Literature and other writing

Humor as Barometer of Emotional Stability.

2010-04-07T19:56:00.000-07:00

Part 4 in my E.B. White Series

White, no doubt happy to be home with his parents, found a job with both Frank Seaman & Company and J.H. Newmark. He scrimped for 2 years at $55 a week. Although he didn't like commuting, his saving paid off when he moved into a flat at 112 West 13th Street. He picked up a copy of the New Yorker and in his words, "[it] was a turning point in my life, although I did not know it at the time."

After getting some of his work published and his name in big print in the New Yorker, and by 1926 White got a job writing filler and punchlines. It was at this time white met Katharine Angell, his future wife and subsequently ignored her in preference for a brunette from Birmingham, Alabama: Mary Osborn. Though White chased after her, his hamartia, irresolution, settled matters. Osborn found a suitor and married to White's discomfort. White maintained this job until 1927 when he started half time at the New Yorker.

His time at the New Yorker was anything but simple; White spent his time whether part-time or later full-time at his desk working. It could be said that Elwyn and Katharine were the backbone of the publication, though Harold Ross their boss played a major role as well. It was during these first difficult years when Elwyn and Katharine developed a strong Writer/Editor relationship.

(Photo from this article http://www.bangormetro.com/media/Bangor-Metro/May-2007/E-B-Whites-Web/)

It wasn't until 1929 until White's first two books were published and Katharine and Elwyn were married. The White's were married on 13 November 1929. Katharine, a divorcée with two children from her marriage to Charles S. Sergeant, and White married and returned to work the next day waiting till later to have a honeymoon.

His Writing Life.

It seems to me that whenever White is decisive about the main issues in his life he turns out much happier than when he is irresolute, testimony both to resolution and to his marriage. Regarding his marriage White says he made, "the most beautiful decision of his life." White's letter to Katharine (below) in November 1929 illustrates the White's Beautiful respect for each other, Elwyn's acknowledgement of his "hesitancy," and shows his process for acceptance of reality, i.e. slowly coming to appreciate the changes which have occurred.

Dear Katharine,

I've had moments of despair during the last week which have added years to my life and put many new thoughts in my head. Always, however, I have ended on a cheerful note of hope, based on the realization that you are the person to whom I return and that you are the recurrent phrase in my life. I realized that so strongly one day a couple of weeks ago when, after being away among people I wasn't sure of and in circumstances I had doubts about, I came back and walked into your office and saw how real and incontrovertible you seemed. i don't know whether you know just what I mean or whether you experience, ever, the same feeling; but what I mean is, that being with you is like walking on a very clear morning--definitely the sensation of belonging there.

This marriage is a terrible challenge: everyone wishing us well, and all with their toungues in their cheeks. What other people think, or wish, or prophesy, is not particularly important, except as it tends to work on our minds. I think you have the same intuitive hesitancy that I have--about pushing anything too hard, and the immediate problem surely is that we recognize & respect each other's identity. That I could assimilate Nancy overnight is obviously out of the question--or that she could me. In things like that we gain ground slowly. By and large, our respective families had probably best be kept in their respective places during the pumpkin weather--and gradually, like the Einstein drawing of Rea Irvin's, people will become accustomed to the idea that etc. etc.

I'm just writing this haphazard for no reason other than that I felt like writing you a letter before going to bed.

I love you. And that's a break.

Andy

Before this gets too long, I wanted to also mention that I think Andy's Humor comes back after he returns from his cross-country trek. I attribute this to the fact that White isn't bogged down anymore with self-doubt. His life in the city, due to his success with employment and eventually Katharine, happens to be extremely fulfilling. I can imagine that its pretty hard to come up with anything to funny when you are emotionally, even subconsciously, insecure. Fortunately, White returns to his old self.

August 1929

Dear Katharine:

...Hub just showed me a letter he received from a frightened parent; the letter enclosed another that the parent had got from his small son in camp: "Dear Daddy, Please come up at once as I am so homesick and I will die if you don't come up here right away." Hub, on investigating, found out that the boy had written the letter just after being hit on the head with a broom by a tent-mate, and had forgotten the whole affair ten minutes later. But he had mailed the letter home, just as a matter of routine...

or September 11, 1929

Dear Katharine:

I once started a letter to you (date uncertain) but it dried up and got crumbly. Later I started another, but it got wet and mouldy. I intend to get this one down on the floor with my knees on it and push it into an envelope even if it's got maggots. The last letter I wrote was a beauty--four typewritten pages, which so exhausted me I couldn't reach for a stamp--vivid word pictures of lakes, streams, fish, men and women, seasonal changes, statistical matter, references, addenda, all kinds of advice, charts, marginal notations, and brisk passages designed to stimulate and exalt. It got wet.

...

Jeremy

An Apology to a Resting Bird in the Coffee House.

2010-04-06T13:30:00.000-07:00

A man jolted up nervously from a table across from me making his way to the clerk. I looked up, and saw a grey and brown flurry at the window. Earlier, a small sparrow found her way to the corner, both to keep an eye on her nest and apparently to take a break from her busy life finding strings, twigs and paper for her nest. That is, until a young man looking to power his device brushed the fabric which had held the tired, resting bird. She flapped from corner to corner, out of her mind, finally finding a perch resting in the northeast corner. The young man, along with everyone in the larger room, surprised and a little confused wanted to set things right in the room and feeling responsible, jumped up from his station to bother the clerk.

The hip clerk, who was busy making coffee and was no doubt excited by the opportunity, calmly left the smaller room with a towel in hand, as if it was a common occurrence--as I'm sure it is, to capture the bird. Followed closely by the transgressor, the savior took the towel and after a few minutes slowly closing in on the bird, caught the bird with a towel. She took the bird in to the other room, and out the window saw, what looked to be, a female sparrow fly up into a tree.

All this is to say, though the coffee shop has a no birds allowed policy, you my female friend are welcome to live in a tree near my window without being molested, I'll even donate my curtains.

Jeremy

The Open Road

2010-04-05T19:51:00.000-07:00

Part 3 of my response to the Letters of E.B. White

As Elwyn, herein Andy, struggles with employment the internal struggle of self-identity against the societal values of unhappy employment, moral values of employment, and societal values unemployment--his unhappiness becomes apparent. Andy seems, despite his most ambitious intentions "pounding the pavement," unable to find worthwhile work after college. As editor of Cornell's Sun, the puffed-up educated man learned more about how society works when he took some time trying to find work. After a few meetings with the executives of the major papers in New York, Andy finds himself with a lot of advice.

But fortunately Andy lands himself a meat-grinder job feeding wires to the United Press working 13 hours with a half hour break for lunch...well I'll let him tell it.

When the sport stuff is going through in the afternoon, it is fierce. Last Saturday I worked from 8 a.m. straight through to 9:20pm--30 minutes out for lunch. There were twenty-two football games, eight major league baseball games, and two golf matches, all going on at the same time. For my own personal amusement ai afterwards figured out that between 3:30 and 6:00, I had handled 1,270 seperate and distinct bulletins. Now that shouldn't be...If you should ever see Cush by any chance, give him my love and tell him he owes me a letter and $11.50.

Andy's difficult job gives him no reprieve from the tension, it in fact intensifies it. His unhappiness peaks when he gets a job as a publicity man. But he came up with an ingenious plan of leaving his job, buying a roadster (naming it Hotspur), and heading with Cush from college town to college town and camping all along the way to meet up with Alice in Ithaca. Though he waited all day for her on a bridge, they never met and he found her later in Buffalo.

The Point

I propose that the theme of irresolution in E.B. White's early life is the cause of all his difficulties. He doesn't find a good job not because he is unable to compete, but because his insecurity. Mr. Ochs, the Times executive, was ready to give him a job, but young Andy asks only for advice. His irresolution with Alice makes her understandably hesitate his proposal. And all this irresolution results in his ignoring these tensions and running away. Andy decides to pack up and leave the city, with it's career opportunities, and Alice to see the rest of the country. It is this westward expansion which is a result of Andy's irresolution. As a result, the entire trip contains a hint of overcompensation for his insecurity. Further, it is not until he returns and owns up to his insecurity that he can move on to the next phase of his life.

The Writing Life

If White's irresolution makes it into his writing life, its in the maintained ignorance of self. Also, His sense of humor during this time away seems to be more a matter of luck then of much forethought. Though focused and clear, he doesn't make the quiet, reflective development of himself. Still, he's the master of the punch-line, opening with turns of phrase, jokes and, more often, unrelenting hyperbole. A couple of examples.

Dear Folks:
Green and crisp they fluttered from their cozy envelopes, green and crisp and strong--out and onto the counter of White's Lunch. And I almost changed my order from egg sandwich to ham and eggs, but held myself in check as an exercise in self-control in the face of riches. I felt that had I changed the order to ham and eggs the short-order man would have thought I was putting on airs.

or regarding his new job...

Dear Stan:
Glad to get your letter. You are right about my not shining spitoons; all editors spit on the floor.

The man himself seems to be coming back around after a letter to Alice mending things. I'm excited to see how the changes both in his persona and writing make there way into his life. You see this, the newfound self-reliance from the journey, marks the beginning of his literary life.

Jeremy

Cornell and the Open Road

2010-04-04T21:03:00.000-07:00

Only a couple of letters from White's college years, but he does end up saving a young boy's life on a camping trip in Canada. Him and his buddy carry a sick, half-conscious camping companion through a few portages and ferry him over an equal number of lakes in a canoe. Not only did he have a good heart, but he also was a hero in his youth. The character of White from this point on, most likely won't be mentioned, that is, unless something drastic comes up.

White is just starting a relationship with Alice Burchfield and its interesting to see that he had some trouble finding a job after Cornell. After moving to New York City, he writes in July 1921:

Gosh I envy you if you got to New york. I dont know where I'll be headed from here. Guess I'll go wherever there is a job--and from the things I hear there aren't any of them...

Then again on September 15, 1921:

Dear Alice,
Gosh, its good to write again. That flip remark I made in parting about writing "when I get a good job" certainly saved me a lot of stationery. But it gives me great pleasure to report that at 3:32 on the afternoon of the sixth day I secured a position. At 4:32 I had a date to jump off the Brooklyn bridge, so it came in plenty of time.

He goes on to talk about how hard it was to "pound the pavement" talking to his Cornellian friends, and their friends and their friends. I know what that's like as I've spent so much time being passed off to a friend's friend or having my resume re-criticized. Anyway I thought his reflection on this common procedure was particularly powerful.

It was, I suppose, what is technically know as "good experience." You must have often looked in a dictionary and been directed to "see such and such" and when you looked there you were again directed to see such-and-such. And so on. That's what I've been doing the past week--I go to one person and he says hello and shoots me on to another.

So the business world seems not to have changed so much over the last 100 years or so, despite the increasing technology, people still end up running around, on a goose chase, looking for work. What a comedic idea. Although it is in someways annoying, for if not on the chase how does one find anything, maybe its better than any alternative--it just sucks. How else can we find work? I'm excited to move on to the portion of the book on his time at the New Yorker and also his time in the war.

Jeremy

E.B. White

2010-04-03T18:25:00.000-07:00

Ever since my forth grade class reading of The Trumpet of the Swan, I'd never been as wrapped up in a story then when I was reading Mr. White. His ability to make me lose sight of reality, forget my existence and only think of the story, was unlike any other author. I believe this is because of his, as William Zinsser in his On Writing Well puts:

...[Knowledge] that the tools of grammar haven't survived for so many centuries by chance; they are props the reader needs and subconsciously wants. Nobody ever stopped reading E. B. White... because it was too good. But readers will stop reading...if they think you are talking down to them.

After reading Zinsser, I picked up Letters of E.B. White: Revised Edition, edited by Dorthy Lobrano Guth, at a Half Price Books.

After skimming the pages, I thought the $7 was a good investment and took the book to the clerk. I, situated between a register and a crane game at work, entered the author's note and didn't leave. His easy prose, endearing humor, and self-denying spirit grace me with his ease. Its weird explaining to people why I find his writing so attractive, I say, "He's just so...endearing, he's just so...concrete" and it hits me how abstract talking about his writing is. By reading his letters, I want to come to some understanding of what is quintessential Whitian. What is the consolation that describes his interaction with life and writing. I hope to find the man for who he really is and then, when found, loved.

Ultimately, I will (or hope to) be checking in here with this book for the next week or so describing different ideas of the person of White as well as stylistic stigmata which show how he uses grammar and language to affect his audience to the intended effect.

Cheers,
Jeremy

The 14th and 15th Centuries.

2010-03-26T09:42:00.000-07:00

I've been reading The Norton Anthology of English Literature: Seventh Edition Volume 1 for a while now. I have really been enjoying it. The sections on the 14th and 15th centuries were inspiring especially Chaucer, Langland, Malory, Henryson and Julian of Norwich.

I particularly thought Chaucer, even though many hold him as one of the three greatest writers of the English language, was a great storyteller. He was just so dynamic and versatile, adding humor and depth by irony and hyperbole. I was reading about humanists in the 16th century and lamenting the loss in education; there had been a long tradition of learning somewhere in the upwards of 500 rhetorical devices in addition to their multiplication tables, oh what a useful lost art! It really makes me want to find some of these old rhetorical manuals of the 14th and 15th centuries and memorize! Regressing, I was particularly interested in The Pardoner's Tale and the theme of human corruption in all men. This together with the upcoming 16th century, with its self-aggrandizing talk and boasting babble unnerves my idealism. I'd been going on about the possibilities of human resistance, rather than thinking about the resistance to humanism.

Still, disregarding for now the tension between progress or change and tradition or resistance which comes to a head in the 16th century, Julian of Norwich and the rest of the spiritual, even mystical, writers (baring the annoying Margery Kempe) give me hope for the strength of human character. It is this quiet life, and I don't mean it in the romantic sense, which illustrates the depth of understanding and growth in emotional and spiritual realms which drives me to attempt to understand what it is we, as writers and as humans, need to develop or as Paul puts it, become "...perfect and entire, wanting nothing." I'm really hoping to follow this theme around in the next seven centuries, hopefully I can arrive and some sort of deeper understanding, even though this maybe a backwards way of doing it.

-J

Trying to hang on.

2008-12-15T23:41:00.000-08:00

"Trying to hang on."

I hungrily brokethrough the window,
And devoured Khalil Gibran.
But I sent you yesterday
A poem
and throe
in every letter.
I was selfish, I admit—
Distant, painful, and ignor(arrog)ant—
This is a understatement:
“This is my regret.”
Hypnophobia(murdered Insomnia)’s
Hands bled
His case
To me.

“I don’t have
Romantic Feelings”Isaid,
But I’ll steal photographs
On your dead page
And hardly swallow|your letter
sent with word of
causality.

--

-J

Sick Words.

2008-12-12T14:56:00.000-08:00

I laid in the living room: ill and tired and sore.
Returned from your place, I stayed past the afternoon.
You’ll connect your sister with cable, and
I’ll see you get my words, written sickly and naively.
But I see you kind. And I’m stuck now—
Until you untie me from the oak tree,
I confined myself to contain myself.
And quickly found I held myself back from you.

--

Incoherent thoughts that came out during a tough fever today.

-J

"This house was silent and cold today"

2008-11-07T17:05:00.000-08:00

This house was dark, silent and cold today;
Old clouds let out a soft refrain to stay
They stopped the sun's quiet light; white billed and proved
My new, simple self. (Who still hasn't moved)

So far removed from e'ry warmth and care,
That cold, silent, and dark was I to bare.
The sun shined, like words, to me but stilled
through cloud, snow, roof: the rays blocked and chilled.

I stood, disrobed, and drew shower in dark
I let the heat and hush then make their mark
Their touch. I dried and changed now warm inside
And left same clothes but newly baptized.

--
-J

Style lesson six

2008-08-03T02:09:00.000-07:00

I read lesson six of Joseph M. Williams', "Style: Lessons in Clarity and Grace," and the book emphasizes where writers, in their sentences, should place stress. I took this lesson to heart as many writers do not choose their sentences. Authors write weakly when their sentences do not end as strongly as they (may) begin, or the beginnings contain difficult subjects, passive verbs and undesirable prepositions. Williams suggests simplicity. Many times, inexperienced writers try to display their knowledge without equipping their reader to decode their message. The writer must prepare their readers for the difficult ending of the sentence; subjects must be the subjects in sentences (and actions must be actions!). Williams goes on to show how writers can vary their writing to kill monotony. The book aids writers of all styles to craft their own sentences for the greatest impact.

--

sample paragraph...
I wonder how this reads..

comment down here...

-J

Two of my poems.

2008-05-13T00:10:00.000-07:00

“Little Letter”

A word stills me.
“Only you can decide whether
this relationship is a gift.”
I see brown brows, and, below lie

Saline filled eyes. Our knives separate
bone from grease from doubly burned
ham. Reeling words, “I guess I just
can’t honestly tell you what I want.”

Spilling-over, we look the role.
And colleagues say we’re all lined up:
Ally, dollar and skill.

---but.
Written battles exist betwixt
Me + us.

------------------------------

James 1:19

By my words let your heart be aware,
in due time for our minds do not care,
We think all too much,
Belight of the such,
And we worry of bonds we could tear.

By the birds of the part to sing their prayer,
for the crime of our kinds is to dare,
To shrink at the clutch,
Betrite our sweet touch,
And we hurry on ponds we oughtn’t tar’y.

Here are a couple of my poems. The first is pretty straight forward, whereas the second is almost a limerick. It might be important to say that the first one is in the style of Rita Dove. Tell me what you think.

-J

Bobby Burns

2008-03-18T22:30:00.000-07:00

Here's a classic Robert Burns' poem. It's entitled "Green grow the rashes." Most of his poetry was originally or turned into drinking songs. Burns can be compared to Pope--for his satire, epistle and mock-heroic--and he also wrote "Auld Lang Syne." He generally is a lot of fun to read, with that accent you know?

--
Green grow the rashes

Chorus

Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
--Chorus--

The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
--Chorus--

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my Dearie, O;
An' warly cares an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
--Chorus--

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O;
The wisest Man the warl' saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
--Chorus--

Auld Nature swears, the lovely Dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
--Chorus--

--

-J

Mark Twain it.

2008-03-15T05:58:00.000-07:00

Two fathoms. Mark Twain. The sweetest sound to a steamboat pilot.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens really encourages me to find the humor in everything. I guess I am a "serious soul," at least that's what a friend often says to me. I want to learn to branch out from this unhumorous side of life for a bit. Being humorous is a serious matter--it helps us both move on from pain and helps us laugh in spite of it. Like laughing when someone falls down the stairs. ---thats sick I know, but I'm working on my humor remember? Anyway here's a link to a short famous story by Mark Twain entitled "The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calveras County"

http://etext.virginia.edu/railton/projects/price/frog.htm

-J

If we could have listened...

2008-03-13T03:05:00.001-07:00

...to William Blake who is known as chief English romantic in the 18th century we would have known better "[How to know Love from Deceit]"

--
[How to know Love from Deceit]

Love to faults is always blind
Always is to joy inclind
Lawless wingd & unconfind
And breaks all chains from every mind

Deceit to secresy confind
Lawful cautious & refind
To every thing but interest blind
And forges fetters for the mind
--

I find Blake to be most enlightening, but let me talk about this poem.

It seems we often worry about this same idea, "How do we know if someone is being authentically loving." Blake suggests we look at their actions.

The forgetful ways of the loving remember not the injustices--this reflects I Corinthians 13. The loving are Joyful, never sorrowful. The remaining two lines of the first stanza are Blake's life work--to destroy religion. Blake would say that God desires not religion, but instead would like to set us free to love each other. The entire first stanza seems to suggest the freedom in love.

The second stanza deals with Deceit. Blake suggests that Deceit is a subset of secrecy, so that it is impossible to be deceitful if one is not being secretive. I think that this is an incredible guard for us and helps us be able to secure our own behavior. It, however, is not a litmus test for others as they are the secretive ones--which we would not know. Making a comparison between line 3 and line 6 may yield interesting results. Deceit is "Lawful cautious & refind," whereas Love is "Lawless wingd & unconfind" conceder this. Blake must have the strong view "Where there is love, there is also mercy"--as he suggests love's lawless nature. Oppositely, Blake designates how "we must be sure of all our angles, making rules to make sure we all maintain the right stories." The last two lines are the climax of the poem, bringing interesting information to light. Deceit, says Blake, is only selfish and it enchains us. One must maintain a false image through either more deceit or lies, when practicing deceit. Only love can set us free from deception.

I just found this short little poem Blake made to be particularly interesting.

-J

The Catharsis of Complaint

2008-03-12T07:24:00.000-07:00

I spent last night nagging to my friends about the dance community. I just see so much potential in so many people that it slightly breaks my heart. The word here is potential--which I find to be an interesting word--it suggests undeveloped ability. I know that I have a lot of potential; in others, I see this same potential not being wrestled to the floor and harnessed, and it makes me a little sad. But the fact of the matter is, I now know how much complaining to your friends helps. Sometimes I think that I have to let my friends carry my weights and suffer my burdens. These cumbersome pounds have been hard to lose--to give to my friends--but ultimately I think its worth it. To share in joy and pain together is what this life is about.

But enough about that, more about this!

an easy fun one today.

Christopher Smart was known for being crazy, making people in public get down on thier knees and pray to God and writing good poetry. His style reflects the psalms with the For's and Let's you'll see. Here is an excerpt from Jubilate Agno Often called "For I will concider my Cat Jeoffry."

--
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually--Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
--

pretty cool eh?

-J

Sweet Rock Candy

2008-03-11T06:25:00.000-07:00

So generally I'm not to into the pop-rock genre, but I thought I'd make an exception. Paramore is pretty sweet for my teeth, the bands extremely melodic sections and rhythmic concentration is refreshing. but what really hit me were the lyrics to their single, "Hallelujah." The lyrics speak of, among other things, defying fate and cleaving to each other. Plus it helps that the lead singer is around my age and cute. Take a look at these.

--
Somehow everything's gonna fall right into place,
If we only had a way to make it all fall faster everyday.
If only time flew like a dove,
Will god make it fly faster than I'm falling in love.

This time we're not giving up,
Let's make it last forever,
Screaming "Hallelujah".
We'll make it last forever.

Holding onto patience, wearing thin,
I can't force these eyes to see the end.
If only time flew like a dove,
Well we could watch it fly, and just keep looking up.

This time we're not giving up,
Let's make it last forever,
Screaming "Hallelujah".
We'll make it last forever.

And we've got time on our hands.
[And we've got time]
Got nothing but time on our hands.
Got nothing but, got nothing but.
[And we've got time]
Got nothing but time on our hands.

This time we're not giving up,
Oh, let's make it last forever,
Screaming "Hallelujah".
"Hallelujah".
--

Here's a link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sApyi41SoVM

-J

Uncle Walt

2008-03-10T09:08:00.000-07:00

I have two things for you today.

(1) I just read Walt Whitman's "The Wound-Dresser." War is terrible, in my estimation--I can't imagine what its like to see "Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground." The amazing love, perseverance and authenticity in this poem speaks novels to my understanding of the three. Unfortunately, the poem is too long to write out, but I will provide a link.

http://www.bartleby.com/42/818.html

(2) For assignment, I wrote a poem in the style of Emily Dickenson. I thought I would put it up here for response/criticism.

--
1.

My room communes--listens--
As ideas assemble word by word--
Piece by peace.--In my bed--
Where stillness lies--sweet
Solitude calmly collides

It is in here,
I've mingled--my desk--
Coupled--my corner--
Married--my books--
In--this--stillness--

--

-J

What a thing to say.

2008-03-08T04:59:00.000-08:00

I am often amazed at the simplicity and depth of words Emily Dickinson, a 19th century American poet, chooses. I read a letter this morning she wrote to an unknown recipient. In it she writes...

--
...I wish I were great, like Mr. Michael Angelo, and could paint for you.

You ask me what my floweres said--then they were disobedient--I gave them messages. They said what the lips in the West, say, when the sun goes down, and so says the dawn.

How strong when weak to recollect, and easy, quite, to love.
--

I love the way she concentrates meaning--she takes her thoughts and distills them.

"How strong when weak to recollect, and easy, quite, to love."

What rhythm and, more imprortantly, depth of emotion when Dickinson writes.

-J

So...

2008-03-08T03:04:00.000-08:00

The awkward first post.

Purpose: To write my own wanderings here--to share.
Timeliness: Whenever
Subject: Literature and "Other"

The address is based on a poem by John Donne, a early 17th century Poet and Pastor, which is about--among other things--what it is that love does.

--

The Ecstasy.

Where, like a pillow on a bed,
   A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest
The violet's reclining head,
   Sat we two, one another's best.

Our hands were firmly cemented
   By a fast balm, which thence did spring;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
   Our eyes upon one double string.

So to engraft our hands, as yet
   Was all the means to make us one;
And pictures in our eyes to get
   Was all our propagation.

As, 'twixt two equal armies, Fate
   Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls, which to advance their state,
   Were gone out, hung 'twixt her and me.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,
   We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day, the same our postures were,
   And we said nothing, all the day.

If any, so by love refined,
   That he soul's language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
   Within convenient distance stood,

He (though he knew not which soul spake,
   Because both meant, both spake the same)
Might thence a new concoction take,
   And part far purer than he came.

This ecstasy doth unperplex
   (We said) and tell us what we love;
We see by this, it was not sex;
   We see, we saw not, what did move:

But as all several souls contain
   Mixture of things they know not what,
Love these mix'd souls doth mix again,
   And makes both one, each this, and that.

A single violet transplant,
   The strength, the colour, and the size,
All which before was poor and scant,
   Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love with one another so
   Interinanimates two souls,
That abler soul, which thence doth flow,
   Defects of loneliness controls.

We then, who are this new soul, know,
   Of what we are composed, and made,
For th' atomies of which we grow
   Are souls, whom no change can invade.

But, O alas! so long, so far,
   Our bodies why do we forbear?
They are ours, though not we; we are
   Th' intelligences, they the spheres.

We owe them thanks, because they thus
   Did us, to us, at first convey,
Yielded their senses' force to us,
   Nor are dross to us, but allay.

On man heaven's influence works not so,
   But that it first imprints the air;
For soul into the soul may flow,
   Though it to body first repair.

As our blood labours to beget
   Spirits, as like souls as it can;
Because such fingers need to knit
   That subtle knot, which makes us man;

So must pure lovers' souls descend
   To affections, and to faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
   Else a great prince in prison lies.

T'our bodies turn we then, that so
   Weak men on love reveal'd may look;
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
   But yet the body is his book.

And if some lover, such as we,
   Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us, he shall see
   Small change when we're to bodies gone.

--

This is one of my favorite ones by Donne.

-J