To be near she who was for so long an idol, and I was for a shining time her adored pet.
We had such aspirational affection, and of course, immature to us both in hindsight, but no less lovely. We use words like "quite" and "lovely." She has taken to enunciating in tiny stacatto any two ts together in words, hard edged unlike our native lazy approach to consonants - we tend to bevel the edges at least.
After a protracted separation, her brief return is from a place that is a shining castle and museum of humanity and civilization. Her brief return is to a place that has county roads, no real center of population and a large number of heavy pickup trucks driven as a matter of course, down those county roads who are all shrugging their shoulders into ditches, from a place where three lanes become six, but there is not much horn honking.
Plus, as she says, "The noise just goes down into the water."
Everyone wants a piece of she and her daughter. Silent fights simmer, never quite breaking boiling, and legitimately inflated lower lips lumber along as giant balloons over upturned faces. All are quite miserable in their love and impatience. We starve for her and we are glad that she can do quite well without us, but what we don't understand is that she doesn't see that we like it when she is near. We do not understand how she could not understand what we understand and alternate between long stretched sinewy tension transmitted digitally, slowly, like getting messages back from distant planets, and loathing for our own expectations and needs.
Also, we are here, in rustic crude metal huts, among crumbling parking lots and empty storefronts, however tastefully the insides of our own homes are decorated. There is no charm here, this crude establishment which is slowly being painted over with more storefronts that will before too long also crumble to shit. Given the setting, is there any wonder there is something ambivalent in the feelings?
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
on science...
Related to Latour.
Something to remember about science: science is founded upon the appealingly rational idea of empirical knowledge - observation, measurement, recording, and repetition. However, these things are, like many other things, not as solid as one might wish them to be.
Our observation is limited to what we can or do observe. In the US, one is "officially" taught that there are five or so senses, with a sixth somewhere between the wished-for/believed-in and the observable, related to the perception of electromagnetics. A great deal of people have these in common, to varying degrees. We know that we do, because we have tools that tells us so, and measurements called decibels. However, due to our differences, we have "deficiencies" - which are only deficiencies in relation to the statistical mean value for a particular population for a particular measurement, in one or many senses.
Currently, a spacecraft launched 30 years ago has reached the borderspace of the heliosphere, but there is no monitoring or survey equipment on board beyond that which is capable of relaying the craft's position. This little time capsule, is empty, save for its capability, and our capability through it, to locate it in space, and in so doing, locate space. How many holes are there in this? How many different types of information could have been gathered; how many things of interest to our species?
How many types of information that we do not know about?
Measurement itself is another issue. Measures of sight or hearing are only of value in comparison to what is considered to be the normal ability. What is considered to be the "normal" ability? Is it the level of hearing or sight capacity that can be measured to be possessed by most people? Or should it be the level in the middle of the lower and higher end of ability? This is not an independent measure, without relationship to some other variable. The units of measure are all subjective, in some sense - horses are still, in the 21st century, measured in a unit called hands. It is currently accepted that a hand is equal to what is known as 4 inches, but what the hell is an inch. I've never seen one in the wild, and my hands are not 4 of them wide. Nor are my feet 12 of them long. They are based on decisions, made standard and viable only because of agreement upon their continued use. I myself will only hope to never see such a thing as a millimeter in nature, as it sounds quite poisonous.
Recording? I'd hope the average reader of the average text or work or document or piece or poetry or prose or drama or comedy or short story or magical spell would understand the faulty nature of transcribing what is not written into what is written. And certainly, the problem of the transcription of what is written to another written form is fraught with danger and possibility. The transcription of an experiment and its results is no exception.
The same holds to repetition. Science is predicated upon the experiment, and the re-creation of results to create a supported case for a relationship between things. This re-creation of results must be achieved by re-creations of that which elicited the results in the first place. Look, if perception, measurement, translating, encoding are tough, let's not even joke about re-creating the conditions for a particular event. Not friggin possible. To be able to recreate the conditions, we would first have had to be able to observe all the conditions which made the results of the initial experiment possible. Herein lies one limitation. Secondly, well, if the agreements for the measurements stay the same, this might be an easier part, what with the agreement and the effort towards the precision of instruments likely to be involved in such an important scientific endeavor as ours. Still, measurement is a funny notion with any amount of thought, and that's worth noting. Then, the first go-round must have been interpreted, encoded, and re-interpreted in such a way as to make these conditions of replication/repetition possible.
Science is a symbol of our understanding, but should not be understood as the boundary of understanding, nor should it be accepted as gospel or poetry without genuine acknowledgement of its limitations in the first place, which are basically our own.
Something to remember about science: science is founded upon the appealingly rational idea of empirical knowledge - observation, measurement, recording, and repetition. However, these things are, like many other things, not as solid as one might wish them to be.
Our observation is limited to what we can or do observe. In the US, one is "officially" taught that there are five or so senses, with a sixth somewhere between the wished-for/believed-in and the observable, related to the perception of electromagnetics. A great deal of people have these in common, to varying degrees. We know that we do, because we have tools that tells us so, and measurements called decibels. However, due to our differences, we have "deficiencies" - which are only deficiencies in relation to the statistical mean value for a particular population for a particular measurement, in one or many senses.
Currently, a spacecraft launched 30 years ago has reached the borderspace of the heliosphere, but there is no monitoring or survey equipment on board beyond that which is capable of relaying the craft's position. This little time capsule, is empty, save for its capability, and our capability through it, to locate it in space, and in so doing, locate space. How many holes are there in this? How many different types of information could have been gathered; how many things of interest to our species?
How many types of information that we do not know about?
Measurement itself is another issue. Measures of sight or hearing are only of value in comparison to what is considered to be the normal ability. What is considered to be the "normal" ability? Is it the level of hearing or sight capacity that can be measured to be possessed by most people? Or should it be the level in the middle of the lower and higher end of ability? This is not an independent measure, without relationship to some other variable. The units of measure are all subjective, in some sense - horses are still, in the 21st century, measured in a unit called hands. It is currently accepted that a hand is equal to what is known as 4 inches, but what the hell is an inch. I've never seen one in the wild, and my hands are not 4 of them wide. Nor are my feet 12 of them long. They are based on decisions, made standard and viable only because of agreement upon their continued use. I myself will only hope to never see such a thing as a millimeter in nature, as it sounds quite poisonous.
Recording? I'd hope the average reader of the average text or work or document or piece or poetry or prose or drama or comedy or short story or magical spell would understand the faulty nature of transcribing what is not written into what is written. And certainly, the problem of the transcription of what is written to another written form is fraught with danger and possibility. The transcription of an experiment and its results is no exception.
The same holds to repetition. Science is predicated upon the experiment, and the re-creation of results to create a supported case for a relationship between things. This re-creation of results must be achieved by re-creations of that which elicited the results in the first place. Look, if perception, measurement, translating, encoding are tough, let's not even joke about re-creating the conditions for a particular event. Not friggin possible. To be able to recreate the conditions, we would first have had to be able to observe all the conditions which made the results of the initial experiment possible. Herein lies one limitation. Secondly, well, if the agreements for the measurements stay the same, this might be an easier part, what with the agreement and the effort towards the precision of instruments likely to be involved in such an important scientific endeavor as ours. Still, measurement is a funny notion with any amount of thought, and that's worth noting. Then, the first go-round must have been interpreted, encoded, and re-interpreted in such a way as to make these conditions of replication/repetition possible.
Science is a symbol of our understanding, but should not be understood as the boundary of understanding, nor should it be accepted as gospel or poetry without genuine acknowledgement of its limitations in the first place, which are basically our own.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
seasonal reading
autumn approaches. the heat, by infinitestimal degrees is letting us slide from its greasy palm. Oktoberfest and other fall seasonally brewed beers are popping up, with redandgold leaves on their boxes, so we're clear that what's inside that box, those bottles, is meant to be tied to certain changes in atmosphere.
19 years ago someday recently, I didn't wave at my grandfather when we drove by. He was moving the yard, I think there was a tropical storm in the Gulf, and later that night he died.
fall is determined to be a descent, a transition, a doorway. Spring too, these threshold seasons, for some reason summer and winter are fixed. understood. The rest of the time is a cosmic road trip between solstices. Northrop Frye isolates the time in the cultural imagination as that of "sunset, autumn and death...of the dying god...and sacrifice and of the isolation of the hero." The "traitor and siren" rule this late afternoon to sunset time, which makes it sexy and treacherous, yet the heat makes it insufferable. At this time, the knees of the strongest wobble, the hearts of the bold murmur, and the sweat rises easily to the skin. It will be glorified; however, just a little later in the day. And so we've got faded golden Ulysses, our idle king sighing at comfortable hearthside and deciding the afternoon was so glorious; remember when they reveled in the heat and labor? Fuck it he says, let's get the band back together.
However, of course the paraphrase lacks much that the real thing features. In honor of the afternoon, a little Tennyson:
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
-- Ulysses
And so tarry a moment on the beers with the leaves on the labels. Revel in the heat. We'll be hearthside soon enough.
19 years ago someday recently, I didn't wave at my grandfather when we drove by. He was moving the yard, I think there was a tropical storm in the Gulf, and later that night he died.
fall is determined to be a descent, a transition, a doorway. Spring too, these threshold seasons, for some reason summer and winter are fixed. understood. The rest of the time is a cosmic road trip between solstices. Northrop Frye isolates the time in the cultural imagination as that of "sunset, autumn and death...of the dying god...and sacrifice and of the isolation of the hero." The "traitor and siren" rule this late afternoon to sunset time, which makes it sexy and treacherous, yet the heat makes it insufferable. At this time, the knees of the strongest wobble, the hearts of the bold murmur, and the sweat rises easily to the skin. It will be glorified; however, just a little later in the day. And so we've got faded golden Ulysses, our idle king sighing at comfortable hearthside and deciding the afternoon was so glorious; remember when they reveled in the heat and labor? Fuck it he says, let's get the band back together.
However, of course the paraphrase lacks much that the real thing features. In honor of the afternoon, a little Tennyson:
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
-- Ulysses
And so tarry a moment on the beers with the leaves on the labels. Revel in the heat. We'll be hearthside soon enough.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
things that every child should know, #1
it takes judgment to swear well, and that is the main objection anyone has to children and insipid people swearing.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Handsome Reader - The Hunger Games
It is with no small measure of irony that I cop to devouring The Hunger Games today. I had been planning to do just a little bit more
with my summer and learned today that I will not be quite as busy as I had heretofore planned. Thus, summer reading camp. I've knocked
off quite a sequence a books in the few weeks past, trying to get my reading brain back in shape for school. (I think I am a funny and charismatic
instructor. I am dull shit as a student, but at least I am old enough to know that my brain weren't where it should be for upper-level coursework.)
Few books catch me enough to write about, or maybe I'm just lazy. Collins' The Hunger Games has been on my read list for quite some time. I'm not necessarily one of the carefree pushers of YA lit (avoiding an MLS partly to avoid that ghetto), but I genuinely continue to enjoy books written for and marketed to (Bill Hicks says "kill yourself") that audience. L'Engle's Wrinkle in Time series, several Ursula K. LeGuin and the excellent Roald Dahl novels populate my bookshelves with scars of honor and love down their spines. I don't know quite that THG will be joining them.
I may instead be reserving a corner of my darker bookshelf for THG. This is the section where lurk Philip K. Dick's androids dreaming(or not) of pneumatic, positronic sweaters on the foot, and where Atwood's seamy survivalists squat in squalor. This is at least what I was thinking as I entered the first chapter.
The first page (SPOILER ALERT!) reveals a disembodied speaker in the first person, which in a novel ostensibly about survival, could be telling. A saintly, cherubic little sister, a bashed-up cat who survived a drowning attempt in kittenhood at the hands of the as-yet-identified main character and a difficult maternal relationship.
This voice resolves itself into a grim, yet plucky heroine, a capitalistic Dickensean femme urchin who is the man of the family. At one point, Katniss is coaxed into particular behaviors in attempt to make the public, the revolted and compelled viewers of the book's namesake Games, like her. Look, after the first page, after the kitten thing, there's really not much I don't like about this character. She's a, ahem, fucking hardass. Collins has placed these Games in a brutal future Panem, which the reader assumes to be North America. Katniss is from the poorest of the poor districts, a literal coal miner's daughter (albeit a coal miner who was blown to smithereens in an industrial accident five years before) who lives by her survivalist and entreprenurial impulses. She has spent enough time in the forbidden forest, hunting, to have learned to become one of the animals. Katniss is both a symbol of a human and animal connection, but also of a teenage girl in the wilderness of school hallways - predators, schemes, arbitrary rules and no real self-control. As such, she's brilliant. Maybe I'm sheltered, and being reductive in believing that the gender of a protagonist has anything to do with anything, but I like the fact that Katniss is a sharp, hard girl who has a silly moment here and there. I heard a piece on NPR over the winter, and heard about another girl from coal country, quite a bit like Katniss. I don't remember this girl's name, but she is simultaneously head cheerleader and an avid deer hunter. Katniss is hardly head cheerleader, but once she is inserted into the pressure cooker of the media frenzy surrounding the Games, she navigates the system and responds with strength to many of the situations designed to manipulate her into making mistakes. She's honorable, offering herself for sacrifice in place of cherubic, goat-milking sister Prim, in a way that few female characters are allowed to be. I am put particularly in mind of L'Engle's Meg Murry, on a quest in A Wind in the Door to save her little brother, and in Wrinkle in Time her efforts to save both her father and brother.
L'Engle's Meg Murry, however, didn't dodge fireballs, and there were no impalings of pixie-ish 12 year olds in the Time quartet. That's where I find that the book takes a strange turn, combining gore, sci fi (tracking wasps that hold grudges and vile psychotropic fatal poison? Yeaaaaah.), amped-up Hollywood special effects (makes me certain I will never see this as a movie), post-climate change/political apocalypse and commentary on reality entertainment media. Strange, but I like it. Theme-wise, it reminds me of a couple of Stephen King's early novellas, sold as the Bachman books when I was a teenager, particulary "The Long Walk" and "The Running Man." His blurb on the back of the book, then, seemed to be in place. Thematically, I'm wondering how much anime or manga Collins has read. Gore is a bit of a theme in my entertainment media at the moment, and this one didn't skimp on it either, though it was typically more of the exploding green wasp pus gore, instead of being like literal, visceral gore - and I mean the kind that involves actual viscera. There is a sword wound (YES a SWORD wound - no guns, I don't think I read any, anyway) and more pus gore, and a protracted way fucked-up death scene at the end, but it's mostly in the narrator's mind instead of in her vision, which is kind of worse and a very sweet classic way of pushing the audience's buttons (it's the difference between old movies that are scary and never show the "monster" vs new special effects CGI candyshop things that are dull as shit because the viewer can see the Evil One's wide pores. The theme of setting the teenagers to kill each other isn't quite new (see also Battle Royale), but these teens also have a post-reality-television attitude towards the game of survival, and the adult public uses it as a politcal, sporting, gambling and clan-pride type event.
Ahm, because yes, I will be passing the book on - I'm not going to make space on my shelf for this one. I will burn through the entire series in no short order, and will hopefully be as grabbed by those as I was by this initial installment. That's actually part of the issue - the serious action wraps up at a certain point and there is a strange dragging ending to the book. I think part of this may replicate what Katniss experiences, the aftereffects of the stress of survival compounded with the much more subtle and sinister games being played after the gladitorial event. At a certain point, however, it becommes completely obvious that THG is the first installment. I think that there are several more elegant ways to deal with the segue into the next piece, but I didn't really need the heroine to be back at her District in order to begin the next installment. I don't know, though, and I guess reading it will tell me more. But there's more on why I'd not put it on my heart-pounding read shelf.
I am guilty of judging books by their covers and the blurbs thereupon. I've mentioned already King's blurb, and now I have to talk shit about Stephenie Meyer's blurb. (Uum, for someone who's not ever seen a rated R movie, this must not have been an easy read, or, as I suspect, Meyer has no imagination, so the twelve year old on the stake didn't present as a revolting picture in her mind. This must be how one writes a birth scene involving gnawing. But this does remind me, I do need to read Lord of the Flies this summer. Unbelieveable that a Lit major and book dork avoided that one. How?) Okay. There's purpose and there's audience, and I understand writing to appeal to one's audience. It's totally necessary and a central concern to a writer embarking on a writerly exercise. For example, I'm writing for an audience of about 5 (Hi there! Love you!) and myself, and it's on the internet, so I can say "fuck" and things like that. Meyer and Collins both write for the YA market, and muchly for girls, although I've noticed many young male readers engaged in both series, and almost tackled a guy teen at the library when he got the branch's copy of THG right before me the last time I had time enough to read it. I would have looked like a child abuser and book pervert. Weirdo. The fact that the book is marketed to teens, however, does not give the writers excuses to write like teens. Like sentence fragments. Just about everywhere.
I remember writing. Just like that. I can't do it anymore, at least not in prose, or at least I make an effort not to, but that's also partially because I am becoming more reflexively aware of my clauses. Not that they sometimes don't get the better of me. The sentence fragment thing alone gives rise to my objections to Meyer's works (or the selections there of that I've read) and the Collins novel. Why the fragments? Why the breathless lack of subjects or verbs, and why the attachment to prepositional phrases and dependent clauses flying solo?
This is why, when people give me the lame, well, at least the kids are reading bullshit, I call bullshit. If the kids are reading, let them read something with some grammatical style. I mean this trend does have a grammatical style, but it's a bullshitty grammatical style and the readers pick up on it. I know Atwood's not perfect, and she way influenced my short lines in poetry - I came to Atwood's fiction through her poetry (thanks again for long ago gifts, Nick), but she's got some pretty serious control over her clauses. This is a crucial skill that Meyer and Collins could work on. (Perhaps they've never read any R-rated poetry?)
Story-wise, it's a beast. I'm going to enjoy thinking over levels of potential symbolism that I read in the book -I especially like the idea about Katniss navigating the Games and games culture as a stand-in for a young woman's progression to adulthood in a culture of extreme pressure. Again, I'm going to read the sequels, and probably wish for different transitions/endings, but that's just armchair novel-writing. But the fragments. I will not forgive.
with my summer and learned today that I will not be quite as busy as I had heretofore planned. Thus, summer reading camp. I've knocked
off quite a sequence a books in the few weeks past, trying to get my reading brain back in shape for school. (I think I am a funny and charismatic
instructor. I am dull shit as a student, but at least I am old enough to know that my brain weren't where it should be for upper-level coursework.)
Few books catch me enough to write about, or maybe I'm just lazy. Collins' The Hunger Games has been on my read list for quite some time. I'm not necessarily one of the carefree pushers of YA lit (avoiding an MLS partly to avoid that ghetto), but I genuinely continue to enjoy books written for and marketed to (Bill Hicks says "kill yourself") that audience. L'Engle's Wrinkle in Time series, several Ursula K. LeGuin and the excellent Roald Dahl novels populate my bookshelves with scars of honor and love down their spines. I don't know quite that THG will be joining them.
I may instead be reserving a corner of my darker bookshelf for THG. This is the section where lurk Philip K. Dick's androids dreaming(or not) of pneumatic, positronic sweaters on the foot, and where Atwood's seamy survivalists squat in squalor. This is at least what I was thinking as I entered the first chapter.
The first page (SPOILER ALERT!) reveals a disembodied speaker in the first person, which in a novel ostensibly about survival, could be telling. A saintly, cherubic little sister, a bashed-up cat who survived a drowning attempt in kittenhood at the hands of the as-yet-identified main character and a difficult maternal relationship.
This voice resolves itself into a grim, yet plucky heroine, a capitalistic Dickensean femme urchin who is the man of the family. At one point, Katniss is coaxed into particular behaviors in attempt to make the public, the revolted and compelled viewers of the book's namesake Games, like her. Look, after the first page, after the kitten thing, there's really not much I don't like about this character. She's a, ahem, fucking hardass. Collins has placed these Games in a brutal future Panem, which the reader assumes to be North America. Katniss is from the poorest of the poor districts, a literal coal miner's daughter (albeit a coal miner who was blown to smithereens in an industrial accident five years before) who lives by her survivalist and entreprenurial impulses. She has spent enough time in the forbidden forest, hunting, to have learned to become one of the animals. Katniss is both a symbol of a human and animal connection, but also of a teenage girl in the wilderness of school hallways - predators, schemes, arbitrary rules and no real self-control. As such, she's brilliant. Maybe I'm sheltered, and being reductive in believing that the gender of a protagonist has anything to do with anything, but I like the fact that Katniss is a sharp, hard girl who has a silly moment here and there. I heard a piece on NPR over the winter, and heard about another girl from coal country, quite a bit like Katniss. I don't remember this girl's name, but she is simultaneously head cheerleader and an avid deer hunter. Katniss is hardly head cheerleader, but once she is inserted into the pressure cooker of the media frenzy surrounding the Games, she navigates the system and responds with strength to many of the situations designed to manipulate her into making mistakes. She's honorable, offering herself for sacrifice in place of cherubic, goat-milking sister Prim, in a way that few female characters are allowed to be. I am put particularly in mind of L'Engle's Meg Murry, on a quest in A Wind in the Door to save her little brother, and in Wrinkle in Time her efforts to save both her father and brother.
L'Engle's Meg Murry, however, didn't dodge fireballs, and there were no impalings of pixie-ish 12 year olds in the Time quartet. That's where I find that the book takes a strange turn, combining gore, sci fi (tracking wasps that hold grudges and vile psychotropic fatal poison? Yeaaaaah.), amped-up Hollywood special effects (makes me certain I will never see this as a movie), post-climate change/political apocalypse and commentary on reality entertainment media. Strange, but I like it. Theme-wise, it reminds me of a couple of Stephen King's early novellas, sold as the Bachman books when I was a teenager, particulary "The Long Walk" and "The Running Man." His blurb on the back of the book, then, seemed to be in place. Thematically, I'm wondering how much anime or manga Collins has read. Gore is a bit of a theme in my entertainment media at the moment, and this one didn't skimp on it either, though it was typically more of the exploding green wasp pus gore, instead of being like literal, visceral gore - and I mean the kind that involves actual viscera. There is a sword wound (YES a SWORD wound - no guns, I don't think I read any, anyway) and more pus gore, and a protracted way fucked-up death scene at the end, but it's mostly in the narrator's mind instead of in her vision, which is kind of worse and a very sweet classic way of pushing the audience's buttons (it's the difference between old movies that are scary and never show the "monster" vs new special effects CGI candyshop things that are dull as shit because the viewer can see the Evil One's wide pores. The theme of setting the teenagers to kill each other isn't quite new (see also Battle Royale), but these teens also have a post-reality-television attitude towards the game of survival, and the adult public uses it as a politcal, sporting, gambling and clan-pride type event.
Ahm, because yes, I will be passing the book on - I'm not going to make space on my shelf for this one. I will burn through the entire series in no short order, and will hopefully be as grabbed by those as I was by this initial installment. That's actually part of the issue - the serious action wraps up at a certain point and there is a strange dragging ending to the book. I think part of this may replicate what Katniss experiences, the aftereffects of the stress of survival compounded with the much more subtle and sinister games being played after the gladitorial event. At a certain point, however, it becommes completely obvious that THG is the first installment. I think that there are several more elegant ways to deal with the segue into the next piece, but I didn't really need the heroine to be back at her District in order to begin the next installment. I don't know, though, and I guess reading it will tell me more. But there's more on why I'd not put it on my heart-pounding read shelf.
I am guilty of judging books by their covers and the blurbs thereupon. I've mentioned already King's blurb, and now I have to talk shit about Stephenie Meyer's blurb. (Uum, for someone who's not ever seen a rated R movie, this must not have been an easy read, or, as I suspect, Meyer has no imagination, so the twelve year old on the stake didn't present as a revolting picture in her mind. This must be how one writes a birth scene involving gnawing. But this does remind me, I do need to read Lord of the Flies this summer. Unbelieveable that a Lit major and book dork avoided that one. How?) Okay. There's purpose and there's audience, and I understand writing to appeal to one's audience. It's totally necessary and a central concern to a writer embarking on a writerly exercise. For example, I'm writing for an audience of about 5 (Hi there! Love you!) and myself, and it's on the internet, so I can say "fuck" and things like that. Meyer and Collins both write for the YA market, and muchly for girls, although I've noticed many young male readers engaged in both series, and almost tackled a guy teen at the library when he got the branch's copy of THG right before me the last time I had time enough to read it. I would have looked like a child abuser and book pervert. Weirdo. The fact that the book is marketed to teens, however, does not give the writers excuses to write like teens. Like sentence fragments. Just about everywhere.
I remember writing. Just like that. I can't do it anymore, at least not in prose, or at least I make an effort not to, but that's also partially because I am becoming more reflexively aware of my clauses. Not that they sometimes don't get the better of me. The sentence fragment thing alone gives rise to my objections to Meyer's works (or the selections there of that I've read) and the Collins novel. Why the fragments? Why the breathless lack of subjects or verbs, and why the attachment to prepositional phrases and dependent clauses flying solo?
This is why, when people give me the lame, well, at least the kids are reading bullshit, I call bullshit. If the kids are reading, let them read something with some grammatical style. I mean this trend does have a grammatical style, but it's a bullshitty grammatical style and the readers pick up on it. I know Atwood's not perfect, and she way influenced my short lines in poetry - I came to Atwood's fiction through her poetry (thanks again for long ago gifts, Nick), but she's got some pretty serious control over her clauses. This is a crucial skill that Meyer and Collins could work on. (Perhaps they've never read any R-rated poetry?)
Story-wise, it's a beast. I'm going to enjoy thinking over levels of potential symbolism that I read in the book -I especially like the idea about Katniss navigating the Games and games culture as a stand-in for a young woman's progression to adulthood in a culture of extreme pressure. Again, I'm going to read the sequels, and probably wish for different transitions/endings, but that's just armchair novel-writing. But the fragments. I will not forgive.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
a leisurely tour
(From March of this year - it's taken me this long to type it...)
much of what I write is fiction, since much of what I write is plans and I pretty much never do what I write down that I should.
But here's a piece of documentary prose (oxymoron? paradox? redundancy?). Here is descriptive narrative - an observation of the state of affairs of the garden, to wit, the notations of a backporch farmer who doesn't know much yet. I've got some ideas, and I don't know how they'll pan out.
Geraniums flank the door, an oderiferous (the cashier at the nursery pronounced it "pungent") citronella geranium on the left. Intricate lacy leaves, no signs of bloom yet save a picture on the tag jammed into the front of the pot. The flowers pictured look more like plumerias than geraniums, but what the hell. The foliage smells nice.
In more robust, fat petaled typical geranium style, the Americana Violet '11 is colored like an acid trip. Vibrant migraine trigger pink, it's so bright that it's taken me a month to realize that part of the retina-searing brightness comes from the cymbal crash contrast of atomic orange at the center of each bloom. It cheerfully weathers whatever it is that's chomping away at the fat Buddha palm leaves. I should do something about that. (Post script: I never did. The chompers became so full of no-thing that they disappeared with all the drama of one hand clapping.)
Hanging over all is usually a variegated pink and red ivy geranium, raining scarlet petals over all, like cherry blossoms in Japanese art. These things go freaking everywhere and it's so blatant where they fall because they are so bright. The ivy geranium is on the ground now, due to weather predicted last night, and down also came the mostly experimental hanging strawberry. (Post script: May and I'm ready to compost the thing. Put it out of its misery - it's obviously a daylong strawberry not an everbearing and we can get something up there to either make food or attract pollinators. The other farmer does not agree with me and for the moment he is winning.)
Two mints, actively and promiscuously trading various nuances of flavor, behind the guilt Gerber from Gran (she beheaded the two I had on a plant that my cats have since treated as a salad bar) in a goofy green pot. It is entirely goofy, big floppy leaves and guileless bumpkin face flowers. The gerbers will really be impressed when the sunflower seeds get going in the protein garden.
The protein garden is yet to come, so I will here steer discussion away from lofty goals and return to the now-ness of what-is. What-is is stevia, a sweet leafed herb, potted on the right of the back door. I am thinking of stevia and chocolate mint (one of the promiscuous ones) herbal infusion tea. (Post script: I have harvested and dried some leaves from both the stevia and chocolate mint plants this week. I crushed some up with ice, turbinado sugar, my favorite bourbon and a few drops of water last night. Excellent.)
There's a small pot of rosemary, one sprig, and it refuses to grow, but it hasn't given up. I feel for that rosemary. Gran just kind of pulled it out of the crack in her sidewalk, late last summer and it lived in a glass of water on my counter for about a week because, I'm sorry I was busy okay? The rosemary persists. It abides. Whatever. (The other farmer insists that it's upside down. I once again will not say outright that he's correct, but it's entirely possible. Roots went in the dirt, I say.)
Garlic chives about as motivated as the rosemary. I've never had luck with chives or green onion from seed but I don't know. We got it as a plant and I am not the one who potted it. We'll see. (Post script: We're still wait-and-see with this one. Still.)
Oregano in another pot. Also a little plant, not doing much. (PS: Still.) An aloe plant, growing slowly, recovering from the loss of a spike before we got it. There is a rubber shark in the aloe pot, just so everyone is properly warned that it is a tough plant.
Ichiban eggplant (a gift for the other farmer) is in a taller pot and it is starting to bloom - light purple flowers, six petals, yellow pistils(? stamens?) something inside; it reminds me of a violet or a prairie flower, yet it nestles in with these bulbous fat leaves naturally. (PS: There are literally a million eggplants on the plant right now. I need to harvest some so the plant will keep producing, but they're all fat and egg-shaped, not long like the tag and the rest of the world and the internet indicate Ichiban eggplant should be.)
The last (at that time) pot is a strange case. It's old, crappy dirt, and I think I tried to use it for nasturtiums last summer/fall. No va, as they say, nada. But I think the other farmer put some kind of citrus seed - anything from a grapefruit to a lime - in the dirt. I ignored it; the pot sat out all winter while other things went into the garage (the rosemary is the only thing that made it out of the garage alive). So. There's a seedling with three layers of glossy green citrus looking leaves. (PS: Still growing, still no clue.)
(Post Script to entire previous: This piece neglects to mention the proliferation of tomatoes slowly taking over the place, the raised bed, my birthday lemon, and various other secrets. These may or may not be addressed in due time.)
much of what I write is fiction, since much of what I write is plans and I pretty much never do what I write down that I should.
But here's a piece of documentary prose (oxymoron? paradox? redundancy?). Here is descriptive narrative - an observation of the state of affairs of the garden, to wit, the notations of a backporch farmer who doesn't know much yet. I've got some ideas, and I don't know how they'll pan out.
Geraniums flank the door, an oderiferous (the cashier at the nursery pronounced it "pungent") citronella geranium on the left. Intricate lacy leaves, no signs of bloom yet save a picture on the tag jammed into the front of the pot. The flowers pictured look more like plumerias than geraniums, but what the hell. The foliage smells nice.
In more robust, fat petaled typical geranium style, the Americana Violet '11 is colored like an acid trip. Vibrant migraine trigger pink, it's so bright that it's taken me a month to realize that part of the retina-searing brightness comes from the cymbal crash contrast of atomic orange at the center of each bloom. It cheerfully weathers whatever it is that's chomping away at the fat Buddha palm leaves. I should do something about that. (Post script: I never did. The chompers became so full of no-thing that they disappeared with all the drama of one hand clapping.)
Hanging over all is usually a variegated pink and red ivy geranium, raining scarlet petals over all, like cherry blossoms in Japanese art. These things go freaking everywhere and it's so blatant where they fall because they are so bright. The ivy geranium is on the ground now, due to weather predicted last night, and down also came the mostly experimental hanging strawberry. (Post script: May and I'm ready to compost the thing. Put it out of its misery - it's obviously a daylong strawberry not an everbearing and we can get something up there to either make food or attract pollinators. The other farmer does not agree with me and for the moment he is winning.)
Two mints, actively and promiscuously trading various nuances of flavor, behind the guilt Gerber from Gran (she beheaded the two I had on a plant that my cats have since treated as a salad bar) in a goofy green pot. It is entirely goofy, big floppy leaves and guileless bumpkin face flowers. The gerbers will really be impressed when the sunflower seeds get going in the protein garden.
The protein garden is yet to come, so I will here steer discussion away from lofty goals and return to the now-ness of what-is. What-is is stevia, a sweet leafed herb, potted on the right of the back door. I am thinking of stevia and chocolate mint (one of the promiscuous ones) herbal infusion tea. (Post script: I have harvested and dried some leaves from both the stevia and chocolate mint plants this week. I crushed some up with ice, turbinado sugar, my favorite bourbon and a few drops of water last night. Excellent.)
There's a small pot of rosemary, one sprig, and it refuses to grow, but it hasn't given up. I feel for that rosemary. Gran just kind of pulled it out of the crack in her sidewalk, late last summer and it lived in a glass of water on my counter for about a week because, I'm sorry I was busy okay? The rosemary persists. It abides. Whatever. (The other farmer insists that it's upside down. I once again will not say outright that he's correct, but it's entirely possible. Roots went in the dirt, I say.)
Garlic chives about as motivated as the rosemary. I've never had luck with chives or green onion from seed but I don't know. We got it as a plant and I am not the one who potted it. We'll see. (Post script: We're still wait-and-see with this one. Still.)
Oregano in another pot. Also a little plant, not doing much. (PS: Still.) An aloe plant, growing slowly, recovering from the loss of a spike before we got it. There is a rubber shark in the aloe pot, just so everyone is properly warned that it is a tough plant.
Ichiban eggplant (a gift for the other farmer) is in a taller pot and it is starting to bloom - light purple flowers, six petals, yellow pistils(? stamens?) something inside; it reminds me of a violet or a prairie flower, yet it nestles in with these bulbous fat leaves naturally. (PS: There are literally a million eggplants on the plant right now. I need to harvest some so the plant will keep producing, but they're all fat and egg-shaped, not long like the tag and the rest of the world and the internet indicate Ichiban eggplant should be.)
The last (at that time) pot is a strange case. It's old, crappy dirt, and I think I tried to use it for nasturtiums last summer/fall. No va, as they say, nada. But I think the other farmer put some kind of citrus seed - anything from a grapefruit to a lime - in the dirt. I ignored it; the pot sat out all winter while other things went into the garage (the rosemary is the only thing that made it out of the garage alive). So. There's a seedling with three layers of glossy green citrus looking leaves. (PS: Still growing, still no clue.)
(Post Script to entire previous: This piece neglects to mention the proliferation of tomatoes slowly taking over the place, the raised bed, my birthday lemon, and various other secrets. These may or may not be addressed in due time.)
Monday, May 2, 2011
holding on
This last week of the semester is a temporal Ground Zero - it's all recovery, disaster relief and triage, just to get everyone to hold on until next week.
The plants are growing, I've got a sock and a half on the needles, as well as seventy-five percent of a baby blanket and the beginnings of a shawl for a charity auction (in nineteen days, there's another emergency response situation in the brewing). Spinning projects abound, the garden is getting much needier, and there is naught but a busy summer (grad school!) ahead of me.
The plants are growing, I've got a sock and a half on the needles, as well as seventy-five percent of a baby blanket and the beginnings of a shawl for a charity auction (in nineteen days, there's another emergency response situation in the brewing). Spinning projects abound, the garden is getting much needier, and there is naught but a busy summer (grad school!) ahead of me.
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