Once again (or, rather, STILL), I am in computer hell. Grrrr.....

Finnegan Begin Again

Here I go again, trying to compensate for the sins of my computer, or Windows, or whatever...

Back to Basics: Finished the latest NYTimes Crossword, which, once again, was something of a disappointment. The theme? Basic White and Basic Black: At certain blocks in the puzzle, one had to put the word 'black' or 'white' into a single square to make everything fit. Although the puzzle is better than the last several have been, this one too suffers from what Huck Finn might have called 'stretchers,' including the incredibly inane answer 'suety' for 'fatty.' The Times puzzles have been pretty uninspired lately, and I can't say I've been much impressed by them lately. They haven't had their once-characteristic cleverness I so enjoyed. Meh.

Hit Me, Baby, One More Time: Speaking of the Times, it turns out that a number of the recent links to this site from Google and elsewhere have had their connection to the Times Crossword puzzle. I find this a bit amusing, and a bit curious, considering one would have thought links here would have come more from material more extensively mentioned or quoted here, but.... The Internet is a very bizarre thing.

Living History: Did anyone with more than a pair of brain cells honestly think Hillary's book would be either informative or insightful? No, I've not read it, and don't really intend to read it, but I particularly like Maureen Dowd's description of the book as 'neither living nor history.' Click here to read the rest of the article, if you have a free NYTimes subscription.

How Much Can You Forgive?: I finally watched Magnolia last night (yes, I know, I'm perpetually behind the times), and was more or less impressed by it. In a way, though, criticizing anything about such a film seems to me a lot like quibbling, even if quibble I must. Anderson's script and filmic style are fascinating; he elicits from his actors some excellent performances; and there are few films that would dare to assume such a complicated stream-of-consciousness kind of project, and handle it with such panache (in this way, Anderson has more in common with Eliot, Joyce, and the French symbolistes than he does with many of his contemporaries in the film world). The film is eminently quotable, it is in many ways emotionally 'very true,' and it is gorgeously filmed. So, you're waiting, what's to quibble?

Magnolia seems to me suffer from the same problem that sank Pulp Fiction in my books. It is too ambitious, it out-clevers and out-insights itself by half, such that it doesn't know when to wrap thingsup, or to leave certain things in the realm of cinematic ellipsis. The film goes on a good 45 minutes after it probably should have, and the film as a whole becomes somewhat anti-climactic: it undoes itself rather than going out with force. My feeling is that the film would have been better if it had been ended with its apogee, with the emotional tensions brought out during the quiz show filming, instead of dissolving into a peculiar series of personal codas and a mock-apocalyptic gesture that seemed to me more self-indulgent than cinematically satisfying. Like Pulp Fiction, the film eventually falters when it comes to pacing and catharsis; it loses its sense of urgency and momentum, and the quirky nature of the film becomes overstated. As such, the last forty-five minutes-- despite being in many ways beyond fault per se-- seem like a struggle to a pre-made ending and to 'get out' of the situation(s) it had created. The result is that the film is less satisfying than it could have been; it become the guest that overstays its welcome. I should add this, though: while Pulp Fiction for me is a failed film, a ponderous exercise in Tarantino's self-indulgence, Magnolia remains a good film, a very, very good one indeed. While Boogie Nights and Reservoir Dogs were less ambitious films that dealt with far less complex issues, they were marvels of pacing and control. So here's my overall statement: Boogie Nights and Reservoir Dogs are minor films that are extraordinarily well done, and which achieve far more than they set out to accomplish; Magnolia and Pulp Fiction strike me as fundamentally flawed major (or 'great') films, films that set high goals for themselves, accomplish many of them, but which falter with many of them. The first set are less ambitious but more satisfying films; the second set are more provocative but ultimately less complete. Hmmmm: an eternal question-- to aspire toward greatness and risk falling short, or to kick ass while setting the bar within your grasp. There's no answer to this, but it reminds me why there has never been a successful attempt at the true 'epic' in English poetry since Paradise Lost. I'm very glad I watched Magnolia, and I'll definitely have to grant it repeated viewings (and I do strongly encourage the two of you out there who haven't seen it to do so), but the inevitable quibble lingers....

For CSM: Nuclear, nuclear, nuclear, nuclear. New- klee- er. New- klee- er. Pass that on to Herr Bush, so the South can enunciate again! ;-)

Wow, I think I've retyped just about everything. Yes, it's a dull, dull Saturday.... Best, all....

AGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

I had started to write a rather lengthy update about a number of different topics and was ready to post it when Explorer *ONCE AGAIN* shut down on me, and now everything is lost. I despise Windows. It is the bane of my existence. It makes me consider homicide a viable option. Will try to remember all of what I had put together and repost it later-- when my anger has subsided.

Anyone wishing to donate to the Foundation for Getting Dr J a decent computer (and life) is advised to send money directly to the good Doctor. ;-) *grumble, grumble, grumble*

Blah
Ah, I've been so lazy lately. I can't be bothered to do much in the way of original blogging lately, even though I see that Blogger has now modified its editor (which is really no different, but which at least is easier on the eyes). Meh. Wish I had more to say, but ultimately I don't. So unproductive.... I will blame on the heat. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Alas, another weekend gone & wasted. Paraphrasing Milton, when I think upon how my light is spent....

More reading, more writing, to little avail. I wish this damned dissertation would write itself, but the bloody thing won't. *rolls eyes* As Eliot would say, it's all about 'the intolerable struggle with words and meanings.' It's even more difficult when one's meaning keeps shifting, or turning out not to mean what you thought you meant. Words crack and break.... And yet, one *must* say, must find the words, must face the challenge of inefficacy.

Maybe I should retreat from the computer and enjoy the last of today's warmth by working on the front porch. There is, however, something intrinsically wrong to studying Eliot in the heat; maybe I should turn to Stevens, the great Floridian. Ah, Stevens....

The World As Meditation

Is it Ulysses that approaches from the east,
The interminable adventurer? The trees are mended.
That winter is washed away. Someone is moving

On the horizon and lifting himself up above it.
A form of fire approaches the cretonnes of Penelope,
Whose mere savage presence awakens the world in which she dwells.

She has composed, so long, a self with which to welcome him,
Companion to his self for her, which she imagined,
Two in a deep-founded sheltering, friend and dear friend.

The trees had been mended, as an essential exercise
In an inhuman meditation, larger than her own.
No winds like dogs watched over her at night.

She wanted nothing he could not bring her by coming alone.
She wanted no fetchings. His arms would be her necklace
And her belt, the final fortune of their desire.

But was it Ulysses? Or was it only the warmth of the sun
On her pillow? The thought kept beating in her like her heart.
The two kept beating together. It was only day.

It was Ulysses and it was not. Yet they had met,
Friend and dear friend and a planet's encouragement.
The barbarous strength within her would never fail.

She would talk a little to herself as she combed her hair,
Repeating his name with its patient syllables,
Never forgetting him that kept coming constantly so near.

That's from The Rock, Stevens' last 'complete' volume (or a long serial poem, really). Beautiful poem. Yes, I think it will be Wallace today.

Don't know why, but there's something to this.

Oh, it really is lyric day today...

Enlightenment

Chop that wood
Carry water
What's the sound of one hand clapping
Enlightenment, don't know what it is

Every second, every minute
It keeps changing to something different
Enlightenment, don't know what it is
Enlightenment, don't know what it is
It says it's non attachment
Non attachment. non attachment

I'm in the here and now, and I'm meditating
And still I'm suffering but that's my problem
Enlightenment, don't know what it is

Wake up

Enlightenment says the world is nothing
Nothing but a dream, everything's an illusion
And nothing is real

Good or bad baby
You can change it anyway you want
You can rearrange it
Enlightenment, don't know what it is
Chop that wood
And carry water
What's the sound of one hand clapping
Enlightenment, don't know what it is

All around baby. you can see
You're making your own reality. everyday because
Enlightenment, don't know what it is

One more time

Enlightenment. don't know what it is
It's up to you
Enlightenment. don't know what it is
It's up to you everyday
Enlightenment, don't know what it is
It's always up to you
Enlightenment, don't know what it is
It's up to you, the way you think

--- Van Morrison

And this concludes today's musical broadcast. ;-)

I Don't Believe You

I can't understand,
She let go of my hand
An' left me here facing the wall.
I'd sure like t' know
Why she did go,
But I can't get close t' her at all.
Though we kissed through the wild blazing nighttime,
She said she would never forget.
But now mornin's clear,
It's like I ain't here,
She just acts like we never have met.

It's all new t' me,
Like some mystery,
It could even be like a myth.
Yet it's hard t' think on,
That she's the same one
That last night I was with.
From darkness, dreams're deserted,
Am I still dreamin' yet?
I wish she'd unlock
Her voice once an' talk,
'Stead of acting like we never have met.

If she ain't feelin' well,
Then why don't she tell
'Stead of turnin' her back t' my face?
Without any doubt,
She seems too far out
For me t' return t' her chase.
Though the night ran swirling an' whirling,
I remember her whispering yet.
But evidently she don't
An' evidently she won't,
She just acts like we never have met.

If I didn't have t' guess,
I'd gladly confess
T' anything I might've tried.
If I was with 'er too long
Or have done something wrong,
I wish she'd tell me what it is, I'll run an' hide.
Though her skirt it swayed as a guitar played,
Her mouth was watery and wet.
But now something has changed
For she ain't the same,
She just acts like we never have met.

I'm leavin' today,
I'll be on my way
Of this I can't say very much.
But if you want me to,
I can be just like you
An' pretend that we never have touched.
An' if anybody asks me, "Is it easy to forget?"
I'll say, "It's easily done,
You just pick anyone,
An' pretend that you never have met!"

--- Bob Dylan, from Another Side of Bob Dylan

"What Do You Want From Me"

As you look around this room tonight
Settle in your seat and dim the lights
Do you want my blood, do you want my tears
What do you want
What do you want from me
Should I sing until I can't sing any more
Play these strings until my fingers are raw
You're so hard to please
What do you want from me

Do you think that I know something you don't know
What do you want from me
If I don't promise you the answers would you go
What do you want from me
Should I stand out in the rain
Do you want me to make a daisy chain for you
I'm not the one you need
What do you want from me

You can have anything you want
You can drift, you can dream, even walk on water
Anything you want

You can own everything you see
Sell your soul for complete control
Is that really what you need

You can lose yourself this night
See inside there is nothing to hide
Turn and face the light

What do you want from me

-- Pink Floyd

Standing In The Way

You're not ready
For the world outside
You keep pretending,
but you just can't hide
I know I said that I’d
Be standing by your side
But I....

Your path's unbeaten,
And it's all uphill
And you can meet it,
But you never will
And I’m the reason
that you're standing still
But I....

I wish I could say
The right words
To lead you through this land
Wish I could play the father
And take you by the hand
Wish I could stay here
But now I understand
I’m standing in the way

The cries around you,
You don't hear at all
'Cause you know I’m here
To take that call
So you just lie there when
You should be standing tall
But I....

I wish I could
Lay your arms down
And let you rest at last
Wish I could
Slay your demons
But now that time has passed
Wish I could stay here
Your stalwart, standing fast
But I'm

Standing in the way
I’m just standing
In the way

--- Giles, song from "Once More With Feeling," written by Joss Whedon

I Cannot Live With You

I cannot live with you.
It would be life,
And life is over there
Behind the shelf

The sexton keeps the key to,
Putting up
Our life, his porcelain,
Like a cup

Discarded of the housewife,
Quaint or broken;
A newer Sèvres pleases,
Old ones crack.

I could not die with you,
For one must wait
To shut the other's gaze down,
You could not.

And I, could I stand by
And see you freese,
Without my right of frost,
Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise with you,
Because your face
Would put out Jesus',
That new grace

Grow plain and foreign
On my homesick eye,
Except that you, than he
Shone closer by.

They'd judge us-- how?
For you served Heaven, you know,
Or sought to;
I could not,

Because you saturated sight,
And I had no more eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise.

And you were lost, I would be,
Though my name
Rang loudest
On the heavenly fame.

And were you saved,
And I condemned to be
Where you were not,
That self were hell to me.

So, we must keep apart,
You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are,
And prayer,
And that pale sustenance,
Despair!

--- Emily Dickinson

Woman to Man

Lightning hits the roof,
shoves the knife, darkness,
deep in the walls.
They bleed light all over us
and your face, the fan, folds up,
so I won't see how afraid
to be with me you are.
We don't mix, even in bed,
where we keep ending up.
There's no need to hide it:
you're snow, I'm coal,
I've got the scars to prove it.
But open your mouth,
I'll give you a taste of black
you won't forget.
For a while, I'll let it make you strong,
make your heart lion,
then I'll take it back.

--- Ai

It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last,
But what ever you wish you to keep, you better grab it fast.
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun.
Look out the saints are comin' through
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense.
Take what you have gathered from coincidence.
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets.
This sky, too, is folding under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home.
All your reindeer armies, are all going home.
The lover who just walked out the door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor.
The carpet, too, is moving under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew,
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

--- Bob Dylan from Bringing It All Back Home

Tomorrow

Your best friend is gone,
your other friend, too.
Now the dream that used to turn in your sleep,
sails into the year's coldest night.

What did you say?
Or was it something you did?
It makes no difference-- the house of breath collapsing
around your voice, your voice burning, are nothing to worry about.

Tomorrow your friends will come back;
your moist open mouth will bloom in the glass of storefronts.
Yes.  Yes.  Tomorrow they will come back and you
will invent an ending that comes out right.

--- Mark Strand, from Darker (1970)

Played around once again with the layout of this blog in an attempt to make it more visually attractive. I think it looks a bit better now, even if it may be a bit cluttered. And no, I don't think myself Prospero for incorporating the image atop as I have. ;-)

It's Drool Time for Dr J.......



It's not an especially flattering image of her, but I still think she's lovely...

Thanks to my 'common-law supervisor' RK for sending me this morning, which provided me a much-needed series of chuckles. As I said in my grateful response, why can't the sorts of errors we receive in essays be so colourful?

Actual Analogies and Metaphors Found in High School Essays

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city
and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4: 19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. "Oh, Jason, take me!"; she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on $1-a-beer night.

23. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

24. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

25. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

26. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

27. She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.

28. Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.

29. She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

He he he. Application submitted. *Sigh*

Now we wait to see if they let the lunatic run the asylum. *devilish glance, a la Peter Lorre*

I officially require a beer now. Mmmmmm..... Beer......

Wow, it's been a few days since I updated this blog, and it's possibly the longest gap since I first set the thing up. *Sigh* I just haven't been able to bring myself to bother for the past few days, in part because I've been tossing and turning on ideas for an application for September. This means redoing my cv, designing sample courses, making statements about myself (yuk!) and trying to hock my wares (even yukkier), and so forth. The situation is strange. The positions open are natural ones for me-- and, indeed, for the Shakespeare course there's no one within the University better suited for assuming the task on such short notice. But I am also far from being the departmental darling, so I can imagine there will be some baggage attached to my application. My best hope is that reality-- the work I've actually done, the assessments from the people like RK and DC who know my work-- wins out over myth. If the Department is smart, they'll give me the two CDships so they go out of their hair and at least into the hands of a willing veteran, no muss no fuss. But I know, of course, they will not likely do the easiest thing....

Not much else I can think to report right now, at least not that is of general interest. Will likely post my material on an external site 'advertising Dr. J,' or "Dr J and the Courses.' A plus tard.

OMG-- Big shift in my little neck of the woods. Looks like Dr J could end up being his own boss next year. Maybe. Possibly. Snowball's chance in hell, probably. But one never knows....

Just finished the Times-- What a stupid, stupid puzzle. Dr J is now going to sound like a total pig, but there are a few things I *HATE* with crosswords. Generally, I hate when the puzzles are composed by women. There are a few reasons for this: (1) They tend to use references that are really isolated to feminine spheres of knowledge (allusions to makeup, dresses, etc.); (2) They use a lot of tired crossword formulae (e.g., the theme is a long quote); (3) They tend to refer to materials that are either extremely lightweight or extremely arcane; (4) They tend to use uninspired and often downright silly clues. Elizabeth Gorski's puzzle today featured all of these things. The result is a sense of compositional desperation on her part (and she is usually guilty of this; Gorski is one of the composers I dislike most). Some of the words are idiotic: "minokinis," "Algol" (the star in Perseus), "LBOS", "Dhow," NDAK" (for North Dakota, but I hate such things), "obies" (for 'blown winds'). Most of the other clues are dull and typical. I really wish there were more good female cruciverbalists. Gorski's puzzles are horrible, as are most others (Joline comes to mind). Grrr arrrgh.

The theme? Title: "In So Many Words." The quote: "Language is a city to which every human being brought a stone." (Ralph Waldo Emerson). Yawn. A throughly unrewarding-- and quickly-solved-- puzzle. Not even a single clever clue in the bunch. *sigh*

Morning Ruminations

Sadly, it looks pretty much certain that we can no longer delay the inevitable-- that we will have to put our old dog down shortly. He can no longer walk straight, his hearing and vision are almost entirely shot, and he has that sad gait of resignation. He's fourteen years old now and breaks my heart every time I hear him crash into a wall or prostrate himself on the patches of uncarpeted floor. Soon, sadly, soon.

Looks like there is a very long day ahead. There must be more coffee, there must be more coffee.

RK: Watched the Ian Holm Lear yesterday and was pleasantly surprised. Holm, as usual, was very good, even if there were a few questionable readings, and even if Holm himself seems too dimunitive for my imagination. The performance on the whole, though, is solid, and the supporting cast is surprisingly good-- even the three actresses playing Lear's daughters. The production is very good. I do have some difficulties with the anachronistic tendencies of the performance (bombs going off, soldiers wearing armour that is temporally inconsistent), but these are minor. A good show, and I would indeed encourage people to watch it.

Ah, the newspaper has arrived. It is now time to kick some NYTimes Crossword ass.

A strange day: We lost both Gregory Peck and David Brinkley today. RIP.

CSM: Glad to know your day went from being 'the worst day ever' (surely an exaggeration, but...) to being one in which your coworkers couldn't understand your eruptions into laughter. Shows what a little thinking outside (or inside) the box, and a steady stream of perversion, will do. Eye yz da bezt. ;-)

There are precious few things better in life than making a young woman laugh-- in the way you want her to laugh, that is. ;-)

Thanks, Maureen...: Maureen Dowd has a good op-ed column in today's NYTimes about the idea of men and fashion. I particularly like this statement: "Dishevelment — stains that indicate you had soup at your desk as you sorted through Social Security offset taxes, or that you are wearing a hand-me-down sportscoat your dad gave you at Harvard — signals that you're far too busy pondering the meaning of neoimperialism to look in the mirror." Indeed. Beware the sartorially-obsessed man. To read the rest of the article, you'll need to fill out some info and then you can access the Times whenever you want for free. The rest of the article is here.

Newt....: Newt Gingrich was on The Daily Show last night and proved how utterly devoid of humour he is. The more a man is already pre-disposed to being a caricature, the more likely he is to be concerned about being taken seriously, at least in the Big 50. I can only imagine how American politicians would react to the shenanigans of their leaders being assaulted by Marge Delahunty or doing a walk-on with the Air Farce. I can only imagine how they would react to know that Dubya and Gore have indeed been exposed for their ignorance by Rick Mercer. Even the most-uptight of Canadian politicans know they ought to have a healthy sense of self-deprecating humour, else they become the victim of attack rather than a co-conspirator in their own ribbing. Mulroney's the last politician who made that mistake, but he always seemed about as Canadian as Martha Washington. Some US politicians are starting to learn this-- and some, like Joe Lieberman, proved surprisingly good at demonstrating a sense of humour. But, Newt.... You don't go on with Jon Stewart and expect to play above the game; that's just silly.

The Agony of Writing: The Dr is trying to put some material together, mainly his proposal and his outline for his dissertation, and with the writing of the proposal I am (as I always do) struggling with the first sentence. It's easy to forget how crucial the opening sentence is; it determines direction and approach, it determines tone and atmosphere, and it determines your central premise. And yet, I keep coming back to the dry bones of "It is regularly observed that Modernism has numerous connections with and a degree of indebtedness to the traditions and techniques of Nonsense literature, particularly Nonsense poetry." Blah. Yes, it says what it has to say, and it determines the direction. But it plods along with a metronomic and stuffy gait, and commits the glaring style error of a subjunctive clause. I have to find the right way to approach this, the right words. It's not as easy-- as so many think-- as merely putting down the facts. And, frankly, if I can find a way to get into this that is 'lively,' I can hopefully engender a stronger mimetic sense that will make the dissertation more sprightly, more apropos, more valuable in itself. I also don't want to write the same sort of dull, heavy-handed, imperious criticism that most of my colleagues write-- and which, sadly, my own sentence above tempts me to write. Words move.....

From the Oh My God File:Just watched an episode of Cosby in which we're treated to an education in Shakespeare, ripe with the most ignorant interpretations of Shakespeare imaginable past the grade five level. There's very little more disconcerting than being preached to about Shakespeare by people who've obviously only read Shakespeare in Coles Notes. Just as bad, there's another episode of the same show that I saw some time ago with Anthony Quinn (!) as a blind professor explicating Milton with the insight of Cheech and/or Chong. No wonder people hate the classics-- because of manipulative, self-important, and mindless exhortations like this.

Yes, the Dr has the TV on as he tries to write.... And he's in a grumpy mood, for obvious reasons. ;-)

Some Interesting Words from Chesterton

“The function of criticism, if it has a legitimate function at all, can only be one function - that of dealing with the subconscious part of the author's mind which only the critic can express, and not with the conscious part of the author's mind, which the author himself can express. Either criticism is no good at all (a very defensible position) or else criticism means saying about an author the very things that would have made him jump out of his boots.”

G.K. Chesterton, Introduction to “The Old Curiosity Shop,” Appreciations and Criticisms of the Works of Charles Dickens. Collected Works Vol. 15 p. 272.

"Nothing sublimely artistic has ever arisen out of mere art, any more than anything essentially reasonable has ever arisen out of the pure reason. There must always be a rich moral soil for any great aesthetic growth."
-- A Defence of Nonsense (1901)

"Poets and such persons talk about the public as if it were some enormous and abnormal monster -- a huge hybrid between the cow they milk and the dragon that drinks their blood."
-- Illustrated London News, July 31, 1926

A Few Brief Quotes

"Don't knock bluff. Bluff can move mountains." --- Alistair Deacon on the BBC's As Time Goes By

"It's staying sober and working that cuts men off in their prime." --- Mosher in Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh

"I was born like this, I had no choice / I was born with the gift of a golden voice..." --- Leonard Cohen, "Tower of Song"

Yet Another In The Multitude of Dubya Jokes
This is also forwarded from Monsieur Ublanksy, who claims that he's limited to five forwards a year, but seems to be getting on a roll. ;-) Davey boy, the net the net is calling....

While visiting England, George W. Bush is invited to tea with the Queen. He asks her what her leadership philosophy is. She says that it is to surround herself with intelligent people. He asks how she knows if they're intelligent.

"I do so by asking them the right questions," says the Queen. "Allow me to demonstrate."

She phones Tony Blair and says, "Mr. Prime Minister. Please answer this question: Your mother has a child, and your father has a child, and this child is not your brother or sister. Who is it?"

Tony Blair responds, "It's me, ma'am."

"Correct. Thank you and good-bye, sir," says the Queen. She hangs up and says, "Did you get that, Mr. Bush?"

"Yes ma'am. Thanks a lot. I'll definitely be using that!"

Upon returning to Washington, he decides he'd better put the Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee to the test. He summons Jesse Helms to the White House and says, "Senator Helms, I wonder if you can answer a question for me."

"Why, of course, sir. What's on your mind?"

"Uh, your mother has a child, and your father has a child, and this child is not your brother or your sister. Who is it?"

Helms hems and haws and finally asks, "Can I think about it and get back to you?" Bush agrees, and Helms leaves. He immediately calls a meeting of other senior senators, and they puzzle over the question for several hours, but nobody can come up with an answer. Finally, in desperation, Helms calls Colin Powell at the State Department and explains his problem.

"Now look here Colin Powell, your mother has a child, and your father has a child, and this child is not your brother, or your sister. Who is it?"

Powell answers immediately, "It's me, of course, you dumb ass."

Much relieved, Helms rushes back to the White House and exclaims, "I know the answer, sir! I know who it is! It's Colin Powell!" And Bush replies in disgust, "Wrong, you dumb ass, It's Tony Blair!"

A Philosophy of Life
Received this today from Dave Ublansky-- thanks to him for it. And yes, I agree.

Philosophy of Life

A philosophy professor stood before his class with some items on the desk in front of him. When the final student was seated he picked up a large and empty glass bottle and proceeded to fill it with rocks...about 2" in diameter. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. He then picked up a box of pebbles and added them to the jar, shaking it lightly. The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open areas between the rocks. "Is the jar filled now?" Yes, the students said. But then he picked up a bag of sand and poured it into the bottle. The sand filled in everything else. Once more he asked if it was full and after some thinking they said that it was. The professor then took 2 cans of beer from a bag at the side of the desk and opening them both, poured their entire contents into the jar. The students roared at this demonstration.

After the laughter subsided the professor spoke: "I want you to recognise that this jar represents your life. The rocks are the important things in your life; your family, your partner, your health, your children...things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter...like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else. The small stuff. If you put the sand into the jar first there is no room for the pebbles or the rocks. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out dancing. There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, rewire the lamp. Take care of the rocks first...the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."

After the impact of what he had said settled, one of the students raised her hand and inquired what the beer represented. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to prove that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of beers."

A Few Victorian Poetic Pieces

[Rhyme for a Child Viewing a Naked Venus in a Painting of 'The Judgment of Paris']

He gazed and gazed and gazed and gazed,
Amazed, amazed, amazed, amazed.

--- Robert Browning (c. 1872)

Rondeau

Jenny kissed me when we met,

   Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get

   Sweets into your list, put that in:

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

   Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I'm growing old, but add,

   Jenny kissed me.

--- Leigh Hunt (1832)

Note from Dr. J: Some of you may have seen the above poem on advertisements for Poetry on the Way on the TTC or other local Canadian transit systems. It is inaccurately printed there with exclamation marks that are not usually associated with the poem, and is given the false title 'Jenny kissed me.'

Pastel: Masks and Faces

The light of our cigarettes
Went and came in the gloom:
It was dark in the room.

Dark, and then, in the dark,
Sudden, a flash, a glow,
And a hand and a ring I know.

And then, through the dark, a flush
Ruddy and vague, the grace
(A rose!) of her lyric face.

--- Arthur Symons (c.1890)

An Evening

A SUNSET's mounded cloud;

   A diamond evening-star;

   Sad blue hills afar;

      Love in his shroud.

Scarcely a tear to shed;

   Hardly a word to say;

   The end of a summer day;

      Sweet Love dead.

-- William Allingham (1888)

The Kiss

'I saw you take his kiss!'  ''Tis true.'

   'O modesty!'  ''Twas strictly kept:

'He thought me asleep; at least, I knew

   'He thought I thought he thought I slept.'

--- Coventry Patmore (c. 1850?)

Some lovely little pieces, aren't they? And yet these days we're used to such little poetic pieces being no better than Hallmark material.

Well, I guess that does it: my bodily schedule will now seriously be screwed up for a bit. Despite trying to get to sleep last night sometime after 9pm, I managed to fall asleep sometime after -- get this-- 5 am this morning. The end result: I was up for about 48 hours straight, and the twelve hours sleep I just got feels like it has done nothing to restore me. Insomnia is a cruel thing, and I wonder if this torture was devised by God for the sole sake of the excellent Christopher Nolan movie. And, no-- he says, addressing anyone who might be tempted to search for some psychological explanation for Dr J's insomnia-- there is nothing particularly bothering me or anything like that. I've been an insomniac for about two dozen years now, which no doubt explains my regularly drained physical appearance. I wonder how much younger I would look if I knew the concept of 'beauty sleep.' LOL.

To recovery!

Another lonnnnnnnnnng day.... Well, more than that, really, as I haven't slept in well more than 24 hours. Abed alas...

Nice to see we're getting organized. ;-) Weeeeeeeeee're heeeeeeeere....

Good taste and humour are a contradiction in terms, like a chaste whore.
--- Malcolm Muggeridge. Remember Wilde? "Shrink not from blasphemy; 'twill pass for wit."

Here's to woman! Would that we could fold into her arms without falling into her hands.
--- Ambrose Bierce. He he: Reminds me of Norm's version on Cheers: "Women: can't live with em, pass the beer nuts."

Note

The comments sections of the blog, I see, are inconsistent in their appearance on this site. This is a problem with Enetation over which I have no control. It's apparent, though, that if your "refresh" your browser once or twice (or maybe three or more....) times, they will eventually come up. Ergh.

Simplex Munditiis

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

--- Ben Jonson, date uncertain

(Unless, of course, RK knows its date of origin.... Yes, RK, I'm fishing. ;-) )

A New Look

Well, as you have hopefully noticed, I've revamped the blog. I'm not sure if it looks any better or not (the jury is out for me-- but we shall see), but I'd be curious to hear what anyone thinks. This design was a bit tricky, at least for an HTML-newbie like me, because of my idiotic insistence on putting the title banner in the middle cell. But it all got done, eventually, and so we have something a bit different for a while. Probably a long while actually because I doubt I'll be rushing to commit myself to this horrible task again anytime soon. ;-) Best, as always....

Gift

     You tell me that silence

is nearer to peace than poems

but if for my gift

I brought you silence

(for I know silence)

you would say

     This is not silence

this is another poem

and you would hand it back to me.

--- Leonard Cohen (1961)

Amantium irae amoris integratio'st --- Terence, in a statement that is more often than not untrue.

To The Old Chaos

Thinking more and more about spiritus munditiis, and dug out the Collected Poems of Conrad Aiken. If anyone's curious, I posted at the Round Table site a selection from Aiken for comparison with a classic poem by Wallace Stevens. But that discussion is entirely different. Here, I'm just going to post some fine lines from Aiken's The Divine Pilgrim, a volume unfortunately ignored these days. Shame really. Here are some random fragments from The Charnel Rose: A Symphony.

Here eyes were void, her eyes were deep:
She came like one who moved in sleep....

Roses, he thought, were kin to her,
Pure text of dust; and learning these
He might more surely win her,
Speak her own tongue to pledge and please.
What vernal kinship, then, then was this
That spoke and perished in a breath?
In leaves, she was near enough to kiss,
And yet, impalpable as death.
Spading dark earth, he tore apart
Exquisite roots: she fled from him.

I fear at the end of night our hearts must pass,
Let us drink this night while we have it, let us drink it all.

Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.
I tire of the green of the world.
I am myself a mouth for blood.

Here's change, in changelessness: and we go down
Once more to the old chaos.

I will seek the eternal secret in this darkness:
The little seed that opens to gulf the world.

Now all is changed: we climb the stair;
The azure light is a pinnacled carven stair.

We are the soundless ecstasy of death.

And these are the symphony's final lines:

We are struck down. We hear no music.
The moisture of night is in our hands.
Time takes us. We are eternal.

Aiken's a poet of good, ringing moments more than he is a poet of sustained genius or force, and he's certainly no Eliot or Stevens. But he's interesting to dig up every now and again, especially when one wonders about the question of beauty in the world.

And, archived from Dr. J's Round Table

She rose in moonlight, and stood, confronting sea,
With her bare arms uplifted,
And lifted her voice in the silence foolishly:
And her face was small, and her voice was small.
'O moon!' she cried, 'I think how you must tire
Forever circling earth, so silently;
Earth, who is dark and makes you no reply.'
But the moon said nothing, no word at all,
She only heard the little waves rush and fall;
And saw the moon go quietly down the sky.
Like a white figurehead in the seafaring wind,
She stood in the moonlight,
And heard her voice cry, ghostly and thinned,
Over the seethe of foam,
Saying, 'O numberless waters, I think it strange
How you can always shadow her face, and change
And yet never weary of her, having no ease.'
But the sea said nothing, no word at all:
Unquietly, as in sleep, she saw it rise and fall;
And the moon spread a net of silver over the foam.

She lifted her hands and let them fall again,
Impatient of the silence. And in despair,
Hopeless of final answer against her pain,
She said, to the stealthy air,
'O air, far traveller, who from the stars are blown,
Float pollen of suns, you are an unseen sea
Lifting and bearing the words, eternally.
O air, do you not weary of your task?'
-- She stood in the silence, frightened and alone,
And heard her syllables ask and ask.

And then, as she walked in the moonlight, so alone,
Lost and small in a soulless sea,
Hearing no voice make answer to her own,
From that infinity, --
Suddenly she was aware of a low whisper,
A dreadful heartless sound; and she stood still, --
There in the beach grass, on a sandy hill, --
And heard the stars, making a ghostly whisper;
And the soulless whisper of sun and moon and tree;
And the sea, rising and falling with a blind moan.

And as she faded into the night,
A glimmer of white,
With her arms uplifted and her face bowed down;
Sinking, again, into the sleep of sands,
The sea-sands white and brown;
Or among the sea-grass rustling as one more blade,
Pushing before her face her cinquefoil hands;
Or sliding, stealthy as foam, into the sea,
With a slow seethe and whisper:

Too late to find her, yet not too late to see,
Came he, who sought forever unsatisfied,
And saw her enter and shut the darkness,
Desired and swift,
And caught at the rays of the moon, yet found but darkness,
Caught at the flash of his feet, to fill his hands
With the sleepy pour of sands.

'O moon!' he said: 'was it you I followed?
You, who put silver madness into my eyes? --'
But he only heard, in the dark, a stifled laughter,
And the rattle of dead leaves blowing.
'O wind! --' he said -- 'was it you I followed?
Your hand I felt against my face? --'
But he only heard, in the dark, a stifled laughter,
And shadows crept past him. with furtive pace,
Breathing night upon him; and one by one
The ghosts of leaves flew past him, seeking the sun.

And a silent star slipped golden down the darkness,
Down the great wall, leaving no trace in the sky,
And years went with it, and worlds. And he dreamed still
Of a fleeter shadow among the shadows running,
Foam into foam, without a gesture or cry,
Leaving him there, alone, on a lonely hill.

God save me from tepid and cowardly minds.
God save me from tepid and cowardly souls.
God save me most of all from those who ask not the difference.

My courage remains. And it still works. Nice to know. Even as 30 pends. Where did my youth go? Where did the fun go?

Bits and Pieces

** Parents have vacated pour la nuit. Joy! Meh, probably doesn't matter anyway, as I may head down to Chester's tonight.

** Cable station TNN has decided to change its name to Spike TV, for reasons that are beyond me. But in a striking gesture of ludicrous self-absorption, Spike Lee has decided to sue the owners of the network for using his name without his permission. *smashes head against keyboard repeatedly* Yet another living proof of the value of birth control. *sigh* Then again, by that logic I think I can file a great suit against Pearl Jam; after all, that damned song of theirs caused me no end of pain and suffering....

** Spent several hours with some of my family today and am 'feeling the burn,' so to speak, not so much from the at-long-last-manifest sun but from the arduous task of playing for several hours with four children under the age of five (five if one includes the newborn who slept peacefully most of the time). My much-younger cousin (he's 19) and I spent most of the afternoon on play/supervise duty, and, frankly, it exhausted me. I just don't think I have the energy I used to have. Further argument in favour of birth control.... Don't get me wrong: I love the little darlings, but I cannot fathom the task of taking care of children constantly anymore. Six or seven years ago yeah, but not now.

** Actual Exchange:

Old Friend of Mine: Do you search out insanity or does it just find itself magnetically attracted to you?
Me: Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds....
Old Friend: Huh?
Me: Poor Tom's acold.
Old Friend: What?
Me: Purr! The cat is grey.
Old Friend: What the fuck are you talking about?
Me: Do de de de, Sessa!
Old Friend: Are you pissed? I asked if....
Me: Childe Roland to the dark tower came...
Old Friend: Oh, I see. Very funny. Smart ass.
Me: Bless thy five wits.
Old Friend: You're a bastard.
Me: Fie fo and fum.
Old Friend: Fuck, you're on a roll now, aren't you?
Me: Fathom and half, fathom and half!

More seriously, old friend (if you're reading this), I don't look for it-- it just seems to find me. Insanity is like Augustine's God-- it has centre everywhere and its circumference nowhere; I wonder if I know the grace of insanity as a poor substitute for God who, it seems, is on perennial vacation.

Good night, ladies, good night. Sweet ladies, good night, good night....

Think tonight will be another night of reading (with imbibements, of course) on the front porch. So much to read, so much to think about.... Summer, I'm told, is supposed to arrive at some point or another, though I'm increasing skeptical. If anyone has any suggestions on how to avoid work, I'd be pleased to hear them. It's Friday evening, after all-- there should be no such thing as work.

"You play for kittens!?!?" --- Buffy, on learning the stakes in a demon poker game.

"Her skin's so tight, I don't even know how you can look at it." --- Clem on Buffy

I hate working.... Always working.... Or procrastinating, as I guess I am right now. Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Another day.... Fairly dull. Completed last week's NYTimes Sunday Crossword in an hour or so, which leaves one of my regular challenges complete (and thus no other 'legitimate' distraction for the day). ;-) The puzzle was called "Hot to Trot," which, sadly, is not nearly as provocative as it sounds. In the theme clues, phrases are twisted such that "h" sounds are turned into "tr" sounds and meanings are changed. Some are clever. "White House walkway?" The answer is "Trail To The Chief." Others are less so: "Awed sequoia viewer's cry?" "What a trunk." The cleverest one by far: "DNA researcher?" Answer: "Gene Trackman." LOL. I am becoming dismayed by the quality of the clues and the puzzle construction, though. When the answers include "petcat," "ems," and "elhi," you know the puzzle composers are getting desperate. By the way, my apologies to anyone who actually does the Times, though I'm pretty sure none of the people reading this don't bother with the damned thing.

Spent most of last night thinking about who I am, what I do, how I do the things I do-- mainly in terms of my profession. This is mainly because I was going over my CV. Will likely post some of my musings on this later.

Yawn.... I feel so lazy today.... So unproductive.... Meh.... I feel like a cat lying on the pavement in the summer sun.

BEER (AND ALCOHOL) LOGIC
... a forward from someone to remain anonymous

"Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, "It is better that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver."
--- Jack Handy

"I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day."
--- Frank Sinatra

"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk in order to spend time with his friends."
--- Ernest Hemingway

"When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading."
---Henny Youngman

"24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? I think not."
--- Stephen Wright

"When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk, we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin. When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. Sooooo, let's all get drunk and go to heaven!"
--- Brian O'Rourke

"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
--- Benjamin Franklin

"Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza."
--- Dave Barry

And, saving the best for last, as explained by Cliff Clavin, of Cheers. One afternoon at Cheers, Cliff Clavin was explaining the Buffalo Theory to his buddy Norm. Here's how it went: "Well ya see, Norm, it's like this... A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. "In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Excessive intake of alcohol, as we know, kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. That's why you always feel smarter after a few beers.

Editorial Addendum: I seldom feel 'smarter' after a few beers; wittier, more amorous, more prone to silliness, yes indeed. But beer and feeling smarter? Methinks not. Irish whiskey and rye, yes; Irish Mist, definitely. Beer, alas, no.... ;-)

Thursday Thoughts
Ah, the Doctor is feeling giddy today! It's been a while. The world makes some semblance of sense again. A few brief notes:

RK: Thanks for the Shakie shirt. Got it yesterday. No Holes Bard, indeed. ;-)

Anne: Another lovely chat today. For everyone else, we were having one of those 'drunken' arguments, wherein we were saying things at *exactly* the same time over and over again, not just in terms of general responses, but in terms of specific cultural references and so forth. Hilarious, as always, kiddo. I still think you should lead the charge in a new feminist revolution that would address the inconsistencies and inanities of the current, already deeply-fractured (and increasingly self-defeating) movement. In the words of Betty Friedan, "Men are not the enemy, but the fellow victims. The real enemy is women's denigration of themselves." And this one's for you....

Receptionist: How do you write women so well?
Melvin: I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.
--- As Good As It Gets

And this one is from Groucho Marx: "Women should be obscene and not heard." LOL. Somehow, Anne, the one thing you could never be is "not heard" (but obscene, definitely). ;-) We really need a few drinks next time you're in the area, kiddo.

*Shakes head*: Apparently the ditz on Fox's Good Day Live-- a horrible, horrible excuse for a talk show-- went to Mohawk College. I find this profoundly disturbing but eminently chuckleworthy.

RP is looking for plays (theatrical pieces, that is) circa 1980 or later about addiction, but found myself only able to come up with a few odd suggestions. Any ideas, anyone? I don't know if she checks this site, but if she doens't I'll glady pass on any ideas to her.

This is interesting: we knew someone had to do it sooner or later, writing a treatise "On Bullshit." Long, exhaustive, and debatable in places-- but intriguing nonetheless. It figures, though, that it ends with a very typical conclusion. In academic parlance, black inevitably becomes white, left inevitably becomes right, and so here, too. We can never have a word mean what it means: it has to mean its opposite as well.

RK: From Robert Frost: on "T.S. Eliot and I like to play games. I like to play euchre, and he likes to play Eucharist."

From James Joyce: "Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives." No kidding: it's the seventh circle of hell.

From Oscar Wilde: "The central problem in Hamlet is whether the critics are mad or only pretending to be mad."

From Douglas Adams: "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."

Clive James: "Arnold Schwarzenegger looks like a condom full of walnuts." He he he... right on....

And another classic: An unknown MP asked Winston Churchill, "Must you fall asleep while I'm speaking?" The reply: "No, it is purely voluntary."

Groucho Marx, again: "I've been around so long, I knew Doris Day before she was a virgin." Ah, he may have been 'a male chauvinist piglet,' as Betty Friedan put it, but he was a thousand times wittier than Friedan ever will be.

Another wonderful one from Wilde, to be used often: "How clever you are, my dear! You never mean a single word you say." (Something to write on student essays, perhaps?)

And a personal fave from Carly Simon: "You're so vain, / You probably think this song is about you, / Don't you, don't you?"

I should stop writing on this silly thing.... Off to Mr Eliot and Mr Stevens....

On To The Hustings!
Dave Barry is running for President! I'm sure he'll make sure that every home has its legal entitlements of boogers and farts.

Thanks to DB as well for this link which is simply too weird to fathom. If you're going to kill yourself, at least have the decency to get out of your damned car.

For fun, I found this to alleviate tension. Killing Adam Sandler makes my day. (Yes, it's cheap and stupid, but.... I *loathe* Adam Sandler.)

Shakespearean Death Match

In the tradition of celebritydeathmatch.com (or whatever it's site is called), I'm stewing on who would kicks whose ass in a death match. Here are my speculations:

King Lear vs Hamlet: Lear has it here, no contest. Hamlet would dilly-dally, wondering whether or not to take action against a sea of troubles, before entering the ring, and then he would be no contest for the dragon and his wrath. With a flight of rage, Lear would thrash Hamlet across the stage and stomp repeatedly on the young Dane's head until his incredible consciousness oozed out onto the boards like chocolate syrup. And, knowing Lear, he'd carry the body off stage afterwards, howling in victory.

Macbeth vs Othello: This is a tricky one: each is a skilled warrior, each relatively intelligent and agile. Each would need some persuading to get into the ring. But I suspect Macbeth has the edge here. After much scoping out of one another, Macbeth would summon up the will, and do the deed. Macbeth would discover that Othello has more blood in him than he expected.

Lady Macbeth vs Cleopatra: No doubt here: Lady M does the deed quickly, despite Cleopatra's attempt to run away from the fight at the last minute. In dying, Cleopatra makes a spectacle of herself, leaving Lady M desperately trying to get all the blood off her hands.

Prospero vs Henry V: This is a toughie. Henry's fire and alertness would make him a challenging foe, and if it came to muscles, it'd be once more into the old man. But Prospero's magic wins it here: he simply casts a spell that rounds his opponent in a sleep, and then proceeds to kill the young man precisely and artfully. Or, he'd cast a spell that would make Henry think there was no death match, and he walk away as the audience wonders what the hell is going on.

Richard III vs Richard II: Number III kills Dickie the Deuce and his entire entourage, picking them off one by one and with great dispatch. Richard III would probably even get creative about the process.

Titus vs King John: Titus in a second. But then in a wonderful series of exchanges, the Bastard Falcounbridge would rise to the stage and kick some Roman ass for a bit before Titus cuts him up too, and then bakes them both in pies.

Falstaff vs Brutus: Brutus would eventually find a way to legitimate the contest, and convince Falstaff that nothing was wrong before stabbing him in his over-bloated belly. That is, of course, if Falstaff brought himself to the death-match; he'd likely be passed out somewhere and miss the whole thing, leaving Brutus to win by default.

Romeo vs Juliet: Juliet wins this one for two reasons: one, she's smarter than he is (by a country mile); and two, she'd realize eventually that a man is just another guy and he is ultimately dispensable. Romeo, on the other hand, would fall for her obvious guiles, and then find his attention diverted to other young females in the audience, allowing Juliet to make into a meat-pie (assumedly made with a lark and a nightingale in the dark).

Shylock vs Coriolanus: Ah, Coriolanus would seem to have the edge here, but I'd give it to Shylock because Coriolanus would end up with mother-imposed stage nerves, and turn into an ineffectual wallow. Shylock would play this to his advantage, and out-think, out-maneuver and out-creep our Roman momma's boy.

The Closing Battle Royal of the Survivors: Lear's anger is immense: he throws Juliet across the stage like a wet rag, smashes Titus' head to the ground, proves to Richard III that his canny guile is useless to him and pounds him into the dirt. He dispatches Shylock soon after, then offers Brutus a not-so Roman death. His biggest foes are the Macbeths, who try to tag team him, but to no avail: he smashes their heads together in an astounding assertion of age before youth. He then looks at Prospero, getting very, very weak, and slumps to the ground, convinced Prospero is actually Cordelia, and dies of a heart attack. Prospero stands alone on the blood-littered stage, and then assures us that everything will be alright in an enchanting epilogue that makes the audience think it had watched a comedy. He throws his books among the blood, and leaves the stage, victor again.

The audience then exits, in a death march, moaning about going out into the wind and the rain....

A Few Short Takes

My thanks again to RK for the gift I received today in the mail-- the Ian Holm production of King Lear. Something to look forward to. Ah, Lear, the great story of self-delusion and realization. Not only does Lear face harder truths about himself and the world around him, but he'd also have taken Hamlet outside and unleashed a giant can of whoop-ass.

The bull-shit is flying and fast furiously today. And it's only early afternoon. *sigh* Sometimes I want to grab people by the scruffs of their necks and expel them of their delusions, but it's a futile emotion, ultimately. People will believe whatever they want to believe. But delusions (including lies, hypocrisies, excuses, and other forms of deception, to oneself and to others) always seem to me crutches for cowardice. We're all prone to fear; the test is how we deal with that fear, and how we act despite it.

That was a wonderful remark
I had my eyes closed in the dark
I sighed a million sighs
I told a million lies
to myself, to myself... --- Van Morrison

Great bit: "You know what mom? You know what I'm gonna get you next Christmas? A big wooden cross, so every time you feel unappreciated for all your sacrifices, you can climb up and nail yourself to it." --- Kevin Spacey, with the best damned line in the very funny The Ref. God, I love that movie-- and I take no end of joy in imagining Glynis Johns nailing herself to a big wooden cross.

ANNE: Thanks. I know I don't say that enough. It really is, though, a wonder why I'm not a misogynist by now. You're one of the reasons-- you're frank, supportive yet brutal, caring but not condescending-- that I believe beyond stereotypes. Take this now. I'll never, ever, ever, ever, say this again.... ;-) Thanks, kiddo.... Strange to be on your couch instead of you on mine, in the strictly psychological sense of the phrase. This too shall pass... you of all people know that as much as I may wear my heart upon my sleeve, I'll also knock back (eventually) those that gnaw on it. You've been great, and I appreciate it, kiddo.

I don't think I've ever been as insulted as I was today. I'm through being Mr Nice-Guy. From now on, I'm treating people like shit.

I'm tired of doing the right thing. I'm tired of doing the things that must be done.

CM must be ecstatic right now.

"You ask for so little. That's why you get so little." --- someone to remain anonymous

"Nothing will come of nothing." --- King Lear

Am reading the poems of the Earl of Rochester (John Wilmot) and am debating posting some of them. Rochester was writing in the 17th century, and he even makes *me* blush.

*Shrug*

Yeehaw!!!
I have the house to myself on what seems a lovely day... Parental units are off for the night to dine with friends, friends they usually hang around with quite a while.... Yeah! I can proceed to dance naked around the house with a lamp shade on my head. Well, not quite, of course.... To any of you permanently scarred by a mental image of such a thing, I remit no apology: that's what you get for visiting my blog. *smart-ass grin* Am thinking I might settle onto the front porch with a half-dozen books, tease through some more of my dissertative thoughts, drinking profuse amounts of rye as music rings through the house. To know tranquility.... Maybe the musical selection should include John Mellencamp's "Dance Naked," even if it has that horrible cover of Van Morrison's "Wild Night."

There's something invidious about blogging. It occurs to me that blogging is a lot less about communicating with others than with talking to oneself, and I'm not entirely sure whether it's a healthy thing or not. Sure, bloggers have readers, and there are things bloggers (or most of them, anyway) save for themselves.

On a more communicative note, I think I may finally have identified the lynch-pin for my dissertation. Some time ago I realized that the many of the key Modern poets were borrowing (often stealing) from the traditions of nonsense poetry even in ostensibly 'serious' verse. Eliot's poetics in Four Quartets, for example, owes a great deal to Lewis Carroll and company, but one can see Eliot's own nonsense Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats as being more significant in his poetic development than many tend to assume. It's interesting, though, how well the nonsensical provides a touchstone for considering Modern poetics in an entirely new light, or entirely new to me anyway. Critics have often wondered how to deal with fissures and paradoxes in the poems of, say, Eliot and Stevens, and they seek super-logical ways of rationalizing them (and therefore hopefully resolving paradoxes and so forth). I'm on the path, then, to identifying a relatively new way of thinking about poetry and poetics that will hopefully start to free the poems from the laborious forms of discourse and material analysis to which they've recently been subjected. It also bodes for a new way of thinking about literature in itself-- even if, in fact, the new way is really quite old, and more akin to what most poets would actually want of their readers. My task is to find the keys to the gates to this, and to articulate it. I'm sure this will lead to charges from supervisors that my reading is 'ahistorical,' 'apolitical,' and 'theoretically-naive.' So what. Who cares. There are larger issues at stake here, and I'm sufficiently iconoclastic to lead the charge. Once more unto the breach!

It's occurred to me that in the Modern age, when humanistic and Romantic notions were on the wane and the world seemed increasingly fragmentary and impersonal, the means to search out or to discover the transcendental came not in articulating statements of faith or asserting values, but in the subversion of them through the devices of nonsense. If there is no intrinsic sense to things, but there must be sense (or so we tell ourselves), then there has to be a sense beyond sense, a meaning beyond the meaning, a meaning that may not be strictly cognitive or verifiable. This helps especially with dealing with guys like Eliot and Stevens who were intensely intellectual but also made proclamations to devalue the pretensions toward determining or fixing meaning. Hence, Eliot's famous statement about the music of poetry. Hence Stevens' deliberate assertion that Ramon Fernandez wasn't meant to be the French literary critic and philosopher, but just a random Cuban 'made up of the two most Spanish names [he] could find.'

In thinking all this, I'm tending toward a total realignment in ways of thinking about Modern poetry, a realignment that embraces paradox, that deflates connotative meaning, and that brings to the reading process a kind of play and whimsy that both Eliot and Stevens, I think, would want (and other poets, too, indeed). Is it really possible that so many of our critics have, as Elito said, 'had the experience but missed the meaning'? This means -- oh my god-- I will have to create and to determine an elaborate definition of what 'meaning' is. This could be a nightmare. I'm up to the challenge. I have nothing to declare but my arrogance. ;-)

Onward & upward.

Spent most of this morning watching the film version of Henry James' Washington Square with Jennifer Jason Leigh, Albert Finney and Maggie Smith. It's not bad (it's not great, either), even if looks a little too comfortably like an A&E period piece-- see, by the way, the much less periodic adaptation of James' The Wings of the Dove with Helena Bonham Carter, if you wonder what I mean by this. But I find myself thinking a few things.... that Jennnifer Jason Leigh is by no means plain enough to be Catherine Sloper.... that while Catherine may be slower witted than her father and her supposed suitor, the others, including her well-meaning aunt, succeed only in outsmarting themselves, with Catherine the tragic victim of this... that this a story about people who seek so much to fashion the world according to their own expectations, that ostensibly more important issues are treated coarsely and selfishly....

It's not a great novel, but it's a good one-- probably a good way to introduce uninitiated readeers to James. The film is so-so; the film's final scene is not well-played, and Ben Chaplin as Morris is horrible. Look for a very young Jennifer Garner (Alias) in the cast.
Don't think I've read Washington Square in almost five years. It's a short book (less than 200 pages, depending on edition), and worth a read, even if most Jamesians consider it the 'sore thumb' in his canon.

Of other matters, I once again did what had to be done and not per se what I wanted to do. When one is trapped in a situation of constant impossibility, sometimes the best one can do is steel oneself with necessity and move on, especially who one's options are pretty severely limited. My life itself seems all too often to resemble a James novel with lots of very fine thinking and feeling, but always impossibly complicated and veering toward tragic, even if the main players try to respond to that trajectory as if it were everyday occurrence.

I have an inexpicable desire to listen to Norah Jones right now. What a beautiful girl, with such a lovely voice. *sigh*