Wednesday, April 28, 2010

My final blog... until I think of something more

It is done. We’ve come to the end of our careers as English majors, and we realize that, according to Derek, we shall just continue on, waiting tables at the Olive Garden and going to school. That actually sounds pretty good to me.

I found myself tearing up today when I heard the third group give their rendition of the collective knowledge shared by our class. At first I thought it amusing to hear how they fit the various stories together, but then Lisa began telling the story of my sister and I in the raspberry patch at my Grandpa’s house in CT. I realized how poorly I wrote that blog entry…. I guess I still have yet to learn to proof read anything, but I guess I can learn that in grad school.

Once she had finished, the next blurb began, and it all fit together so seamlessly. It made me realize that we are all connected by this class, and we will all meet in Laramie, WY for the eclipse. We won’t remember to do this by marking it on our calendars because let’s face it, we go through too many cell phones, planners, and computers to ever have that one plan stay with us for the next couple of years; however, news of the upcoming eclipse will reach us, and we will, for a moment, be in the still point once more. Our experiences as an English major will rush back to us, and an eclipse will spur an ephiphanic moment, greater than any other beforehand. We will meet in Laramie, WY and experience the terror collectively.

In our end is our beginning, but this is not the end, for we have not seen the eclipse. We will continue to pass through life, fulfilling our sacred duties, and we will dodge many bricks… or our papers will reflect the wrath of shaman Sexson, and we’ll die of heartache (or throwing up a brick that we pull from Hamilton Hall in the air and standing under it) for not graduating.

Today was truly elegiac. Not because of a string of our stories or a funeral, but because it was our last true class. It was the last time we heard each other’s words. It was the last time that we saw each other’s personalities shine through. It was the last time that we could hear Nick’s wordy-ness. It was the last time.


I will miss everyone even though I did not know everyone. I have learned more from this class than I learned in all of my other classes combined. You are all my teachers, and I will forever hold you in my heart because I have gained so much knowledge from you. Thank you all so much for the best semester of my college career. I feel like crying; this is so bittersweet. I might find a book to randomly throw at a wall, just because I'm an English major; that's what we do.


:)

Playing Dead

I would like to apologize to my group for being the worst dead person ever!

I couldn't hold still because of all of the caffeine I had consumed because I stayed up till very late folding paper cranes.... and I would like to explain the hassle that went into those stupid things...
So last night, I had play practice, a group meeting, and then I had to work on my things for this presentation, which didn't happen until 10 or so. I looked online for instructions on how to fold birds out of paper. My attempts were a true testament to me being an English major. Apparently, I cannot follow a diagram to save my life (no pun intended). My versions of birds looked like anything but a bird. In fact if you turned them to one side and squinted, then barely resembled a cow. I almost gave up, but a very good friend of mine called me up to see if I had made dinner (he didn't just expect me to make him food; I had offered to make him some earlier), which I did, and so he made his way over.
THANK GOD FOR ENGINEERING MAJORS!!!!! Because he was able to teach me how to fold a damn crane! He has a use for his major and I have a use for mine :) So there I was, sitting at my dining room table folding cranes while my friend sat and did some very scary looking engineering homework. As cheesy as it sounds, I don't think I'll ever forget it (especially since he wasn't as enthused about my brick headdress as I was!).
I felt sad. He and I are both graduating. We are going our different ways. Well he's going away, and I'm stuck in the rut of graduating with a degree in English literature. Last year, I thought that most of my friends had graduated, and while I miss those people, I realize now that as English majors, I am most connected with my class. We have shared epiphanies, which are the most personal and profound experiences that we can have. Some of us may meet again; we may drop a line on Facebook now and again, but others may not.
It's crazy to admit, but right now I have tears in my eyes, and I need to now go touch up my makeup, I'm sure.

But anyways, sorry for fidgeting on the table, as Joan pointed out!

Last day of presentations

It occurred to me last night at the Lysistrata dress rehearsal that I’m not as shy, as I had thought. I hate public speaking. It truly stresses me out to stand up in front of my class and give a presentation. Granted, I have acted my entire life and sung, so I obviously don’t have that big of an issue with an audience. It is the personal nature of presenting something of my own. In a group of my friends, though, I am very open and outgoing. Why then am I so scared to present in front of my peers?

In the play I am a woman who gives her husband blue balls by withholding sex until a truce has been made and the war ends… and I do this by seducing him… with a lap dance… in lingerie… in the middle of a stage.

My group originally planned on my being silhouetted behind a curtain in a nude body suit, giving the impression of something very racy. Then it turned into me wearing a corset and the audience seeing me walk into the ‘tent’ and giving the lap dance… now we’ve lost the sheet altogether, the lingerie has remained… and “Let’s Get It On” will be played.

I have to act as though I am the most confident woman in the room. Act. Room. A room full of my peers. I think that I overcame my fear of presenting in front of them. I had to of!

So this morning, I was supposed to just lay on the table and play dead, and for the first time ever, I suggested that I begin the presentation by telling the story of how I died. Weird. What’s even weirder is that I didn’t require a turtleneck to mask the heat rash that I usually breakout in when I have to say anything in front of a class. I just said it. I’m pretty excited. I also didn’t feel like I was going to sound stupid because of the anxiety of influence of the previous group. Yes they were amazing, but there project was so much more different than ours, so I felt like you could really compare them. Everyone did so well, and I didn’t pass out!

I have come to know all of my group members, and I’m sad that we didn’t have more time to get to know one another even more. We are all unique, full of quirks (and words), but we all share the same passion for leather-bound items. I want to thank them for being so great! J

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

If I didn't have bad luck I'd have no luck at all

**Sorry for being tardy on this; I became rather ill the past few days, and looking at my computer made me dizzy.**

We had the experience but missed the meaning,

And approach to the meaning restores the experience

In a different form, beyond any meaning

We can assign to happiness.[i]

T.S. Eliot

I would like to take a moment and extend the deepest gratitude to all of my professors here at Montana State University. Thank you for putting up with all of the strange stuff that has happened to me in the past five years.

I would like to especially thank Dr. Gwendolyn Morgan for having faith in me, and for giving my paper its title If I didn’t have Bad Luck, I’d have NO Luck at All!

Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.

John Milton



[i] Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot, Dry Salvages lines 93-96)

Introduction

The following paper is an exploration of how light epiphanies can transcend dark experiences, contrary to a pessimistic view that dark epiphanic moments come from negative experiences. A literary example comes from The Wind and the Willows when Ratty and Mole have a grand epiphany when they find the baby otter lying comfortably in Pan’s arms. The lost child was a terribly distressing experience, yet there is such a positive epiphanic moment.

The stories that are told are among many, which I have been either blessed or cursed with, depending on a person’s outlook on life; they are not fictional tales from literature. As this is a capstone paper, it is appropriate to begin by discussing how the text which played the most important role in the class, Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot, and how it fits into what I am most interested in: the light from the dark.

To begin, this paper is about life. Unfortunately, and as much as people deny it, everyone has the same end goal: death. People regret things that they passed up, did poorly, exceeded in moderation, etc, but as Eliot writes in Burnt Norton:

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present. (lines 9-10)

Inevitably, time goes hand in hand with life because life is often measured in time. People are always trying to beat the clock, but further on in Burnt Norton Eliot explains that:

Only through time time is conquered. (line 89)

Knowledge is another aspect that people search for in life, which is often thought to be gained through time, but Eliot disagrees with conventional ideas of what is truly considered knowledge and wisdom; this is what is important:

Do not let me hear

Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,

Their fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,

Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God. (East Coker lines 93-96)

What I have found in the past five years at Montana State University that there is a difference between knowledge and wisdom. Many of my professors have shared their knowledge with me on a multitude of topics throughout my enrollment, but only a few have given me true wisdom. I will not name any names in this section, but I have had a few that truly seem to understand that a person does not just learn from books, but also from life, from their fears and frenzies. Using the framework of epiphanies, I believe that I have become a little more wise because I have recognized these episodes in my life. One of the most important recognitions came when my paper topic was born: light epiphanies can come from dark experiences, and even though I seem to have to worst luck of anyone that I know,[i] from experience I have found that positive things can still come to me.

So I invite you, the reader, to take a moment to read this paper. Please keep in mind that all the stories are true, and I apologize, in advance, if any of the topics are offensive; however, I was not writing this to gain a fan club, rather I focused on writing the best thing that I have ever, or will, write.[ii]



[i] people have actually said they would not stand near me in a thunder storm for fear of being struck by lightening

[ii] As a side note, I think that it is important to share with you, the reader, additional quotes that influenced me greatly during the writing of this paper. Read them, or skip over them, but whatever it is that you do, respect them. You will find them at the end.

What? It’s just the way I am!

D-Day

We all know the story… there comes a time in a young girl’s life when she becomes a woman. I still have issues wrapping my mind around the logic here. I understand that the ovulation process begins, which means that the girl is now able to bear children. Whoopity doo. To me, it’s a nuisance, and to society, yes it means procreation for some, but to most it means WATCH OUT! BITCH COMING! I mean my buddies have a point when they say they can’t trust anyone that bleeds for five days and doesn’t die! If you couldn’t tell by now, I have terrible luck building relationships with other women. Can you blame me?

Moving along, my parents were always out of town when I was growing up, and it was my luck that on the day my body decided to have a physical epiphany and say, “OO! I think I’m gonna become a woman today,” my mother was out of town.

Now to normal people (I say that in the kindest way, but I’ve just come to terms with the idea that my upbringing was far from normal… whatever normal is) having a parent out of town would not be the biggest deal because one could just call them up for advice on the situation. I wasn’t so lucky. I was twelve years old in a suburb of Pittsburgh, PA, and my mother was across the pond in Switzerland of all places. Wait, let me back up to prior the physical change in my body.

Earlier in the morning, I had walked up to the stables to ride. It was a very special day for me because the rain had let up enough to use the lower riding ring, which was always lovely. Not only that, but I was going to get to practice more advanced jumps than I had attempted before. At that point, I had realized that I was accident prone and my luck was not so good, so I proceeded with caution. The first jump that I attempted, I have to admit was not the best showing of proper form on my part, and when the horse’s front hooves landed on the ground past the oxer I landed hard in my seat. I shook it off, and kept on with my lesson.

Having said that, when I walked home after riding, I began to list what all I needed to do before I went on my church retreat. I was going to be confirmed in just a few months, and part of my training involved going on a retreat to a retreat center called Jumonville. Many people were familiar to the location because they had a giant, 60’ tall cross on a hill that made it some sort of destination church place. The first order of business was a shower. I am not going to get into the details, but I didn’t put me being twelve and blood as being a menstrual phenomenon. I had just cracked my rear on an English saddle, and I thought I was hurt.

The thought of injury scared me, but I think I was even more afraid of approaching my father about my potentially hurt bottom. I was close to my dad, but not that close. I wanted my mother; however, as I said before, my mother was in Europe, and I was not quite sure how to get a hold of her. Thank goodness she left her itinerary in my father’s office, and the phone number to the place that she was staying was typed in the way I would have to dial it for an international call, otherwise I would have been in a real bind.

I was fortunate that my mother was in her hotel room, and I told her what had happened and how I thought I was injured. Mom asked me to go and investigate a few details while on the phone with her, and that’s when she revealed to me that I had entered into womanhood. What was my body thinking? Anyways, as it was my first one, certain feminine hygiene products (is that censored enough for any chance males that might be reading?) were not well suited for me. Turns out, Dad was going to have to find out, but I was fortunate because my mother wanted to be the bearer of bad (?) news.

I wish I had a camera, well actually a video camera, to record my dad’s response. The usual “Hi honey! How’s your trip going?” shenanigans commenced, and then Mom broke the news. My father’s usually ruddy face became just as pale as a Scandinavian’s legs in the wintertime It would have been hilarious save for my embarrassment. My dad was too. And shocked. And not prepared or informed about that whole part of a girl’s growing up. He asked how it was even possible for that to happen because I was only twelve. I now can laugh about it.

The conversation ended with my mother asking dad to take me to Giant Eagle to buy whatever I needed before my trip. Picture a man and his daughter in a BMW with no music and no conversation driving a couple of miles to the store… with a giant elephant! When we arrived, my father asked me how much money I needed to get ‘supplies.’ I’m still trying to figure out if he was out of his mind in that moment. I asked for forty bucks, and then went into the store alone. I love my dad, but he wasn’t the most responsible parent. The pharmacist knew me pretty well because my nanny filled our prescriptions there, so I told her what was going on and got some help picking out pads.

In addition to getting what I needed, I got a little carried away in the candy aisle. We went straight to the church, so that I could go on my retreat. I told my best friend what had happened, and we went and talked to our small group leader. Let’s just say that through the course of that weekend, I came to know myself, God, and womanhood a whole lot better!

* * *

Paralyzed Hand

It really was distressing when my GI tract mysteriously decided to quit working. When the doctors finally diagnosed me with a rare, very advanced form of a disease called gastro paresis I was relieved because it was at least manageable. They told me that through trial and error, we would find a regiment of medicine to allow my stomach and intestines to function as normally as possible. The disease is incurable currently, but medicine and implants have been created in order to simulate the ‘norm.’ I figured that heck, I could play lab rat for a couple of days to figure out what was going to work for me.

Man I was wrong! A couple of days turned into months upon months, and the drugs were terrible. Two words to be cautious of, I’ve learned, when a doctor says them are ‘side effects.’ I’ve never been very susceptible to them before my GI tract decided to take an extended sabbatical, but all of a sudden it seemed as though all the warnings attached to each drug that I was prescribed became a guaranteed phenomenon. One of which came from one of the foremost drugs used to treat my condition, which I shall leave unnamed. The effect was extremely rare, so rare, in fact, that there had only been less than a dozen reports of it associated with the drug: limb paralysis.

After a few days of taking the drug (five times a day, no less), my left hand began to feel numb, and quite literally, I woke up one morning, and my hand could no longer move in certain spots. At first it was my pinky and the furthest knuckle on my ring finger. I called my doctor, and she didn’t seem too worried (probably because I have a tendency of falling, and hitting my head… apparently concussions can cause temporary paralysis?). A few days after that, I had lost full function of my pinky and ring finger, and they curled over leaving only claw-like motion to the other three fingers, which were becoming stiff as well.

I was frightened to say the very least! Oh, and ashamed. How does one go to the bars to jitterbug and explain that they can still dance? Was I supposed to just say “Don’t mind the claw?” That was one heck of a way to hit the bar scene as a newly single girl who had everything going for her minus that she was a lemon? A lemon who can’t even eat lemons… well citrus anyways, which I guess is a good thing because that statement would have been almost cannibalistic. In the words of my forefathers, “Uff Dah!

Now what good can come from a paralyzed hand? I met with another specialist who was working on my case in conjunction with my personal gastroenterologist whose words flowed forth like a sonata. I say this in opposition to a cantata, which is a sonata that is sung because it was not necessarily the lyrics that moved me. The piece slowly began as the Bach of my stomach introduced the first movement, which expressed the theme of the sonata: the GI tract’s forbidden romance with my brain. The movements further developed, he recapitulated, and then he reached the coda. Words could not express the feeling I had leaving that appointment. I was in awe. Just as bits and pieces of music stick with a person, so did the words of the doctor.

I suppose I should explain what those words were. To put it as plainly as I am able, they knew that the drug had jumpstarted my GI tract, and they wanted to conduct an experiment on me, which could change everything: positively or negatively. I began taking another drug that acted similarly to the one that had the terrible side effects, but originally it had not been an option for me because it was not strong enough to act as the jumper cables. They wanted to see if they could slowly ease me off of the highly potent drug with only the lesser one left to maintain the operations of my system. Needless to say, it worked…. to a point. I still have to take medicine at least five times a day, and if I don’t get out of bed and begin my routine at the same time every morning I get extremely ill.[i] After a month, my hand began to twitch every now and then, and before I knew it, function was almost completely restored. To this day, my pinky and ring finger are stiffer than the others, and they have a tendency to curl under a bit, but I can move them!

My doctor’s appointment showed me that even though I was cursed with this condition, I at least now know how my disease operates in me. Two years ago, I was laying in a hospital bed literally starving to death. I was going to die, but thanks to a Baroque doctor, I am here today. Let the music play on!



[i] I am convinced that this was the reason why I never reverted back to sleeping into a normal time for a college student after hunting season. I just kept waking up at 5 AM.

Four Quartets…ish

The following story is a group of poems that were inspired from reading T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. It is a way to incorporate earth, air, water, and fire… and the luck that I’ve had with them.

Bishopsgate

I

The twenty third of April, 1993

Lives on in mother and my’s memory.

Boarding the tube at Kings Cross

We traveled down the map.

When we came to the red line

A transfer was made

For a trip to Stratford was to be on that day.

Young as I was,

And a tourist at heart

I pleaded with mother to let us part

Early with the train so that I may see

St Paul’s Cathedral, chim chim-in-ney.

II

I hurried ahead,

Rising to surface level.

The scene had been set for my own

Mary Poppins Adventure.

Bert was singing.

The pigeons were flying.

An old lady sold me seeds

To feed her little chickadees.

I threw handfuls of seed

Upon the ground

Waiting for the birds

To come on down.

Startled I was

When they all took to wing.

The earth began to tremble

A siren began to ring.

III

Screaming was heard all around,

As the earth ceased to move.

Panic.

The screaming of machines

And of people

And of birds’ wings

Deafened the world…

to silence.

Leaving only one song to be heard,

The one without a singer.

Did you hear it too?

Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim-in-ey

Chim chim cher-ee!

A sweep is as lucky, as lucky can be

Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim-in-ey

Chim chim cher-oo!

Good luck will rub off when I shakes 'ands with you

Elm Grove

I

What is black is also white,

But the white is not black.

Joining together

Yet never combining,

For together they will never be.

A sphere that has corners:

Its ridged seams smooth,

The object points to the direction,

An end goal.

It bears in agony the pains of winning.

II

The game was tied

And I felt faint.

Water, water everywhere.

I swept back and forth that field so green

And I felt faint.

Can somebody lend me their air?

Juggling with my feet I moved forward

Still I felt faint.

Eclipsed by the punt, can you tell me if I scored?

The white clouds replaced the white net

I had fainted.

How many fingers am I holding up?

Mallard Springs

I

To float upon it is to try to be one with it.

That wily river, unconquerable, yet with its allure

Tempts us all to try once more.

Named for an Indian tribe,

Long passed, they say,

To man, it shall never give way.

Swirling eddies

Green, blue, brown, and white with foam

Held in place between the banks of sandy loam.

II

We came upon a system of rapids,

Ones that I had navigated before.

Confident I was, while others raced to shore.

Toocus firmly planted in the doughnut hole,

I braced myself for a fun ride

Always one to explore the wild side.

The first few rapids rocked me back and forth,

But keeping my balance upon the waves did not

phase me,

The Yellowstone River and her majesty.

III

Mother said to be careful of those waters

To each of her daughters,

For they had claimed the lives of many.

A statement I wish I had heeded more so

When I was captured by the undertow.

The rapids blinded me with white light.

To open my mouth as I was sucked under

Would guarantee the river’s plunder.

Forced into silence, I fought it.

IV

Baptized in my own fear

I arose, a champion.

A champion over the river

And over Death.

I outwitted them in an instant,

Yet it seemed like forever.

I can’t help but wonder if this was how

Arjuna felt.

However, a reminder of my

Foolish undertaking was left:

A parasite to wreak havoc

On the river in me.

Old Lyme

I

The day after that bless’ed matrimony

We readied ourselves for our journey.

Packing and primping, all alike,

Before we could venture onto the turnpike.

With a hair dryer in one hand and a brush in the other,

I wished that I had a brother.

For rushing me wildly were my mother and sister

When a flaming coil sprung forth, an instant blister.

And all shall be well, and

All manner of thing shall be well.

The kind of words parents say to their kids

When they’ve gone and blown their lids.

II

The world has stopped.

Pain flashes in my eyes.

Watery tears burn my flesh.

The scorched flesh,

Twisted, melted,

Around the red hot metal.

An omen, to be sure.

Delay had taken place.

III

Upon the tele flashed a newsbreak

The airport was closed, thanks to a gas leak.

People who were to board the flight that we’d missed

Now were among the hospital bound.

Unlucky was I to have a burned bosom,

But lucky we were for mother’s intuition

School of Woes

You’re the moron

Plain and simple, I was born to be an English major. I come from a long line of them. Grandma has bachelors and masters degrees in English and Latin, my father received his BA in English literature from Yale University, and my mother minored in English literature. From a young age, I excelled in the reading and language arts programs at school, and I was ambitious with my own personal reading, thanks to my dad; however, I was not as talented when it came to math and science.

To this day, the mention of those two subjects makes me cringe. Moving on, when I was in fourth grade, I was excelling in history and English, but I was falling behind in math. It was my first year of algebra, and it was as if I had never even learned to count to ten. That year, my math teacher was Mrs. Moran… but the students called her (not affectionately either) Mrs. Moron. I feel poorly about it now, but when I was younger I tried so desperately to fit in with my classmates. Now besides her nickname, the woman was just plain scary. She had a temper and the bedside manner of an undertaker, so falling behind really became a huge.

There were quizzes administered each and every week. I dreaded them and often lost some sleep. My excellent grades withered to the shadows of average, and I could not rely on a good relationship with the teacher for leverage, against receiving some further instruction. Thus was my grade’s destruction.

A signature was required to acknowledge my lack of knowledge. Mortified, I was, and could not possibly take the quiz home. Not even a grade, just a big, red “See Me.” How does the daughter of a Mensa genius explain his bad luck, for his daughter lost the genetic lottery? My father’s signature resembled a seismograph, and over the years I had memorized the frequency of the surface waves. How dishonest was I when I took pen to paper and wrote words that were not my own? Such a terrible act, and I can’t even take it back.

My bluff was called, and I had no hope of becoming a future as a Vegas queen, ruler of the poker table. No, I would become famous in another way. Mrs. Moran called for the class’s attention, and she pointed out my desperate measure. While she was displeased, and had already called in the parental units for back up, she had taken a closer look at the class’s performance. I had not been the only one to slip up, and, in fact, she would never have found me out, but later I had learned that she called that day to schedule a parent/teacher conference, and my nanny informed her that my mom and dad had and would be in Europe for an extended period of time. All I knew was silence. I was in trouble, and the world stopped, and I couldn’t escape, for I was in time, and time was in me, weighing me down.

So she called everyone’s parents, and about half of us were in the same predicament. The terrible deed did have a lighter side. I learned algebra from that point on because Mrs. Moran knew how far behind the class had fallen. I went on to junior high, but that little oh epiphanic moment of realization of how badly I had screwed up stuck with me as a reminder of what I never want to be ever again.

* * *

The Ghost

Continuing in the tradition of basically sucking at math, I was left completely hopeless when my father died. My father was a genius, quite literally. His IQ was in the top 2% of the population, which qualified him for Mensa. He was well-rounded, too. He could read anything and then discuss it as he managed his stock portfolio, while watching the Steelers on their way towards another win, and then go explore the makings of his latest computer or work on one of his cars. His intelligence fascinated and scared me. I could ask him anything, and he would take two hours answering my question. Really, he could have taken longer, but it would have required me to be up WAY past my bedtime, as those discussions pushed the limit already.

When Dad died, I became a bit of a shut in, which I think was an understandable occurrence. I read more and more. That was the one way that I could remain close to my father while escaping to another place. He had a very impressive library, and I was left thousands of books to use however I wanted. All I wanted was my dad back. I was extremely bitter with my mom, and we became so distanced that I remember going for a few days at a tine without saying more than “Hi,” “I’m fine,” or “I’ll eat in my room.” I was in the seventh grade. I guess me wanting privacy was already something to be expected. Everyday I’d shut myself into my room or my dad’s study, put on my music, and read either my homework or whatever book I had pulled from the basement library.

My math skills were really lacking at that point. I didn’t care and neither did my teacher. We were told on the first day of class that we could either ask for help or fail, but he wasn’t in the business of talking to our parents about our grades; he was in the business of talking to us, so there was no signature to forge in temptation. My grade suffered. It was the day before my final in math that the guidance counselor pulled me into her office to tell me that if I didn’t get a B+ on the test I would be held back because they had a level program, and you had to fulfill each level completely before you could move on.[i]

I went home, and I finally cracked my book. Math was, and always will be, a foreign language to me. I became dizzy and decided to take a nap before I tried cramming again. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I fell asleep. Now the next part I realize sounds crazy. I’d swear on anything that it is the truth. Anyways, I dreamt of my dad. In the dream, I walked down the service stairs, across the foyer, and into my dad’s study. There he was sitting in his leather, high backed office chair at his beautiful desk working on something. When I walked in, he looked up at me and smiled and asked what his ‘Katie-bug ladybug’ was up to, which was when I asked him for help on all the math that I had put off.

Time actually passed in my dream; when I entered the office it was bright and sunny, and when my dad finally straightened his back and said that he better go make sure the garage doors were closed and the doors were locked because it was getting late. He left the office, and I looked back down at the pages of examples that my dad had written out for me to work through. By the end of my dream, the girl who I was at the beginning had left, and I had become confident. When I woke up, I panicked. It was the next morning, and I had slept in. My nanny was the one who woke me up.

I came to grips with the idea that I would not be trying out for any more musicals for a while because my after school time was going to be taken up from that day on with a learning assistance program. I went downstairs and walked into the study to get my books. Upon my binder was a stack of papers; they were in my father’s handwriting. At first I tossed them aside thinking that they were something that my mom had pulled from a file, but I recognized my own handwriting and I took a closer look. They were all the examples from my dream.

It reminded me of the following passage from T.S. Eliot’s Little Gidding in the Four Quartets:

And as I fixed upon the down-turned face

That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge

The first-met stranger in the waning dusk

I caught the sudden look of some dead master

Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled

Both one and many; in the brown baked features

The eyes of a familiar compound ghost

Both intimate and unidentifiable. (lines 89-96)

My father was, to me, the dead master. I had known him, tried to forget him, yet I recalled him in my time of need. He gave me advice like Eliot’s ghost did. Even more similar to the ghost of Hamlet’s father when it interacts with Hamlet in Act I scene v. The Ghost directs Hamlet to what it is right to do, and not only that but as his dharma, or sacred duty, what he must do. My dharma thus was to get at least a B+ on my test.

I went to school feeling different. Almost lighter. First period was math, and I felt confident. We spread out our desks and erected blinders (so that no one could have a chance of copying someone else’s work). I turned my test over and began to work through the problems, and each time that I felt uneasy I recollected my dream and pictured my dad’s handwriting. I wasn’t the first to finish, nor was I the last, but I was nervous. My teacher looked up at me when I turned my test in, and he grabbed his red pen.

The bell rang, and we all rushed out from the class room. Ten minutes into the next class, the guidance counselor pulled me out of class to talk about my test. I had passed with a B+! When my teacher and the councilor asked me who had offered me so much help, all I could say was that it was thanks to my dad.

* * *

Un écho de cinq passé d'ans

The first class of my first semester at Montana State University was English 123, which was taught by Dr. Nora Smith. One of the books that were on the syllabus was called Six Walks in the Fictional Woods written by Umberto Eco. The day that she introduced the book to the class, she explained that even she had trouble understanding the book. I wanted to include my own difficulty I had with the text because I attribute it as being the final reason for me declaring my major in English literature, and it was finally one that set me apart from my family.

I picked up the book once more, and began to peruse its pages, which have been filled with my notes and various coffee rings, which have yellowed them greatly. I smiled as I read Eco’s explanation of woods, which “are a metaphor for…any narrative text.” He continues saying “a wood is a garden of forking paths. Even when there are no well-trodden paths in a wood, everyone can trace his or her own path, deciding to go to the left or to the right of a certain tree and making a choice at every tree encountered” (6).

Umberto Eco takes his readers down these paths in chapters titled “Entering the Woods,” “the Woods of Loisy,” “Lingering in the Woods,” “Possible Woods,” “The Strange Case of Rue Sevandoni,” and “Fictional Protocols.” As this is not a book report, I choose to allow my own readers to pick up Eco’s book and read how each of these woods are define; however, I will point out a few passages that I feel match up well with my overall experience as an English major, which I was excited to find that I finally had some sense of understanding. I found this phenomenon almost define for me when Eco writes:

For Iser the reader “actually causes the text to reveal its potential multiplicity of connections. These connections are the product of the reader’s mind working on the raw material of the text, though they are not the text itself—for this consists just of sentences, statements, information, etc… This interplay obviously does not take place in the text itself, but can only come into being trough the process of read… This process formulates something that is unformulated in the text and yet represents its ‘intention.’” (15)

A professor who I am barred from naming at his own request told the Literature 494 class that books are not boring, it’s the people who are reading them who are boring. If a person doesn’t make connections it isn’t because there are none to the story, per se, rather they themselves have none.

In the spirit of connections, Eco and I made another one with Proust who he quotes saying, “One is constantly obliged to turn back to an earlier page to see where one is, if it is the present or the past recalled,” and Eco continues “The misty effect is so pervasive that the reader usually fails in this task” (32). What a coincidence that Proust, the man with the cookie, could be connected to this class, yet even more were made when Eco says “A term like “apparition”[ii] reminds us of the “epiphany” of Joyce. In The Dubliners, there are some epiphanies in which the mere representation of events tells reader what they must try to understand” (36). It took Literature 494 to understand my English 123, yet all along the class had been familiar to me.

My quotes could go on, but these were my ‘ohs’ and ‘awes,’ which stood out the most to me. As T.S. Eliot wrote:

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

Little Gidding, Four Quartets



[i] I should note that the school was on a semester system, so I could, theoretically, have advanced to the eighth grade the semester following the next with the rest of my class, but it would require me to go to school full time, and then go to an after school learning center in order to complete the course that I had flunked out of.

[ii] Earlier, Eco had once again quoted Proust saying he wanted “a tightly knit style, of porphyry, without any cracks, without any additions,” in which we see a mere “apparition” of things” (36).

United in the strife which divided them…[i]

I hope you die

When I read Hamlet I always seem to identify with the protagonist. I felt terrible when I came to this realization. That is, when I finally acknowledged the connection. Hamlet’s father was murdered by Claudius, and through that loss he experiences a series of epiphanic moments that helped define him and set the stage for the play. Ten years ago, my father killed himself. Now to me, suicide means one’s self murder, so that is one of the first reasons for my fictitious bond with young Hamlet, but in addition, it was after the fact that I learned more about my father to help me draw conclusions stemming from epiphanies that sprung from the new found knowledge.

For example, I was unaware at the time, but my father had a series of mental issues that contributed to his lack of will to live. He was an alcoholic, which did not mix well with his clinical depression, which he was severely. Also, my father was mildly schizophrenic. It seems to me that my father was murdered by someone else. He wasn’t the same person in the end days. This was HUGE for me because of how those last days were played out.

You see, my mother filed for divorce five days before his death because my dad really wasn’t himself, and she could only take so much. I found out the next day because the night before I had slept over at a friend’s house, and mom took me over to our house so that I could pack a bag. Mom had been planning her escape from the situation for some time, and she had acquired the key to her best friend’s, mom’s summer house, so that we had a place to stay until the air started to clear. When we arrived at home I was upset because my dad was drunk. Like I said before, my dad was an alcoholic so seeing him drunk was nothing new; however, that day he was plain wasted. I don’t think I had ever seen my dad so drunk, ever. I was upset because he wasn’t trying to convince my mom to stay; he just sat there swaying.

My anger progressed to the point where right before we left I screamed at him, “I hate you Dad; I hope you die!” I’m not proud of this whatsoever, but those were my last words to my father. I didn’t mean it, but I was caught up in the situation. I was a child scorned. When my mom and I found my dad dead four days later, I was shocked. There was nothing that came from that day that was pleasant. My last words rang in my head, and their divorce was still so fresh. The blame game began. First I didn’t blame myself. Rather I placed it on my mom because had she not filed for divorce my father would not have been left alone to drink himself crazy, and I would never have said what I said.

Then I realized that it couldn’t have been my mom’s fault because she needed to get out of that situation. It was killing her, literally. She was battling breast cancer, and the stress was digging her grave for her, both from work and home. I then moved onto myself. My last words… the very last words “I hope you die” were a command that seemed to direct him to his present state: dead. I think this was a false epiphany because it wasn’t true (well at least I hope it wasn’t the case, but I guess I will never know for sure). The true epiphany was to realize that my dad was seriously screwed up. It was not my fault. When my mother disclosed the information that the psychiatrist had told her about my father, post-mortem, my world came to a halt.

I didn’t know, but a few weeks before he died, my father went to a doctor for ‘help’ because my mother had demanded him to. Like the brilliant dramatist that he was, Dad wove a tale of marital bliss, perfect kids, and a successful career, but the doctor saw through his charade. He made his diagnosis, but my father didn’t want to hear it, and so he disregarded all of the recommendations that were made to him save for beginning a regiment of anti-depressants. They of course were pointless because my father continued to drink. Mom explained to me everything (which was probably not appropriate for a twelve year old to hear, but my mom told me damn near everything, it seemed), and when she ended my epiphany began.

The world stood still, or at least it did for me. I will never forget the moment that the sensation swept over me. I could not recapture the experience in words even if I tried, but it was one of the biggest ‘Awe’ moments I have ever had or probably ever will have. Actually, to be honest I hope I don’t have another that is as big as that. Well at least not that big of one stemming from a very negative experience. All in all I was at T.S. Eliot’s still point. I was having a light epiphany, which transcended the darkest of all experiences: death.

* * *

The Blood of the Father

When I was growing up, my parents had the idea that dressing their two oldest daughters, Whitney and me, up as twins, When my youngest sister was born, the whole family was shocked because she differed from us completely. Instead of blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair skin, new born Lindsey had jet black hair, dark eyes, and olive-toned skin. We couldn’t look any more different; however, it seems that I differed more from my sisters that was appeared on the surface level.

My family has unfortunately had to deal with some pretty trying situations in the past decade: Mom’s diagnosed with cancer, the family’s cross country move, Dad’s whole conglomerate of issues, my stomach problems, and, arguably the worst in the recent past, both of my younger sisters’ attempts at their own lives. This is unfortunate, without a doubt, but the learning that has come from these events has brought my family closer, contrary to how my father’s suicide tore us apart. Both of my sisters are getting help for what challenges their minds, but I am glad to say that while they have both tried and come close, neither one has succeeded.

Of any part of my life that I could wish some luck in, I am glad that I am fortunate enough to have received it in this area.



[i] Four Quartets, Little Gidding, III, line 174.

Key Quotes from Four Quartets

Descend lower, descend only

Into the world of perpetual solitude,

World not world, but that which is not world,

Internal darkness, deprivation

And destitution of all property,

Desiccation of the world of sense,

Evacuation of the world of fancy,

Inoperancy of the world of spirit;

This is the one way, and the other

Is the same, not in movement

But abstention from movement; while the world moves

In appetency, on its mettalled ways

Of time past and time future. (Burnt Norton lines 114-126)

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,

You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. (East Coker lines 136-137)

And what you do not know is the only thing you know

And what you own is what you do not own

And where you are is where you are not. (East Coker lines 144-146)

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated

Of dead and living. (East Coker lines 190-192)

Time the destroyer is time the preserver (Dry Salvages line 116)

And what the dead had no speech for, when living,

They can tell you, being dead (Little Gidding lines 49-50)

This is the use of memory:

For liberation—not less of love but expanding

Of love beyond desire, so liberation

From the future as well as the past. (Little Gidding lines 156-159)

References

Eco, Umberto. Six Walks in the Fictional Woods. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1995. Print.

Eliot, T. S. Four Quartets. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971. Print.

Miller, Barbara Stoler. The Bhagavad-gita: Krishna's Counsel in Time of War. New York: Bantam, 2004. Print.

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. New York: Dover Publications, 1992. Print.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Coincidence? I think not

I could be turkey hunting, but instead I am writing a capstone paper. Interesting enough, my quote of the day, once more, dealt with epiphanies:

Capstone paper

So I've been working on my paper, and I had a slight epiphany in class yesterday that I thought I would share. Mick talked about how he was writing his paper in a non-grammatically correct fashion, and I realized that my paper is written in prose poetry so far. I want to continue on this path, and I was wondering if anyone knew of good approaches to writing prose poetry. Also, would anyone want to meet up and maybe take a look at my paper this weekend?

Monday, April 5, 2010

Quote of the Day

If you pay attention at every moment, you form a new relationship to time. In some magical way; by slowing down, you become more efficient, productive, and energetic, focusing without distraction directly on the task in front of you. Not only do you become immersed in the moment, you become that moment.
-- Michael Ray



I just had this emailed to me, and I thought it was appropriate

Friday, April 2, 2010

The Father

Today is Good Friday, and this morning I planned on which service I would go to. As an Episcopalian, I knew that I would be visiting St. James, but which service was a tough call. You see, ever since my father died this day has been kind of tough for me. Nine years ago, a year after my dad died,  the pastor of my church asked me if I would give the Good Friday sermon, and I agreed. It was difficult to talk about the death of the Savior, not just because I was 13 years old, but because my own father hadn't even been gone a whole year. I still have the notes from that sermon that I gave, and to me it doesn't sound that profound; however, today I opened my Bible (the same one that I have carried since two weeks before my dad died, which was given to me on the day of my confirmation), and a card slipped out. Now my Bible looks like my Grandpa Mason's basement.... I save just about everything! I have notes from Bible studies, inspirational bookmarks, pamphlets, notes, etc. so this didn't strike me as odd until I opened it. 

The card was from a woman who went to my old church. She had heard my Good Friday sermon nine years ago and was extremely moved by it. In her note, she wrote about how she too had lost her father recently, and she was inspired by me (a 13 year old) and my strength to talk about death in the way that I did. She said "Katie, your words were an epiphany to me, and now I see what it is that I must do to live my life."

It really couldn't have been a better moment to blog about (though I do know I have so many others to write about, but I wanted to share this one) because a woman from my past had once written me something that I shoved into my Bible, but now I am able to appreciate her words. She had an epiphanic experience because of a person, which I think it was Zuzu who was thinking about writing about this subject.  Anyways, I thought that was a neat start to Good Friday, but it only got better.

My family has been dealing with some pretty trying issues, and we've spent a LOT of time in hospital waiting rooms, which one of my friends knew about. He stopped by today to give me back a book, and asked if he could read me a Psalm that he'd read earlier in the day. He's been doing the Cover to Cover Bible devotional to read the whole Bible, and he apparently had thought of me when he read this one. I said yes, and before I could ask him what number he began:

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. 
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging. Selah 
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall; he lifts his voice, the earth melts.
The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.
Come and see the works of the Lord, the desolations he has brought on the earth.
He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters he spear, he burns the shields with fire.
Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.
The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selah


My friend wasn't two verses in when I knew the Psalm. It was Psalm 46, which was the one that was read at my dad's burial. Weird thing about that, to me, was that my father died, and we wanted to bury him by his parents in Darien, CT, and it just so happened that the previous pastor of our church, Christopher, had become a pastor in that diocese. Not only that, but he also shared the exact birthday of my dad: June 4, 1954. As they had both turned 46 less than two weeks before my dad's death, Christopher had thought it would be appropriate to read the 46th Psalm.  

So today I had been reminded of what had happened previously, but I was able to see things in a different light. So there's my rant of the day. Sorry if it  bored ya'll.... I was pretty excited by it all because I learned that death does not equal dark epiphanies, as today's were quite refreshing!

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Beginning to connect

On March 22nd, Dr. Sexon asked the class to specifically begin making connections between William Shakespeare’s Hamlet and the Bhagavad-Gita. Now I am a slacker when it comes to writing these things, so I hope you’ll excuse my tardiness. I began my study by making broad comparisons of the two texts, just to provide myself with some sort of map to help guide my way. I first define the ‘main’ characters of each text. Hamlet is a tragic hero, and Arjuna is a warrior, and, to both, honor is a huge concern. I also identified the idea that both characters are facing inner struggles.

 

In the spirit of the class, I began to make connections to other classes, which the inner struggles spurred me to do. Harold Bloom writes in his The Anxiety of Influence “I never meant by “the anxiety of influence” a Freudian Oedipal rivalry despite a rhetorical flourish or two in this book. A Shakespearean reading of Freud, which I favor over a Freudian reading of Shakespeare or anyone else, reveals that Freud suffered from a Hamlet complex (the true name of the Oedipus Complex) or an anxiety of influence in regard to Shakespeare” (xxii).  Bloom’s views of the ‘Hamlet Complex’ in conjunction with Freud, I believe, are directly tied to interiority, which Bloom is a HUGE advocate for. The inner struggles that Hamlet faced were revolutionary because of the interiority, whereas Arjuna must wear his emotions on his sleeve in order for the audience to gather what he is actually feeling; however, Krishna helps Arjuna through the ‘inner battlefield,’ so there is some interiority.

 

As I state earlier, in both texts, honor is important. It seems like honor is both held for its ethical value, but it also a social value as well (I would like to argue that Hamlet’s call to honor for the murder of a kinsman is a more complex form than Arjuna’s warrior honor, which lends itself to Bloom’s interiority theories). This is similar to the shame cultures that we’ve learned about in previous Oral Traditions and Classical Foundations classes. In the latter class, I must point out, that a hero is defined as a being who is half divine and half mortal. In later literature, the word protagonist seems to be a better fit as is defined in “A Handbook to Literature 10th ed.” as

The chief character in a work. The word was originally applied to the ‘first’ actor in early Greek drama. The actor was added to the CHORUS  and was its leader; hence, the continuing meaning of protagonist as the ‘first’ or chief payer. In Greek drama an AGON is a contest. The protagonist and the ANTAGONIST, the second most important character, are the contesteants. In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Hamlet is himself the protagonist, as his fortunes are the chief interest of the play. King Claudius and Laertes are his ANTAGONISTS. (Harmon 419)

To continue with the Classical theme being applied to Hamlet, I also want to look at The Poetics for a definition of tragedy. Aristotle says,

Tragedy is an imitation of an action that is admirable, complete and possesses magnitude; in language made pleasurable, each of its species separated in a different parts; performed by actors, not through narration; effecting trhough pity and fear the purification of such emotions. (10)

 

 

In my previous blog, the Oral Traditions class can be linked into all of this by looking at this website, which as the Bhagavad-Gita performed in various languages:

http://www.bhagavad-gita.us/articles/664/1/The-Bhagavad-Gita-In-Audio/Page1.html

 

So here is my start. More to come

 

 

Sing me a song

Hey everyone!

I wanted to share with you a website that I stumbled on. On it you'll find the Bhagavad-Gita audio in Sanskrit, English, Spanish, French, Hindi, Gujarati, and Arabic. It's really neat to listen to the Sanskrit especially, but each is set to traditional melodies. 

http://www.bhagavad-gita.us/articles/664/1/The-Bhagavad-Gita-In-Audio/Page1.html

Let me know what you think! I'm taking Oral Traditions right now with Dr. Morgan, so this really fits with that class to for anyone else who is in that class with me, as well!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

"We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." ~Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot

Last Monday, Dr. Sexson quoted the above passage. When I look through my notes, I can surely tell that my mind wandered at that point, and I know why. Art inspires us, and literature is art, thus the above quote inspired me, but it was a very, very dark inspirational path. Be forewarned.

In June, it will have been a decade since my father killed himself. It's been so hard to figure out what went wrong. I was only twelve at the time, newly confirmed into the church, and hopeful for my mother's recovery from the breast cancer that she'd been diagnosed with six months prior. My parents had split up four days before because my father had sort of gone off the deep end after an accident and his alcoholism progressed, and it was no longer the kind of relationship that would aid my mom in getting well once more. It was when my mom and I went to the house (we had gone to stay at my Mom's friend's condo) to wrap my youngest sister's birthday gifts (she was turning 5 two days later) that we found him.

Eliot's quote reminded me of the exploration into my 12 year relationship with my father, and how much I didn't know at the time that I could only learn from extensive counseling. At first I blamed my mother for dad's death because of the separation, but I recalled then my last words to him which were full of hate because I was so upset that he would let my mother take us away rather than fight to be a family. I blamed the cancer, alcohol, us kids, dad's job, the falling stock market, an injury that my father had a few months before, you name it... I blamed it. 

I have worked hard to 'move on,' but I haven't arrived at many of the places, which I hope to know, someday. For this reason, Eliot's quote feels tailor made to what my goals have become.

Sorry if this was depressing... then again.... not all epiphanic moments are happy ones

The other side of the story

After posting my last blog about my Grandma and Grandpa Mason's raspberry patch, I realized that it was highly unfair to discount my mother's side of the family, especially since I received via email the other day a poem from my cousin that I found quite interesting. It is as follows:


It was solid hedge, loops of bramble and thorny
as it had to be with its berries thick as bumblebees.
It drew blood just to get there, but I was queen
of that place, at ten, though the berries shook like fists
in the wind, daring anyone to come in. I was trying
so hard to love this world—real rooms too big and full
of worry to comfortably inhabit—but believing I was born
to live in that cloistered green bower: the raspberry patch
in the back acre of my grandparents’ orchard. I was cross-
stitched and beaded by its fat, dollmaker’s needles. The effort
of sliding under the heavy, spiked tangles that tore
my clothes and smeared me with juice was rewarded
with space, wholly mine, a kind of room out of
the crush of the bushes with a canopy of raspberry
dagger-leaves and a syrup of sun and birdsong.
Hours would pass in the loud buzz of it, blood
made it mine—the adventure of that red sting singing
down my calves, the place the scratches brought me to:
just space enough for a girl to lie down.


My cousin had received this poem with a link to where it had been posted, and she passed it along to me because it reminded her of when we were kids. With my cousins on my mom's side, each summer we would play some version of cowboys and indians (whatever version it was I cannot say), and a lot of it had to do with building forts. My fort was always in a patch of bramble raspberry bushes, and I was usually Princess Wild Flower, or something like that. The location was not the safest, and I was often in my grandparent's house to get doctored up. When I was talking to my grandma about it today, she asked me "Do you remember the first time you really banged yourself up?"

I thought about it, and then I remembered. I was more tramatized by my grandpa's response to me crying than to the blood running down my leg. You see, my grandpa was a medic on the front lines of almost every major, textbook battle in WWII. He was highly decorated for his outstanding service, and was even written about as being a hero. That being said, I remember now how angry he seemed at me for crying over a skinned up knee, and how he told me that if I even knew the things that he saw that I would stomach such petty pain. At the time, I told him I hated him and ran to my parents, but that moment has lasted in me, but I didn't realize it. I changed then. I was not one to cry over bumps and bruises, and I even remember trying so desperately hard to not cry when I ripped off a toe (it was sewed back on, so I'm not too much of a freak). I relived that experience from just a poem that my cousin sent to me because it reminded her of the adventures we would have as a child. I love my grandpa, and though I thought that I hated him then, I now appreciate what he did for me. He inspired me to be tough, which proves that tough love works.

I couldn't find a picture of the whole backyard where we would play, but this is a part of it where one of the last apple trees stands from the old orchard.

Going back to the poem, I thought it was quite appropriate to share it with everyone for a different reason (not just for the sake of fairness). The preface to the poem really struck me because it says this:

American Life in Poetry: Column 126

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

The British writer Virginia Woolf wrote about the pleasures of having a room of one’s own. Here the Vermont poet Karin Gottshall shows us her own sort of private place.


I find it so neat that Dr. Sexson could ignite my memory to recall my Grandma and Grandpa Mason's manicured raspberry patch, which reminds me of the hedgerows in Little Gidding, and then I recalled my Grandpa and Grandma Boe's wild and unruly raspberry patches, which inspired my cousin to email me a poem. The poem's preface shows that a correlation exists between Karin Gottshall, the author, and a previous work by none other than Virginia Woolf (To be Bloomian, perhaps this is an instance of the anxiety of influence?). Dr. Sexson, did you mean to do all of this? :)

My Grandpa and Grandma Boe holding hands.