame, censuring a woman writer for venturing into confessional territory, is collusion with the negative stereotype. Binding myself up to be 'serious' and exclude the personal does not challenge stereotypes of hysterical women, it reinforces it.
The necessary work of undoing negative assumptions about women does not yet fit perfectly into my creative writing. Fuck you, stick it to the man, and all that is just not me. I do think that it is healthy, and necessary, to identify a sense of self, somewhere in the midst of all this political and philosophical distance. Where are the boundaries?
We live in an age of intense self revelation; changed notions of privacy mean that confession is old hat. But for 'serious' writers, it is definitely received differently when the confessor is a woman, and it feels like women writers have to choose.
As I experiment with prose, and some poetry, developing skills and finding my voice, I do worry about self presentation.
And so when I read The Feminist Who Made Me Blush, by Rebecca Traister in Salon.com, I wonder, still, if it will always be one or the other for women, forever and ever amen. In this article, Rebecca Traister considers Learning to Drive, a collection of intensely honest first person essays by Katha Pollitt, political writer at The Nation.
Showing a vulnerable side means exclusion from 'serious' scholarship and writing, it seems. And, Traister describes how other women writers, herself included, reacted with embarrassment, a horrified need to avert their eyes at this serious woman writer showing her underpants in public. This reinforces the different reception that male and female confession receives.
The essays are intensely honest. Pollitt tells of blow jobs in the morning (or the lack thereof) and admits to ill treatment at the hands of a philandering boyfriend.
Here is where a man and a woman are definitely regarded differently. In writing of relationship drama, Pollitt ventures into an area ordinarily reserved for women columnists and not serious political writers.
Are women judged differently, for confessional writing? It certainly is the case with illness memoir; The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon and Darkness Visible by William Styron are memoirs of depression that received critical acclaim. Prozac Diaries, by Lauren Slater, was roundly dismissed as whingeing. Now, of course, many variables factor in to postive and negative book reviews - the cultural moment, the writer's previous work, the reviewers own preferences.
Still, given that women are already assumed to be hysterical, the bad reviews that Slater's book received express that assumption. Therefore, it is understandable that a woman who wants to be taken seriously will avoid displays of emotion.
Traister suggests that the scathing reviews Pollitt received from women reviewers in the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times is a desire to distance themselves from the hysterical woman, to hang on to their poker faced columnist cred.
I admit, I feel like it taints me, when someone of my skin color or my gender behaves in ways that look like a stereotype. But don't my shame and distancing implicitly agree with the charge of hysteria and the relegation of a woman's interior life to the sidelines, outside the limits of real writing.
Memoir is a self indulgent genre, that precludes any sort of respectable distance from self-revelation. It's called dirty linen for a reason; it is showing one's underthings.
And so, male authors who write wallowing pathos, confessing weaknesses, and failings, and struggles, are considered brave because stoicism is expected of them. They flout convention when they confess. Because it is against conventional ideas of maleness, it does take courage to write about emotional subjects, I agree.
Imagine there's no sexism. What if I wrote whatever I wanted, about whatever I wanted, in whatever voice I chose? What if I lived as though gendered tropes do not exist, writing whatever the hell I want, stereotypes be damned?
That makes me uncomfortable. Why?
Aspazia over at Mad Melancholic Feminista blends the personal and the political. It seems seamless, but of course I am not privy to her creative process.
Life does include relationships, and work does have a personal dimension. Binding up the interior life, to make sure we don't appear hysterical, only reinforces the constraint, on men and women alike. Shame, censuring a woman writer for venturing into confessional territory, is collusion with the negative stereotype. Binding myself up to be 'serious' and exclude the personal does not challenge stereotypes of hysterical women, it reinforces it.
The necessary work of undoing negative assumptions about women does not yet fit perfectly into my creative writing. Fuck you, stick it to the man, and all that is just not me. I do think that it is healthy, and necessary, to identify a sense of self, somewhere in the midst of all this political and philosophical distance. Where are the boundaries?
We live in an age of intense self revelation; changed notions of privacy mean that confession is old hat. But for 'serious' writers, it is definitely received differently when the confessor is a woman, and it feels like women writers have to choose.
September 25, 2007
Uterus equals not funny?
"It's like a Zen koan" says Andi Zeisler, a co-founder and editor at Bitch "If a woman makes a joke and a man doesn't laugh, is it funny?"
Emily Wilson included this comment in an article for Alternet, on women and comedy. This in a write up for a new documentary on Jewish women comedians called Making Trouble: Three Generations of Funny Jewish Women.
Now, it is especially difficult to answer questions of taste, especially in stand up. So many variables factor in to whether a comedian is well received or not (including the inebriation level of the audience in question). A joke that plays well one night can just as easily fall flat the next, for any number of ephemeral conditions, and combinations thereof.
Is a joke only funny if the hearer laughs? It is possible to objectively describe funny?
Stand up is especially treacherous, because the person of a comedian is inherent, as much a part of the joke. Dave Chappelle riffing on crackheads comes across very differently from Bill Maher, another irreverent comedian.
So consider a woman telling a joke. Her material comes out of her experience, as any comedian's would. But is it the case that women aren't funny because their 'material' - particularly motherhood, as Hitchens argued - is serious business. This does not fly; comedians always find humor and making people laugh in the most difficult circumstances. In fact, it's well known in the world of comedy that the funniest comedians are pretty fucked up people.
It is an observable fact that there are few successful women comedians. Tina Fey (who I want to be when I grow up) being the most notable, as the first woman who rose to head writer on SNL.
Are successful women comics so rare because they are perceived as unfunny, given prevailing notions of gender? Men tell jokes, women laugh at them. Men perform, women admire. Is that the way it goes? So, when a woman takes the mic, she is already assumed to be not funny.
Is it a matter of audience perception, or female socialization?
Emily Wilson included this comment in an article for Alternet, on women and comedy. This in a write up for a new documentary on Jewish women comedians called Making Trouble: Three Generations of Funny Jewish Women.
Now, it is especially difficult to answer questions of taste, especially in stand up. So many variables factor in to whether a comedian is well received or not (including the inebriation level of the audience in question). A joke that plays well one night can just as easily fall flat the next, for any number of ephemeral conditions, and combinations thereof.
Is a joke only funny if the hearer laughs? It is possible to objectively describe funny?
Stand up is especially treacherous, because the person of a comedian is inherent, as much a part of the joke. Dave Chappelle riffing on crackheads comes across very differently from Bill Maher, another irreverent comedian.
So consider a woman telling a joke. Her material comes out of her experience, as any comedian's would. But is it the case that women aren't funny because their 'material' - particularly motherhood, as Hitchens argued - is serious business. This does not fly; comedians always find humor and making people laugh in the most difficult circumstances. In fact, it's well known in the world of comedy that the funniest comedians are pretty fucked up people.
It is an observable fact that there are few successful women comedians. Tina Fey (who I want to be when I grow up) being the most notable, as the first woman who rose to head writer on SNL.
Are successful women comics so rare because they are perceived as unfunny, given prevailing notions of gender? Men tell jokes, women laugh at them. Men perform, women admire. Is that the way it goes? So, when a woman takes the mic, she is already assumed to be not funny.
Is it a matter of audience perception, or female socialization?
September 24, 2007
Friendly Neighbors There, That's Where We Meet
SteveG over at Philosopher's Playground sent me meandering down memory lane, in a post on Jim Henson. Amen to the comedist canonization of Saint Jim!
I posted a few of my favorites, and couldn't stop myself, I just kept on meandering!
My earliest musical memories are of Sesame Street songs and characters. I'm discovering jazz now. In an interesting backwards arc I constantly have these epiphanies, as I realize why Hoots the Owl, and the other birds, played jazz in Birdland. Bobby McFerrin's performance is particularly good (all vocal of course.)
Ladysmith Black Mambazo (better known as the African singers from Paul Simon's Graceland) will forever be, in my mind, 'the African alphabet singers from Sesame Street'
I wouldn't be surprised if this is my first memory of Billy Joel
And I definitely wouldn't know who James Taylor was if it weren't for Sesame Street. My parents' repertoire of classic music does not include, as they so delicately put it, 'white people's music' (a category that does not include CCR, according to a calculus that factors in soul, not skin color).
James Taylor (with hair!) singing with Oscar the Grouch up on the roof is a favorite:
"Isn't it amazing that a grouch like me can feel this way..."
In Trinidad there was one tv station until about 1995. And Sesame Street is as familiar to Trinis of a certain age (that makes us sound old, doesn't it?) as Dora or Diego are to kids today.
But, the generational difference goes deeper than that. Corporate branding and mass produced paraphernalia attaches manufactured need to children's programming. Even 'alternative' or 'values' programming, like Veggie Tales (ick!) moves a whole lotta merch. Hard not to be cynical, and long for what feels like a more innocent time.
Ok, I'll let the curmudgeonly moment blow over. How can I stay grouchy with James Taylor's voice in my head?
I posted a few of my favorites, and couldn't stop myself, I just kept on meandering!
My earliest musical memories are of Sesame Street songs and characters. I'm discovering jazz now. In an interesting backwards arc I constantly have these epiphanies, as I realize why Hoots the Owl, and the other birds, played jazz in Birdland. Bobby McFerrin's performance is particularly good (all vocal of course.)
Ladysmith Black Mambazo (better known as the African singers from Paul Simon's Graceland) will forever be, in my mind, 'the African alphabet singers from Sesame Street'
I wouldn't be surprised if this is my first memory of Billy Joel
And I definitely wouldn't know who James Taylor was if it weren't for Sesame Street. My parents' repertoire of classic music does not include, as they so delicately put it, 'white people's music' (a category that does not include CCR, according to a calculus that factors in soul, not skin color).
James Taylor (with hair!) singing with Oscar the Grouch up on the roof is a favorite:
"Isn't it amazing that a grouch like me can feel this way..."
In Trinidad there was one tv station until about 1995. And Sesame Street is as familiar to Trinis of a certain age (that makes us sound old, doesn't it?) as Dora or Diego are to kids today.
But, the generational difference goes deeper than that. Corporate branding and mass produced paraphernalia attaches manufactured need to children's programming. Even 'alternative' or 'values' programming, like Veggie Tales (ick!) moves a whole lotta merch. Hard not to be cynical, and long for what feels like a more innocent time.
Ok, I'll let the curmudgeonly moment blow over. How can I stay grouchy with James Taylor's voice in my head?
September 20, 2007
Zora Neale Hurston - brilliant
From 'Their Eyes Were Watching God':
A poetic theory of cognition, isn't it?
"There is a basin in the mind where words float around on thought and thought on sound and sight. Then there is a depth of thought untouched by words, and deeper still a gulf of formless feelings untouched by thought."
A poetic theory of cognition, isn't it?
What is a rational decision, between two good choices?
If the way to abundant life is learning to die, should passion then outweigh practicality when faced with one or the other? Because discretion is rational, after all, preserving life and building stability. But the 'right time' to pursue passion, when life seems stable enough, never comes.
Nothing all that important at stake here, just trying to decide between two writing classes, one is a poetry class and the other is 'the art of the interview.' The poetry class is exciting, but a creative nonfiction class would be more practical, helpful for achieving my short term goals (one of which is to write without freaking out).
I can't take both.
Instead of deciding between a good course of action and a not so good one, I am faced with two good options. Most likely, they are not equally good. However, they are both good options, classes I want to take, that I would learn from and make progress in my writing. Perhaps a simple calculus, a pro-con list, might reveal the answer? Or should I listen to that 'something' inside that pulls me one way or the other.
Unfortunately, for the anxiously inclined, the inner voice is not all that helpful.
What is a rational decision, between two good choices? This is not a win-win situation - both are good but I choose one and I miss out on the other.
Part of me says 'two good options is more than many people have, so shut up.' But that fails to answer the question. Imitating an existence where I have no choice, as if my only needs are material, is not only unwise, it is artificial. Disdaining creativity is unrealistic, because even people in dire conditions create art. (Although, I would argue that creative expression is a fundamental need.) Gratitude for these blessings is certainly in order. Of that I am certain.
It will not matter, which one I choose, in the grand scheme of things. But certainly it matters in this struggle to find my voice, to learn to read and write again.
It matters today, because making this decision is driving me mad!
Nothing all that important at stake here, just trying to decide between two writing classes, one is a poetry class and the other is 'the art of the interview.' The poetry class is exciting, but a creative nonfiction class would be more practical, helpful for achieving my short term goals (one of which is to write without freaking out).
I can't take both.
Instead of deciding between a good course of action and a not so good one, I am faced with two good options. Most likely, they are not equally good. However, they are both good options, classes I want to take, that I would learn from and make progress in my writing. Perhaps a simple calculus, a pro-con list, might reveal the answer? Or should I listen to that 'something' inside that pulls me one way or the other.
Unfortunately, for the anxiously inclined, the inner voice is not all that helpful.
What is a rational decision, between two good choices? This is not a win-win situation - both are good but I choose one and I miss out on the other.
Part of me says 'two good options is more than many people have, so shut up.' But that fails to answer the question. Imitating an existence where I have no choice, as if my only needs are material, is not only unwise, it is artificial. Disdaining creativity is unrealistic, because even people in dire conditions create art. (Although, I would argue that creative expression is a fundamental need.) Gratitude for these blessings is certainly in order. Of that I am certain.
It will not matter, which one I choose, in the grand scheme of things. But certainly it matters in this struggle to find my voice, to learn to read and write again.
It matters today, because making this decision is driving me mad!
September 15, 2007
Journal Writing
I thought I lost my journal today. And, for a few moments, I felt like I was losing my mind!
I've scribbled regularly in journals since I was a child, and I am deeply attached to each one of them. Partly because they remind me of who I was, in ways that photos don't. Neither do my own (inevitably melancholy) memories.
Mostly, I enjoy writing in beautiful journals, with my favorite pen - it is an activity that brings me unadulterated joy. And, of course, there is freedom in words that only I will see. Writing exactly what I think, free from worry - heaven!
I wonder if private journals will go the way of letter writing, a quaint niche activity for odd birds (like trainspotting).
Journals are an opportunity for self expression, the spontaneous expression of thoughts and feelings in a moment that only privacy can allow.
People do chronicle their lives still; Facebook, MySpace etc. are the new Victorian letter writing. But, as 'private' as the inner thoughts on my friend's blog might be, that is contextual honesty. Not bad, but not the same thing as self construction without the opportunity for another take. However candid, self expression intended for an audience is inevitably edited (and thankfully so!) out of courtesy, the desire to convey a certain impression of oneself, timidity - for any number of reasons.
That's not inherently negative, but I do wonder about the consequences of a fully constructed life, carefully edited and presented. I wonder if there are gaps in identity formation, in a life that lacks privacy.
For me, I appreciate my journal because it is a private place to say whatever comes to mind, to write words that I know no one will ever see. That is precious.
I've scribbled regularly in journals since I was a child, and I am deeply attached to each one of them. Partly because they remind me of who I was, in ways that photos don't. Neither do my own (inevitably melancholy) memories.
Mostly, I enjoy writing in beautiful journals, with my favorite pen - it is an activity that brings me unadulterated joy. And, of course, there is freedom in words that only I will see. Writing exactly what I think, free from worry - heaven!
I wonder if private journals will go the way of letter writing, a quaint niche activity for odd birds (like trainspotting).
Journals are an opportunity for self expression, the spontaneous expression of thoughts and feelings in a moment that only privacy can allow.
People do chronicle their lives still; Facebook, MySpace etc. are the new Victorian letter writing. But, as 'private' as the inner thoughts on my friend's blog might be, that is contextual honesty. Not bad, but not the same thing as self construction without the opportunity for another take. However candid, self expression intended for an audience is inevitably edited (and thankfully so!) out of courtesy, the desire to convey a certain impression of oneself, timidity - for any number of reasons.
That's not inherently negative, but I do wonder about the consequences of a fully constructed life, carefully edited and presented. I wonder if there are gaps in identity formation, in a life that lacks privacy.
For me, I appreciate my journal because it is a private place to say whatever comes to mind, to write words that I know no one will ever see. That is precious.
September 12, 2007
Creative Drive
When the muse strikes, it is a delicious hit. Is keeps me coming back for more, keeps me believing in the dry times, when I cannot write, that I need this I need this more than anything in this moment there is nothing else.
Drama aside, the psychology and neurology of flow states is an interesting area of inquiry. Cognitive approaches, and what brain imaging can tell us, add on to the mysterious, engaging questions of artistic creation and elusive, irresistible muses.
The grammar of cognition and neurology is composed of different elements from the language we use to talk about mystery, and art, and inspiration. But are they necessarily incommensurable? Behavioral psychology is a scientific (measurable) approach, that can address how and why we create, although it cannot treat some of the more mysterious questions. And vice versa. The active pleasure centers keep me coming back for more, perceptions of reward (or lack thereof) and sundry anxieties determine behaviors like procrastination. But, not with lawlike precision.
We are free to choose, in any moment, to sit with the blank page or to walk away from it. What I know now is that walking away doesn't eliminate the desire. So I might as well give in and write.
Drama aside, the psychology and neurology of flow states is an interesting area of inquiry. Cognitive approaches, and what brain imaging can tell us, add on to the mysterious, engaging questions of artistic creation and elusive, irresistible muses.
The grammar of cognition and neurology is composed of different elements from the language we use to talk about mystery, and art, and inspiration. But are they necessarily incommensurable? Behavioral psychology is a scientific (measurable) approach, that can address how and why we create, although it cannot treat some of the more mysterious questions. And vice versa. The active pleasure centers keep me coming back for more, perceptions of reward (or lack thereof) and sundry anxieties determine behaviors like procrastination. But, not with lawlike precision.
We are free to choose, in any moment, to sit with the blank page or to walk away from it. What I know now is that walking away doesn't eliminate the desire. So I might as well give in and write.
September 11, 2007
Singing Stevie Wonder
A Place In The Sun
Performed by Stevie Wonder
Written by Ron Miller, Bryan Wells
My favorite Stevie Wonder song at the moment; I like its honest simplicity.
Performed by Stevie Wonder
Written by Ron Miller, Bryan Wells
Like a long lonely stream
I keep running towards a dream
Movin' on, movin' on
Like a branch on a tree
I keep reaching to be free
Movin' on, movin' on.
There's a place in the sun
Where there's hope for everyone
Where my poor restless heart's gotta run.
There's a place in the sun
And before my life is done
Got to find me a place in the sun.
Like an old dusty road
I get weary from the load.
Movin' on, movin' on
Like this tired troubled earth
I've been rollin' since my birth
Movin' on, movin' on
There's a place in the sun
Where there's hope for everyone
Where my poor restless heart's gotta run.
There's a place in the sun
And before my life is done
Got to find me a place in the sun.
My favorite Stevie Wonder song at the moment; I like its honest simplicity.
September 9, 2007
Mother Theresa
I really want to read Come Be My Light, the collection of Mother Theresa's letters chronicling her experience of spiritual desolation. It'll be a while, I can't afford to buy a new copy at the moment, but I'm aching to read it.
I have to say, I feel a tiny bit the voyeur, peering into the soul of someone who wanted her private correspondence destroyed. I feel uncomfortable with the release of those letters, against her wishes. A throwaway detail in the Time article on this subject, that has not left my mind.
Her confessors are making her private thoughts public. Is this wrong?
Does a utilitarian calculation justify this violation of her wishes? Come Be My Light can guide and comfort untold numbers of people who struggle with apiritual aridity and doubt. Does this value counterbalance the breach of confidence in an ethical calculation?
Whatever your opinion, she done gone to Glory, none of this is on her mind. I confess that I desire this insight into the soul of a great woman, I want to read it, like a craving.
I have to say, I feel a tiny bit the voyeur, peering into the soul of someone who wanted her private correspondence destroyed. I feel uncomfortable with the release of those letters, against her wishes. A throwaway detail in the Time article on this subject, that has not left my mind.
Her confessors are making her private thoughts public. Is this wrong?
Does a utilitarian calculation justify this violation of her wishes? Come Be My Light can guide and comfort untold numbers of people who struggle with apiritual aridity and doubt. Does this value counterbalance the breach of confidence in an ethical calculation?
Whatever your opinion, she done gone to Glory, none of this is on her mind. I confess that I desire this insight into the soul of a great woman, I want to read it, like a craving.
September 8, 2007
Laughing
Lately, I've developed a taste for understated humour.
Ordinarily, I gravitate toward the boundary-pushing sort; falling out of my chair laughing is one of the best experiences I can think of. And in terms of jokes – the more inappropriate, the better.
I've really been enjoying the Flight of the Conchords, in all their self deprecating, absurd oddball hilarity:
And, in the same vein, I've been enjoying Demetri Martin as well. His schtick is little drawings, and playing with words in a deadpan, ironic way. If you're a fan of Mitch Hedberg, you might like his material as well. The first time I saw his flipchart bit a year or so ago I was amused. But I laughed all the way through Demetri Martin: Person on Comedy Central the other night. He has a segment called Trendspotting on the Daily Show, that's pretty funny:
Laughing at awkward moments and malapropisms never gets old; SteveG wrote a good analysis of analysis of cringe humour, that's an interesting read. That's surely a big part of the reason this is so funny. Here, the punch lines sneak up on you; the element of surprise works in their favour.
Ordinarily, I gravitate toward the boundary-pushing sort; falling out of my chair laughing is one of the best experiences I can think of. And in terms of jokes – the more inappropriate, the better.
I've really been enjoying the Flight of the Conchords, in all their self deprecating, absurd oddball hilarity:
And, in the same vein, I've been enjoying Demetri Martin as well. His schtick is little drawings, and playing with words in a deadpan, ironic way. If you're a fan of Mitch Hedberg, you might like his material as well. The first time I saw his flipchart bit a year or so ago I was amused. But I laughed all the way through Demetri Martin: Person on Comedy Central the other night. He has a segment called Trendspotting on the Daily Show, that's pretty funny:
Laughing at awkward moments and malapropisms never gets old; SteveG wrote a good analysis of analysis of cringe humour, that's an interesting read. That's surely a big part of the reason this is so funny. Here, the punch lines sneak up on you; the element of surprise works in their favour.
September 7, 2007
Editing
What is valid prose? I self censor and edit (out of consideration for others; who can stand endless navel gazing?), to write outside of myself, the world within the confines of my imagination is very, very small. I try to keep myself from getting caught up in labyrinthine self examination. But my passion is bound up in the abstract questions that I think about and would like to ask. Otherwise I wouldn't care enough to pursue them. So dispassionate, disinterested prose is not a realistic goal.
But, while I realize that the intensely personal will always be woven into what I write, I do want to trim off the excess. I waste too much energy in my endless what-if-ing, burning off creativity into distraction, like excess heat.
What if I turned into the sort of writer who expresses herself in measured prose (a persona I do adopt, when appropriate, like a classic suit?) That's not really my style, I wear bold graphics and mismatched patterns, lots of color and kind of a hi-lo flea market look. I like fun accessories, and the messier the hair the better. What would my fashion sense look like, written in words? I don't apologize for the way I dress, in fact I enjoy experimenting and pride myself on bold choices and playing with color, texture, pattern and proportion.
How can I learn to express myself in measured prose, rather than the screeching intensity I think and feel. Or, at the very least, in a tone that's not the literary equivalent of a roomful of six year olds scratching on violins.
Maybe fiction is the answer. The grass seems greener there, I wonder if it's easier to cast off inhibition and second guessing if it's not really me, or people I know, or this world as it is. In fiction I wouldn't be exposing myself, right? In other words, what if I were clever enough to say what I'm saying now, through someone else, in a constructed world?
This sort of second guessing is paralysis. I read interesting articles, I have ideas even. I write in fragments, I keep working them over and massaging them into prose. Very slowly. But I worry there's still too much of my whingeing all up in there and delete delete delete.
But, while I realize that the intensely personal will always be woven into what I write, I do want to trim off the excess. I waste too much energy in my endless what-if-ing, burning off creativity into distraction, like excess heat.
What if I turned into the sort of writer who expresses herself in measured prose (a persona I do adopt, when appropriate, like a classic suit?) That's not really my style, I wear bold graphics and mismatched patterns, lots of color and kind of a hi-lo flea market look. I like fun accessories, and the messier the hair the better. What would my fashion sense look like, written in words? I don't apologize for the way I dress, in fact I enjoy experimenting and pride myself on bold choices and playing with color, texture, pattern and proportion.
How can I learn to express myself in measured prose, rather than the screeching intensity I think and feel. Or, at the very least, in a tone that's not the literary equivalent of a roomful of six year olds scratching on violins.
Maybe fiction is the answer. The grass seems greener there, I wonder if it's easier to cast off inhibition and second guessing if it's not really me, or people I know, or this world as it is. In fiction I wouldn't be exposing myself, right? In other words, what if I were clever enough to say what I'm saying now, through someone else, in a constructed world?
This sort of second guessing is paralysis. I read interesting articles, I have ideas even. I write in fragments, I keep working them over and massaging them into prose. Very slowly. But I worry there's still too much of my whingeing all up in there and delete delete delete.
September 6, 2007
September 3, 2007
Learning Writing
Writing isn't as excruciating now as it was when I first started, thankfully. I remember last summer, when my palms got so sweaty that I worried about the keyboard, when it took a day to write a couple sentences, broken fragments of ideas. And the visceral pain of letting anyone see what I wrote. That kept me up at night sometimes.
Anxiousness still licks at the bottom of my stomach when I imagine how awful it must be to read my words. And there is the sad fact that years of anxiousness have broken my brain, I have to relearn some basics in writing. Like rehabilitation, therapy, the habit of writing often is building up my atrophied parts.
Over the last month I have noticed a difference. I still feel stupid, a lot, just as I did when it was my turn in the middle of the circle playing 'Brown Girl in the Ring.' I hated that game. I had just moved to Trinidad, and I didn't know how to dance the way the other girls did, wining like they had snake oil on their waist. I played the game but dreaded being chosen, because I was such an awkward dancer - the English girl with the wierd accent. This was in Trinidad, where I'm supposed to be from.
Perhaps I could have learned, but knowing how to do that with my hips is neither here nor there. What I did then, as I do now, is hide on the sidelines, because I didn't know how.
That is the weakness of the perfectionist, hating the process. So now I insist on the process: I write words that I know aren't good enough, thoughts that aren't worthy enough, views that aren't political enough. My mind is mostly fogged by worry, but I think that if I keep writing those won't be as loud, and the ideas will come through.
I hope.
One difficulty I still have is distraction; in a fearful moment it is much easier to walk away. Just like I froze up in the middle of the circle of the game.
There is no reason I should persist in writing, when it is so painful, why can't I just let it go? It is absurd, I suppose, this conviction that I have to get words down on paper.
But, I've made my peace with that. Life is too short to worry about what is more worthy, what else I could be doing. Now that I have decided that though, I lack the skill.
So the ability to express myself well, to find the right words to say what I'm thinking - that will come with time, and practice. I still sweat my way through the 'what if' and regularly should all over myself. But discipline and regularity have taken the edge of fear off. And for that I am thankful.
Anxiousness still licks at the bottom of my stomach when I imagine how awful it must be to read my words. And there is the sad fact that years of anxiousness have broken my brain, I have to relearn some basics in writing. Like rehabilitation, therapy, the habit of writing often is building up my atrophied parts.
Over the last month I have noticed a difference. I still feel stupid, a lot, just as I did when it was my turn in the middle of the circle playing 'Brown Girl in the Ring.' I hated that game. I had just moved to Trinidad, and I didn't know how to dance the way the other girls did, wining like they had snake oil on their waist. I played the game but dreaded being chosen, because I was such an awkward dancer - the English girl with the wierd accent. This was in Trinidad, where I'm supposed to be from.
Perhaps I could have learned, but knowing how to do that with my hips is neither here nor there. What I did then, as I do now, is hide on the sidelines, because I didn't know how.
That is the weakness of the perfectionist, hating the process. So now I insist on the process: I write words that I know aren't good enough, thoughts that aren't worthy enough, views that aren't political enough. My mind is mostly fogged by worry, but I think that if I keep writing those won't be as loud, and the ideas will come through.
I hope.
One difficulty I still have is distraction; in a fearful moment it is much easier to walk away. Just like I froze up in the middle of the circle of the game.
There is no reason I should persist in writing, when it is so painful, why can't I just let it go? It is absurd, I suppose, this conviction that I have to get words down on paper.
But, I've made my peace with that. Life is too short to worry about what is more worthy, what else I could be doing. Now that I have decided that though, I lack the skill.
So the ability to express myself well, to find the right words to say what I'm thinking - that will come with time, and practice. I still sweat my way through the 'what if' and regularly should all over myself. But discipline and regularity have taken the edge of fear off. And for that I am thankful.
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