P.G. Wodehouse and Joyce Carol Oates

The last couple days I have been thinking about this: Whatever I happen to be reading tends to seep into my thoughts throughout the day, even affecting how I happen to perceive the world. This makes sense to me. So two weeks ago, was I depressed because I was reading Carson McCullers? Or did McCullers appeal to be because I was depressed? I guess it's like the "chicken or the egg." I don't know what the answer is.

So now I'm trying to somehow balance out my reading. You know, something morbid or sad set off by something comic or heroic. So I'm alternatinge between P.G. Wodehouse's short stories (you know, of Jeeves and Wooster fame) and Oates's We Were the Mulvaneys.

Wodehouse is funny, very funny. And really, I'd said he writes exceptionally well. Something about the cadences of speech strike me as funny (satire, I guess) because the are authentic somehow. Plus, Wodehouse appeals to my interest in cultural Englishness, especially between the World Wars. I'll spare all of you my adademic rant about that. But it's a topic--English cultural identity in the 20th century--that interests me, as some of you know.

And then there's Oates. I read Expensive People, my first Oates novel a couple of weeks ago. Like the Mulvaneys, it is written in the first person, and in both novels Oates seems a master of the first-person narrative. And let's just be honest--I like the gothic elements. Oates, in a way very different from Wodehouse, is a prose stylist. She's amazing.

But aren't they an odd contrast? And why am I reading them together? And what does it say about my psychological state? I think as much as anything, it says that over my break, I am wanting to read literature different from what I read during the semester. As much as I love the material I teach, there's more to life than adolescent lit.

Drennan, Resident Literary Critic and Introvert

The Back Home Again Cafe (And Celebrating Time Off Work!)

Today, I woke up and decided that I'm going to take full advantage of my last few days off before the semester starts. So I'm not going to do any academic work until Monday. After a morning of doing more loads of laundry than I care to recount, I took myself out for lunch at The Back Home Again Cafe. One of the things I miss about California, as silly as it sounds, is all the good places to eat. In Rutland, there just aren't that many interesting places to dine, but the Back Home Again is so wonderful. They have a fairly small menu of salads, sandwiches, and the best soups in the world. They also have a cool juice / smoothie / espresso bar. It's sort of a health-food oriented place with lots of veggie and vegan options. It's run by this cult (and maybe that's an offensive term, but that's really what they are) that calls themselves the Twelve Tribes (see www.twelvetribes.org). But the place is just so wonderful. The ambiance is lovely. Today, I ordered a cup of Thai peanut soup with homemade bread, a Cajun fish sandwich, and hot cider. And I sat next to the fire place and enjoyed my lunch and read a book, and it was all just so lovely.

I guess I just get really excited about good food. At heart, I'm a "foodie;" I really am. Like I said, they have the best soups there, all made in house with organic ingredients and the like. The serve one called "Butternut Bevy" which is this great butternut squash soup filled with feta cheese. Does it get any better than that?

Anyway, as part of my commitment to really appreciate and enjoy the little things in life more fully, I just wanted to express my enthusiasm for The Back Home Again. Although I don't agree with their theology, they make lovely food!

I'm also thankful for the opportunity to be able to go out by myself and enjoy a leisurely lunch and sit by the fireplace and read a book. I realize that to the Maven Moms and the rest of the Stroller Brigade, this sounds like a regular vacation. And I appreciate what I do have in my life.

Cheers,

D

More Maverick Feminism--This is especially for Dolce Carina, Joybug, but also for all the strong women I love

Coincidentally, providentially, what's the word? In the past two days I've talked to Carina and Joybug on the phone, and something strikes me:

When we were younger, we thought that finding the right man would make us happy. We wanted to meet someone, date, fall in love, get married, and then things would be fine. We wouldn't be lonely; we'd be fulfilled. We wanted someone to wake up next to; we wanted someone to share our lives with. And all that is fine and good.

Yet what I realize now, maybe should have realized long ago, is that finding the right man, as wonderful as that may be, isn't the answer to all our problems, and we still need each other. And I find as I get older that I select my girlfriends more carefully than I used to and that I cherish and nourish my relationships with my girlfriends more than I used to.

We love men and we want men, and for better or worse, we marry men because they complement us. They are different from us, and maybe they fill in our weaknesses. But then, in a silly, hysterical way, we get annoyed when they don't respond to us, to our emotions, the way that women do. And this is why, I think, that for all of you, your husbands come first, but we still need and want each other. I know that whatever maddening or terrifying or frustrating things happens, I can call Carina, and she will react exactly the way I want her to. She sees things my way, and she doesn't ask me to calm down and be reasonable, and she doesn't try to solve the problem. She just shares my annoyance or indignation or whatever it is I feel. And I love her for that.

Let's face it: men give us something we need. Lately, when I feel really, really crappy, I call my dad (who is absolutely wonderful), and he reminds me that I'm not crappy and that my life isn't crappy, no matter how I happen to feel. When I've been emotionally involved with men, they do that rational, stabilizing thing for me. And that's great.

But sometimes, I have come to realize, that I just want my girlfriends. And I love each of you, and I value knowing that no matter how much time has passed since our last phone call, I can call Carina or Joybug or Cortney, and we simply pick up where we left off. And I value knowing that each of you knows how crazy I can be, but you love me anyway.

My goal is to work on nurturing my relationships with each of you.

So, here's to sisterhood! (Was that cheezy? Even if it was, you understand.)

The Maverick Feminist

Maverick Feminism

CAVEAT: This is my soap-box. And I'm writing this mostly to the Maven Moms (you know who you are.) But please, no one take offense.

I think of myself as sort of this maverick feminist. You see, I'm a feminist--I believe in equal pay for equal work--but I have so many conflicts with second and third wave feminism. I feel like I don't fit in, but maybe Dolce Carina and Calamity Jane will understand, maybe.

Ok, so as a young, professionally successful woman, I feel all this pressure. It's like second wave feminism, particularly, is telling me that I ought to have a great career and be super-mom all at the same time. And here's the thing--I can't do it. I don't know if anyone can do it. I look at what I'm putting into my career right now, and I know that to keep working the way that I am, to do what I need to do professionally, I cannot give children the attention they deserve. I recognize that I can't do both. I can't have this 55-hour a week academic career and take care of a baby. Something would have to give, and right now, I'm thankful that I don't have to make that choice between my career and my children. And I really believe that this is true for most of us. We can't take care of babies and give them what they need and still work and work and work the way we might have to to get ahead, especially in competitive careers. When I look at my friends, the ones I know are admirable mothers, I cannot imagine doing what they do every day. In fact, I think that all of you work harder than I do. I don't know. What I'm trying to say is that I feel all this pressure to have the perfect career and the perfect children, and I find it hard to believe that most women can do both of those things and do them well, especially with small children at home. But isn't this what second wave feminism ala The Feminine Mistique tells us we should be able to do? Isn't this what much of society expects, criticizing those who are "only" stay-at-home moms?

By the way, hats off to stay-at-home moms. I think that each of you is doing what's best for your children--you are making the choice in the best interest of those you love.

And then there's third wave, the movement that, generationally, I should be part of, right? Only what's up with "do me" feminism, anyway? I refuse to accept that the objectification of women is fine, if that's what women choose. I refuse to accept that prostitution is OK for society, provided that women choose that option.

Have I just misunderstood something?

So where do I fit? Call me the maverick feminist.

Blogging like a Maniac

So all I wanna do is blog, blog, blog. Well, blog and drink tea and wine and listen to Johnny Cash. Is there a psychological term for my condition? It's becoming like a neurosis; at least I'm not doing destructive things. I think this blog has taken the place of my journal. I don't know how I feel about that. On the one hand, it's a handy way for some of you (Carina, Joybug, etc.) to know what's going on with me, since I'm not as good about keeping in touch as I might be. At the same time, I write and write without any filter, so if anyone cares enough to read he or she has to wade through all the garbage. (NOTE: that's pronounced with the accent on the second syllable, sorta like it's French--gar-BAJE. I learned that from my Grandma Opal who totally rocks as a person.)

So here I am, again, only this time I am writing just to write, just to see what comes out. I really believe in writing as this process as a way to arrive at something. Sometimes I just don't know what the something is supposed to be. But I believe that if only I write enough, I'll figure it out. Isn't it weird how much implicit faith I have in the process of writing, in the written word, maybe because I think of it as a reflection of The Word. So here I sit writing and writing. And wouldn't Peter Elbow be impressed?

What's happening to me? I'm becoming one of those neurotic academics. Only the thing about it is that I'm totally comfortable with being a slightly neurotic academic. Did you know that I hold entire conversations with my dogs? Where will it end. Remind me to write soon about my idea for Guinevere to be the compation / side-kick character for the BBC's Inspector Morse. The only thing about it is Guinn wouldn't ever realize that she's the side-kick. She'd totally think she was the main character because that's the kind of pup Guinn is. For pics of Guinn, see the archives.

I love blogging, and I love being me!

On Tea and Johnny Cash

Lately, I've been drinking a lot, a lot of tea. Many of you know this about me. But it's like and obsession or something. Here's a great site to order from:

www.adagio.com

At the moment, I'm drinking a cup of this great green tea with toasted rice, which, of course, makes me long for sushi.

I'm also fixated on Johnny Cash. I know, I know I'm a poser now that that Walk the Line movie is popular (I loved it by the way), I jump on the band wagon. But it's not like that, not completely. I've always liked Johnny Cash, and the movie made me more interested. So I keep listening to the same CD over and over, at home, in the car, at work, alternately laughing and crying.

If I can have tea and Cash, I'll be happy.

One of my goals is and always has been to enjoy the little, day by day things (this is why I think having fun dinner plates is important). This, I believe, is a secret to daily satisfaction and happiness. And for now, tea and Cash are what I'm enjoying and appreciating moment by moment.

D

Lot 49--Maybe I'll skip the chapter-by-chapter (and Misc)

Ok, so I know I promised a chapter-by-chapter analysis of Lot 49, but I have rather lost interest, not in the novel, but in analyzing each chapter. That said, I finished the novel last night, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's just so funny. Well, I think it's funny; apparently some people don't "get" it, and that's OK too.

At the same time, there's something sad about it. Oedipa, as she recognizes, sees the men she's come to depend on slipping away, one by one. Plus, all these people that she sees as connected to Tristero start to die. OK, so I just stated the obvious.

I think that I need to read things that are more life-affirming. And I'll do that once I'm back to teaching next week. Maybe I need to read things that are uplifting, rather than stuff that gets me mired down in post-modern uncertainty and feelings of helplessness. Maybe I need to spend more time on the couch with my dogs watching BBC murder mysteries. So much to do, and I have the time, but never know where to start.

To Carina, Andrew, JoybugsDoug, and all the rest, I love you!

Lot 49, Chapter 3

So this is the chapter where we get this weird Jacobean revenge tragedy. And it's really great. We also hear Mike Fillopian tell about the Peter Penguid society.

So with the Peter Penguid society, they are all into promoting celebrating some historical event that may or may not have happened. If it did happen, they are not sure who was actually involved and whether it took place off the coast of Carmel or Pismo Beach (I love references to the Central California coast!). So there's all this indeterminacy and no real way of getting at the historical truth, if there is any historical truth.

This, of course, immediately precedes Oedipa's first look at the Tristero symbol--the muted horn.

But really, The Courier's Tragedy, is a great send-up of Renaissance revenge tragedy because it includes sort of all the typical elements of a revenge tragedy, only in "spades." There's all kinds of torture and mutilation, and there's even incest. It's like all grusome Renaissance revenge tragedy combined. And of course, Trystero is mentioned as opposing the Thurn and Taxis families, the accepted mail carriers of the time.

Oedipa goes in search of the text for The Courier's Tragedy, hoping that finding the "authentic" text will clear things up for her. Oddly, there's no way of finding an authentic text. Again, Pynchon calls into question what literary scholars tend to take for granted: that there is a meaningful, authentic text, that a text means something.

I don't know--none of this is very scholarly. I just feel like it's something I want to write about right now.

I'm like Oedipa, I suppose, in search of the meaning of a text.

Lot 49, chapter 2: I left my heart in San Narciso

This is, for me, the funniest chapter in the book. I love that everyone is pretending to be something else, but there seems to be no substance underneath any of it. Metzger is a former child-actor, turned lawyer, who believes he becomes an actor before a jury. The Paranoids are clearly Southern Californians who are pretending to be British for the sake of their careers. Manny Di Presso is an actor, formerly a lawyer, who is playing Metzger, the actor-lawyer-actor in a pilot about Metzger's life. Where does it end? Everything is simulacra, pretend. But there's nothing real under it all.

Also, what I want to know is this. What is "San Narciso" really? I get that it's the Southern California suburbs. Is it really Orange County? That's what I want to know.

Narciso, I suppose, is a fictional city, pretending to be a real city, named after a saint who doesn't really exist. Except, it's clearly a pun on Narcissus / Narcissism, which is what saints are NOT supposed to be.

Could all of this happen anywhere but California?

The other thing that strikes me about this chapter is the movie that is running on the TV, the "Baby Igor"/Metzger movie. Apparently the reels are mixed up, so Oedipa isn't even getting the narrative in the correct order. And then it ends with the child and his dog drowning, when Oedipa expects a happy ending: "All those movies had happy endings," Oedipa says. What, here, is Pynchon implying about the possibility of narrative? Not only does the narrative defy and subvert Oedipa's expectations, but also it seems that meaningful narrative isn't even possible--the film isn't in the right order. . .or maybe it is. Oedipa never knows, and consequently, we never know.

Once, when I was maybe 10 years old, and we didn't have cable TV, the local independent station was showing the movie where Godzilla meets Mothra (a giant moth), and the reels were out of order. So, first we see the epic battle between the two; later we see native peoples calling up Mothra. Have you ever noticed that sometimes Godzilla is the good guy, sometimes the bad guy. I want to believe in a redemptive power of narrative, but it doesn't always work. We cannot, apparently, count on narratives to do what they are supposed to do. The world is less predictable than we might like, I suppose.

The Crying of Lot 49, Chapter 1

So, this is at least the third time I've read The Crying of Lot 49, and it strikes me as uniquely funny. Really, I mean that. I love that in the opening paragraph Oedipa "tried to feel as drunk as possible" (10). I love the rhythm of "the layering of a lasagna, garlicking of a bread, tearing up of romaine leaves" for something so apparently mundane. I love the characters' names, Mucho Maas, especially. Can anyone tell me, is technology the enemy here? Mucho sees people trading in cars that are "metal extensions of themselves" (13). Have we become so enmeshed in technology that it is who we are in Oedipa's world?

One thing that strikes me the most about this opening chapter is the image of Oedipa in a tower, kept there by "magic." This, of course, is an image borrowed from fairy tale. Is the entire novel a fairy tale? Certainly, the repetitions and seeming coincidences are reminiscent of the fairy tale form.

Oedipa feels that "what really keeps here where she is is magic, anonymous and malignant, visited on her from outside and for no reason at all" (21). This "magic" then is not helpful or benevolent. Yet by the end of the novel, when Oedipa is, I assume, released from this tower, is she any better off? Arguably, being kept ignorant, being Rapunzel locked in a tower is easier than confronting the truth of the world in which we live.

Just random ramblings on Pynchon's work. I'm hoping that my friends who know more about all this might feel inclined to enlighten me. Or maybe I should accept that, as for Oedipa, full enlightenment isn't possible.

Why I bother to blog, or "We tell ourselves stories in order to live"

OK, so one of my current projects, as some of you know, is to blog about whatever it is I'm reading, both for work and for pleasure. Although, sometimes those two aren't so different. But I realized today that it's more than that. I've always been a compulsive writer. For years I've kept a journal, and there were times in my life that whenever something difficult happened, I felt a compulsion to write about it. And, for me, writing about something is my way of coming to terms with it. Not to write about something important in my life is to ignore it.

And so here I am, blogging away, and it matters not whether anyone ever reads any of this crap. What matters is simply that I write it, that I get it out there, that I hold up words and look at them from different angles, so that maybe there's a chance I'll understand the thing itself better.

In the opening to her collection The White Album, Joan Didion says "we tell ourselves stories in order to live," and by that I think that she means that we create narratives as a way to understand the apparently senseless things that happen in our lives. We try to make sense and menaning of apparently random events. And while I believe that human life is inherently meaningful, is not random or senseless, it does feel as though it were merely random at times. And like Didion, I go through my day constructing narratives as a way to fit the pieces together, to attempt to discern meaning, and to ultimately continue living in a meaningful way. This is why I write. And this is why it matters not who reads this or who cares.

And now I can come back to Carson McCullers. She must have written because she felt she had to. Speaking words is inadequate, but maybe writing them down allows for a greater possibility of meaning.

I suppose that post-modernism really deflects the possibility of meaning. I don't know. I lay no claim to being an expert on post-modernism. I do believe, however, that human life is meaningful, but sometimes it's hard to find the meaning. For me, ultimately, meaning resides in trusting that God is in control, that all is for the best. Maybe I write to remind myself of that.

On Loneliness, Part II: For David, Whoever He May Be

David, you who were sent here by Joy W, must be worth writing to, for Joy herself is so wonderful.

I feel less isolated, less lonely today. Rather than immersing myself in Carson McCullers, I'm reading things that make me laugh. I'm reading The Crying of Lot 49, not Wodehouse, although Wodehouse was not a bad suggestion. And while Lot 49 is funny to me, Oedipa Maas, like McCullers, seems disconnected from her world too. And, of course, all the men that she wants to rely on-her husband, her shrink--let her down. Maybe it's just the 20th century where we all feel disconnected, wanting to love, wanting to communicate, knowing only that we feel.

Just thinking about Jeeves and Wooster makes me giggle. I recommend to everyone the BBC / A&E series with Hugh Laurie (spelling???) of House fame. Hugh Laurie seems to be my theme for the week. More on that later.

Anyway, maybe reading and writing, simply going through the motions of trying to communicate is the antidote to loneliness. Words, words, words. Dolce Carina, you know what I mean.

I think that each chapter of Lot 49 deserves its own blog entry!

Loneliness

I am so lonely, feel so alone. And I feel funny writing this where just anyone can see, although I don't know that anyone cares. I don't know--feel like a discarded, forgotten, disconnected person. I want a thin, thin pounded gold threat connecting my heart to someone else's. Only the thread has been cut, or maybe it never even existed.

All I know is that I am so alone. And it's only two little dogs who care if I get out of bed tomorrow morning. Other than them, everyone else, the rest of the world will go on the same with or without me.

I don't want to be alone forever. I feel as though the world, everyone in it, has continued on and I've been left behind somehow. My mother, who is wonderful, would say that isn't true, that people do care and need me. But I feel adrift. I want an anchor.

D

McCullers, Part 2: "Ballad of the Sad Cafe" or the Impossibility of Love

So today, I read McCullers's short story "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe." I, again, don't know how to write about this work. Only to say this: human love seems impossible. To love someone means he or she will never love us in return. Loving seems to only drive away the beloved. Yet, McCullers (or the balladeer) says it is better to be the lover than the beloved, for the beloved can only feel suffocated, crushed by the experience of being loved. But how it must hurt to love in McCullers's world; it hurts to love in my world. If being loved only destroys, crushes, how is it better to be the lover? How is it better to destroy the one you love.

I cry when I think about it. Is a requited human love possible? McCullers suggests that it is not. I am inclined to agree.

I suppose that I am not loved in return, because it is simply human nature for the beloved to feel rather than to love.

Tonight I will cry myself to sleep, again.

McCullers's "'The Member of the Wedding"--Dolce Carina, this one's for you

I just finished reading McCuller's "The Member of the Wedding," and I feel like it's something I have to write about right now. It's real. Fiction, although fiction and not the truth, speaks truth. And right now, I think this story speaks the truth of me.

It's a story of an adolescent going through many transformations (isn't that what adolescence is for?) from Frankie ( character like Mick in McCullers's The Hear is a Lonely Hunter), to F. Jasmine, to Francis.

In the opening paragraph the narrator tells us that Frankie "belonged to no club and was a member of nothing in the world. Frankie had become an unjoined person who hung around in doorways, and she was afraid." I guess that this sticks with me because now I too feel like an "unjoined person," a "member of nothing in the world." I realize that it sounds so self-absorbed to say that, but it's how I feel; it's who I am today. And like Frankie, I so much want to feel connected to people in the world.

Frankie, now F. Jasmine, becomes obsessed with her brother's wedding, and she wants to believe that her brother and his bride will accept her as part of their relationship and take her with them. She tells herself over and over that "you [Jarvis and Janice] are the we of me." This line, "you are the we of me," repeated so often strikes me as a refrain. I guess that the important thing to me is realizing that we all want to be a part of a "we;" none of us wants to be an "unjoined person." In McCullers's work, however, joining seems much more difficult than we may think. Jarvis and Janice, predictably, turn out not to be Frankie / Jasmine's "we." Now what I am getting to is this. The reason I've loved J.S. (Carina knows who I mean), the reason that I stayed and stayed getting hurt is that he was "the we of me." Now, I just feel adrift, an "unjoined person."

Reader response theory argues that we, as readers, create meaning in texts, maybe even create the texts ourselves in the ways that our experiences, beliefs, assumptions, and prejudices affect the meaning we find in literature. I guess this is true of me and "The Member of the Wedding."

I think that Frankie, maybe even McCullers and all writers, are "the we of me."

I loved this story, and although sad in many ways, I find it validating and even life-affirming.

I want this world to be "the we of me."

Resolutions, part 2

So, I'm doing well so far with my New Year's Resolutions.

1. I have, so far, only urinated in appropriate places, toilets and the like ;)

2. Brushing my teeth--going well so far.

3. Drinking my daily glass of wine has greatly improved my quality of life. I think I have my friend Rachel to thank for this. She's my red wine inspiration. Last night, I opened a bottle of Cabernet / Merlot blend, and it's lovely.

I'm giving myself a metaphoric pat on the back!

This is me with Polly. This picutre was taken a couple of months ago--we know this because I am not wearing a sweater. I know this isn't such a great picture, that both our heads are cut off. But it makes me happy!

V. Woolf's The Years

As a sort of New Year's resolution, I've decided to post something about the books I've been reading. My idea is, not so much that all of you care about what I'm reading and thinking, but that this is a way for me to think though the reading I'm doing, both for work and for pleasure.

Virginia Woolf, however, is somehow ineffable. I find her writing so intensely moving, yet I don't know what to say about it, somehow.

The Years traces several generations of a single, extended family and the patterns and reoccurences that their lives seem to follow. It's not easy reading, as the point of view shifts often. As with much Woolf, it's internal-dialogue, stream-of-consciousness kind of stuff. I don't know: I think it speaks to the relationships between the old and the young. Woolf herself, of course, committed suicide when she was middle-aged, but she seems to have an understanding of how it feels to grow old.

I felt almost as though I were evesdropping on people's most intimate thoughts, maybe impressions would be a better word. There's something almost voyeristic about reading Woolf, yet it's healthy and life-affirming somehow.

I'm not articulating this very well.

I think that reading Woolf is chaning who I am in some important way.

New Year's "Resolutions"

So, I've decided on three New Year's resolutions. First, let me say that I think it's really important to make resolutions that one can actually keep. That way when 31 December rolls around, we can all feel good about ourselves. So here are mine:

1. I resolve not to pee in anyone's backyard. NB: This resolution is really an "homage" to a good friend of mine. He knows who he is.

2. I resolve to brush my teeth (with either toothpaste or baking soda) at least once a day.

3. I resolve to drink one glass of red wine each evening, as we now know it's good for our hearts. The glass of wine, however, may be waived if I have a beer or if I have a small serving of dark chocolate (also good for the heart).

I'm certainly taking requests for further resolutions.

D

Books I'm reading--The Catcher in the Rye

I've decided it would be interesting to start keeping a journal of what I have been reading and what I think about what I've been reading and whether or not I'd ever want to read the thing again. On Sunday, two days ago, I reread Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. First, I remember liking the book very much whenever I read it before, probably in college. But I don't know; this time around, it just made me very depressed. I spent much of the day reading it, and by evening, I felt nearly as depressed, disjointed, and displaced as Holden. I mean, I get that it's about adolescent angst and all that; I appreciate the narrative voice; I think I see what Salinger is trying to do. But I can only take so much! On every other page, Holden talks about how lonely / depressed / suicidal he's feeling. And I get it; we're supposed to see into his mind. He's disturbed emotionally. In fact, we know from the beginning that he's been institutionalized for his psychological problems. I just can't get with it, I guess. Rather than interesting, the book simply strikes me as sad.

I know that's not the appropriate academic response. I could talk about Salinger's novel more academically, I suppose. I could talk about narrative theory or important themes or symbolism or even what the title tells us. But I just don't want to. The predominant feeling I have is merely one of sadness. Maybe that says as much about me as it does about the novel. I'm not sure.