I saw…those who wanted nothing, achieved nothing, and lived with nothing in mind…and I thought life had to ultimately become, a pit of nothingness… a distortion of light…evil…so the sight of it left you licking scales… impurity from your sockets, gnawing at brick of un…happiness… to bleed…from your mind…then, this…it…they… happened…what? I am not exact... It could’ve been the death of my precious, loving father…not his donations…but a will to love it all for me…her…her…and her; my marriage to a husband so powerfully put together that he has no chose but…be…here…there…within…and no longer without ; the miscarriage of a baby I desperately…(BLANK)...there are no words, just feelings; emergency surgery to remove an organ…an organ…a vessel…and membrane…a member; or just the thought of God saying ‘I Love You’ as only he can… it happened in a real way and life was no longer just quilted pieces of nothingness…no…thing…ness..define it! I cannot…explain what has no words…grasp it..’s…formless body with my hands…it is too swift…I don’t know what am I to do with it... my life, this life…His Life…
Write about its success?...I think…I can…see success seeping inside warm honey success…the word of encouragement inside here…there…a general tale of wake…(in)…up…and reasons to see and believe in life…an exploration of…what can be…and…is…so good…
My mentor, one of the greatest women alive…celebrated a happy birthday…--Happy Birth...Day...too…you—but there was her cancer…her breast…my heart...days, I cried…she told, I cried…selfishly, I cried…she should’ve cried, I cried…If her, then…me…it could happen to me… a selfish me…but it could happen…I cried…we had been defeated…the gauntlet yet thrown… we (she, I , humanity) had been…had…had we…then, it…the unexplainable happened to remind…me, selfish me…she is alive…today…tomorrow…yesterday…we had broken the code…I pass it on…
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Heaven/Hell
I have been reading portions of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, and battling boredom induced depression. I have been feeling ill, and my thoughts have become as complicated as my life as a teacher, a full-time graduate student, and a wife. I have begun to feel myself slipping into an unfamiliar consciousness. Breath by breath I have become someone I do not recognize. So, Milton and I began a journey to seek and find the image of me I am comfortable with calling me….
(Side note: It isn’t easy loving yourself and being unpleased with your circumstances at the same time)
Not too long after the journey began I read, “The mind is its own place, and in itself/Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven” (lines 254-255), and was stricken with a thought so simple I had no choice but to pause and ponder…A Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven? …Which am I doing?
Truthfully, I haven’t been able to come to a conclusion. Depending upon the time and the day, the answer is subject to change. And it is my involuntary submission to change, necessary or unnecessary, that shocks me. I am torn between being shocked that I am shocked by myself, and being shocked that I thought I couldn’t be shocked by myself. The world of thought and boredom…leads me to believe that the mind on Earth osculates back and forth from heaven and hell regardless of its actual location.
(Side note: It isn’t easy loving yourself and being unpleased with your circumstances at the same time)
Not too long after the journey began I read, “The mind is its own place, and in itself/Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven” (lines 254-255), and was stricken with a thought so simple I had no choice but to pause and ponder…A Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven? …Which am I doing?
Truthfully, I haven’t been able to come to a conclusion. Depending upon the time and the day, the answer is subject to change. And it is my involuntary submission to change, necessary or unnecessary, that shocks me. I am torn between being shocked that I am shocked by myself, and being shocked that I thought I couldn’t be shocked by myself. The world of thought and boredom…leads me to believe that the mind on Earth osculates back and forth from heaven and hell regardless of its actual location.
Monday, June 23, 2008
T.S. Eliot- The Waste Land IV. Death by Water
Death is a process of life; the end to a beginning for all. However, each death is not the same. Some suffer to transition from life to death. Others leave more quietly than they came. But the idea of suffering seems to be Eliot’s niche in poetry.
“A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell” (1212, lines 315-317)
Water is a powerful force. We must have it to live, but with too much we are bound to die. Death by water is one the most painful deaths to experience, because of the process the body is put through. Your cells expand and burst from over saturation. Your lungs begin to fill quickly and air is pushed further away from your brain. The pressure begins to build as you reach to breathe nothing but water filled with oxygen you cannot use.
But Eliot’s death does not seem to be a literal expression of death, but a longing to die as age progresses. And a reminder of our fate.
“He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look windward
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.” (1212, lines 317-321)
They shall die, either at sea or somewhere. But their fate is sealed. Did they truly have a chance to live?
“A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell” (1212, lines 315-317)
Water is a powerful force. We must have it to live, but with too much we are bound to die. Death by water is one the most painful deaths to experience, because of the process the body is put through. Your cells expand and burst from over saturation. Your lungs begin to fill quickly and air is pushed further away from your brain. The pressure begins to build as you reach to breathe nothing but water filled with oxygen you cannot use.
But Eliot’s death does not seem to be a literal expression of death, but a longing to die as age progresses. And a reminder of our fate.
“He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look windward
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.” (1212, lines 317-321)
They shall die, either at sea or somewhere. But their fate is sealed. Did they truly have a chance to live?
Gerard Manley Hopkins
I love Hopkins’ poem about waking in hell. The idea of a Heaven and Hell is spellbinding, and gives more attractive natures to the idea of being disowned by God and cast into hell. The darkness that covers him when he awakes is not just an external cover, but an indication of what he feels like on the inside.
“ I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.” (778, lines 9-11)
Suggests that he did not simply awake into hell, he was born there. His flesh and bone were built to suit the hellish heat by God alone. However, he woke up to find that he was still much better off than those who must experience hell away from God and Jesus. Is he suggesting that Earth is a form of hell? A temporary torment with the option of “saving” out through a redeemer? And if so, why would God create Earth to be a slight form of hell?
I don’t think I will ever know the answer to the latter question, but I can question and answer my own beliefs of heaven and hell. And Hopkins has helped get the ball rolling.
“ I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.” (778, lines 9-11)
Suggests that he did not simply awake into hell, he was born there. His flesh and bone were built to suit the hellish heat by God alone. However, he woke up to find that he was still much better off than those who must experience hell away from God and Jesus. Is he suggesting that Earth is a form of hell? A temporary torment with the option of “saving” out through a redeemer? And if so, why would God create Earth to be a slight form of hell?
I don’t think I will ever know the answer to the latter question, but I can question and answer my own beliefs of heaven and hell. And Hopkins has helped get the ball rolling.
Bernard Shaw-Pygmalion
What does it mean to be you pretending to be someone else? Is it important for people to like you, or perceive you as something you are not? These are questions I asked myself while reading Shaw’s Pygmalion.
This play is wonderful because its message is timeless. Why do we have to give up ourselves to allow others to define us? It is a universal question, a theme that crosses borders and seas. Why would someone want to change another in order to identify with something that is not real?
I believe that it is a part of human nature to try to shape our surroundings to fit our comfort level. But I think Shaw wants us to see the brutal ideals that come from trying to shape others in a way that is unnatural to their individuality. I believe the Pygmalion is his commentary about the ills of trying to mold everyone from the same clay.
This play is wonderful because its message is timeless. Why do we have to give up ourselves to allow others to define us? It is a universal question, a theme that crosses borders and seas. Why would someone want to change another in order to identify with something that is not real?
I believe that it is a part of human nature to try to shape our surroundings to fit our comfort level. But I think Shaw wants us to see the brutal ideals that come from trying to shape others in a way that is unnatural to their individuality. I believe the Pygmalion is his commentary about the ills of trying to mold everyone from the same clay.
John Keats-Sonnet: When I have fears
When love and fear combine you find yourself reading When I have fears by John Keats. It is a wonderful poem about the things that matter most in life. It made me think about the things that matter most in my life. It seems a lot of the poems I have been reading recently have helped in the process, because so many of them have dealt with death. But Keats’ When I have fears make me wonder what my fears truly are.
When I behold upon the night’s starred face,
"Huge cloudy symbols of high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;” (425, lines 5-8)
The idea of not reaching my goals or the possibilities that are head frighten me as they do Keats in the lines before. What would I miss? Who would miss me? Would I have accomplished all that I possibly could?
It seems that chance is very important to Keats and his of idea of living life to its fullest. The idea of not having chance seems to be more frightening that opportunity. For me, not having the opportunity to explore or to conquer is what frightens me. I want to be able to accomplish all that I set out to before I leave this Earth.
But why is accomplishing much important to me? That is the question I think Keats would like for me to answer. I would simply answer, “I could have not lived to accomplish nothing at all.”
When I behold upon the night’s starred face,
"Huge cloudy symbols of high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;” (425, lines 5-8)
The idea of not reaching my goals or the possibilities that are head frighten me as they do Keats in the lines before. What would I miss? Who would miss me? Would I have accomplished all that I possibly could?
It seems that chance is very important to Keats and his of idea of living life to its fullest. The idea of not having chance seems to be more frightening that opportunity. For me, not having the opportunity to explore or to conquer is what frightens me. I want to be able to accomplish all that I set out to before I leave this Earth.
But why is accomplishing much important to me? That is the question I think Keats would like for me to answer. I would simply answer, “I could have not lived to accomplish nothing at all.”
Robert Browning, Porphyria's Lover
The love of Elizabeth Barrett Browning did not faze Robert Browning when he wrote Porphyria’s Lover.
I found this poem engaging from the beginning. Love, a universal theme in poetry, was being turned around from the neck to see what was behind it. What it found was its behind and Browning’s uncanny wit. This poem is grotesquely beautiful in every sense. The elements of psychosis, love, and murder all bundled into a magnificent package. One feels compelled to read this murderous tale without flinching or condemnation.
Somehow, we experience the connection between the narrator and Porphyria.
“she put my arm around about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,” (662, lines 16-17)
The love triangle begins, and the scent of her lovely “displaced yellow hair” reaches out to me. I want to touch her and caress below her waist. And as she offers herself to narrator as a sacrifice, I want to offer her my life in place of hers, but the narrator frightens me.
How could he believe that when she offered herself to him forever that she meant for him to take her life? Did love or passion possess him so, that he wanted to keep her forever in death? I believe Browning is showing how love can overtake a sane man and make him irrational.
“in one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.” (663, lines 39-42)
But did she feel pain? I was shocked. I wanted to cry. I thought the love affair between Porphyria, her lover, and I could be immortalized in some manner other than her death. If she felt no pain, I felt it for her. I wept for her return.
I found this poem engaging from the beginning. Love, a universal theme in poetry, was being turned around from the neck to see what was behind it. What it found was its behind and Browning’s uncanny wit. This poem is grotesquely beautiful in every sense. The elements of psychosis, love, and murder all bundled into a magnificent package. One feels compelled to read this murderous tale without flinching or condemnation.
Somehow, we experience the connection between the narrator and Porphyria.
“she put my arm around about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,” (662, lines 16-17)
The love triangle begins, and the scent of her lovely “displaced yellow hair” reaches out to me. I want to touch her and caress below her waist. And as she offers herself to narrator as a sacrifice, I want to offer her my life in place of hers, but the narrator frightens me.
How could he believe that when she offered herself to him forever that she meant for him to take her life? Did love or passion possess him so, that he wanted to keep her forever in death? I believe Browning is showing how love can overtake a sane man and make him irrational.
“in one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.” (663, lines 39-42)
But did she feel pain? I was shocked. I wanted to cry. I thought the love affair between Porphyria, her lover, and I could be immortalized in some manner other than her death. If she felt no pain, I felt it for her. I wept for her return.
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