I know I said I was NOT going to put dreams here, but, what the hell. No point in being shy now.
My dreams are always very scattered and disconnected. Kind of like me. And quite frankly, I think most of them are just a form of processing recent events with no other significance. At least the not unpleasant ones. My dreams tend to be either completely benign and pointless or else extremely disturbing and scary. I have trouble remembering the former and do everything I can to forget the latter. Then there is the matter of those peaceful ten minutes to write down dreams before getting out of bed in the morning. Yeah, right. They don't exist when you have small children. Trust me, I tried to write things down, but they escape very quickly when you are constantly interrupted with, "Mom, did you know . . .?," "I'm hungry. What can I have for breakfast," "What are we doing today?," "Can I have a friend over" all at six in the morning.
With that said, here's what I've got:
1. After playing with a friend’s unbelievably soft, friendly, and playful – demanding, actually – dog, I dreamt of a creature that seemed to be a cross between Fred the Dog, a manatee, and a hippo. Large and shaped like an aquatically-inclined mammal, but very soft, slightly furry, and insistent upon playtime with me. By the way, I saw two manatees at the Dallas World Aquarium and was fascinated by the way their mouths moved when they ate. This creature had a manatee mouth.
2. Last night I dreamt that for some unexplained reason I went to teach Melanie’s 121 class, but when I got there, they were the wrong students. Last semester’s students were in this term’s class and no one who was supposed to be there was. I guess your students really liked you, Melanie; and maybe I liked them. Then I went to teach my class, and no one showed up. The students were boycotting my class, or in some other way made an organized decision not to come.
3. In one dream that I only have a brief memory of left (I do know it got much more interesting, but I can't remember how), I was having a very ordinary and trivial conversation with my mother in an office. It was right on a busy, noisy highway which was extremely distracting (waking life note: North Rouse Ave was closed that morning and traffic was redirected down my street). My mother got really upset about underage driving which of course I also associated with underage drinking. It was a weekday morning, but the local high school band and assorted floats went by. I remember having the impression that it was a rehearsal for a parade and not the "real" thing. Though in waking life, I'm not sure I understand the difference. If you are parading down a street, it's a parade, right?
4. One last dream. For this one you get my almost completely unedited notes. Good luck deciphering.
I forgot how much fun it was playing in the snow. Chris comes. great train/bus - not moving. Kitchen worker, working a double on a holiday? Gripes when I order a latte and I almost reconsider, but don't because I'd been helping with a coffee "situation" - overflow on counters due to clogged filters. She asks me if I've seen the small cake mixes but I know that the larger boxes have the smaller recipe on them. Then she wants to know where the boxes are now. I want to go back to my seat. She makes my coffee and even puts a sticky note with my name on it on the lid. Chris had enough coffee already. The people around us all seem to be well-off, dripping money, as it were. I'm invited to this dinner, but when I get there, everyone is done and already paying. They were all old people.
If this makes any sense to you, then there must be something wrong with you.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Let's throw some poetry into the mix, shall we?
Welcome to the dark side of this corner of cyberspace, where I will randomly (meaning here, once a week) post entries for Greg Keeler's Contemporary American Poetry class (550). I warned you this might get confusing . . . and I realize this is all very personal, and I am sorry.
I’m taking “informal” very much to heart. These are my scattershot musings on poetry still in a very disconnected, incomplete, and questioning form. I claim to have no answers, just lots of thoughts, often not fully ensconced in sentences or paragraphs. Perhaps I’m practicing paying attention to the sounds of words and phrases in preparation for actually writing poetry (a rather scary prospect in my book).
So, I’ve decided that there is not enough poetry in my life. Though I wonder if one really needs as much spare time as Billy seems to have to be a poet. If that is a prerequisite, I’ll never be even a hobby poet, but I can find time to enjoy poetry, and perhaps, I’ll manage to write something this term that evokes the insanity of my life. Or perhaps I will counterfeit. The idyllic world he describes, full of quiet moments, peaceful scenery, calm, patterned, methodical living doesn’t much match the world I know. While it is beautiful and makes for a nice escape, it also makes me a little discontent with my current life. Why don’t I have time and opportunity to lie in a field and watch the clouds? What is necessary for poetry? Other questions I’ve been asking, just in an exploratory manner, mind you, include: What does poetry do? What is its purpose and role in our culture/society/world right now? Is the reception of poetry all that different now from what it was, say a hundred and fifty years ago? (i.e., are audiences for poetry really that much smaller or more “elite” or vice versa?) What is the power of poetry? What are our expectations of it? What are its requirements of us? How do you talk about poetry? How is our discussion of contemporary American poetry the same as, similar to, and/or essentially unlike our discussion of the older poetic tradition? Where is poetry going next? What will be the major catalysts for the next major change?
So what do I think poetry is doing or can do or should do? I have a phrase in my notes from last week, but am not sure if it was said or hinted at in class or if it is something I heard somewhere else and decided to jot down just then. “What does poetry do? Gives the imagination for the world to change.” By which, I think I mean, a new vision of the world (to be interpreted in as wide or narrow a manner as the situation calls for) is necessary to exist (somewhere) before it can be realized. The poet is perhaps the ideal creator of this new imagining, experimenting with alternate worlds and alternate understandings. The everyday nature of contemporary American poetry serves the essential purpose of making us appreciate and notice. Billy Collins is right now making me appreciate, savor, and celebrate the joy of my morning coffee. Something that is often only seen as perfunctory and unnoticed, regarded merely as a caffeine injection becomes an acknowledgment and celebration of the fact that I woke up today. The more I notice the taste and texture of the coffee (dark and silt-y, I think of the coffee grounds impregnating the boiling water to create an entirely new molecule), the more I take time to feel the sensation of the warm and heavy mug in my hands, the more alive I am, the more invested I am in the act of living and being here now. The power of poetry is in its ability to make us re-see, to slow us down and show what was in front of us all along but to change the angle and reposition the light.
I think my favorite Billy Collins poems are the ones which treat the bookster’s life (my own word, perhaps related to huckster, meaning one circumscribed and defined by books and words, one who lives through and by and in language). In fact, I copied for and read “Marginalia” to my 121 class. I’m not sure what they thought of it, but I hope it makes them re-examine the way they consume written words. “What I Learned Today,” “Journal,” and “Japan” belong to this group, sharing the experience of the written word.
I would also be lying if I said that I didn’t greedily grab hold of anything treating death and grief, still desperately seeking some understanding, some strategy, some new way of seeing and dealing with these experiences.
I am a little concerned that I don’t really know how to talk or write about poetry in a critical manner. I have my impressions and my personal taste, but I feel the need to develop a vocabulary to deal with the what and how of a poem, why it provokes certain reactions and resonances.
What I think I most love about poetry is its oral/aural nature. The feel of the words on the tongue, the way they insinuate themselves into the ear. A symbiotic life form inhabiting one’s head, stuck there like a song. Every now and then I have to get out my tattered copy of A Coney Island of the Mind and read “I am Waiting” aloud to my empty house, almost as if it were a magical or religious incantation.
After looking Billy Collins up on good ol’ Google, I am struck with his almost evangelical fervor and missionary activity concerning poetry and contemporary society. For example, I was already familiar with the existence of the two Poetry 180 volumes, but I didn’t realize his motivation or the significance of the number 180. Getting poetry into every high school student’s day is a lofty and admirable goal, and I realize my sympathy with this endeavor when I remember how delighted I was to hear that my son’s first grade class last year had a poet of the month. Jericho’s favorite was William Carlos Williams and “The Red Wheelbarrow.” Even I can’t explain his fascination with that particular poem or pretend to know what it meant to him, but I do know that he made me read it to him before bed on a regular basis. Many other poems not specifically written for children followed. I know that his positive attitude towards poetry greatly contrasts mine from youth, and this delights me. I could not be more pleased. The literary missionary fever has me firmly in its grasp. I told my students today that I have an incurable literature disease. I didn’t tell them that I hope it’s contagious. The other example of Billy’s democratic approach to poetry which I discovered today is that one may legally download (for free) The Best Cigarette, which contains thirty-four tracks of him reading his own poetry with some commentary, generally prefatory remarks. It is the soundtrack for this paper. Imagine his calm, slightly self-deprecating, yet secretly proud voice, words, pauses punctuating my own.
I’m taking “informal” very much to heart. These are my scattershot musings on poetry still in a very disconnected, incomplete, and questioning form. I claim to have no answers, just lots of thoughts, often not fully ensconced in sentences or paragraphs. Perhaps I’m practicing paying attention to the sounds of words and phrases in preparation for actually writing poetry (a rather scary prospect in my book).
So, I’ve decided that there is not enough poetry in my life. Though I wonder if one really needs as much spare time as Billy seems to have to be a poet. If that is a prerequisite, I’ll never be even a hobby poet, but I can find time to enjoy poetry, and perhaps, I’ll manage to write something this term that evokes the insanity of my life. Or perhaps I will counterfeit. The idyllic world he describes, full of quiet moments, peaceful scenery, calm, patterned, methodical living doesn’t much match the world I know. While it is beautiful and makes for a nice escape, it also makes me a little discontent with my current life. Why don’t I have time and opportunity to lie in a field and watch the clouds? What is necessary for poetry? Other questions I’ve been asking, just in an exploratory manner, mind you, include: What does poetry do? What is its purpose and role in our culture/society/world right now? Is the reception of poetry all that different now from what it was, say a hundred and fifty years ago? (i.e., are audiences for poetry really that much smaller or more “elite” or vice versa?) What is the power of poetry? What are our expectations of it? What are its requirements of us? How do you talk about poetry? How is our discussion of contemporary American poetry the same as, similar to, and/or essentially unlike our discussion of the older poetic tradition? Where is poetry going next? What will be the major catalysts for the next major change?
So what do I think poetry is doing or can do or should do? I have a phrase in my notes from last week, but am not sure if it was said or hinted at in class or if it is something I heard somewhere else and decided to jot down just then. “What does poetry do? Gives the imagination for the world to change.” By which, I think I mean, a new vision of the world (to be interpreted in as wide or narrow a manner as the situation calls for) is necessary to exist (somewhere) before it can be realized. The poet is perhaps the ideal creator of this new imagining, experimenting with alternate worlds and alternate understandings. The everyday nature of contemporary American poetry serves the essential purpose of making us appreciate and notice. Billy Collins is right now making me appreciate, savor, and celebrate the joy of my morning coffee. Something that is often only seen as perfunctory and unnoticed, regarded merely as a caffeine injection becomes an acknowledgment and celebration of the fact that I woke up today. The more I notice the taste and texture of the coffee (dark and silt-y, I think of the coffee grounds impregnating the boiling water to create an entirely new molecule), the more I take time to feel the sensation of the warm and heavy mug in my hands, the more alive I am, the more invested I am in the act of living and being here now. The power of poetry is in its ability to make us re-see, to slow us down and show what was in front of us all along but to change the angle and reposition the light.
I think my favorite Billy Collins poems are the ones which treat the bookster’s life (my own word, perhaps related to huckster, meaning one circumscribed and defined by books and words, one who lives through and by and in language). In fact, I copied for and read “Marginalia” to my 121 class. I’m not sure what they thought of it, but I hope it makes them re-examine the way they consume written words. “What I Learned Today,” “Journal,” and “Japan” belong to this group, sharing the experience of the written word.
I would also be lying if I said that I didn’t greedily grab hold of anything treating death and grief, still desperately seeking some understanding, some strategy, some new way of seeing and dealing with these experiences.
I am a little concerned that I don’t really know how to talk or write about poetry in a critical manner. I have my impressions and my personal taste, but I feel the need to develop a vocabulary to deal with the what and how of a poem, why it provokes certain reactions and resonances.
What I think I most love about poetry is its oral/aural nature. The feel of the words on the tongue, the way they insinuate themselves into the ear. A symbiotic life form inhabiting one’s head, stuck there like a song. Every now and then I have to get out my tattered copy of A Coney Island of the Mind and read “I am Waiting” aloud to my empty house, almost as if it were a magical or religious incantation.
After looking Billy Collins up on good ol’ Google, I am struck with his almost evangelical fervor and missionary activity concerning poetry and contemporary society. For example, I was already familiar with the existence of the two Poetry 180 volumes, but I didn’t realize his motivation or the significance of the number 180. Getting poetry into every high school student’s day is a lofty and admirable goal, and I realize my sympathy with this endeavor when I remember how delighted I was to hear that my son’s first grade class last year had a poet of the month. Jericho’s favorite was William Carlos Williams and “The Red Wheelbarrow.” Even I can’t explain his fascination with that particular poem or pretend to know what it meant to him, but I do know that he made me read it to him before bed on a regular basis. Many other poems not specifically written for children followed. I know that his positive attitude towards poetry greatly contrasts mine from youth, and this delights me. I could not be more pleased. The literary missionary fever has me firmly in its grasp. I told my students today that I have an incurable literature disease. I didn’t tell them that I hope it’s contagious. The other example of Billy’s democratic approach to poetry which I discovered today is that one may legally download (for free) The Best Cigarette, which contains thirty-four tracks of him reading his own poetry with some commentary, generally prefatory remarks. It is the soundtrack for this paper. Imagine his calm, slightly self-deprecating, yet secretly proud voice, words, pauses punctuating my own.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Deadly Nightshade: A Displaced Fairy Tale
Jericho, Pace, and Simon were idealistic but bored and rebellious youth, united by the recent outcast status conferred on them by the authority of Bozeman High’s disciplinary committee. The offense need not be detailed here; suffice it to say that the stunt included a vacuum cleaner, four volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary, twelve paper clips, and a disgruntled co-conspirator who eventually ratted them out and thus remains nameless. She knows who she is. The implicated students narrowly missed being brought up on charges of mail fraud, impersonating members of the royal family, and scaring small rodents (officially known as animal cruelty). Luckily, the punishment remained in school hands and the errant students were not remanded to the custody of government officials.
At first the freedom of suspension excited Jericho, who suggested they use the time to form a band, gain riches, and parley their fame into an MTV reality show. Pace and Simon couldn’t think of anything better to do, so they started practicing loud instruments and writing sappy songs. While things didn’t quite work out as planned, the threesome’s ingenuity and energy resulted in the most creatively written, produced, and performed indication of repentance and rehabilitation in the history of the school, a three-act rock opera replete with glittery costumes, dangerous pyrotechnics, and dogs walking on their hind legs. Not only did this extravaganza win them friends and fans across the school, it also convinced the administration to allow the wayward student musicians to return to classes before their term of punishment was quite complete.
Everything was going swimmingly. Simon started dating the most beautiful girl in the senior class, Jericho’s repeated existential crises earned him a perpetual spotlight with the emo crowd, and Pace reinvented himself as a dreamy but conflicted chanteuse with a legion of dedicated hangers-on at his beck and call. This new order of things was, of course, too good to last.
Once again, an impressively offensive and life-threatening deed literally rocked the school. Although nothing could be proven, Jericho, Pace, and Simon were the immediate suspects. Conveniently, the school administration discovered a technicality whereby it could promptly and without warning expel the troublesome threesome. No amount of evidence, no number of alibis or professions of innocence could reverse the decision.
Again having inordinate amounts of time on their hands, the boys reinvested their energies into the band. Stellar MySpace and YouTube receptions vaulted the trio, now known as Deadly Nightshade, into overnight stardom. As you might imagine, this forged a deep rift between the teenage musicians and their former high school classmates. As you might also imagine, the band fielded many offers for professional, legal, and financial representation.
Belladonna, a highly-experienced, spotlight-hungry manager with a major record company offered the most lucrative deal and won the contract. Deadly Nightshade worked hard writing songs, rehearsing for shows, and creating memorable sound bites for interviews. They had little time to worry about the money that was pouring in as a result of all their success and so they left Belladonna in charge of their investments. After a record-breaking world tour, the boys decided a sabbatical was in order. Jericho called the manager to inform her of this decision. To his surprise, she disclosed the fine print of the band’s contract, giving them no voice in such decisions and naming herself as the sole trustee for the boys’ wealth. She demanded that they begin preparing immediately for their upcoming recording sessions and photo shoots and hung up. Vacation was not on the schedule.
Pace then came up with a plan. After a few days of the band dutifully following orders, he invited Belladonna to discuss business over drinks at a trendy nightclub. After plying her with drinks and charm, paparazzi and poses, Pace confessed his attraction for the much older woman. Flattered and drunk, she took the (jail)bait to her room, all the while muttering lewd suggestions. Upon entering the suite (paid for by the band, of course) and stripping off her designer clothes and imported jewelry (also included in her contract), Belladonna began advancing towards the boy. At that moment, Pace uttered the word “oven” in the direction of a barely-visible lump under his shirt. On cue, the doors to the suite opened, crowded with gawking photographers and reporters.
The ensuing scandal revealed many other of Belladonna’s indiscretions and less-than-legal activities. She submitted a change of address forwarding her mail to a federal prison outside of Tacoma. The contract with Deadly Nightshade was deemed null and void, giving the boys control of a considerable fortune. But this was also the end of their fifteen minutes of fame. Rock operas were so last week. Not entirely saddened, the boys returned to their hometown, and although they still were not allowed to return to school, the boys’ classmates welcomed them back as heroes.
The money paid for damages to the school and the requisite completion of the boys’ interrupted high school education. Simon would never be a geometry whiz, but he did get to teach keyboards to a succession of rather cute and admiring pupils. Jericho started a karaoke coffee bar and gave himself top billing every night. And Pace? Pace underwent gender reassignment treatment and now goes by the name of Sofia.
At first the freedom of suspension excited Jericho, who suggested they use the time to form a band, gain riches, and parley their fame into an MTV reality show. Pace and Simon couldn’t think of anything better to do, so they started practicing loud instruments and writing sappy songs. While things didn’t quite work out as planned, the threesome’s ingenuity and energy resulted in the most creatively written, produced, and performed indication of repentance and rehabilitation in the history of the school, a three-act rock opera replete with glittery costumes, dangerous pyrotechnics, and dogs walking on their hind legs. Not only did this extravaganza win them friends and fans across the school, it also convinced the administration to allow the wayward student musicians to return to classes before their term of punishment was quite complete.
Everything was going swimmingly. Simon started dating the most beautiful girl in the senior class, Jericho’s repeated existential crises earned him a perpetual spotlight with the emo crowd, and Pace reinvented himself as a dreamy but conflicted chanteuse with a legion of dedicated hangers-on at his beck and call. This new order of things was, of course, too good to last.
Once again, an impressively offensive and life-threatening deed literally rocked the school. Although nothing could be proven, Jericho, Pace, and Simon were the immediate suspects. Conveniently, the school administration discovered a technicality whereby it could promptly and without warning expel the troublesome threesome. No amount of evidence, no number of alibis or professions of innocence could reverse the decision.
Again having inordinate amounts of time on their hands, the boys reinvested their energies into the band. Stellar MySpace and YouTube receptions vaulted the trio, now known as Deadly Nightshade, into overnight stardom. As you might imagine, this forged a deep rift between the teenage musicians and their former high school classmates. As you might also imagine, the band fielded many offers for professional, legal, and financial representation.
Belladonna, a highly-experienced, spotlight-hungry manager with a major record company offered the most lucrative deal and won the contract. Deadly Nightshade worked hard writing songs, rehearsing for shows, and creating memorable sound bites for interviews. They had little time to worry about the money that was pouring in as a result of all their success and so they left Belladonna in charge of their investments. After a record-breaking world tour, the boys decided a sabbatical was in order. Jericho called the manager to inform her of this decision. To his surprise, she disclosed the fine print of the band’s contract, giving them no voice in such decisions and naming herself as the sole trustee for the boys’ wealth. She demanded that they begin preparing immediately for their upcoming recording sessions and photo shoots and hung up. Vacation was not on the schedule.
Pace then came up with a plan. After a few days of the band dutifully following orders, he invited Belladonna to discuss business over drinks at a trendy nightclub. After plying her with drinks and charm, paparazzi and poses, Pace confessed his attraction for the much older woman. Flattered and drunk, she took the (jail)bait to her room, all the while muttering lewd suggestions. Upon entering the suite (paid for by the band, of course) and stripping off her designer clothes and imported jewelry (also included in her contract), Belladonna began advancing towards the boy. At that moment, Pace uttered the word “oven” in the direction of a barely-visible lump under his shirt. On cue, the doors to the suite opened, crowded with gawking photographers and reporters.
The ensuing scandal revealed many other of Belladonna’s indiscretions and less-than-legal activities. She submitted a change of address forwarding her mail to a federal prison outside of Tacoma. The contract with Deadly Nightshade was deemed null and void, giving the boys control of a considerable fortune. But this was also the end of their fifteen minutes of fame. Rock operas were so last week. Not entirely saddened, the boys returned to their hometown, and although they still were not allowed to return to school, the boys’ classmates welcomed them back as heroes.
The money paid for damages to the school and the requisite completion of the boys’ interrupted high school education. Simon would never be a geometry whiz, but he did get to teach keyboards to a succession of rather cute and admiring pupils. Jericho started a karaoke coffee bar and gave himself top billing every night. And Pace? Pace underwent gender reassignment treatment and now goes by the name of Sofia.
Pan's Labyrinth
Some random notes on Guillermo del Toro's film Pan's Labyrinth which should be expanded at a later date. As the title suggests, it has much to offer for examination of myth and fairy tale transposed, translated, displaced, reinvented.
An attempt to understand the main character, Ofelia, begins with her name. Serpent, immortality, help, innocence. Hamlet, madness, youth, fantasy, romance, hope in a mad world.
Mother and daughter, in utero son and evil step-father, the captain. Set in Spain 1944, remnants of the civil war. Guerrillas in the hills and the captain manning his little kingdom. An insect which turns into a fairy along the model of an illustration in one of Ofelia’s books of fairy tales. Actually, it all begins with a narrator telling the story of an underworld monarch whose daughter escapes to the world of light, whence she immediately loses her memory and any sense of her identity, with strong intimations of Plato’s cave. She dies of exposure and starvation, because her immortality leaves her when she rebels, yet her spirit is destined to return to the underworld and portals are opened around the earth by her father. Ofelia is led to one by a flying insect and told by the housekeeper, Mercedes, that the labyrinth has been there essentially beyond human memory: “Since before the mill.” Ofelia is then led back there one night (as if in a dream; the insect wakes Ofelia who is at first fearful and tries to wake her mother sleeping next to her to no avail; the insect changes form to that of what we traditionally recognize as a fairy – the name Ofelia has been calling it all along – and leads the girl to Pan’s Labyrinth).
There she meets the faun who gives her a book full of blank pages, telling her that she is the Princess Moanna of the underworld (somehow related to the moon; a quarter-moon-shaped mark on her left shoulder verifies her legitimacy as such) and must accomplish three tasks by the next full moon in order to establish both her legitimacy and that her immortality has not been lost, at which time she will be restored as the princess and live eternally under the ground. The book will give her instructions. We are not shown Ofelia returning to her bed or the world of mortals, yet the next scene places her clearly there as if she returned magically (or as if it were all a dream). The mythological/ fairy tale scenes are alternated with the unflinchingly “real” and violent ones in the compound in the war. I won’t give any more away in case anyone here is interested in seeing it firsthand. I would highly recommend it. Note: NOT a family film.
Other items of note: at one point Ofelia wears a dress very reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. The faun also gives her a mandrake root to put under her sick mother’s bed with specific instructions. Once she does this, her mother’s health abruptly shifts for the better. And I’m sure we all know how mandrake is associated with witches, the supernatural, the otherworld.
Dreams, underworld, vision (the Pale Man has eyes in his hands, empty holes in his face), fairy tale, life, myth all is here for the taking.
An attempt to understand the main character, Ofelia, begins with her name. Serpent, immortality, help, innocence. Hamlet, madness, youth, fantasy, romance, hope in a mad world.
Mother and daughter, in utero son and evil step-father, the captain. Set in Spain 1944, remnants of the civil war. Guerrillas in the hills and the captain manning his little kingdom. An insect which turns into a fairy along the model of an illustration in one of Ofelia’s books of fairy tales. Actually, it all begins with a narrator telling the story of an underworld monarch whose daughter escapes to the world of light, whence she immediately loses her memory and any sense of her identity, with strong intimations of Plato’s cave. She dies of exposure and starvation, because her immortality leaves her when she rebels, yet her spirit is destined to return to the underworld and portals are opened around the earth by her father. Ofelia is led to one by a flying insect and told by the housekeeper, Mercedes, that the labyrinth has been there essentially beyond human memory: “Since before the mill.” Ofelia is then led back there one night (as if in a dream; the insect wakes Ofelia who is at first fearful and tries to wake her mother sleeping next to her to no avail; the insect changes form to that of what we traditionally recognize as a fairy – the name Ofelia has been calling it all along – and leads the girl to Pan’s Labyrinth).
There she meets the faun who gives her a book full of blank pages, telling her that she is the Princess Moanna of the underworld (somehow related to the moon; a quarter-moon-shaped mark on her left shoulder verifies her legitimacy as such) and must accomplish three tasks by the next full moon in order to establish both her legitimacy and that her immortality has not been lost, at which time she will be restored as the princess and live eternally under the ground. The book will give her instructions. We are not shown Ofelia returning to her bed or the world of mortals, yet the next scene places her clearly there as if she returned magically (or as if it were all a dream). The mythological/ fairy tale scenes are alternated with the unflinchingly “real” and violent ones in the compound in the war. I won’t give any more away in case anyone here is interested in seeing it firsthand. I would highly recommend it. Note: NOT a family film.
Other items of note: at one point Ofelia wears a dress very reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. The faun also gives her a mandrake root to put under her sick mother’s bed with specific instructions. Once she does this, her mother’s health abruptly shifts for the better. And I’m sure we all know how mandrake is associated with witches, the supernatural, the otherworld.
Dreams, underworld, vision (the Pale Man has eyes in his hands, empty holes in his face), fairy tale, life, myth all is here for the taking.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Memories and Dreams . . . song title . . . the melody is haunting me . . . here and not here at the same time
This class is already dredging up much in the realm of memory for me. Frankly, much unpleasantness which I would prefer were not in my experience or memory, but is. As such, I’m contemplating the role of memories in this examination of dreams, myth, and life. For it can be argued that our dreams may rely upon memory, particularly those we might desire not to consider overmuch in our waking life. Our dreams disallow forgetting. It is also the function of memory which allows us to compare and analyze texts and patterns at all, to recognize in one place a translated form of something else, to see the mythological nature of any narrative.
A brief examination of recurring instances in my dreams include much fear, places that can be reached once and never found again although much effort is extended in the search, secret or hidden places that seem familiar or that I feel I knew all along and yet am discovering for the first time. Desperate irreversibility.
My new identity of Ice and Cold, although I know not yet what Hillman has to say about, conjures many personal associations and resonances. Numbness, death, preservation (interesting juxtaposition if I do say so myself), the mercurial nature of time in my dreams wherein it often feels as if the time I am acting in is frozen while the rest of the world rushes along breakneck as my frozenness, my inability to act finally results in apathy, cold waters threatening to wash all away.
Have you ever kissed a corpse? The body cools at a frightening pace once breath and blood still. Then what? Memory, dream, life exterminated. But not myth. Perhaps each experience both feeds myth and feeds on myth in an endless snake-eating-its-tail/tale cycle.
The spirit of Dylan is with us. He would approve.
A brief examination of recurring instances in my dreams include much fear, places that can be reached once and never found again although much effort is extended in the search, secret or hidden places that seem familiar or that I feel I knew all along and yet am discovering for the first time. Desperate irreversibility.
My new identity of Ice and Cold, although I know not yet what Hillman has to say about, conjures many personal associations and resonances. Numbness, death, preservation (interesting juxtaposition if I do say so myself), the mercurial nature of time in my dreams wherein it often feels as if the time I am acting in is frozen while the rest of the world rushes along breakneck as my frozenness, my inability to act finally results in apathy, cold waters threatening to wash all away.
Have you ever kissed a corpse? The body cools at a frightening pace once breath and blood still. Then what? Memory, dream, life exterminated. But not myth. Perhaps each experience both feeds myth and feeds on myth in an endless snake-eating-its-tail/tale cycle.
The spirit of Dylan is with us. He would approve.
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