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.

It's Too Early for Snow!

Today is merely the 23 of October. And it's cold. I came home from grocery shopping around noon, and it was only 35 degrees. The worst part about it was that while out, I saw quite a few cars with several inches of snow on them! It hasn't snowed here yet, at least not enough to stick and be noticable. I guess it must have snowed a bit higher up. I don't know. I am just not ready for snow; it seems way too early. But I am just a West Coast "flatlander," so what do I know? Still, I feel a little off put by snow. Last winter, my first winter here, it was a lot more exciting and quaint somehow.

A Really Good Turkey Sandwich

Today, for lunch I ate a really good turkey sandwich. I get excited about really amazing sandwiches, and this one was especially lovely. It was this great honey roasted turkey on a ciabatta roll. (I hope I spelled that correctly--I'd tell my students to look it up if they are unsure!) But the best part was it also had this great cranberry stuffing in the sandwich. The weird thing is that I don't necessarily like stuffing, except for this one time when I had Thanksgiving with Tersh and Phoebe. But I like stuffing cold, in a sandwich. It was really great.

Here's something profound: I think it's important to be thankful for the little things in our day to day lives. For me today, that was a really good turkey sandwich.

Getting a PhD

I'm in the final stages of working on a PhD. That's right; I'll soon be Dr. Drennan. That is, I'll be Dr. Drennan if I can ever get my dissertation filed. Mind you, the problem is not with the writing of the dissertation. Many people sort of fall by the way side when it comes to writing a dissertation. But not me. I've just plugged away in spite of all kinds of drama in my life. No, the dissertation is written. It's mostly done. My hold up has to do with filing paperwork, getting through bureaucracy (bureau crazy?) so that I can get the dissertation processed to get my degree. While I was tearing my hair out over the researching, composing, revising, even editing my dissertation, never did it occur to me that I'd get stuck with filling out paperwork and paying graduation processing fees. Never. It almost seems like one needs a PhD just to figure out how the bureaucracy works.

I know this is all must sound like a silly rant to the rest of you, but I don't care. I am frustrated, really frustrated. Every day this week, I've come home from work, sat down, and cried because I am so annoyed and frustrated. At great personal cost, I've worked and worked to get my degree. And now I'm held up by paperwork. It's like a bad Kafka story.

Power Washing

So, I just got home from work, and the management is having one side of my apartment building "power washed" today. I knew this was happening; last Friday, we all got notices from the management telling us to move our cars away from the building today for power washing. Said notice did not remind us to shut our windows, but I, of course, did so anyway. The notice did tell us to shut curtains and blinds as the washer guys would be right outside the windows. Well, when I got home, the power wash guys had worked their way down the building and were right in front of my bedroom and office windows. When I got inside, I realized that a lot of water had leaked in, a lot. I went out and told power washer boy that my windows were leaking. And he's all like, "The windows are closed," and I'm like, "Yeah, I know I closed them, but they are leaking from the top," and he's like, "Well, they said there might be some leaking." Now I don't know who "they" are, and the notice I received said nothing about potential leakage. And he's like "OK, well someone can caulk it later," and he procedes to spray more water into my apartment.

Is it just me, or does this seem dumb? I'm opting for dumb.

Here I am over the summer at the Dr. Seuss Memorial in Springfield, Mass. I'm in front of a giant copy of _Oh, the Places You'll Go_.

Here's a good one of Polly.

Here's Polly. Isn't she the cutest thing you've ever seen?

This Is Guinevere with her Nylabone Stub

I Feel Self Conscious

OK, I have to say that since I first posted last night, I've been thinking about it, and I really feel rather self conscious about blogging. I mean, what if I mispell something, or what if I just go off on a rant and everyone thinks I'm crazy. And now that I type that, I realize that this neurotic worrying is itself crazy, and now you, dear reader, know I'm crazy.

I don't know. . .maybe this whole blog thing wasn't such a good idea after all. Hey, is this metablogging--blogging about blogging. Whatever.

I did want to say that when I get the time I'll load pictures of Guinnie and Polly so that when you read their adventures, you can see what they look like. Here's a brief description: Guinevere is extremely beautiful. She's really just as perfectly beautiful as a pup could be. Polly, on the other hand, is certainly cute, but she's not exactly beautiful. Polly's defining characteristic is that she's very, very good. Is it better to be beautiful or good? Guinn and Polly embody this eternal conflict. Even Anne Shirley had a hard time picking between good, beautiful, and clever.

I suppose it's time for me to get ready for work.