A poem close to my heart, arteries, veins, etc. February 18, 2007
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Someone once told me that posting twice in one day is a blog-faux-pas. I have not posted in a while so I am making up for lost time. This one will be quick. I came across a poem that really made me laugh…then made me cry a little. Enjoy.
“Fat Is Not a Fairy Tale” by Jane Yolen
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Cinder Elephant,
Sleeping Tubby,
Snow Weight,
where the princess is not
anorexic, wasp-waisted,
flinging herself down the stairs.
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Hansel and Great,
Repoundsel,
Bounty and the Beast,
where the beauty
has a pillowed breast,
and fingers plump as sausage.
I am thinking of a fairy tale
that is not yet written,
for a teller not yet born,
for a listener not yet conceived,
for a world not yet won,
where everything round is good:
the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess.
The last stanza of this poem is amazing and hopeful. When will there be a teller and a listener from a world not yet won with greed, hate, racism, bigotry, jealousy, war… I hope in my lifetime.
“Atonement” by Ian McKewan February 18, 2007
Posted by Chris Lewis in Attempts at Fiction, Book Review.add a comment
***Spoiler alert***
Though there have only been two posts thus far, I have just finished a novel titled Atonement by Ian McKewan that raised some questions as the the purpose of writing fiction.
This question was posed at the end of the novel, “How can a novelist achievement atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God?”
A partial answer, “There is no one, no entity or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her. There is nothing outside her. In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms. No atonement for God, or novelists, even if they are athiests. It was always an impossible task, and was precisely the point. The attempt was all.”
Though the book was not my favorite. In fact, I had to put it down for a little over a week because the narrative hit a major road block between Parts. However, as the novel came to a close and the narrator revealed herself and the truth, it became apparent to me that this is another perfect example of the power of process. The narrator obviously created a product, and if you read Atonement, then you will see how the product is created. But in the end, the process of writing, thinking, admitting, and doing are what provide some kind of fulfillment. In the case of this book, the fulfillment was not a reward but a renewal from years of guilt and sadness. Atonement is an example of one of the ways we as humans deal with our emotions, our understanding of the world, and our understanding of each other. The characters in this book are complex, yet we see them doing mundane tasks. Most of them are so absorbed in their own lives, especially the narrator, that they fail to create lasting relationships with those closest to them.
In the end I am glad that I do not write for “atonement.” I have not figured out how to explain this in the correct words yet. Maybe after our book club this week I will have a better answer.
February 1, 2007
Posted by Chris Lewis in Attempts at Fiction.1 comment so far
What are you waiting for? Has the alarm gone off yet? You don’t want to be late.
She crawled out of bed because the slow scratchiness of his voice drove her mad. Every morning it was the same routine. He would roll over ten minutes before the alarm just to see if it had gone off. For the last six meandering years they woke up Monday to Friday with an agenda. Her calendar was full with little time for their children; she spent her mornings prodding them to get ready for school, eat breakfast, and run fast enough to catch the bus. He lay in bed wondering why they were still married. He was the parent; he was the marriage. It stuck because he wanted the cohesiveness despite his wife’s constant need for spontaneity and change. She worked. He worked. But she brought home the money and he always had to remember that. He was just the father of her children and the maid that kept the loft clean.
He fell out of bed and slipped on a pair of slippers. He pulled the curtain strings and rays of light shone through the Venetian blinds as they folded ever so neatly. No speck of dust fell from the valence as the shades collected in the newly lit corner. The skyline towered the bay and cars crawled in and out of the city. Today would be the day he dusted and cleaned up the unnecessary clutter that gave the impression a slob was about. The reflection he saw in the mirror was not the fit, clean shaven, sought after man he once knew. Marriage does that he guesses. Bags under your eyes. Receding hairline. A noticeable stubble. Even though she spent a considerable amount of time each week at the spa, his dedication to love, family, and home were placed above his wellness. From the recently opened pack of cigarettes placed on the bed stand on his side of the bed (just to the left of his wallet, keys, and charging cell phone), a fresh Marlboro Menthol found its way to his lips. He inched the sliding glass door open enough for his body to fit through. Exhale, he thought. The biting cold caused him to shudder as he reached for the matchbook. It was from RESTAURANT. It was his attempt at closing the gap between he and his wife. They sat on opposite sides of the booth. Two strikes and he inhaled. Did his problems go away? No. They strutted out of the bathroom. Hair in a towel and robe barely on. The voice was muffled by the glass, the sirens below, and the soothing sound of his own thoughts, “Could you clip this? I put too much lotion on.” Or were they someone else’s invading the attempt to silence, which happens to be the loudest noise he knows. His short stubby fingers never clasped jewelry well. He wondered why he bought it for her.
Extended Metaphor February 1, 2007
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Is learning for the sake of learning truly worth it? I repeat myself, but do they hear? And is what I am saying true?
“By the time you graduate, a high school diploma will not be enough to get a decent job.”
“I am not a teacher for the money.”
“You are fortunate enough to live in a country where a free education is provided until you are 18. Take advantage of that opportunity. Don’t waste your time.”
Granted I was a self-motivated, needed to read and learn everything kid. I read and read some more. Every time I read something (novel, poem, historical research, grammar textbook), I find something that I never knew and appreciate the fact that I have the freedom to learn, to think, and to have a job that lets me share that love. Is it really plausible that every student who takes advantage of his/her education is going to find success and happiness in the fact that “learning for the sake of learning” is a valuable endeavor?
I asked them, “Why are you here?” It was a rhetorical question that didn’t need to be discussed because I knew everyone would have a different answer varying from, “the Cops’ll get me” or “to learn.” What does that mean, “to learn?” Then I ask myself, “Why am I here?” I usually wake up ready for work because I love to talk about literature. Something inside of me says that teaching is the right thing for me because it is easy. Am I perfect? Far from it. But I don’t want to be perfect. It can’t be that complete this soon in my life.
Metaphor (or simile if you want to insert “like” or “as”). I pick up a book (any length), but let’s say it has 300 pages. I start the book and read as fast as I can because I really want to get into the plot, understand the characters, analyze the authorial perspective, and figure out how history and literary criticism affected the product. I read and read and read. Then I get half way. I get a little sad and somewhat disappointed. I read more. As the end draws near I start to get anxiety because the story is almost done and I eventually have to move on to something else. From page 200 on I usually fan through the end of the book every time I pick it up. I want to see what lies ahead. Then I fan what I have read and see how much I have accomplished. Once I hit the last stretch, 50 pages or so, I numb myself to the world, relinquish sleep, find a comfortable place, and finish. I close the book, breathe, and decide if the experience was worth it. I never really wanted the book to end. It would have been easier to keep reading. Now I have to find a new book. I usually pile 5 or 6 next to my bed and thumb through them until one keeps my interest for a few pages. Repeat.
Can my life, or teaching, be that formulaic? I do. I reflect. I do again. I always have to find new ways to keep myself busy so that I can ignore most other things going on in my life. Teaching and reading have become a crutch, a screen. There is more to life and I can’t find a way to express what I see and what I feel.
The first… February 1, 2007
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Hopefully not followed by the last.
