Omelas raises a question for me

   The other day in class Prof. Sexson posed this question "Could you walk away from Omelas?" I had never heard of this piece of literature. My first thought was, What would the child choose? He should have the choice to bare the suffering or not to bare the suffering. Each person should have a choice whether they are to stay, or they are to go or to be tortured for the sake of the happiness of all others.
   What ever the child chooses I would leave Omelas.  I would have some peace of mind in knowing that the child had a choice in his role of Omelas, but I would still be disturbed knowing that people felt that one person's suffering exchanged for all the suffering in the world was just. If I think back over my "sufferings" I would not ask someone to endure a  lifetime of  anyone of them so I may never suffer again. My sufferings could never be so great or so minimal that I allow someone else to endure them. I'd rather ask to die.

A shovel full of blood

By having Annebelle tell us in graphic detail about her job as cleaner at a suicide scene, Prof. Sexson was asking us to step into her shoes.The image of a scene where there was so much blood it could fill shovels was albeit gross. As I pictured Annabelle in a hazmat suite slopping up that much blood my heart went out to her. Not for the mere gross factor of performing such physically nasty work, but for the psychological fortitude it required from Annabelle. Annabelle herself must have stepped into the shoes of every member of that family. The little blond girl who will suffer the loss of her father until she dies. The fiance who will suffer the loss of a lover and the sufferings of her daughter until her death. The father who suffered so greatly that his suffering over shadowed the suffering he was to bring about on his young child and fiance, we presumed he loved deeply. The mind is hard pressed to continue to think of such suffering, to think of such senseless suffering., but it continues. Under little encouragement my thoughts go to how this grizzly scene will now be carried inside the minds of the crime scene investigators, the coroner, the cleanup crew until the end of their lives. Not only do I feel compassion for these strangers I've never met, I can feel my heart being squeezed in my chest. Just by allowing myself to step into the shoes of someone else I am able to experience a physical response to misery that played out in another time and place. Why did my mind not stop at the image of the wet floor deep in blood? It is a much nicer image than that of the prolonged suffering of everyone that single suicide has touched, and the added thought that thousands of suicides are carried out each year. Would I rather step into the shoes of the suffering or the shoes of the naive? Part of me feels as though I have heard enough of the sufferings of others that I would be content with wearing naive shoes the remaining days of my life. At the same time I know there's something bigger and unidentifiable inside me that would not feel content with not knowing the truth in this world.

The mind of Antigone

I always resent the implication that my actions are that of a women's mind. I feel that the inner workings of my mind are based off so much more than the simple fact of being a women. I quickly became defensive, on paper that is, on behalf of Antigone when Prof Sexson said her actions could only be that of a women's.  I disagree, take her sister she is a woman and of the same family and has chosen a totally different path. Two women that share grief for the same deceased brother would be their similarities. What are their differences for them to have chosen two different paths? Perhaps she is stricken with an illness. The illness of sensuality. In other words she's passionate, her passion in this event is her relationship she had with her brother.  From reading Brother Karamazov we know that not all siblings share the illness of sensuality. Ismene could be easily free of this illness, so she could logically have choosen a different path even though she is a woman. So does this bring us to the question of whether Antigone is to Sophocle's trilogy as Dmitri is to the Brothers Karamazov? I don't know either literary piece well enough to say yes or no to that question, but I would have to argue that Antigone's actions were from that of a sensualists mind rather than that of a woman's.

I had a dream

Although this is not a dream of a early memory I think it relates to the class topic of being able to recite from memory and the significance it can have in our lives or the lives of others. Early this morning I awoke, my eyes did not open but I stirred from this irrational dream with a single thought.The thought that a single song committed to memory could have great influence on the direction an event plays out.

The opening scene of my dream was of a 3-4 lane highway, the traffic was not congested and was heading in one direction away from me. I was not in a vehicle but watching on a large projection scene from theatre seats. The audio was load and in a race announcer style a voice was repeated the same phrase about five times " Go Girl Go", he was very excited as the image of a woman arose, she was clad in protective gear, helmet and thick uniform all meant to protect against a crash. In a crouched position over the tank of the motorcycle she was flying as she passed daily commutors and flew ahead of a truck. Just as she made her move to pass another truck an unexpected vehicle traveling against traffic and in a sidewards swiping position came into sight. The announcer gasped, the audience gasped. I remained watching as the motorcycle hit the car on center. For the next several moments there was no site of the motorcycle or its rider as cars remained on there path down the highway trying to come to a halt. All of a sudden images of debris littering the roadway was becoming visible. Large pieces of the motorcycle that had been sheared by the force of the accident were scattered about. Among these pieces and about the size of them emerged quite an image. The upper portion of the the woman motorcyclist sitting erect, waving her arms in anger and yelling " Hey here I am can't you see me? Can't you see there is a woman over here? She was not distraught, but more filled with anger that the people that were running to her aid were passing her. She had not noticed that the lower half of her body from the waist down was no longer attached to her upper half. As three young theatrical women rushed up to her, she told them in an indignant tone "I can not feel my feet". They were extremely calm almost like they had done this before and what must be done in such a situation. Without a word spoken one of the young ladies reached down and opened the valve of a spout, one like you'd find on a barrel of wine. This spout was mounted on the abdomen of the the women who now found her end was near. The white wine poured freely and graciously from the spout as the three woman began singing a song that they had committed to memory. I could not tell you which song it was, but it had started out as an unfamiliar song, rather obscure and dauntingly difficult to recite. As the woman sang the song it morphed into a familiar childrens song soft and true. I remember saying in my dream "She is in the right hands with these three ladies". I remember thinking what a different death this woman would have had if the ladies had not had one song in their heads to recite as she lay there dieing.
   I have always been fascinated by people that have committed entire poems or verses to memory. I have never seen myself as the type to do the same. I suppose I found it to take a great amount of time and if I did choose to commit a single piece to memory what piece should that be? So many wonderful pieces out there. Over the past few classes the thought of me being one of those types that commits random pieces to memory is becoming more tangible. Why not? Why should I not have something fanciful stashed in my brain amongst my memory of my social security number or my memory of the address of my house as a child? 
Just sharing Heather

A Sense of Tragedy Developed

Prof. Sexson assigned us to develop the sense of tragedy by having a bad day. After my first marriage my perspective of a bad day is more than spilt coffee or missing the last bus. So to tell you of a "bad day" I had last week would be misleading of my true perspective of what constitutes tragedy.
   In the past 17 years I have experienced more tragedy in my life than I had hoped to experience. Not that anyone hopes to experience tragedy, but we expect our fair amount sometime during our life. I'm hoping this is all the gods have set aside for me. The tragedy in my life came at a young age and in my young marriage. Even though it's incredibly personal I have chosen to share it with the class. After this period of my life I tend not to have truely bad days. If my day starts to look ominous I find it doesn't last long before I am reminded of how bad it could really be. Early on in my marriage signs began to emerge on the stability of my husbands state of mind. Being young we did not realize that he was slowly going to loose control of his mind. Only in hind sight do we now know that the events through the early years of our marriage had implied severe mental illness. We worked with what little resources we had, trying to understand what was slowly happening to him, to us, hoping naively for the best. I have learned that hoping for the best is all you can do when it comes to the state of the mind. Medical professionals whether of the modern variety or ancient teachings have little control over the workings of the mind and understand it even less. Excepting that you have little control over the biggest controlling factor in your life is a hard pill to swallow. Once you the pill is no longer a lump in your throat you are forced to face the real tragedy of the situation. Through no fault of his own a young man is slowly losing his mind, his wife, his children along with all his dreams for the future. The loss is heart wrenching for anyone observing it and smothering for the person it's happening to. To clarify the severity of his mental state I will tell you that at the age of twenty seven my husband was diagnosed with schizophrenia.
   Over the next six years, as his illness worsened, his mind started to turn against me, those were bad days. The bad days started to greatly out number the good ones. This period of our lives evolved from bad days into bad times. The last few years of our marriage was rought with daily episodes. The decision to leave him came down to the safety of our two young boys and myself. After six years worth of bad days I chose a divorce.  The second tragedy of this tale is the raising of two young boys without their father. No weekend visitations, no holiday memories filled with the image of their father. It's hard for them to understand why they only receive random phone calls from the man they call dad. They will carry the implications of his illness with them their entire life.
   I know they will not lead lives without bad days, but I do hope I can teach them to not wait for tomorrow to bring something new. I hope to teach them that as long as they have control, then they are the one that needs to turn it around.
   I would like to add that I don't find I lead a tragic life, but rather through the tragedy in it I have become more grateful for the life I am leading.

Unedited

As Prof.. Sexson had mentioned in class today, he doesn't want to hear us whining about the book, rather he'd like us to speak to the content of the novel. This brought to mind the first notions I had on the literary style of this piece.
     Prior to opening the novel Brothers Karamazov either in conversation or internet searching I learned that Dostoevsky did not edit his novels. I use the word learned very loosely because this, at first ear, sounds like an literary myth. Whether this idea skewed my perspective I can not say. I'm sure I'm being super naive about the whole idea of an unedited 900 page novel, but I find I'm enjoying the notion of unfathomable brilliance on Dostoevsky's behalf it has brought to my reading. It also has allotted for me to take notice of the writing style in which the novel was written.
    As I read the first pages of the Brothers Karamazov I felt as though Fyodor Dostoevsky was rambling. As I became familiar with the personalities of each character, gave my own pronunciation to the Russian names while sorting out everyone's nicknames Dostoevsky's ramblings began to form a fascinating world. I found myself descending into my role as the reader just as Dostoevsky as Prof. Sexson has stated "descended into the well of his own creativity."  Every so often I find myself being addressed by my new title Reader, as found at the end of chapter 2 of book III, "...but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it." Being addressed so directly as a Reader I think back to the notion that Dostoevsky did not edit his work. Could he have been so wrapped up in the creative process and so exhausted at its end that he chose not to edit? The above line from the book is only one of many lines where we find Dostoevsky speaking to the reader, telling us to take note, that what he just said will be of value later on in the course of the novel. He's also telling us he doesn't have the confidence in us as the reader to have caught on to this, that he needs to bring it to our attention. Personally I'd rather have the satisfaction of discovering the link later on in the book. However with that being said I also find that I enjoy him addressing me the reader. Again with the unedited notion clouding my vision  I see it as proof that he isn't so far down that well of creativity that he has forgotten me,  The reader. I was in his thoughts at the time of his writing, which makes me that much closer to being part of the novel. I am not so naive to think that Dostoevsky was the only writer to use this style of addressing his reader, but I do find it's where that fantastic notion pops into my thoughts as I read. Dostoevskys' habit of breaking from the story to speak to the reader is not the only aspect of this literary work that keeps bringing up the idea that he hadn't edited this work. Early on in book II  I believe in a conversation or a description of a characters personality, I can't remember exactly which and don't have the patience to go back and find it, I 'caught' Dostoevsky repeating himself. As if he had lost his train of thought during the writing process and felt he had not yet said what he had in fact already stated. Here I find myself back to that fantastic notion of Dostoevsky not editing his work and me repeating myself.
   I could not imagine this work of literature being something of an unedited version of Dostoevsky's mind. Yet, I have not googled in search of the answer to whether The Brother Karamazov is of unedited literary legend or not. I plan on enjoying this rather naive notion to the end of the novel at which time I might search for the truth.

A moment of Peace

Prof. Sexson wanted us to blog about a book that had enhanced our life.

When I was a child, a very young child of 4 or so, I had a favorite book. In to the pages of the book Goodnight Moon I often retreated. I remember the world around me would silence, my thoughts consumed by the simplest of thoughts. Where would I find the little grey mouse hiding in the story Goodnight Moon? I already knew the answer. Even though I had sat down to that very book the day before and the day before that, I would scan each detail of the pictures on each page. I would make sure the comb on the nightstand had not moved, since I last "read" the book. I would decode the events of the rabbits day by taking inventory of the mittens, hat and such. I wished my mother would sit rocking while knitting as I fell asleep. I dreamed. As I flipped the final page to close the book and have remember having a peace about me. I was deaf until I was 5yrs old, I communicated in sign language and through allot of fits, as I've been told. I don't have many memories of my behavior, although I do remember I carried a sense of frustration within me. I can't tell you any of the words on the pages of the story Goodnight Moon, but I do know that those pages allowed me to make it through each day.

Of reading and traveling

Ashley and Seth have wonderful blogs on reading and traveling. I always enjoy reading their blogs, I wish I was able to share my thoughts so smoothly. I've put together a poem that I thought expresses along the same traveling and reading theme. I guess my take on it is very simple, actions are just actions until the doer gives meaning to them. Your meaning enhances the experience you have.


Just Going

Going
And doing and doing
What a living for the bore

Going and doing
By doing a going

And going to go
By doing and going

Give no pleasures
Unless your a bore

What a life

A wonderful bore of a life

Inspired by Eaves Dropping

I was inspired to write this poem from a conversation I heard through eavesdropping. Not sure if it follows any rules, other than rhyming every other line, but I had fun.

Squandering Pulses

Last night there was allot of cherry Jello shots
In a puddle of something red I wake. Pleading
and thinking it is a puddle of blood I lay. I'm shocked,
not really, to realize I must have done some heaving.

With no memories of where I had played.
I figure I puked on Amber's lovely bed sheets.
Can't see me going to French class today,
No bother, it's already been a lovely few weeks.

Why would I write a poem of such a thing? you ask. I found it colorful.
Why would I feel the need to share it with the class? you may also ask. During a single class session Prof. Sexson  says so many things on so many levels. I find it maybe several days or many weeks before their relevance becomes clear and I have the outlet (poetry) to articulate them in a way that might make a connection with the class. So I hope you enjoy!  And Yes I promise to improve my poetry skills.

Found Peotry

Dashboard

5.50 Pays Full
Lost Fee Ticket
Pays Day
Day Ticket Fee
5.50 Lost
Pays Pays Full

I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I enjoyed the process of discovering it. I question the rythym of the poem. I would gladly except any pointers.

Chekhov vs Oates

  In class today Mr Sexson asked us to ask ourselves why we didn't like Oates' short story The Lady with the pet dog, why we preferred Chekhov's version.
  As a woman of the 21st century, independent of social standings and with financial means of my own, I see myself capable of removing myself from an unsatisfying marriage, especially if there are no kids involved. So in Chekhov's short story The Lady with the pet dog I easily fall into the story as a romanticist. The Romeo and Juliet come out in me and I am anxious for the couple to be released from their casts which socially bind them; he from his arranged marriage and her from her marriage of youth. Once a sense of forbidden love is introduced, the story easily becomes wrapped in romance. I am willing to ignore the torridness of the affair and let myself fall for the warmth of love. To watch Carol Oates' character in The Lady with the pet dog become so feeble as to be willing to take her own life before she was willing to make a decision was too much for me. I appreciated the womans point of view and the torment of emotions that Oates drug us through. But for me the implications of suicide stripped the story of any romance it might of had. There was also no mention of a difference in social status, no indication of impending social outcasting (forbidden love), so it was just an ugly, torrid affair. I had nothing to cling to. Oates stripped away the warm, fuzziness of romance and stuck me in the bitter world of love. I'm a sucker for romance. In literature any chance I get I'll ignore bitter reality. One for Chekhov.

A modern day version of Lot's Wife

    As a champaign colored suburban pulled up to the curb where I had been waiting, a smile came to my lips. My hunny was driving. He had just accompanied my two boys to the school carnival. I had just finished attending a lecture. Immediately upon opening the door a chorus of pleading, not to look at them, came from my boys in the back seat. I looked over to my man with a questioning look, he said with a smirk "Don't look back at the boys."
    "Okay, I won't look back, I'm not looking back." I said with a chuckle. They must have a surprise for me.
After driving a few blocks in the dark of the night my youngest son spoke in a low ominous voice "Mom, don't look back or you will be doomed." His exact words no lie. He is super dramatic. The word doomed hung in the air until we reached the parking lot of Famous Dave's BBQ. With fear of turning into a pilar of salt, I stepped from the rig with hands over my eyes, I announced "My eyes are closed, but may I look now?"
    "Yes, look at us, open your eyes, look at us." they yelled. They were so pleased with themselves. One had his hair dyed green and wore the face of The Joker with the help of face paint, while the other had his hair dyed red and sported an alien face oozing blood. What I was not to look back at was the apparent devastation of their appearances. I'm glad I had not looked back. That night I was grateful to be able to look across the table at their crazy hair and BBQ faces.