Oh Aqualung

Sitting on the park bench
Eying little girls with bad intent.

One of the most interesting things about this class is Professor Sexson's emphasis on the importance of fiction. I have always appreciated the power of a story that doesn't come “straight from real-life,” however, my family does not share this love of the strange and otherworldly. My mother in particular is obsessed with facts. “That couldn't actually happen. Why do you want to read about such weird stuff?” My answer is one that I could not share with her, at least not without risking reprimand and disapproval. I read, write, and dream the unreal in order to escape from the monotony of my own life, from the everyday grind that threatens to bind me town and leave me trapped in some strange ghost-land, haunted by white night-gowns. This is perhaps the second time in my life that a “grown-up” has understood the importance of the story to me. The story is everything. People these days are too interested in facts, and imagination, that wonder and mystery of the story, is being lost bit by precious bit. As Prof. Sexon mentioned, the author's job is to draw material from reality, and then to draw you away from it.

My own boring existence might be why I am compelled to sympathy rather than condemnation at Connie's actions. I can see why she would be drawn to Arnold Friend. He is the outside, a part of the world that she's never seen before and longs to explore. I myself am inclined to believe that had my childhood been filled with more freedom to explore, my rebellion upon escaping to college might not have been so complete. There was so much I had never seen, never done, and I longed to try it all at once. I managed to quell the beast somewhat, though not so much by my own doing as by my inability to do things right, but my life is much less confined than it once was. I've escaped, grown up, and I can understand why Connie wants to do the same. I'm excited to read the Red Riding Hood collection. In fact, I plan to start as soon as this post is up. I've been meaning to do more reading on the weekends, but things have just been happening one after the other and tearing me away from school. Hopefully I'll have time to catch up soon.

So our assignments for this weekend? To think about the two different versions of the story (ie. Did you like the movie or the story better and why), to remember every detail about Groundhog Day, and to read the stories of Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, Lot, and Icharus, and lastly to take naps in econ class in hopes of remembering a dream. This is perfect, because I have a tendency to fall asleep in econ anyways.

Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.

Things Forgotten

I draw on the excuse of my horrible memory. I write up my blog posts on openoffice and forget that I haven't actually posted them, because I remember writing them—how could I not have posted that piece of brilliance? I shall try to do better in the future, and actually post things before the next post should be put up, but here's my last post.

"Since we're supposed to be focusing more on how all stories are just retellings of other stories, I thought I would dedicate this post to the subject. At times it can be very surprising just how common the stories can be, almost as if each tale is just a singing of a familiar refrain. Even though the details may change, the root, the heart, the basis of the story can be traced back to two or ten or a hundred stories that had already been told. Take for example our monsters and villains.

Joyce Carol Oates is certainly an odd one. Her story was sparked by the tale of the pied piper of Phoenix, but she refused to read the whole story lest she become distracted by facts. In the end, she dedicated her story to Bob Dylan, who sounds at times a bit like my cat howling to be let in on a cold night. Perhaps my parents are right and I have no appreciation for old music, but I honestly don't see what there is to appreciate about this song. Granted, the lyrics are thought-provoking, but I'm honestly half-tempted to do my own cover of this song now."

That was all that I had, I guess, but I don't feel quite so bad about it since I have a couple more posts to post.

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

This poem is reminiscent of the way my own mind works at three in the morning. Occasionally insightful, but dreadfully confusing to everyone but the originator. Surprisingly enough, it seems to me to be a testament to normalcy in the midst of circumstances that could be seen as dreadfully bizarre. Most humans are very good at adjusting to circumstances, despite how abnormal they might appear to be. However, some people are incapable of living in the future, and instead live haunted by the white night-gowns of what used to be.

One of our assignments was to google the phrase “catching tigers in red weather.” However, I did not find any articles that appeared to be relevant. There is a book by the same title, but it doesn't seem to be what we were supposed to look for. Hopefully Professor Sexson will shed some light on the issue in class today.

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

Who do you love?

I walk 47 miles of barbed wire,
I use a cobra-snake for a necktie,
I got a brand new house on the roadside,
Made from rattlesnake hide,
I got a brand new chimney made on top,
Made out of a human skull,
Now come on take a walk with me, [Aleen],
And tell me, who do you love?

As terrifying as these lyrics are when one thinks about them too long, they simply serve to communicate an all-too common story. The bad boy, the weird one, the one all the girls hang on and adore, turns out to be more than just a little odd, and one by one the girls find out just what this means...but by then it is too late. They stepped across an unseen line and have joined the piles of bodies buried in fields, in backyards, thrown into the forest to be devoured. We all see the pattern, everyone knows that it's there, but no one likes to talk about it. Why? It's scary, unsettling; it makes us think what if that happened to me? People like to ignore the unpleasant truths of “reality,” instead focusing on happy things, but that changes when it's just a story.

“It's fiction,” we say, “not truth. Not truth at all.” But it is true, whether we admit it or not. Even the cleverest of authors only manages to retell a story that has been told many times before. Perhaps he adds a new detail that no-one had added before, perhaps he changes the where or the why or the how, but at the root the story is still the same. Humans are too blind to see this, too blind to realize that it all comes back to the very first story, the root of it all. What can we do to make ourselves see?

As Ashley pointed out, a lot of people have mentioned what should have happened. Perhaps a better question would be what would I have done? This ties in with the question how do I know what I think till I see what I say, although perhaps it would be more accurate to say till I see what I do. None of us knows how we would react in that sort of a situation. Certainly, we can say, “I wouldn't have been so stupid. I would have locked the door, called the police straight off,” but how can we know that unless we are there? Perhaps if you were that small girl, heart gripped with terror—she must have known what would happen when she stepped out that door—perhaps you too would forget reason, forget what “should have been done” in the incredible panic that washed over you as you realized you would never see this place again, never feel the sun on your young face.

Perhaps even more terrifying than Connie's sad tale is the story of the pied piper of Tuscon, because it is, in fact, a part of that little piece of the world we call reality. It's not just another made-up fairytale. It's tears and blood and bone, fleshed-out and horrific in the fact that it could have been stopped if people had not kept their mouths shut. In reading both of the stories, the lines between what is reality and what is fiction grow blurred. The two clash in the books that the man wears, the gold car, the girl at home alone, making friends that her parents don't approve of. She is far over her head even before she realizes what is going on around her. And once she knows what she should have done, it's too late.

Her name was Connie, and she was fifteen years old...

Stories have a way of pulling in the reader, and the more dramatic the story, the more this becomes true. “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” is one of those stories. It's a bit like watching a car crash. You know what's going to happen and you don't want to see it but at the same time you can't look away. Why would anyone want to read such a story? It definitely doesn't have a happy ending. The reader knows that once Connie steps out that door her life is essentially over. However, once you know the story, the whole grisly truth of it, you know what to avoid, what to do so that you don't end up like Connie. And to hear it in a story makes it that much more effective, because stories come at the truth with a slant. They make it seem more interesting. It's a bit like reality television. There's no reality to it, only at best a blurred retelling of what has been. Yet, in a way all our lives are like stories. We are too wrapped up in our own little corners of the world to realize it most of the time. Perhaps if we understood this idea, knew that we were just retellings of people come before us, we would gain some sense of control over our lives. As a culture we have lost our memories. We do not like to think about the past. We would rather think only about our own miniscule existences, when we will be able to fill our stomachs next and what we can do to keep ourselves happy. However, if we were to use our brains, we would be able to make sense of a lot of nonsense.

How do I know what I think till I see what I say?

Intruduction

Wednesday was our first day of class. We just did introductions and then took pictures of ourselves, but it managed to be far more entertaining than I thought roll call could ever be. I think I'm going to like this class. The blogging part will be fun, and it will be a good excuse to record my ramblings. I just hope I have time to read another big book. I guess I'll just make time (since it's required).