I read it last week, but I didn’t post about it. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf was a form establishing novel, a one-day stream-of-conscious focus on characters revolving around the titular Mrs. Dalloway. Continue reading
But also, a response poem, to T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” It is not line for line or theme for theme, it’s a mash up of what was inspired in me by it. I’m fairly certain this meets the requirements of “something about the class” since it’s a material and original result of exposure to the coursework.
Title: Whose Wasteland
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy: Continue reading
This week, we were asked to read a poem among five, titled “Say Over Again” by Emily Browning, a sonnet. Continue reading
Victor Frankenstein was one of the most revoltingly unsympathetic protagonists I’ve read. Continue reading
One poem required of this week was John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale,” along with the question of his relevance. The proposed interpretation is that Keats was fretting over his viability with future readers of his poems. The ultimate result is answered by Keats’ own poetry, however the perspective of time is stretched: Continue reading
Now a course requires a blog and so call this chapter zero of a seven part installment, reasonably guaranteed to appear on a weekly basis. Maybe I’ll discover a good habit.
The course is English Lit, and we begin with a rudimentary reflection on The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Coleridge. The question: what if the Mariner were real. What if Coleridge modernized an oral retelling of something like the Old English The Seafarer, only it reflected tiny historical details. Maybe the Mariner is and had been dead by Coleridge’s time, but what if long he lived to tell his tale in different parts of the world, and the stories are always remembered a little different.
Then Tolkien modernized the English classic into Ëarendil. And so forth. The Mariner lives on.
One written for class, the other on a spur.
This journal has a company logo, while I have no idea what Rtm does. This journal started with a nail through the skull and bleeding, stripping, gutting and eventually tanning, dying, cutting Continue reading
Inspired by idle academic activity.
We stopped at a street performance between the Riverwalk and the French Quarter in New Orleans. They were four young to prime black men, and after the first demonstration, the MC began pulling volunteers from the watching crowd. Three lovely ladies, two rich white men, one Asian and five kids. “Now,” he said, “we are politically correct.” For the next half hour, between feats of dance and performance, the dancers ribbed the audience with every racial joke that made room for itself and they lavished over the Asian Sensation, bowing, mocking accents, looking for his camera and map, and goading him to dance to Kung-Fu Fighting. Just before the last most spectacular trick—flying over six adults—they took donations, pitting states and countries against each other for twenty, forty or a hundred dollars. New Jersey, North Carolina, Arkansas three times; Denmark, Serbia, Australia, Mexico and France. Finally they fleeced the rich white men, forty dollars apiece. Then, with sixty from the Asian Sensation, they asked where he was from. Laughing, he said, “Alabama.”
I walked up to a church, a church that doesn’t exist, didn’t exist, but is the church of all the churches I have ever walked up to. It is Orthodox and Catholic and Presbyterian. It is plain and ostentatious. It is abandoned and destroyed. The steeple has fallen in on the pews. You cannot get to it easily, you must fly, and then walk, the sun watching, the worn white crossed markers glinting near the ground. “Her tribulations were her glory” reads a faded slab. Fragments of painted color huddle in the shade, Mary’s robes, Jesus’ eyes. The foundations are local stone, blood red in the sun and buffed to a shine by the wind. The slats are wooden, imported, clinging to paint in the deepest grains of splintering cover. Broken shards cast jagged shadows on the muddy, scrubby, forgotten ground and the cross is gone.
It’s obviously been quite a span since I’ve posted. Taking the time to slow down and synthesize some work or reason has just been difficult to justify.
On the train to Hannover, the friend I was traveling with made the remark that, in looking for historical places in Hannover, the city was either very boring, or had been completely devastated during World War II. Continue reading