CURRENT AFFAIRS: Morality

031304caExcellent argument going on at The Forager regarding artistic denial and censorship. While I might tend to think that some moral structure should be in place, I agree that it should be placed within the individual, and not left to a society to regulate. The individuals form the society, and public opinion will always prevail, even over laws and closed minded groups who set themselves up as a form of censorship for the masses. Thus, art need not be burdened with a moral responsibility, but rather free to explore all of man’s nature. Its meaning and its value will be decided on that basis.

Michaelangelo’s David is, in all its glorious nakedness, is easily compared to other nude statues and artwork, and it cannot be looked at in the same way by everyone, but it has endured because while it cannot help but moralize, it tells a story so completely different than its naked brethren.

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REALITY?: Time

I’m heading out for a couple days, and should be back here some time next week. If you’re new to Spinning, check out some of the archives, or Talespinning, and keep up with the links to some of the great weblogs on the left of the page.

See ýa.

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CURRENT AFFAIRS: Politics (Yes, really.)

I really don’t want to get into this, but it well-covers a subject that has been bugging me a bit since I first stepped onto a college campus. At Asymmetrical Information, there is an entry entitled, “A Hell of a Long Post on Conservatives in Academia.” Shouldn’t be long, since there are damn few, but that’s her point.

Now I probably lean to the left, with a firm grip on certain conservative values. I don’t mind sex and politics entering into courses that are definitely relative, as I strongly feel that these elements have driven the history of the world and rightfully belong in History, Literature, and hey–Political Science!–among some others. And I agree with the concept that its purpose is to provide a thought process towards application of the course being studied. However, I feel it is often being shoved down the throats of students who are hopefully approaching higher education with an open mind, and after all, this is a bit one-sided. Extreme liberalism seems to feel liberal towards the rights of everyone except conservatives. There’s little room for diversity in this area anyway.

Example: A conservative professor in English Comp in an election year who suggested a paper on who we would likely vote for (strongly encouraging the students to vote) and why. This subject was challenged and brought up to higher authority as a violation of privacy. Maybe, maybe not; this was, after all, a writing exercise and didn’t need to be an open declaration but a valid argument. The only instructor whose political affiliation I didn’t know by the end of the first class was one of my Algebra teachers.

Another example: Liberals are quick to stick labels on people, yes, really. In first semester Spanish I learned that blond was rubio/a and brunette was moreno/a. In second semester Spanish, being asked to describe my lovely classmate who was a Polish/African brunette, I said, “morena.” Well, I was quickly corrected and made aware of the fact that I was a white, middle-aged woman and my response was expected but should have been more politically correct. Frankly, the reason I don’t make a lot of noise about homo/hetero, or black/white/purple is simply because I don’t see the difference in people and see no need to point it out. The differences I do see, while products of ethnicity and culture and upbringing, is in the individual. These are good things. The difference between piorogi and ravioli is a couple eggs.

There are good and bad points on both sides of this topic, but I don’t see good reasoning behind the intensity with which politics enters every classroom. Sex is more natural and acceptable, and, I suppose, less open to controversy. But presidential bashing isn’t, to me, a great thing to be teaching. I didn’t notice a lot of it going on when Clinton’s flaws came to light, but I felt that thank goodness the man gave us something as acceptable as oral sex to focus on; it took the spotlight off his shady financial dealings and lies.

Why not make Political Science (probably the only required unbiased instructor) a first year course requirement and be done with it? It’s certainly a valuable study for all students regardless of program of study, and will be used throughout one’s lifetime–more than Algebra, surely–even in the day to day politics we face with each other.

Anyway, it’s worth checking out the weblog entry and the comments.

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LITERATURE: Atwood Interview

Just a few posts ago I spoke of odd coincidences. Today, another: Shortly after receiving an e-mail from a fellow Narrativer asking my horoscope sign, I picked up the mail and thumbed through the Writer’s Digest after happily seeing Margaret Atwood on the cover and an interview inside. More on Atwood in a second, but this was her closing statement: “You have to understand my Western horoscope sign is the scorpion, and we’re happiest in the toes of shoes where it’s very dark. Nobody knows we’re there.” I have great admiration for Atwood’s writing, but I too, am a daughter of Scorpio.

The interview was filled with insightful information as to how one author works, and two things in particular stand out:

Q. So how does a … novel come to be? Do you start with a plot concept? The characters?

A. I usually start with some voices, Or an image or a place…

Q. So you start with an image–

A. Yes, It’s like overhearing someone talking in the next room. It’s like seeing a village a long way off and thinking you have to go there. It’s like seeing an object fraught with significance. You wonder why it’s there. What is that bloodstained cleaver doing in the middle of the living room floor? I think we’d better look into this! I’m compelled by something to go and find out more about it. And I’ve been wrong.
And this, on Writing and Immortality:

All writing of the narrative kind, and perhaps all writing, is motivated, deep down, by a fear of and a fascination with mortality–by a desire to make the risky trip to the Underworld and to bring something or someone back from the dead.” (Excerpt from her book, Negotiating With the Dead: A Writer on Writing.)

More on the interview can be found at Writer’s Digest, and I’ve already added her book, “A Writer on Writing” to my list of wannas.

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WRITING: Life, Part II

Well I’ve done it; put myself in boxes and stacked them up on shelves (good God, I hope I put them in the proper order!). Time now is accountable, and mental alarm clocks have been set, and flexibility built in just in case a time bomb is attached.

Scattering is a way of life, but running around in circles gets you only to the same spot you’ve started from without accomplishing much of life at all. So discipline is sometimes needed to at least provide a structure to attend to things that rot if left alone. Or layer dust. Or simply rust. Or harden crusty-like until no longer palatable.

Received my first copy of a subscription to Confrontation today, and this as well as the latest Glimmertrain have found a box to live in.

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WRITING: Life

Reluctant to shut the water off in the shower, feeling the safety of its enveloping wet sheet over both body and mind—an urge to crawl back in the womb? But thoughts go where thoughts will, and there comes the odd fear that perhaps as well, the water erodes one’s outer shell.

Poetry is so arguable as to its purpose and its meaning, both as a form and in its content. Therein lies its beauty: it’s very riddle ability. Story structured by sentence is in fact a sentence that it be understood with a fair amount of clarity albeit open to some interpretation, but words strung thus together make a far better case of intent. But poetry hides feelings, and even guessed upon, can still retain its mystery forever. Perhaps that’s why I use it now, and wonder if I couldn’t even speak it in daily conversation, or would that simply make people stare and scratch their heads?
Alas, it so well suits me now.

Here in weblogs where we dare to say more than we ought, poems serve to fulfill the need to speak, yet are elusive in their revelations, and even so, is truth or fiction being told? Creativity itself is questioned: Is this a more elaborate or fanciful way of saying something simple from the heart, or is it just a fanciful creation. And in either case, is creativity any the less valued?

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WRITING: Wronging

Truly, I should know better. But when do I ever catch on until it is almost too late?

For the past week or two I’ve done little by way of writing–rewriting, that is–because my thoughts are coming in poetic lines and so I’ve laid aside the fiction I was working on, falsely believing it was a separate thing. But poetry belongs in writing sentences as much as in broken lines of thought that Word for Windows screams are not grammatically correct. Maybe it is just a rebellious mood that makes me want to see the red and green squiggles of disapproval, and that is what keeps me there.

But stories need the pictures, or imagery is the proper term. And stories can go further and deeper faster than without them. And, pull the unsuspecting reader in. This mood I’m in then, is just the right and perfect time of year, and in no way detrimental, just as the snow returns in March. So back to the seasons I must go.

(Note: After writing here in Typepad, then copying back to Word, there’s not a single squiggle in sight to excite me. How mundane.)

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WRITING: Poetry

Professor Ersinghaus will cringe when he reads this one, but I believe he’ll understand and forgive me, both for rhyme and an attempt at hypertext poetry:

Dinnerplate dahlias
huckleberry tea
red hot peppers
and poetry

Bewildering Stories
bewildering lives
morning glories
and burning drives

Poets, know-its
and recycling rubbish
I love em all today
cause I’ve been publish(ed).

My sincere thanks and gratitude to Don Webb and Jerry Wright at Bewildering Stories, and to Prof. Steve Ersinghaus at Tunxis.

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BLOGGING: The Race

And they’re neck in neck! It’s J-Walk! Google! J-Walk! Google! And J-Walk is pulling ahead!

Folks, this is exciting–these are the champions fighting it out…

And Google’s trying to come in on the inside! But it’s J-Walk! J-Walk over the finish! And J-Walk’s the winner!

Yes, I’m getting loads of hits from J-Walk’s site because I sent him a short video that was just too funny not to share, and wasn’t able to easily post it here, and it just was more suited to his site which just has some of the best of everything happening. The funny thing is though, is that in his readers’ checking back to this site, they get quite a shock to find me in my blue mood–not at all like someone who would get a kick out of that video.

So to John’s wonderful followers, I apologize, and hope you’ll come by when I’m in better form, but thanks for stopping in.

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WRITING: Poetry

Also on Talespinning, but I like this:

The Idealist

Cloudhoppers are fragile
here now and gone,
with heads of spun sugar
and fingers of glass
they tell tales of faeries
and all things with wings
and mountains as seen
from white snow.

The blue of the cosmos
is viewed through red lenses,
and turned into rosy words
soaring with sound,
dancing with thunder
to fall dainty and damaged;
crushed by their brush
with the sky.

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WRITING: Fevered Spring

The pull of seasons is upon us, and we respond just as the earth and animals and all other living things, despite our grand intelligence that is no match for it.

I’ve been thinking in poetic form and that, I’m sure is being encouraged by the warmer days of short but penetrating rays of sun. Compression in my words and thoughts, flowing text like brooks thawed with broken icy edges running off downstream. I cannot think a common thought; it whirls and colors and jumps in glee to come out mystery instead of simply stated.

The poems are hiding, too unprepared for purpose in the real world, so they must not be read aloud. Spring rains bring cleansing but also damage the whitewashed layers of the fence.

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REALITY?: Vestal Virgin and Communion

The first man that I ever did lie beneath looked like Waylon Jennings; hardened by experience and softened by knowledge, an artist and a musician. I made him draw a penis because I could not understand how a simple snip without a stitch could be a circumcision. He was a teacher of feelings and I drank it in in big gulps of thirst made all the more desperate by the stretch of catholic desert I had crossed. The water he offered was sweet and satisfying, and thinking hard, I can still taste it today.

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REALITY?: Decisions

Perhaps a chart, a calendar with boxes large enough to hold a dozen items.

Catch up on Spanish
Continue rewriting my story (irony here)
Read at least a couple hours a day
Finish organizing the cellar (so that I can…)
Order the dryer (so that I don’t have to…)
Do the ironing
Catch up on picture framing
Do the books for the accountant
Figure out the RSS feed
Work on and finish up the banner
Feed the birds

There’s more, but I can’t think of it right now. The summer course schedule has been published so I need to put some thought into that as well. Even removing the goal of going on towards a Bachelor’s doesn’t mean I don’t want to finish up and graduate as soon as possible. I must add in that chart, “Learn to juggle.”

I hate the thought of hiding out in boxes when most of my life was spent in avoiding them. I’ll miss the freedom and the spontaneity, the excitement of not knowing. Too much is known right now, and too much planning must be made. Focus must be readjusted to crystal clear perception, and peripheral fields smudged outward to oblivion. And since this is going in a camera direction, the negatives must surely be destroyed.

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WRITING: Mood Needed

It looks now like it won’t be until Monday that my mood shall swing back to cheery and perky–the me you all are more used to, no?

Where would a creative writer be without moods and passion, without the stolen honey that swarms with bees (by the way, have you ever seen a real swarm of bees? It’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen in my life), without reaching for the balloon that threatens to explode. It is a totally necessary element to creativity as far as I can see, and keeps me close to the computer when touching either of its extremes. Even when I walk the straight and narrow I must believe that something’s hiding underneath the yellow line. We must always balance on the edge; the all important edge. And even if we fall, well, there’s a story in that too.

The pendulum swingeth. Hope it doesn’t knock me into the pit. But what is down there? Hissing snakes or alligators? Or maybe just a desk and chair, paper and a pencil.

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EDGAR and I: Turning Inward

I don’t seem to have control lately, but I’ve found a friend in Edgar. Patiently he waited, watching me work, helpless and floundering in my efforts. Single-minded focused on one thing only, I am prey and he is predator. He understands the dark and knows the secret passages that lead inside the soul. In his grip I listen to Willie sing Kristofferson, the music couldn’t be more effective for the purpose than if it were blues and bible. The music is heard from within yourself, you close your eyes and sing words that you didn’t know you knew but find yourself singing along while tears roll down to land on the clothes that only superficially cover your heart. “Old Shep” and “Daddy’s Little Girl” used to be the only ones with this power over me. There must be a crack somewhere, for now so many more get through. Sharing CD space with “Help Me Make It Through The Night” and “You Show Me Yours (And I’ll Show You Mine)”, is this, from “Why Me”:

Lord help me, Jesus
I’ve wasted it
So help me Jesus
I know what I am.

Now that I know that
I needed you
So help me Jesus
My soul’s in your hand.

I have to trust them, because as Edgar says, I can’t trust myself right now. The five of us go exploring deep and downward, facing devils and the Father to seek the light that burns to cool and comfort fever.

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