Last night I saw Tokyo! at the Cleveland Film Festival. It was pretty much the Paris, Je T'aime of Japan: three short films by three different directors. It was alright, and I was constantly saying 'Hey! I understood that!' in my head, and was also in shock of the rapid Americanization of the language. Words I have learned in the past few years from my outdated text are now just the katakana equivalent of the English. I imagine that in 100 years, Japanese will strictly be a katakana language, but still an entirely different language than English, i.e. "Where is the Seminar House?" in English, and "Wairu isu sa Seminaa Housu?", or ”ワイルイスサセミナーホウス？” in Japanese. Still unable to be regularly understood by one another. Katakana is ugly, nearly runic, and will surely rid Japan of it's culture of cute. I'm absolutely convinced of this.
In other recent events, I've hit an all-time procrastination low (hence the meaningless blog entry), and haven't been reading much at all, let alone spending time on homework. I knew this time would come! I'm just ready to be done with this last semester so I can send my transcript along to Cleveland State and register for graduate courses! Yeah, that's right, I'm staying in Cleveland. But I think this is a good thing (assuming you're already questioning my decision). It will get me into the city for the first time in my suburban life, and will keep me near the things I love (Ryan, family, friends, Vine & Bean biscuits and gravy), and can't get rid of (Aladdin's, Nighttown, Coventry). Plus, Cleveland is probably the best city of the schools I applied to, as well as the cheapest, and most hood. I should be moving (to the Heights/Yuppyville?) as well as having a big graduation party at home in June. If all goes well, the summer months will only burn a couple tanks of gas for me, rather than 1/week. My Wolfsburg will love me back, and I don't imagine I'll be missing driving over an hour every day just to go to school and work. I'm over it. I'll also be ending my four years of work study in the Admissions office (!!!!), and four years as a DJ and Music Director at WJCU. I'm sad about the latter, but it's time to move on, take a break, and hopefully get involved at WCSB, or find something else to waste my time. Last week I tore some posters off the walls of WJCU (Gwen Stefani & really awful pop/punk groups from years ago), and replaced them with the new (Bonnie Prince Billy, M. Ward, Dan Auerbach). As for the Admissions office, they've treated me well, but it's just time.
Totally unrelated, I would like to mention a funny little Irish lady named Eileen who was one of my managers at Aladdin's for well over a year. As a longtime member of the Sunday opening crew, nearly against my will, I spent many sleepy and jealously beautiful Sunday mornings in the confines of those dank, falafel stinking walls talking with Eileen and sharing fattening cakes and cookies at the expense of Mr. Aladdin himself. She had the guts to teach at innercity schools and tell anyone exactly what was on her mind. She was an awesome and genuine person that will be missed.
The heart, no valentine,
decides to quit after lunch,
the power shut off like a switch,
or a tiny dark ship is unmoored
into the flow of the body's rivers,
the brain a monastery,
defenseless on the shore.
-Billy Collins, Picnic, Lightning
Showing posts with label 大学. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 大学. Show all posts
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
一番二千八！
I have a little bit of downtime tonight since I finished a project for my Chaucer class early (Editions of The Canterbury Tales), so I figured I would post something I've been meaning to post for the last 2 months... My top 10 albums of 2008! At the same time, I'll catch up quickly with what has been going on as of late.
Top 10 (I mean, 15) of 2008:
I've also been working at the admissions office doing loads of data entry and filing, as well as Fady's falafel palace where it's been pretty slow and people have been cheap. Ah, the economy...
I've been reading a lot for my classes (ligitamately) for the first time in four years, and have also been regularly working out for the first time ever at the local YMCA's. Here's a list of the most recent things I've been reading:
And on that note, it's Thursday night so I need to go watch 30 Rock after I down the rest of my White Russian.
Until a few months from now...
Top 10 (I mean, 15) of 2008:
- Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes
- Frightened Rabbit - The Midnight Organ Fight
- Passion Pit - Chunk of Change
- Dr. Dog - Fate
- Pwrfl Power - Pwrfl Power
- MGMT - Oracular Spectacular
- Lykke Li - Youth Novels
- Chad VanGaalen - Soft Airplane
- Foals - Antidotes
- Lightspeed Champion - Falling off the Lavender Bridge
- Of Montreal - Skeletal Lamping
- Magnetic Fields - Distortion
- M83 - Saturdays=Youth
- Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin - Pershing (Guilty pleasure alert!)
- Deerhoof - Offend Maggie
I've also been working at the admissions office doing loads of data entry and filing, as well as Fady's falafel palace where it's been pretty slow and people have been cheap. Ah, the economy...
I've been reading a lot for my classes (ligitamately) for the first time in four years, and have also been regularly working out for the first time ever at the local YMCA's. Here's a list of the most recent things I've been reading:
- The Canterbury Tales: I'm taking a Chaucer course and we're reading most of the Tales along with some other poems and things.
- TS Eliot - The Complete Poems, selected prose, & his biography by Peter Ackroyd: I'm taking a course on Eliot and it's a little much. I love some of his stuff but I hate most of it. My professor just likes reading it aloud. We'll see how it pans out.
- A.S. Byatt - Angels & Insects: I couldn't take all of the rants about ants or the incest.
- Kazuo Ishiguro - Remains of the Day: Better than the latter but pretty lackluster. I would rather never read another novel about a butler again unless it's raunchy.
- Plato - Symposium: Changed my life.
- Foucault - The History of Sexuality: What the Foucault?
And on that note, it's Thursday night so I need to go watch 30 Rock after I down the rest of my White Russian.
Until a few months from now...
Monday, November 17, 2008
NaBloPoMo?
Yes, that's right. It's National Blog Posting Month once again. This will probably be my only post for the whole month, but that's okay right? This is my one evening of effort. But actually, it's not much effort since I'm just going to copy and paste some stuff below. Poetry, that is. So, I guess I should start off with what I've been up to as of late.
I took the GRE last weekend. It was effing terrible. 'Nuff said. I've been working on my graduate school applications off and on. I've got 4 going right now and just have to work out some stuff with my "statement" and such so I can get my recommendations rolling. My goal is before Thanksgiving break. That's next Wednesday. The writing sample I am going to use is a paper due next Monday for my 19th Century American Literature class. It's a 10-12 page/7 sources paper on Harriet Jacob's Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl and Nathaniel Hawthorne's crazy short story "Wakefield." It's all about how the men in both texts think they're in control of the women, but they're so obsessed them that they're actually the ones being controlled. It's the only thing I've actually cared to work on for a while. Everything else has been pretty awful. My Philosophy of Music and Philosophy & The Holocaust classes have been taking all of the life out of me. They're just plain awful and both ridiculously writing/reading intensive.
A former John Carroll student is doing the JET programme right now (luckyyy) and hooked all of the advanced Japanese students (5 of us) up with high school pen pals. Mine is Manami and she's seventeen and has been taking English for her whole life. She wrote me a few weeks ago and I sent her a letter back last week. She writes in English with a P.S. in Japanese and I write in Japanese with a P.S. in English. It's good that she wrote first because then I knew how much decorating I had to do on mine. A lot.
Since my poetry midterm portfolio I haven't spent any time writing poems. I got a little burned out and because the entire class is absent just about every day and never does anything I just follow suit. But I (finally) got the portfolio back today (a month later?) along with a big A- so I figured I would post a couple of the poems from it. Once again, I'm not a poet. Don't hold this against me.
*
The Seesaw
My great-great Grandfather was a lumberjack
In the hills of West Virginia.
Those were the days of plaid shirts,
Pipes filled to the brim with tobacco,
Moonshine, and two-man saws.
His suspenders kept his pants up,
And his mouth kept on puffing,
But it was his hands and arms that worked
One end of the jagged and curved beast.
Its teeth stuck out for inches
And prided themselves for their sharpness.
Each one placed specifically and designed
To rid the earth of Mother Nature.
The wooden handles left blisters, then calluses
while the man on the other end was so in rhythm
With him that they had the same heartbeat,
As they sang the same song.
But now the saw hangs above my fireplace
Above pictures of me in wooden frames. Made in China.
Not only decoration, or dare I say antique
But the end of America, or what it once was.
Rock and Bite
The day he retired he drove his car
Into the woods and proclaimed, “I will never
Drive again!” He took the rocking chair
Out of the house and onto the porch.
He sat there for years, eating candy bars
And sharing them with my Pops if he was good.
He rocked and talked while looking at the trees,
And breathing in the fresh West Virginia air.
But what did he do for all of those years?
Eat chocolate, rock, and just enjoy the same scenery?
Wood creaking with every rock,
Blood sugar rising with every bite.
Until his stroke, and my grandfather
To follow in his footsteps, and that rocking
Chair rocking slowly in the front if my fireplace
In the wrong neck of the woods.
*
So, before I go- 1 more thing. Or 2. Check out Nomenclature and KateSpace who are actually participating in NaBloPoMo. And also, hello, is there anybody out there?
I took the GRE last weekend. It was effing terrible. 'Nuff said. I've been working on my graduate school applications off and on. I've got 4 going right now and just have to work out some stuff with my "statement" and such so I can get my recommendations rolling. My goal is before Thanksgiving break. That's next Wednesday. The writing sample I am going to use is a paper due next Monday for my 19th Century American Literature class. It's a 10-12 page/7 sources paper on Harriet Jacob's Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl and Nathaniel Hawthorne's crazy short story "Wakefield." It's all about how the men in both texts think they're in control of the women, but they're so obsessed them that they're actually the ones being controlled. It's the only thing I've actually cared to work on for a while. Everything else has been pretty awful. My Philosophy of Music and Philosophy & The Holocaust classes have been taking all of the life out of me. They're just plain awful and both ridiculously writing/reading intensive.
A former John Carroll student is doing the JET programme right now (luckyyy) and hooked all of the advanced Japanese students (5 of us) up with high school pen pals. Mine is Manami and she's seventeen and has been taking English for her whole life. She wrote me a few weeks ago and I sent her a letter back last week. She writes in English with a P.S. in Japanese and I write in Japanese with a P.S. in English. It's good that she wrote first because then I knew how much decorating I had to do on mine. A lot.
Since my poetry midterm portfolio I haven't spent any time writing poems. I got a little burned out and because the entire class is absent just about every day and never does anything I just follow suit. But I (finally) got the portfolio back today (a month later?) along with a big A- so I figured I would post a couple of the poems from it. Once again, I'm not a poet. Don't hold this against me.
*
The Seesaw
My great-great Grandfather was a lumberjack
In the hills of West Virginia.
Those were the days of plaid shirts,
Pipes filled to the brim with tobacco,
Moonshine, and two-man saws.
His suspenders kept his pants up,
And his mouth kept on puffing,
But it was his hands and arms that worked
One end of the jagged and curved beast.
Its teeth stuck out for inches
And prided themselves for their sharpness.
Each one placed specifically and designed
To rid the earth of Mother Nature.
The wooden handles left blisters, then calluses
while the man on the other end was so in rhythm
With him that they had the same heartbeat,
As they sang the same song.
But now the saw hangs above my fireplace
Above pictures of me in wooden frames. Made in China.
Not only decoration, or dare I say antique
But the end of America, or what it once was.
Rock and Bite
The day he retired he drove his car
Into the woods and proclaimed, “I will never
Drive again!” He took the rocking chair
Out of the house and onto the porch.
He sat there for years, eating candy bars
And sharing them with my Pops if he was good.
He rocked and talked while looking at the trees,
And breathing in the fresh West Virginia air.
But what did he do for all of those years?
Eat chocolate, rock, and just enjoy the same scenery?
Wood creaking with every rock,
Blood sugar rising with every bite.
Until his stroke, and my grandfather
To follow in his footsteps, and that rocking
Chair rocking slowly in the front if my fireplace
In the wrong neck of the woods.
*
So, before I go- 1 more thing. Or 2. Check out Nomenclature and KateSpace who are actually participating in NaBloPoMo. And also, hello, is there anybody out there?
Sunday, October 19, 2008
しのクラス
Writing fifteen pages of poems for a midterm is an overall bad idea. I can't really work on just one or two and I'm desperately looking around trying to find an idea. I'm excited for this to just be over...
But I figured I would take a break and post one here. Mind you, I'm not a writer and especially not a poet. I'm just taking this class as an elective/for fun. I thought it would be easier than it has turned out to be. Boo! But I'm pretty sure with all of the major loser Freshman in there with me what I've got the highest grade. Anyways, enough of my disclaimer. Here's mah shi:
*
The Extraction
Jaws filled to the brim with gauze,
And dried tears down my blowfish
Cheeks, I walked into a holding room
Where bright lights cued the pain.
The foreign objects (evolution gone wrong)
Were no longer a part of me.
Like little babies cut from the womb
Unable to make their proper exit route,
They now lay inanimate and covered
In after birth. Roots all twisty and turny,
Curled around as if they had been little feet
Dancing
Within my face.
What a party! I was only invited to it
The morning after when all that remained
Were empty sockets and a hangover
Strong enough to last a good two weeks.
*
So that's it. Wonderful, right? I'm being sarcastic. Now I'm off to finish the rest of this junk. Wish me luck, Tuesday I will be in NYC trying to forget about all of this.
Note: The word for poetry in Japanese is "shi" and it's one letter- し. Cute?
But I figured I would take a break and post one here. Mind you, I'm not a writer and especially not a poet. I'm just taking this class as an elective/for fun. I thought it would be easier than it has turned out to be. Boo! But I'm pretty sure with all of the major loser Freshman in there with me what I've got the highest grade. Anyways, enough of my disclaimer. Here's mah shi:
*
The Extraction
Jaws filled to the brim with gauze,
And dried tears down my blowfish
Cheeks, I walked into a holding room
Where bright lights cued the pain.
The foreign objects (evolution gone wrong)
Were no longer a part of me.
Like little babies cut from the womb
Unable to make their proper exit route,
They now lay inanimate and covered
In after birth. Roots all twisty and turny,
Curled around as if they had been little feet
Dancing
Within my face.
What a party! I was only invited to it
The morning after when all that remained
Were empty sockets and a hangover
Strong enough to last a good two weeks.
*
So that's it. Wonderful, right? I'm being sarcastic. Now I'm off to finish the rest of this junk. Wish me luck, Tuesday I will be in NYC trying to forget about all of this.
Note: The word for poetry in Japanese is "shi" and it's one letter- し. Cute?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
ぞうさん、ぞうさん
ぞうさん、ぞうさん
おはなが長いのね
そうよ母さんも
ながいのよ
ぞうさん、ぞうさん
だれが好きなの
あのね母さんが
好きなのよ。
We've been singing children's songs in my Advanced Japanese class. This is a traditional song about an elephant. Roughly translated:
Mr.Elephant, Mr.Elephant
Your nose is long, you know?
That's right, my mom's is
long too.
Mr.Elephant, Mr.Elephant,
Who do you love?
Ah, it's my mother
That I love!
I'm guessing his mother got killed for her tusks. Or am I just thinking too deep into it? And in case you wonder, here's a 1989 creepy kids show with the song. Embedding is disabled so here's the link: clicky.
おはなが長いのね
そうよ母さんも
ながいのよ
ぞうさん、ぞうさん
だれが好きなの
あのね母さんが
好きなのよ。
We've been singing children's songs in my Advanced Japanese class. This is a traditional song about an elephant. Roughly translated:
Mr.Elephant, Mr.Elephant
Your nose is long, you know?
That's right, my mom's is
long too.
Mr.Elephant, Mr.Elephant,
Who do you love?
Ah, it's my mother
That I love!
I'm guessing his mother got killed for her tusks. Or am I just thinking too deep into it? And in case you wonder, here's a 1989 creepy kids show with the song. Embedding is disabled so here's the link: clicky.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Misc.
1. Bicycles are time machines,
As he rides he appears to be
From any era.
, or, my poetry class is ridiculous. 'nuff said.
2. なんでやね？！ Learning Japanese isn't the same without learning Kansai-ben simultaneously. There's no phrase that can live up to "Chauchau chau n chau?" or, "It isn't a Chow Chow dog isn't it?"
3. Rachel Ray's Carbonara recipe! Gives you can excuse to drink the rest of the bottle of wine used for cooking and possibly even some more.
As he rides he appears to be
From any era.
, or, my poetry class is ridiculous. 'nuff said.
2. なんでやね？！ Learning Japanese isn't the same without learning Kansai-ben simultaneously. There's no phrase that can live up to "Chauchau chau n chau?" or, "It isn't a Chow Chow dog isn't it?"
3. Rachel Ray's Carbonara recipe! Gives you can excuse to drink the rest of the bottle of wine used for cooking and possibly even some more.
Friday, August 29, 2008
うん、ううん、うん、ううん。。。 あの。。。
School starts Tuesday. One of my professors shot me an e-mail in June with a list of 8 books to buy and 1 to read before the class started. So of course 2 months later I'm trying to plow through it. Here we go again procrastination. This is what I'm up against this semester:
EN 301 - Intro Poetry Writing Workshop.
EN 371 - 19th Century American Literature.
EN 488 - History of the English Language.
JP 301 - Advanced Japanese.
PL 398 - Philosophy of Music.
PL 450 - Seminar: Philosophy & the Holocaust.
So the summer is ending although I've been pretty much over it for a while now. I quit my job of a year and a half at Aladdin's but will soon be back to my poorly paying work study job and my non-paying job at WJCU.
Books I've read over the summer? Not as many as I had lined up. Kafka on the Shore and After Dark by Haruki Murakami, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, and White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Currently: War & Genocide: A Concise History of the Holocaust by Doris Bergen.
Flipping through my old Genki book I found a column where I appropriately wrote "wtf!". There are 6 words for wife in Japanese. I've forgotten what little I have learned.
But this is it for now. I'm sure I will have nothing interesting to blog about but I will do it anyway as opposed to the last few months of silence. You can suffer through my boring blog or just not read it? Yes. Now I will leave you with a few of my favorite back to school material goods.
-Moleskine 18 month planner. Like a Bible.
-Cardigans! Sloppy yet smart.
-Eco-friendly pencils. My cat likes these. I only have 4 left.
EN 301 - Intro Poetry Writing Workshop.
EN 371 - 19th Century American Literature.
EN 488 - History of the English Language.
JP 301 - Advanced Japanese.
PL 398 - Philosophy of Music.
PL 450 - Seminar: Philosophy & the Holocaust.
So the summer is ending although I've been pretty much over it for a while now. I quit my job of a year and a half at Aladdin's but will soon be back to my poorly paying work study job and my non-paying job at WJCU.
Books I've read over the summer? Not as many as I had lined up. Kafka on the Shore and After Dark by Haruki Murakami, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, and White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Currently: War & Genocide: A Concise History of the Holocaust by Doris Bergen.
Flipping through my old Genki book I found a column where I appropriately wrote "wtf!". There are 6 words for wife in Japanese. I've forgotten what little I have learned.
But this is it for now. I'm sure I will have nothing interesting to blog about but I will do it anyway as opposed to the last few months of silence. You can suffer through my boring blog or just not read it? Yes. Now I will leave you with a few of my favorite back to school material goods.
-Moleskine 18 month planner. Like a Bible.
-Cardigans! Sloppy yet smart.
-Eco-friendly pencils. My cat likes these. I only have 4 left.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
どうして？
The end is near and I'm about to write my last paper for Late 18th Century Literature. I just read the prompt and realized that out of all of my classes this semester I might just miss it the most. Okay, maybe not miss but it may have been the most memorable. Note that there is a choice between these two prompts but they are exactly the same.
Prompt:
Choice one: A la Tristram Shandy: You are to write a personal response to a writer or work that we have taken in this course. The response, however, being personal, requires you to explain yourself to the reader. You should account for why this particular writer or work is the one you chose rather than any of the others that you could have chosen, and this leads you to other topics, never allowing you to return to the original topic, though you are aware that the assignment requires you to discuss the chosen topic. In other words, you are to create an essay in which the digression from the topic becomes the essay. 5-7 pages.
Choice two: A la Tristram Shandy: you are to start writing an essay on any writer we have taken for this course, but the writing or the writer reminds you of something else, the something else being something that you have been meaning to discuss. In other words, your writing divers from its topic, but the diversion becomes the essay. 5-7 pages.
So, my professor has been teaching at John Carroll for 40 years and he's taking a sabbatical next semester to ride his bike in South America. He obviously does not want to waste his time reading boring scholarly papers. I'm alright with that.
Prompt:
Choice one: A la Tristram Shandy: You are to write a personal response to a writer or work that we have taken in this course. The response, however, being personal, requires you to explain yourself to the reader. You should account for why this particular writer or work is the one you chose rather than any of the others that you could have chosen, and this leads you to other topics, never allowing you to return to the original topic, though you are aware that the assignment requires you to discuss the chosen topic. In other words, you are to create an essay in which the digression from the topic becomes the essay. 5-7 pages.
Choice two: A la Tristram Shandy: you are to start writing an essay on any writer we have taken for this course, but the writing or the writer reminds you of something else, the something else being something that you have been meaning to discuss. In other words, your writing divers from its topic, but the diversion becomes the essay. 5-7 pages.
So, my professor has been teaching at John Carroll for 40 years and he's taking a sabbatical next semester to ride his bike in South America. He obviously does not want to waste his time reading boring scholarly papers. I'm alright with that.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
女と男!
In my Feminist Philosophies class I dream of having 8 children while others raise their hands and preach that marriage and even love are social constructs. By 8 I mean 10 or 12. I'd live on a farm and when my hubby and I were not fulfilling our normal roles as mother and father (and surely female and male), we would also be the family teachers, doctors, chefs and artists.
The girls and I would cook wonderful food all day and sew and dance in between meals whether it be inside with all of the windows open or outside in the pure sunlight with our armpits naturally smelling awful (but happy nonetheless). The older girls would be playing instruments in the kitchen with the cats resting on top of the refrigerator batting their paws at the loud noises and nonchalantly grabbing our sleeves as we walk by. Or maybe they would be reading Descartes or Hemingway out on the porch in my great-great grandfathers rocker that earlier they had decided to Mod Podge with old newspapers. I would be teaching the younger ones how to make food from all of the goodies we gathered out of the garden earlier in the day. Practical Chemistry and Mathematics. A couple would make juice or run out to milk the cow. They would knead dough, churn butter and throw food at each other. I, too would be learning from this whole experience with a fist-full of flour flying out of my hand. Domesticity, love, freshly sewn skimpy dresses, womanhood! The dog would lick up our messes and we'd give him ponytails.
Dad would be fulfilling his manly roles, of course. These would consist of little chores around the house early in the day with the boys and maybe a trip out to the woods to do some reading and writing in the late afternoon before supper. They would make mud pies and talk about flowers and trees while learning all of their proper names. Maybe they would be reading the Wonders of the East or the Vercelli Homilies in Old English. Loud and proud. They would carve their names into trees using katakana and possibly take some acrylics out there with them and paint simple yet lovely things on rocks and leaves. I'd send the enormous, shaggy, dirty but lovable dog out to gather up the men whenever the girls and I were finished setting the house up for dinner. We would do an extremely quick cleaning job while listening to music from my youth and letting the birds fly around the living room and eat freshly picked strawberries. Cleaning up old messes and creating new but not caring a bit.
After dinner some of us would read aloud, some would run off to finish making the wine we have been working on for a while. If it was cold we would use the kotatsu and fall asleep under it with all of the cats in the middle by our feet. The others would be playing with the new kittens that were just born out in the hayloft. Maybe the boys would mix a few things up and blow up a wall or spend the night up in their tree house. We'd dance and play the omnichord. Always something new, always something to learn from one another. Always fulfilling the roles of onna and otoko and loving every minute of our sexualities and "oppressions."
The girls and I would cook wonderful food all day and sew and dance in between meals whether it be inside with all of the windows open or outside in the pure sunlight with our armpits naturally smelling awful (but happy nonetheless). The older girls would be playing instruments in the kitchen with the cats resting on top of the refrigerator batting their paws at the loud noises and nonchalantly grabbing our sleeves as we walk by. Or maybe they would be reading Descartes or Hemingway out on the porch in my great-great grandfathers rocker that earlier they had decided to Mod Podge with old newspapers. I would be teaching the younger ones how to make food from all of the goodies we gathered out of the garden earlier in the day. Practical Chemistry and Mathematics. A couple would make juice or run out to milk the cow. They would knead dough, churn butter and throw food at each other. I, too would be learning from this whole experience with a fist-full of flour flying out of my hand. Domesticity, love, freshly sewn skimpy dresses, womanhood! The dog would lick up our messes and we'd give him ponytails.
Dad would be fulfilling his manly roles, of course. These would consist of little chores around the house early in the day with the boys and maybe a trip out to the woods to do some reading and writing in the late afternoon before supper. They would make mud pies and talk about flowers and trees while learning all of their proper names. Maybe they would be reading the Wonders of the East or the Vercelli Homilies in Old English. Loud and proud. They would carve their names into trees using katakana and possibly take some acrylics out there with them and paint simple yet lovely things on rocks and leaves. I'd send the enormous, shaggy, dirty but lovable dog out to gather up the men whenever the girls and I were finished setting the house up for dinner. We would do an extremely quick cleaning job while listening to music from my youth and letting the birds fly around the living room and eat freshly picked strawberries. Cleaning up old messes and creating new but not caring a bit.
After dinner some of us would read aloud, some would run off to finish making the wine we have been working on for a while. If it was cold we would use the kotatsu and fall asleep under it with all of the cats in the middle by our feet. The others would be playing with the new kittens that were just born out in the hayloft. Maybe the boys would mix a few things up and blow up a wall or spend the night up in their tree house. We'd dance and play the omnichord. Always something new, always something to learn from one another. Always fulfilling the roles of onna and otoko and loving every minute of our sexualities and "oppressions."
Identity Through the Drink
Throughout Jack London’s John Barleycorn and Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, the authors use alcohol consumption to construct multiple identities within their characters. In John Barleycorn, Jack London has an identity of his sober self, which stands alone from who he becomes when he is consumed with the drink. London’s use of the name John Barleycorn shows that when he is drunk he is literally changing into a different person. In The Sun Also Rises, the characters sober identities are continuously juxtaposing their alcoholic identities but in a much more subtle way than in John Barleycorn. Rather than having a distinct transformation into a drunken identity as London does, Jake Barnes and the other characters in The Sun Also Rises constantly blend sobriety and drunkenness together with a quick stop in a café or swig out of a special leather wine bottle. Although both London and Hemingway utilize the drink to create identities in their characters, it is important to look at the differences between the strict separation of London’s sober and drunken selves and the problems that arise between characters in The Sun Also Rises with the assimilation of sobriety and drunkenness.
Jack London begins John Barleycorn, or his ‘Alcoholic Memoirs,’ by defining the character that is John Barleycorn. He says to his wife, “I am never less his friend than when he is with me and when I seem most his friend. He is the kind of liars. He is the frankest truth-sayer. He is the august companion with whom one walks with the gods. He is also in league with the Noseless One” (2). John Barleycorn’s character is paradoxical to that of Jack London. He is physically and mentally unstable and so sinful that he is on par with the Noseless One, or the Devil. London thinks that he and his alcoholic self can be friends but constantly realizes that his sober self could never be friends with Barleycorn even through he continues to try. This battle between London’s two identities is strong and shows that even though he constantly tries to connect the two selves, he can never succeed in doing so because what he becomes when he is consumed with the drink is everything London does not want to be.
At the beginning of The Sun Also Rises, the normality of extreme alcohol consumption immediately becomes clear. Robert Cohn appears at Jake Barnes office because he is obviously upset. He says, “I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it” (18). They quickly precede downstairs to the café whereupon they begin drinking whiskey and soda and Jake plans on quickly leaving Robert but he reiterates again, “Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it” (19)? Jakes response of “What the hell” (19) shows that he is almost offended by this question. He thinks that Robert is being foolish for wanting a change of scenery and attributes it only to the book he just read. Jake seems jaded and almost depressed in saying that nothing could possibly change the way his life is going. He says, “I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too” (20). In saying it is not a thing you could do anything about, Jake is accepting that there is a problem in the way they are living their lives but he simply seems hopeless in finding anything to fix it. Instead, he waits to get off work and drown these thoughts away with another drink, or an aperitif, a before dinner cocktail. Throughout the workday and whilst in a conversation meant to be serious, these characters are constantly subject to a constant fluctuation of identities because of their consumption of alcohol.
Towards the beginning of London’s John Barleycorn, it seems simple for London to keep his alcoholic identity separate and out of his life because of his sheer hatred for the taste of alcohol. He thought that since he did not like the taste of alcohol he would be able to have the easy way out by not succumbing to it. Once London figures out that male bonding, pride and friendships all arise in bars and that treating one another to a drink can strengthen this, London quickly transforms into Barleycorn and finds his identity quickly being transformed. He says, “Either I must throw overboard all my old values of money and look upon it as something to be flung about wastefully, or I must throw overboard my comradeship with those men whose peculiar quirks made them care for strong drink” (50). At this point London realizes his identity struggle. Giving into the taste of alcohol, buying a few drinks for others and of course accepting the drinks others buy for him is what he realizes he must do if he is really going to become friends with these men. What he is not coming to terms with is what he defined the drink as in the beginning of the novel. Completely shifting one’s identity from sobriety to drunkenness is also shifting it from godliness to devilishness, and creating an inner struggle between essentially two opposite identities.
On Jack Barnes arrival to Spain, he has a revelation about his identity after he decides to enter a cathedral at the end of the street where he and his friends are staying. He says, among much other rambling, “…as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I felt religious and maybe I would the next time…” (103). Jake’s struggle with religion, Catholicism in this case, crosses over to the struggle between him and the drink. His hopelessness in religion and the fact that he believes he can never do anything translates to the same problems he has with alcohol. He can never seem to escape drinking because it is simply what he and his friends do. A day does not pass that they do not make an exit from reality by sitting in a café and drinking alcohol or even absinthe at times. In the struggle between Jake’s sober identity and alcoholic identity, the alcoholic identity is often what is shown because of these trips into cafes, but in this small instance in the church we are able to see that Jake wishes there was something he could do about not drinking, but the alcoholic identity is so strong he feels like he can never shake it.
When Jack London finally breaks away from the identity of John Barleycorn, he explains that if alcohol were banned in prohibition he would have never been able to have a taste and therefore never would have taken on the alcoholic identity that is John Barleycorn. He says, “The White Logic now lies decently buried alongside the Long Sickness. Neither will afflict me again. It is many a year since I laid the Long Sickness away; his sleep is sound. And just as sound is the sleep of the White Logic” (207-208). Again London personifies the drink as a separate identity to that of his sobriety. He has finally buried this identity and with it, all of the problems it brought him with the White Logic. Now that John Barleycorn is nevermore, his identity is now that of Jack London, rather than his alcoholic identity. He describes his alcoholism as a Long Sickness, capitalizing it gives it a sense of dominance over him, that of which he has done away with. Jack London really feels as if he has lost a part of his identity, but in reality what he has lost is the separate identity that is John Barleycorn.
At the end of The Sun Also Rises, Brett and Jack reflect upon their lives and what could have been if not for the alcohol. They struggle between wanting wine and not wanting it as they try to have a serious conversation. Brett says, “Don’t get drunk, Jake don’t get drunk” (250), and follows up by saying, “we could have had such a damned good time together” (251). Both Brett and Jack wish that they could have been together but their histories with alcohol make this idea seem unreal. Their relationship struggled just as Brett struggled with her alcoholic identity in which she continuously drank with various men. Perhaps such as London, if prohibition would have happened in England and Brett would have never been able to have the first drink of liquor which led to her alcoholism, maybe she would have had a different identity in which she could have been with Jack. Also, Jake’s depression and hopelessness stems from the drink and gives him an overall sense of failure and despair towards life. Jake and Brett could have had a good time together if the alcohol would not have made them into completely different people. The fact that Brett is begging Jake not to get drunk but yet wants a drink herself and agrees to him buying two bottles of wine suggests how comfortable she has gotten with her alcoholic identity. Even though she wishes she could change things, the drink has given her a sense of hopelessness and failure towards life. They both feel as if they will never be able to change things.
It is clear to see that in John Barleycorn, Jack London always identified his sober self and drunken self as two separate entities almost like split personalities. In the end he was able to properly bury his other self so that he could return to the identity of Jack London. In The Sun Also Rises, the characters are aware of the identity in which alcohol is giving them but unlike Jack London, their sense of despair and failure towards life renders them incapable of burying their alcoholic identities. Also, because the alcoholic identities of the characters in The Sun Also Rises seem to encompass every aspect of their lives, even at work, they always seem to be drinking or making a quick stop into a café. It is hard to tell at any point in the novel if the characters might be just a little tight. The merging of alcoholism and sobriety in these characters makes it almost impossible for them to be able to fully separate both identities and bury one such as London did. Only small glimpses of reality show in the characters such as Jack’s praying experience, but even still they remain hopeless and quickly make a mental escape into a café. Whether London’s definition of John Barleycorn stands true or not, it is easy to see how sobriety and drunkenness have the ability to create different and opposing identities within one person. As London says, “I am. I was. I am not. I never am” (2). The identity confusion such as that in Brett and Jake only verifies the paradoxical sober and drunken identities of that of Jack London and John Barleycorn.
♪A little paper for my Alcohol & American Literature class. Rough around the edges.
Jack London begins John Barleycorn, or his ‘Alcoholic Memoirs,’ by defining the character that is John Barleycorn. He says to his wife, “I am never less his friend than when he is with me and when I seem most his friend. He is the kind of liars. He is the frankest truth-sayer. He is the august companion with whom one walks with the gods. He is also in league with the Noseless One” (2). John Barleycorn’s character is paradoxical to that of Jack London. He is physically and mentally unstable and so sinful that he is on par with the Noseless One, or the Devil. London thinks that he and his alcoholic self can be friends but constantly realizes that his sober self could never be friends with Barleycorn even through he continues to try. This battle between London’s two identities is strong and shows that even though he constantly tries to connect the two selves, he can never succeed in doing so because what he becomes when he is consumed with the drink is everything London does not want to be.
At the beginning of The Sun Also Rises, the normality of extreme alcohol consumption immediately becomes clear. Robert Cohn appears at Jake Barnes office because he is obviously upset. He says, “I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it” (18). They quickly precede downstairs to the café whereupon they begin drinking whiskey and soda and Jake plans on quickly leaving Robert but he reiterates again, “Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it” (19)? Jakes response of “What the hell” (19) shows that he is almost offended by this question. He thinks that Robert is being foolish for wanting a change of scenery and attributes it only to the book he just read. Jake seems jaded and almost depressed in saying that nothing could possibly change the way his life is going. He says, “I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too” (20). In saying it is not a thing you could do anything about, Jake is accepting that there is a problem in the way they are living their lives but he simply seems hopeless in finding anything to fix it. Instead, he waits to get off work and drown these thoughts away with another drink, or an aperitif, a before dinner cocktail. Throughout the workday and whilst in a conversation meant to be serious, these characters are constantly subject to a constant fluctuation of identities because of their consumption of alcohol.
Towards the beginning of London’s John Barleycorn, it seems simple for London to keep his alcoholic identity separate and out of his life because of his sheer hatred for the taste of alcohol. He thought that since he did not like the taste of alcohol he would be able to have the easy way out by not succumbing to it. Once London figures out that male bonding, pride and friendships all arise in bars and that treating one another to a drink can strengthen this, London quickly transforms into Barleycorn and finds his identity quickly being transformed. He says, “Either I must throw overboard all my old values of money and look upon it as something to be flung about wastefully, or I must throw overboard my comradeship with those men whose peculiar quirks made them care for strong drink” (50). At this point London realizes his identity struggle. Giving into the taste of alcohol, buying a few drinks for others and of course accepting the drinks others buy for him is what he realizes he must do if he is really going to become friends with these men. What he is not coming to terms with is what he defined the drink as in the beginning of the novel. Completely shifting one’s identity from sobriety to drunkenness is also shifting it from godliness to devilishness, and creating an inner struggle between essentially two opposite identities.
On Jack Barnes arrival to Spain, he has a revelation about his identity after he decides to enter a cathedral at the end of the street where he and his friends are staying. He says, among much other rambling, “…as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I felt religious and maybe I would the next time…” (103). Jake’s struggle with religion, Catholicism in this case, crosses over to the struggle between him and the drink. His hopelessness in religion and the fact that he believes he can never do anything translates to the same problems he has with alcohol. He can never seem to escape drinking because it is simply what he and his friends do. A day does not pass that they do not make an exit from reality by sitting in a café and drinking alcohol or even absinthe at times. In the struggle between Jake’s sober identity and alcoholic identity, the alcoholic identity is often what is shown because of these trips into cafes, but in this small instance in the church we are able to see that Jake wishes there was something he could do about not drinking, but the alcoholic identity is so strong he feels like he can never shake it.
When Jack London finally breaks away from the identity of John Barleycorn, he explains that if alcohol were banned in prohibition he would have never been able to have a taste and therefore never would have taken on the alcoholic identity that is John Barleycorn. He says, “The White Logic now lies decently buried alongside the Long Sickness. Neither will afflict me again. It is many a year since I laid the Long Sickness away; his sleep is sound. And just as sound is the sleep of the White Logic” (207-208). Again London personifies the drink as a separate identity to that of his sobriety. He has finally buried this identity and with it, all of the problems it brought him with the White Logic. Now that John Barleycorn is nevermore, his identity is now that of Jack London, rather than his alcoholic identity. He describes his alcoholism as a Long Sickness, capitalizing it gives it a sense of dominance over him, that of which he has done away with. Jack London really feels as if he has lost a part of his identity, but in reality what he has lost is the separate identity that is John Barleycorn.
At the end of The Sun Also Rises, Brett and Jack reflect upon their lives and what could have been if not for the alcohol. They struggle between wanting wine and not wanting it as they try to have a serious conversation. Brett says, “Don’t get drunk, Jake don’t get drunk” (250), and follows up by saying, “we could have had such a damned good time together” (251). Both Brett and Jack wish that they could have been together but their histories with alcohol make this idea seem unreal. Their relationship struggled just as Brett struggled with her alcoholic identity in which she continuously drank with various men. Perhaps such as London, if prohibition would have happened in England and Brett would have never been able to have the first drink of liquor which led to her alcoholism, maybe she would have had a different identity in which she could have been with Jack. Also, Jake’s depression and hopelessness stems from the drink and gives him an overall sense of failure and despair towards life. Jake and Brett could have had a good time together if the alcohol would not have made them into completely different people. The fact that Brett is begging Jake not to get drunk but yet wants a drink herself and agrees to him buying two bottles of wine suggests how comfortable she has gotten with her alcoholic identity. Even though she wishes she could change things, the drink has given her a sense of hopelessness and failure towards life. They both feel as if they will never be able to change things.
It is clear to see that in John Barleycorn, Jack London always identified his sober self and drunken self as two separate entities almost like split personalities. In the end he was able to properly bury his other self so that he could return to the identity of Jack London. In The Sun Also Rises, the characters are aware of the identity in which alcohol is giving them but unlike Jack London, their sense of despair and failure towards life renders them incapable of burying their alcoholic identities. Also, because the alcoholic identities of the characters in The Sun Also Rises seem to encompass every aspect of their lives, even at work, they always seem to be drinking or making a quick stop into a café. It is hard to tell at any point in the novel if the characters might be just a little tight. The merging of alcoholism and sobriety in these characters makes it almost impossible for them to be able to fully separate both identities and bury one such as London did. Only small glimpses of reality show in the characters such as Jack’s praying experience, but even still they remain hopeless and quickly make a mental escape into a café. Whether London’s definition of John Barleycorn stands true or not, it is easy to see how sobriety and drunkenness have the ability to create different and opposing identities within one person. As London says, “I am. I was. I am not. I never am” (2). The identity confusion such as that in Brett and Jake only verifies the paradoxical sober and drunken identities of that of Jack London and John Barleycorn.
♪A little paper for my Alcohol & American Literature class. Rough around the edges.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
On My First Daughter vs. On My First Son
Ben Jonson wrote two poems, or epitaphs, mourning the death of two of his children. On My First Daughter was written after the death of Jonson’s six-month-old daughter Mary, and On My First Son was written after the death of his seven-year-old son who is referred to as the child of his right hand; the translation of Benjamin in Hebrew. These two twelve line poems are similar in style and subject matter but their tone and portrayal of the loss of his two children is very different. Although Jonson’s word usage and imagery can be contrasted so that it appears as if he favors one child over the other, it is instead Mary and Benjamin’s ages and sexes that distort Jonson’s state of fatherhood by turning it into a matter that is heavenly in one respect and earthly in the other.
On My First Daughter begins with a sense of grief only to be juxtaposed to the sense of calmness as Jonson realizes he should rid himself from his regrets because his daughter is in heaven. Jonson states,
Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due,
It makes the father less to rue.
(ll. 1-4)
An immediate sense of fatherly detachment is apparent because Jonson is not addressing his daughter directly. Here Lies is a broad statement usually written on a gravestone, not said by someone mourning. Still, this speaker acknowledges in the first two lines that the parents are feeling grief, or ruth, and also that with the loss of Mary they are losing a little of themselves. Since Mary was the daughter of their youth, what they are losing is a part of what made them who they are now, their youth, or their most innocent and special years. Transitioning from the grief and loss of the first two lines, Jonson feels this regret replaced by reassurance that his daughter, a gift from heaven, is returning right to where she came from. Jonson loved his daughter and grieves for her but at the same time his relationship with her allows him to know and be content with the simple fact that she is in heaven.
In contrast to the beginning of On My First Daughter, On My First Son begins with a defined sense of grief and loss for Jonson’s son Benjamin. He says, “Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;/ My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy:” (ll. 1-2) Jonson begins the poem with the direct address farewell, thou child that shows his closeness and outward relationship with his son. This address also shows that the poem is serving as a personal goodbye or farewell from Jonson to his son. Rather than immediately stating the child’s name like that of Mary in On My First Daughter, he first names his son the child of my right hand, and joy, which is the translation of Benjamin in Hebrew. This unique naming allows Jonson to explain his strong connection to his son rather than simply using his name. His right hand is his dominant and is used for his passion that is writing; therefore with the loss of his son he is losing a part of himself, his creative and powerful right hand he uses to write poetry. And then he simply loses his joy and happiness. Jonson feels as if he had all of his hope invested in the idea of his son living a great life and now that he is gone he now feels like this was a sin. Although both poems begin with grief and loss, a strong juxtaposition arises between the loss of youth he feels with the death of his daughter Mary and the loss of his right hand that comes with the loss of his son Benjamin.
In On My First Daughter, Jonson uses his daughter’s young age of six months along with her name Mary as a symbol of innocence, virginity, and purity, which makes Jonson become even more distant from the poem and the death. He says,
At six months’ end she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother’s tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train
(ll. 5-9)
Mary’s death at an extremely young age allows Jonson to become comfortable with the fact that she will remain protected and kept safe and innocent enough to make a quick return to heaven. Her mere name, Mary, or heaven’s queen seems to create an even stronger link between her and heaven rather than her and Jonson, but it seems as these reasons are why he feels connected to her. Although her mother’s tears are comforting her in heaven, her father is also grieving her death but just in another way. He may not have held such pride and hope for her as he did for his son because he did not have a chance in the six months to do so. It is instead a connection through the understanding of her young innocence and virgin-train to heaven that Jonson grieves for his daughter.
Jonson intensifies his loss by claiming that his fate is to never again be a father. He claims that the seven years of his son’s life were merely lent to him for a short period of time and then taken away against his will. He says,
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy,
(ll. 3-6)
For lending the seven years of his son’s life, Jonson now must pay with the pain and grief he is feeling, but also with the loss of the title father. He says that it is his fate to never again be a father because he would be cheating his next child out of the vast love he had for Benjamin. The state of fatherhood Jonson held in regards to his son Benjamin grew throughout the seven years of his life and did not have time to grow this same way between he and the six months of his daughter Mary’s life. Because of this vast difference in Jonson’s role as a father he now is lamenting holding this title.
On My First Daughter ends with the lowering of Mary’s body into the ground. He says, “Where, while that severed doth remain,/ This grave partakes the fleshy birth;/ Which cover lightly, gentle earth!” (ll. 9-12) Jonson again uses his daughters name Mary and its connection to purity, innocence and fragility to show his love for her. He wishes that the earth cover her gently so her body remains in its same innocent and virgin state within this grave so that her soul is free to make its journey to heaven where it came from. The grave is but for the flesh, her body and whatever else is connected to her materialistically through earth, whereas heaven will be home to her pure, innocent soul. Jonson is content with this at such an early point in mourning because of Mary’s young death. Rather than feeling emotionally and physically invested as he felt with the raising of his son Benjamin, he knows that in Mary’s young death he can be certain that she is safe.
Jonson concludes On My First Son by grieving the loss of his son at such a young age and reiterating the fact that his son was his best creation. He then makes the shocking vow to never love anything too much because of the pain and suffering it will cause once it is gone. He says,
To have so soon ‘scaped world’s and flesh’s rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, “Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry,”
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.
(ll. 7-12)
Even with the world being filled with rage and misery, Jonson wishes his son could have lived long enough to fully experience it. Jonson’s hope and love for his son molded him into being his best piece of poetry that quickly escaped out of this world. Since he has lost this best piece, he no longer has any motivation to create anything else. Lastly, Jonson’s vow is to never enjoy loving another as much as he loved his son because it now is too much of a loss because he is gone. He may have still held the hope of being a father after the death of Mary because he never got to fully take on the title within the short six months. Granted another chance with Benjamin he cherishes the title and puts his heart and soul into fatherhood just to have it taken a way just has he gave it a chance.
Throughout these two poems it is easy to see the paradoxes in tone, symbolism and word usage that may support the claim that Jonson favors his son Banjamin over his daughter Mary. Although Jonson addresses Benjamin directly and with personal connections between his loss of Benjamin and the loss of his right hand, his address to Mary also portrays a sense of loss. Jonson mourns Mary’s young death but in a different way. With her mere six months of life, he was never intrigued with the sense of fatherhood that built throughout the seven years of his son’s life. Rather than the personal growth of a father/child connection that builds over the years, Jonson held more of a spiritual or heavenly connection with his daughter. In his eyes she had just made her arrival on earth from heaven just to return again whereas Benjamin lived not long enough to experience the wrath of the earth but long enough to become a person and develop the father/child relationship. Through On My First Son and On My First Daughter, Jonson loses both his youth and his right hand resulting in a vow to take what he loves and never like too much.
♪An iffy paper for Renaissance Lit.
On My First Daughter begins with a sense of grief only to be juxtaposed to the sense of calmness as Jonson realizes he should rid himself from his regrets because his daughter is in heaven. Jonson states,
Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due,
It makes the father less to rue.
(ll. 1-4)
An immediate sense of fatherly detachment is apparent because Jonson is not addressing his daughter directly. Here Lies is a broad statement usually written on a gravestone, not said by someone mourning. Still, this speaker acknowledges in the first two lines that the parents are feeling grief, or ruth, and also that with the loss of Mary they are losing a little of themselves. Since Mary was the daughter of their youth, what they are losing is a part of what made them who they are now, their youth, or their most innocent and special years. Transitioning from the grief and loss of the first two lines, Jonson feels this regret replaced by reassurance that his daughter, a gift from heaven, is returning right to where she came from. Jonson loved his daughter and grieves for her but at the same time his relationship with her allows him to know and be content with the simple fact that she is in heaven.
In contrast to the beginning of On My First Daughter, On My First Son begins with a defined sense of grief and loss for Jonson’s son Benjamin. He says, “Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;/ My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy:” (ll. 1-2) Jonson begins the poem with the direct address farewell, thou child that shows his closeness and outward relationship with his son. This address also shows that the poem is serving as a personal goodbye or farewell from Jonson to his son. Rather than immediately stating the child’s name like that of Mary in On My First Daughter, he first names his son the child of my right hand, and joy, which is the translation of Benjamin in Hebrew. This unique naming allows Jonson to explain his strong connection to his son rather than simply using his name. His right hand is his dominant and is used for his passion that is writing; therefore with the loss of his son he is losing a part of himself, his creative and powerful right hand he uses to write poetry. And then he simply loses his joy and happiness. Jonson feels as if he had all of his hope invested in the idea of his son living a great life and now that he is gone he now feels like this was a sin. Although both poems begin with grief and loss, a strong juxtaposition arises between the loss of youth he feels with the death of his daughter Mary and the loss of his right hand that comes with the loss of his son Benjamin.
In On My First Daughter, Jonson uses his daughter’s young age of six months along with her name Mary as a symbol of innocence, virginity, and purity, which makes Jonson become even more distant from the poem and the death. He says,
At six months’ end she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother’s tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train
(ll. 5-9)
Mary’s death at an extremely young age allows Jonson to become comfortable with the fact that she will remain protected and kept safe and innocent enough to make a quick return to heaven. Her mere name, Mary, or heaven’s queen seems to create an even stronger link between her and heaven rather than her and Jonson, but it seems as these reasons are why he feels connected to her. Although her mother’s tears are comforting her in heaven, her father is also grieving her death but just in another way. He may not have held such pride and hope for her as he did for his son because he did not have a chance in the six months to do so. It is instead a connection through the understanding of her young innocence and virgin-train to heaven that Jonson grieves for his daughter.
Jonson intensifies his loss by claiming that his fate is to never again be a father. He claims that the seven years of his son’s life were merely lent to him for a short period of time and then taken away against his will. He says,
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy,
(ll. 3-6)
For lending the seven years of his son’s life, Jonson now must pay with the pain and grief he is feeling, but also with the loss of the title father. He says that it is his fate to never again be a father because he would be cheating his next child out of the vast love he had for Benjamin. The state of fatherhood Jonson held in regards to his son Benjamin grew throughout the seven years of his life and did not have time to grow this same way between he and the six months of his daughter Mary’s life. Because of this vast difference in Jonson’s role as a father he now is lamenting holding this title.
On My First Daughter ends with the lowering of Mary’s body into the ground. He says, “Where, while that severed doth remain,/ This grave partakes the fleshy birth;/ Which cover lightly, gentle earth!” (ll. 9-12) Jonson again uses his daughters name Mary and its connection to purity, innocence and fragility to show his love for her. He wishes that the earth cover her gently so her body remains in its same innocent and virgin state within this grave so that her soul is free to make its journey to heaven where it came from. The grave is but for the flesh, her body and whatever else is connected to her materialistically through earth, whereas heaven will be home to her pure, innocent soul. Jonson is content with this at such an early point in mourning because of Mary’s young death. Rather than feeling emotionally and physically invested as he felt with the raising of his son Benjamin, he knows that in Mary’s young death he can be certain that she is safe.
Jonson concludes On My First Son by grieving the loss of his son at such a young age and reiterating the fact that his son was his best creation. He then makes the shocking vow to never love anything too much because of the pain and suffering it will cause once it is gone. He says,
To have so soon ‘scaped world’s and flesh’s rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, “Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry,”
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.
(ll. 7-12)
Even with the world being filled with rage and misery, Jonson wishes his son could have lived long enough to fully experience it. Jonson’s hope and love for his son molded him into being his best piece of poetry that quickly escaped out of this world. Since he has lost this best piece, he no longer has any motivation to create anything else. Lastly, Jonson’s vow is to never enjoy loving another as much as he loved his son because it now is too much of a loss because he is gone. He may have still held the hope of being a father after the death of Mary because he never got to fully take on the title within the short six months. Granted another chance with Benjamin he cherishes the title and puts his heart and soul into fatherhood just to have it taken a way just has he gave it a chance.
Throughout these two poems it is easy to see the paradoxes in tone, symbolism and word usage that may support the claim that Jonson favors his son Banjamin over his daughter Mary. Although Jonson addresses Benjamin directly and with personal connections between his loss of Benjamin and the loss of his right hand, his address to Mary also portrays a sense of loss. Jonson mourns Mary’s young death but in a different way. With her mere six months of life, he was never intrigued with the sense of fatherhood that built throughout the seven years of his son’s life. Rather than the personal growth of a father/child connection that builds over the years, Jonson held more of a spiritual or heavenly connection with his daughter. In his eyes she had just made her arrival on earth from heaven just to return again whereas Benjamin lived not long enough to experience the wrath of the earth but long enough to become a person and develop the father/child relationship. Through On My First Son and On My First Daughter, Jonson loses both his youth and his right hand resulting in a vow to take what he loves and never like too much.
♪An iffy paper for Renaissance Lit.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
春ブレク？
On spring break I went bowling, spent hours in bookstores and bought nothing, saw a French film and another that was good but a little mediocre, ate a brat, read an extremely little amount of a big book, slept and snuggled, licked cannoli filling off my hands, and pushed my boyfriend into the snow. And now it's almost over just in time for me to work three days and have a paper to write for Monday. What a joke this is John Carroll! Reschedule this for next year, please.
In other news, voting is next week and I still have no idea what I'm going to do. I figure the decision will be made at the very moment I go to pull the lever or whatever you do nowadays. I have absolutely nothing interesting to say anymore. I blame it on this snow and it's ability to wrap a cardigan around me and force girl scout cookies in my mouth which in turn weigh me down to this bed.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
クリスマスの古英語
þa wæron hyrdas on ðam earde waciende ofer heora eowde; and efne, þa Godes engel stod on-emn hi, and Godes heordt-nys hi bescean; and hi wurdon micclum afyrhte. Ða cwæþ se Godes engel to ðam hyrdum: "Ne ondrædað eow; efne, ic eow bodige micelne gefean, þe becymð eallum folce; for-ðan-þe nu todæg is eow acenned Hælend Crist on Dauides ceastre. Ge seoð þis tacen: ge ge-metað þæt cild mid cild-claðum bewunden, and on binne ge-led."
♪Translating this was half of my final exam in OE today. Slightly ridiculous, but watching Charlie Brown Christmas every year since I was born finally paid off as I remembered the majority of it. Firum foldan, frea almihtig!
Thursday, December 6, 2007
古英語のクラス
OE Wiki Project. My little abode on the Internet that nobody will ever touch. ♪♪♪ The rest are yonder.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
英文学！！
Most of my days at school are spent hiding somewhere amongst the top floor of the O'Malley Center. We call it "The OC."
The big, comfy, low chairs are surrounded by little tables covered with old Carroll Reviews, Carroll News, or anything else that may end up there, literary or not, throughout the course of the day. I scroll through old Reviews from 2002 and look at my pictures that made it on the cover and within Spring 2007 edition. I join in on conversations such as how ridiculous the editorials are in the new Carroll News that week.
The writing center is filled with the vast contrast between grad students and naive freshman, or upperclassmen who are required by their Professors to submit to the embarrassment of having their papers ripped apart. Some are just stopping by to check their Facebook between classes or talk to people who care about things like how Langston Hughes exactly felt about Walt Whitman.
In the hallway of offices, there are numerous bicycles propped up against walls and papers strewn about boxes on the floor. Posters are up on doors with millions of quotes. Everyone is there all the time, I swear. Babies are sometimes heard crying and Professor's children spend the day at the college rather than at school sometimes. The Decemberists plays from a corner office and NPR from another.
So today there was hail (or snow or something) pounding down on the skylights and I was in the iMac classroom up there quickly typing up a feature story for Journalism. Listening to others talk, I decided to finally send the e-mail to my academic advisor that I've been meaning to send for a while now. "I'm changing my major!" Not much else to say and no need to give reasons, because i could give a million.* It's just all exciting and I'm now anxious for what is to come. Relieved, rejuventated, hopeful, determined... well, as determined as I will ever be.
*Here's some... my Education classes suck majorly and I've realized that there is no way I want to go through this for nothing and no personal gain, I want to study Japanese again, I want to study more than this stupid shtuff again and graduate on time without the fuss of student teaching the fall after I graduate, and it's just the right thing. I just propped a Banana Yoshimoto novel under my door to keep it closed, okay?
The big, comfy, low chairs are surrounded by little tables covered with old Carroll Reviews, Carroll News, or anything else that may end up there, literary or not, throughout the course of the day. I scroll through old Reviews from 2002 and look at my pictures that made it on the cover and within Spring 2007 edition. I join in on conversations such as how ridiculous the editorials are in the new Carroll News that week.
The writing center is filled with the vast contrast between grad students and naive freshman, or upperclassmen who are required by their Professors to submit to the embarrassment of having their papers ripped apart. Some are just stopping by to check their Facebook between classes or talk to people who care about things like how Langston Hughes exactly felt about Walt Whitman.
In the hallway of offices, there are numerous bicycles propped up against walls and papers strewn about boxes on the floor. Posters are up on doors with millions of quotes. Everyone is there all the time, I swear. Babies are sometimes heard crying and Professor's children spend the day at the college rather than at school sometimes. The Decemberists plays from a corner office and NPR from another.
So today there was hail (or snow or something) pounding down on the skylights and I was in the iMac classroom up there quickly typing up a feature story for Journalism. Listening to others talk, I decided to finally send the e-mail to my academic advisor that I've been meaning to send for a while now. "I'm changing my major!" Not much else to say and no need to give reasons, because i could give a million.* It's just all exciting and I'm now anxious for what is to come. Relieved, rejuventated, hopeful, determined... well, as determined as I will ever be.
*Here's some... my Education classes suck majorly and I've realized that there is no way I want to go through this for nothing and no personal gain, I want to study Japanese again, I want to study more than this stupid shtuff again and graduate on time without the fuss of student teaching the fall after I graduate, and it's just the right thing. I just propped a Banana Yoshimoto novel under my door to keep it closed, okay?
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