A Collection of Impossibilities

I was born without a voice. Without a voice and without a history. No-one can tell me anything about the circumstances of my birth. There are names on my birth certificate, but they sound too convenient, too common. The people who abandoned me could be anyone. The doctor who presided over my birth is the same. So I can’t tell you that I came out of my mother’s womb silent, not for certain, though I like to imagine it that way: a pale infant, sucking in air and pushing it back out, without sound. What I can tell you is that my medical records, everything I have to my name, state I was born without vocal cords. There is nothing to create sound inside me. No instrument to strike, no fold to rake over and tear out cries of terror or sadness or surprise or happiness, nothing to power my laughter or my tears. I am only air. Only silence.

The Quarter in Retrospect

So it's the Sunday before finals week and I am finished with my portfolios, which I didn't really think was possible. That said, I fully intend to work on some new Observations - now theme free - for the sake of practicing and generating new material.

If there are themes or ideas or concepts that anyone wants to see appear in Observations, you should let me know in the comments section.

In other news, I think I'm going to pursue the urban faery-tale short story collection I keep coming up with new plots for. I will try to post excerpts of those as they appear.

In other other news, if anyone is a tumblr user, tan·gen·tial now has a companion tumbl-blog. A lot of the same material is probably going to start appearing, as I am trying to figure out the best way to signal boost my work online. Thoughts, anyone?

See you next time!

Blindfold

Click to enlarge. In the middle of the quarter, I took some photos which played with the idea of erasure, especially in terms of the erasure of one's voice. If I were to turn my observations into a physical chapbook to be abandoned in various locations, this is what one of the included images would look like.

Original photos taken by R.N. Jones. Photoshopping done by me.

Observation #20, 12/6: Somewhere nearby there is a faultline

(Theme: Paranoia)

The hill is slowly slipping down over the sidewalk, headed for the street. The curved trunks of trees, hooked like canes, fighting the pull of gravity, reaching skyward, attest to the slow certain advancement of the whole Arboretum, the forest threatening to crash downward, a train wreck in slow motion. Thin sick rivulets clotted with mud leak out under the strain of all that water, all that rain, storm system after storm system saturating everything, calling out the road workers and their yellow-lighted trucks - won't you prop up this hill for us? In some places they've laid out heavy netting meant to hold back the slow sudden advance of nature but it looks like thin mesh against the hulking mass of all that earth, all that stone looking down on the access road running parallel to campus. And walking along that road, the sidewalk is clear but its pores are filled with silt, the remains of the slide those workers scrambled to clear before working hours and my boots have poor traction, and I slide. It's a short leap to imagine it all coming down and how would I react, what would I do, where could I possibly go? First I see myself sprinting for the environmental science building but I know enough about velocity about speed + direction about force and weight to know I wouldn't make it. Second I see myself curling up into a ball but what good would that do except to kill me quickly, or would I be buried and slowly crushed, drowned? Third I see myself making for the slope, hoping to climb on top of something, to ride a tree down the slide like riding a wave, I've body boarded enough, but then there's that problem of speed + direction and tumultuous motion and force and I already know what happens when a wave decides fuck you, today's not your day. The hill puts itself back together. I walk home. There are no more scenarios to invent because they are exhausted. If it happens today, I am dead. No matter what I do.

Creative Project Entry #6: Catcher in the Rye

The last one. Possibly the most simple, but hey, sometimes simple is best.

Cheers, everybody.

Observation #19, 12/4

(Theme: Paranoia)

Things of Which I am Regularly Afraid:

Bridges. Falling in cars. Unmarked lanes. Broken lights. Broken glass. Needles. Pins. Tacks. Staples. Nails. Air pressure. Water pressure. Depth. Unseen things. The dark side of the street. Walking alone in the morning. Walking alone to school. Walking alone on trails with the trees pressing in. Walking alone near roads and cat calls. Walking alone in the evening. Walking alone at night with the 2AM drunks and their stale breath and their bloodshot eyes. Walking alone with the silence and stilldark of early morning. Walking alone unarmed. Walking alone looking like a woman. Walking alone.

Creative Project Entry #6: Looking For Alaska

Alaska in vector, based as closely as possible on descriptions of her from the book.

Been drawing a lot of characters viewed from behind because of this project, probably because I have a lot of feels about spoiling readers' perceptions of what a character looks like. Faces are important and expressive and powerful in art, but I think I prefer being allowed to imagine those faces when it comes to non-graphic novels.

In other news, I hate drawing feet.

Observation #18, 11/29: Almost, in Two Parts

(Theme: almost)

I used to go to church with my head hung low and arms crossed over my heart
you were a light for eleven months before you cast off playing a part
I convinced myself to belong to a boy until a week parted our ways
Almost only really counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

#

The notes of a familiar song drifting through panes of glass
half intelligible, words muddled somewhere between
melting point and the classification "static liquid"
the music broken, fading in and out
weaving into my consciousness until
the chorus rings louder and truer than the solidity of brick walls
and I am no longer here
I am there
with the applause and the raised voices
my body left behind.

Creative Project Entry #5: Speak

Click to enlarge. This is, by far, one of the most important books we've read this quarter. In terms of theme and content, I think it's so important for young adults to be able to handle this material and be able to discuss it in a safe setting.

The only part of this done digitally is the text. The rest is hand-cut construction paper and fine tip tūl permanent marker.

Creative Project Entry #4: The Book Thief

Click for larger view. This one was the most difficult yet, featuring Liesel Meminger and the narrator, Death. Great read, go pick it up if you haven't yet.

There's another cover which necessitates the back cover in addition to the front, coming soon.

Observation #17, 11/27: So it is in the Marathon

(Theme: Almost)

Your muscles strain against frigid November, winter come early, this is the last hill, the last climb your calves are burning hot against your skin you feel the rope of your hamstrings taut in their sheath of muscles your quads quiver and shake, a threat of failure, you feel your bodyheat fly out the crown of your exposed head and there, at the apex, your greatest desire – the finish line – freedom – and the distance grows greater between you and it, here and there, but you push, you push, you push to reach it, even though you know you will only trip on the other side.

Creative Project Entry #3: Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

My idea with this one is to try and replicate what Junior's journal would actually look like if he carried it around with him everywhere. When I carry my journals around, they usually end up looking something like this, minus the award, of course.

Public Service Announcement!

I apologize for the randomized links and advertisements which are appearing on this blog. (For example, last time I looked "creative commons" appeared as a hyperlink in my Feed post. This is unintentional.) I have no idea how they got there and I will look into fixing them soon.

In the meanwhile, thank you for your patience and thanks for stopping by!

-MW

Creative Project Entry #2: Feed

Still playing with vectors, this time in the hopes of imitating an x-ray. Internet was consulted for anatomy, color scheme and a creative commons photo of a computer board. 

Creative Project Entry #1: Daughter of Smoke and Bone

For my Young Adult Literature class, we were all assigned creative projects. I decided to design new book covers for (almost) every novel we've read thus far. Here's the first version of the Daughter of Smoke and Bone cover for your perusal.

I wanted to work in something reminiscent of vector because I've never used it before. Might make some adjustments for the final version.

Observation #16, 11/20: The Brave Young Seed Who Waited

(Theme: family)

Once upon a time, there was a seed. It fell in witch country and was carried on a wind of blood and superstition deep into the Old South. There it landed in a desperate time, when the regiment was failing so miserably it turned to sixteen year old boys. It found itself on a farm, but the seed did not put down root. The war carried it into dark days and when they were done, it rode in the pocket of a soldier into the West. It watched the soldier’s family of ten children grow out of the Texas dust, but the seed did not put down root. One of the soldier’s sons, then grown, stormed away north with the seed in his luggage. He set down his load to live like a hermit in the Arizona desert, but still the seed did not put down root. A young girl came on troubled times in her home and went South to sand, cacti, tarantulas and tortoises. She stayed for a year and when it was up, the seed found its way into her shoe where it bothered her all the way home. She finally knocked it out on her front stoop. It was a grey, rainy day, but not too cold. The seed found a small patch of earth and finally put down root. First it was one, soon it was two. With all its strength the seed drew its long lost brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and cousins and nephews and nieces from all over the country and soon they stood side by side, a regiment in the Northwest, all connected with their roots woven together.

Observation #15, 11/15

(Theme: finding the danger in the ordinary)

                                                                                      

Sleeping:

Sleep looks at you from across the apartment. You can feel him sitting on the edge of your bed, his eyes burning through layers of plaster and drywall, matchsticks waiting to be blown down. He looks and looks at you and you feel the tingle at the skin of your neck, your temple.

No. You work. The screen of your laptop vomits technicolor noise onto the plane of your face and the sting of it keeps you awake. Still that tingling. A crawling. Something desperate to find a way into your eyes, into your brain.

He says your name.

Your forehead droops dangerously close to your keyboard, you jolt upright. Bidden, you go to your bedroom door, your feet dragging molasses-slow across cheap, coarse carpet. The knuckles of your toes are rubbed raw by the time you arrive.

Yes, he is sitting there. Tonight he looks like Hypnos, the way the Greeks saw him, nearly naked but comfortably so, sun-kissed and strong from some gymnasium or other exercise in the Elysian Fields. His hair is dark, curly, and entangled with the feathers of the white wings rising from behind his ears like a strange crown.

“Come,” he says, his eyes so dark there is no difference between pupil and iris, so dark you can see most of the room and all of yourself in them. Lost. “You must rest.”

Your stomach clenches, you clutch at the door frame for support, the bed is calling you to it, with him still sitting there, persuasive. No, no, you can’t and you won’t.

“You haven’t slept for four days, an eternity,” he shakes his head and his curls sway but his eyes do not move, do not blink. Dead eyes. “Mortals are not meant to wake so long.”

You know it can be done, it has been done. To never sleep again. To blot out all the dreams. All the dreams and every time you’ve woken up screaming. Screaming and bruised from remembered violence. Paul Kern did it in the Great War, you can do it now, with or without the bullet that left him forever wakeful.

He knows what you are thinking, can see it in the defiant definition of the muscles of your arms. “No. He nearly died for that exception and even then sometimes he slept with his eyes open and mind awake. One way or another, you will sleep the years away with me.”

In those dark reflections you see the door frame splinter under your hands as exhaustion comes on like riptide, a great current pulling you toward your sheets, toward his eyes, toward oblivion and into your suffocating, brutal, ripping, bleeding dreams and

He blinks.

Waking:

You are awake. You are fully aware, every synapse singing, every nerve ending searing into your muscles, but aching with the weight. The weight of the hours lost, the weight of the comforter, the weight of the day. You want to suck in a breath, to feel your ribcage expand, but the weight is too much. It is crushing. It takes all of your strength to even open your eyes.

You knew he would be there. He’s always there. Every time you wake.

A tall figure – he must be – insect thin and dressed in black, hunched tightly and face overshadowed by the darkness of the corner made by two of your bedroom walls and the ceiling. For his thinness you call him the Straw Man, and he is watching you. You can’t see any of his features, save for the glint of eyes from the occasional passing car outside. He never moves or speaks, just holds himself there on the ceiling and watches.

He doesn’t need to make a sound. The room is full of whispers. Though you can see him there the lingering sense of terror that accompanies him is all around the room, especially everywhere that your periphery cannot reach. Sometimes you think you hear the grate of metal or the sick slick sound of serpent skin on carpet, magnified hugely, coiling somewhere nearby.

These noises, the terror, slowly pass and fade. But no matter where you are, outside of this room, outside of this town, he is always in some corner. Sometimes you think the heaviness is a thing he carries with him, presses down on you so hard that you are drowning in the soupy air, but you know it is just the weight of your life, trailing after you, growing ever shorter, ever more frail; you know it somewhere in the back of your mind.

So today, like every day, you force your leaden limbs out from under the covers, strain against your own weight to sit upright. It takes an hour to stand. You turn toward the door, you can see into your bathroom. 

As soon as you focus on the sink the carpet extends out between you and the faucet, stretching impossibly, it’s miles away, you’ll never reach it, but you heave yourself forward, thirsty, reaching.

And the Straw Man watches you go.

Observation #14, 11/13 (for reals this time)

(Theme: finding the drama in....pancakes?)

We've wanted them for days, keep talking about breakfast for dinner or breakfast for breakfast, but we've always got an excuse: we slept in too late, we don't have syrup, we ran out of mix, making the batter by hand is too much work.

Until one roommate finds us a new recipe: peanut butter pancakes.

"I'll make the batter if you cook them."

Sure. Why not?

But by the time the batter is done the oven is not set to warm, so we wait. And by the time the oven is heated the batter is thicker because it's been sitting in its bowl on the counter uncovered.

I could blame all three of us for not thinking of putting it in the fridge. I could blame the peanut butter for thickening the mix. I could blame our shitty pans, our apartment stovetop, my mood that night, the brand of no-stick spray.

In the end, there is no one to blame for the batter-y centers and scorched exteriors of our experiment  No one but our cravings, because there is no such thing as the perfect pancake.

Observation #14, 11/8

Theme: I don't have class today, therefore a quick haiku:

I attended school
to better my craft and skill
oh god NaNo why

Observation #13, 11/6: Home

(Theme: Loss & Gain)

It’s the little things, maybe even the littlest things. The songs that make me think of the movies that make me think of you. The smell of a certain something cooking. A casual mention of one of your favorite books in an overheard conversation. Cutting open a pomegranate and remembering that time when the juice turned my fingers black under the fluorescents and we stood there in Rite-Aid, puzzling over what could have turned my cuticles so dark, laughing aloud with the joy of recognition when I realized. Hearing the words I most needed to hear and getting weepy, even though we were in the car.

I might have lost everything at the time, but I gained you back.

Observation #12.2, 11/2: I use my adrenaline to clean up my own mess, fix computers, and write poetry

I was woken from a dream

of pilot whales so large

they could be seen from the highway

great humps the shape of the hills

around them, clusters of barnacles

the size of cities, and on one

a huge, gleaming eye –

luminous, glass-smooth

globe amidst the turbulence of water,

the landscape roiling with the plunge and gyrate

of hulking bodies –

by an unprovoked Heraclean nosebleed

that spattered the bathroom sink

brighter than stills in horror films as I scrabbled for tissue

which I would promptly bleed through:

on its end, a cherry of clotted blood

round and bright, gleaming

like the whale’s eye looking

at me from across the orchards and farm lands

he had wrecked.

Observation 12.1, 11/1: Saruman of Many Colors

(Theme: Gain, Plagiarism edition)

But oh! The things we could accomplish together! For are we not of a high and ancient order, most excellent in the Earth? Are we not young in our wisdom and strong in our seniority? Are we not the conquerors and scholars, having eyes that see both far and deep? Are we not young Gods in old bodies, sent to shepherd the sheep and conduct the song the world sings? Are we not invincible, perfect, immortal?

The guest who has escaped from the roof thinks twice before he comes back in by the door.

Observation #12, 11/1

(Theme: Gain)

The things I vow to take from this day:

1. The warmth of the sun on my face as it passes through glass, how it arcs over my forehead and cheekbones, igniting my hair, plunging my philtrum into shadow.

2. Every shifting shade of blue that crosses the sky between varying grades of cloud.

3. The green of the pine branches behind the red blush of deciduous behind the white froth of fall flowers behind the course grey rust-streaked face of dry stone.

4. The stark, clean white of birch bark.

5. The shiver of the canopy.

6. Meandering trails no one is meant to walk between fallen trunks and peaty wetlands, the light on the surface of the lake.

7. The lift of leaves in small circles, stirring, settling – the wind is dancing.

8. The promise of words and quiet and the steam rising in curls: herbal smoke from sacred spells and mugs of tea.

9. The warmth of a hand in mine.

Observation #11, 11/1

(Theme: Loss)

We are always writing about loss.

I am withering, I am vanishing, I lost my voice when I was twenty, I lost my hearing when I was five, I lost my sight when I was seventeen, I lost my leg in the war, I lost my arm in the accident, I lost my dog, my parents, my brother, my lover, the family inheritance.

We have lost everything.

I lose things.

I lose things in the way that you do, sudden, without warning and I am pursued by that abruptness, that paralytic shock that somehow, something is missing. I am haunted by how smooth and silent loss creeps in. I fear it.

I fear that one day it will find my parents and they will be a hole in my heart I fear that my lover will die far, far from me too far for me to see or hear or hold her hand and I fear that it will come and render me useless, finally immobile, unable to give anything to a dying world from a perpetually dying hand

too soon, too soon

Survey Now Officially CLOSED!

Thank you so much to those who chose to participate in the Music in your Experience survey, which is no longer taking official submissions. However, if it opens up a forum of discussion or you want to answer some of the questions for the sake of it, please feel free. I would love to talk to everybody about music all the time. :)

Cheers!

Observation #10, 10/30: All Hallows Up North

It’s a gusting, blustering day in the Pacific Northwest with plenty of threat of rain: here we worry about hooligans and druggies, kidnappers and thieves, punk rock kids in punk rock bands smashing pumpkins in homage. But somewhere up North, with a far-off cousin on a far-off frontier, the only worry is the wandering suburban moose, who stops for a squash-like snack at every door.

Trick or Treat.

Observation #9, 10/25: Refract

(Theme: Fairy Tales)

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived and breathed for fantasy. Everything un-real was a delight and everything impossible brought with it a sense of joy inherent in that the thing or person or place was just that: impossible. She whiled away hours and days reading, inventing, dreaming, sculpting herself until she could look into the mirror and see something impossible. And that brought joy to her. She so loved being impossible that she buried all of the possible parts of her far, far within herself, so far that they were lost.

But one day this girl began to change. Her hips swelled and stretch marks splintered her sides like trails left by snails in the dust.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m puffing up like a balloon! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her book, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her impossibilities.

But then small hairs began to appear under her arms, on her legs, and in the most embarrassing of places.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m sprouting fur! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her cooking, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her un-reality.

But then her chest began to inflate and jiggle when she moved.

She ran to her mother, more hysterical than ever, “Mommy, mommy my skin is sagging and falling off! What is happening to me?”

Her mother looked up from her painting and looked through her calmly. “My dear,” she took her by the shoulders, “You are growing up. Soon you will need new clothes and a new room and new kinds of books to read. You will want different things and spend time with different kinds of people. You will change and grow and learn so much.” Her mother embraced her.

“But mommy,” said the girl, “I have already changed myself in the mirror.”

“No, sweetheart,” said the mother. “You have to leave that behind.”

And the little girl ran back to her mirror and all she could see were those possible parts she had buried rising up again. She tried and tried to shape herself back the way she used to be. She tried once, and the stretch marks burned brighter. She tried again and the hairs grew darker. She tried a third time and her chest grew heavier than ever! She tried a final time and she burst wide open, and was standing there the way she was supposed to be: impossible. And that brought her joy.

Observation #8, 10/23

(Theme: Vacancy)

Today the dust
motes
rattle between
my ears as
they drift lazily
in
nothing
in
white
noise

-

There are times when I should be doing so many things, but all I have the strength to think is
I want to sleep for a year.

-

There used to be Old Gods. We used to revere the motions of the Sun and Moon and the Shadows they cast. We used to fear the forces of nature. We used to bribe the fair folk nightly. We used to build great pyres and mounds for mighty kings. The wonder is gone out of the world.

Observation #7, 10/18: Illuminate

(Theme: Vacancy)

The light went out of her eyes a long time ago. There wasn’t much we could do – that we could ever do – except hope that the ‘no’ would someday go out of her ‘vacancy’ sign. After a year passed we wondered every night if she would have wanted this, vegetating, little more than the reason for several machines to exist. After two years dad started drinking. He would go into rages, maybe because this was his fault in the first place and he knew it. He would scream about pulling the plug. It was around then that mom left us. I went to live with a friend. He never did pull the plug after I told him he didn’t know anything about what she wanted (she never was one to talk about sad things, even if I knew now it was all a façade) and that furthermore, if anyone was going to do it, it would be me. He stopped coming to the hospital after that. On the night of the third year I brought her her usual bouquet, lavender and jasmine from the park, and held her hand, and she sat up and looked at me. She said my name, and

“How long was I asleep?”

Observation #6, 10/16: Flight 7336, Auckland to London

(Theme: Patience)

There’s a young man waiting at the airport. I can’t help but watch him, he’s so beautiful. He has pleasant light brown skin and his hair pulled back away from his face in well-kept dredlocks. Some of them are yellow, some are clementine orange, some are burnt red. Not a single root shows. Not many people show that kind of dedication with their hair. His hands are pressed palm to palm, flat, and trapped between his knees like Harding in Cuckoo’s Nest. He keeps glancing at the clock with the brightest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.

The clock strikes the hour and his back straightens. Whatever he’s waiting for – departure, arrival – must be on its way. Five minutes pass. He fidgets with his hands and fixes the sleeves of his well-worn military jacket.

Ten minutes pass and he resists bouncing his leg. I can tell because one ankle and boot-toe twitch erratically without ever moving fully.

Fifteen minutes pass. By then he’s chewing on the backs of his snakebite piercings. It pulls them into his lip, creating small dimples in his skin.

Twenty minutes pass and he stands, running his hands down his thighs as though to smooth his jeans. A lady in uniform appears behind the stewardess' podium and he moves toward her. He asks in a quiet south-end accent:

“Excuse me, ma’am, is this the gate for flight 7336?”

“Yes,” she says gently. It seems as though she’s spoken to him before. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s been delayed again.”

His mouth breaks into a fragile smile and he looks down for a moment to compose or control himself as she continues,

“The storm off the coast of New Zealand has not yet let up.” She pauses, lips pressed together as though holding something in. The sympathy in her eyes builds for a moment and comes loose, “I’m so sorry, Diggs. I thought someone would have told you. I'm sure he's fine.”

He looks back up, the fracture of that smile gone again. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, Anne.”

“See you tomorrow.”

He buries his hands in his pockets and moves away down the strip, shoulders shrugged high near his ears as he goes out into the cold of a London night.

I wonder who he’s waiting for.

An Exercise in Collage: Margaret and the Highwayman

So we worked in collage for our latest exercise. At first I was having a hard time figuring out how to go about it. Luckily, I remembered doing a found poetry prompt in high school Literary Arts with a good friend, and decided to start over, this time with scissors and glue. Points to anyone who can identify my sources. (Click to enlarge.)

Observation #5, 10/11/12: Words of Wisdom, parts I and II

(Theme: Patience)

Every time
someone tells me
"Patience is a virtue"
I have to contain
the urge to answer:
"NOT RIGHT NOW IT ISN'T!"

or,

Patience may be a virtue,
but it is not one of mine.

Observation #4, 10/9: Disappear

(Theme: Erasure)

We used to go down to the river all the time, the bend where the water goes still and quiet but the current is too fast to breed mosquitoes. To the low and crooked tree, the one that spills its branches out over the water, the motion of it shivering the leaves like mute windchimes.  The bank is populated only with smooth, round stones ground down by thousands of years of lazy water. Nestled against those cool stones, in the shadow of the crooked tree, used to be our Kingdom.

You departed for other shores, and I grew a full foot and a half, and you only came back when your hair was long and wild again, like before your mother lopped it off with kitchen shears.

You came back and I went to the river, knowing I would find you there. I waited for hours. Only when the light turned October orange against the river and set the crooked tree on fire did you appear.

“Still down by the water?”

“I’ve been waiting.”

“After all this time?”

“I knew you would come.”

It was easy, talking to you again. You were smiling the way I remembered, but something was strange in it. You had the same freckles, the same glass-colored eyes, the same unkempt mane. You were barefoot, and you set your toes just at the edge of the water. Your difference eluded me.

“It’s different,” you tell me, watching the water move by your feet. “The city.”

“But you like it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You pluck a yellowing leaf from our tree and turn it back and forth over your long fingers.

“You like going to School.”

“Yes,” you smile then. “But School isn’t the City. The City never sleeps. The noise and grit of it works under your skin and lodges there.”

You have destroyed the yellow leaf by accident and it slips through your hands, landing on the surface of the river and vanishing downstream. And that is the difference. I say your name.

“You’re disappearing.”

“Yes,” you hold up a hand, an arm, in front of your face and I can see the bend in the river through its transparency. “Yes,” you turn it slowly, a piece of glass distorting the world. But then you raise your arms over your head and the October sun hits you and you are –

“But I am full of light.”

Observation #3, 10/4:

Catcher

(Theme: Erasure)

Sometimes I think that I can erase myself. That by burying me the space that is me will cease to be but no one will notice that they are only seeing an echo, remembering the places where I once was and the things that I once did.

Sometimes I bury myself in sound. I plug my headphones into my skull so hard that my ears pop and develop impact wax to deaden the blows of electric instruments and sweet noxious noise, or I turn up my car stereo so loud the speakers rattle their casings and by the time the engine turns over all I feel is the ringing in my head where the sound just was.

Sometimes I bury myself in clothes. I make layers of armor or exoskeleton – I am a moth, but I look like an owl! – and I change that exoskeleton daily, male to female, fem to butch, androgynous, delicate flower to badass motherfucker, my favorite shirt says ‘Fictional Character’ across the back for a reason.

Sometimes I bury myself in stories. They are all of them places and times which have never existed and will never exist and they are more wonderful and narcotic for their impossibility because of it I am more invested in their lives than I will ever be in mine.

Sometimes, when I go to cross the street, I get to thinking I will disappear.

Observation #2, 10/3: Latitude

(Theme: Travel)

I would like to own a pair of shoes which have walked the world. They would have helped build homes in the wake of a hurricane. Gone ziplining over jungle canopies. Climbed the length and breadth of Hadrian's wall. Waited in line at the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities. Trod carefully  through the Empire of the Dead. Hurried over the Bridge of Sighs. Paused at the base of a Baobab tree. Worked orchards for only meal and bed in Thailand. Felt the thrum of the Taiga. Faltered on the Road of Bones. Nearly vanished for thirty days of night. Frozen against Antarctic winds. And, finally, broke on the front porch as I knocked three times for home.

Survey: Music, in Your Experience...

http://www.zastavki.com/pictures/1280x800/2010/Creative_Wallpaper_Music_024117_.jpg

This is a survey for a group project presentation in English 347: Young Adult Literature. My group and I are presenting on Music and the effects/impact is has on people from their middle school years to college (and beyond, if you like). Names, if provided, will be kept private, but please keep in mind this is for a presentation. Please explain your answers/give examples as much as you feel necessary. Thank you for participating! If you would like to respond without leaving it in a comment, please email me at whitmam2@students.wwu.edu with "Survey" in the subject.

1. In general, what kind of effect does music have on you?
2. In middle or high school, what were some of the genres, bands, or artists you listened to? 
3. Did you ever feel any pressure about the kind of music you liked in middle and high school? Does that pressure still exist now?
4. Was music ever a key factor in how you spent your free time?
5. Did music ever dictate the people you surrounded yourself with? If yes, what kind of atmosphere did this generate?
6. Did your musical tastes align with that of your parent, guardian, or someone outside of your age group? If so, did you view this positively or negatively?
7. Did you ever view music or music culture as a form of rebellion or identity?
8. Do you have any other stories or memories involving music which you think are pertinent?  

We acknowledge that there are many generalizations and stereotypes surrounding music and the effect it has on people. If you believe that this survey perpetuates these stereotypes, we would greatly appreciate being refuted! Please share thoughts, anecdotes, banter, and witticisms.

Observation #1, 9/27: Shanty

(Theme: travel)

I awake somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean awash in blue. Someone has taken glaze and made bold, seamless strokes until the sea very well could be the sky or maybe we are flying upside down? The rest of the plane sleeps around me and shafts of bright, salt daylight knife the simulated darkness of the cabin.

#

I resist sleep with the sounds of gulls around me, the sea is a sound not a color, a churning, roiling sigh through the thrum of the ferry engines and the sky is muffling felt, a hand clamped down on a tin hiding fireflies or frogs, and the land great hulking skulking spines between them. And nothing but the bite of the wind. Nothing but one pale light, circling, lancing out at us from across the water. 

tan·gen·tial: back with a vengeance and potentially also on rails

Hello all you lovely people in the internet at large!

tan·gen·tial is back and will, until the end of the quarter, serve as a forum for my part of Kelly Magee's ongoing project, Finding Frequency, through her class "Recycled Writing." Other things, like excerpts from writing I'm doing for other classes or in my spare time (if I have any), might also appear here.

Sincerely and with many mixed metaphors, away!

Post #6: New Seeds and the Children of Men

Over the course of the quarter, I’ve noticed a trend of paradoxes in our novels. In Parable of the Sower, there is of course the paradox of the Universe and God shaping each other (78), and also Lauren both preaching and resisting Change (262). However, Parable of the Sower introduces some new features.

One of them is meta! “Cities controlled by big companies are old hat in science fiction” (123).

Another is direct reference. Keith describes the pyro addicts: “Paints. They shave off all their hair…and they paint their skin green or blue or red or yellow” (110), and later Lauren refers to them as “painted faces” (157), which is exactly what the Omega generation are called in P.D. James’ The Children of Men (1992). I think this is especially interesting because James’ novel also deals in strong Christian/religion themes.

Blog Post #5: Contradictions in Terms: the Many Meanings of Nova

The title of Samuel R. Delany’s novel Nova does a lot of work in terms of the book as a whole. This is partly due to the numerous meanings and uses of the word ‘nova.’

When plugged in to the University of Notre Dame’s LatinDictionary site, ‘nova’ is related to the following forms and meanings:

novo : to make anew, refresh, revive, change, alter, invent.
novus : new, fresh, young, inexperienced, revived, refreshed.
novus : novel, unusual, extraordinary / news, novelty, a new thing

These are extremely similar to the definitions we established in class, with ‘novel’ being “that which is new.”

The etymology of ‘nova’ in reference to stars and their behavior goes back to 1572, with Tycho Brahe’s observance of the appearance of a ‘new’ star in the constellation Cassiopeia. He wrote about his findings (including his conclusion that it couldn’t be a local phenomenon due to lack of motion) in a book entitled “de Stella Nova,” or, “Concerning the New Star.”

However, we know now that his nova stella was actually a supernova, a star which collapsed with so much force that the resulting spike in luminosity caused it to outshine the rest of its galaxy: it was so bright that its light made it to Earth when none of the light from the rest of its galaxy could do so. The new star wasn’t new – it had died, probably hundreds of thousands of years before, and violently. As it turns out, the stellar remnant of SN 1572 can still be ‘seen,’ with the help of x-ray imaging through the combined technologies of NASA's Chandra X-ray Observatory and Spitzer Space Telescope.

Based on all this, there is inherently a contradiction, because ‘nova’ is a misnomer. There’s nothing ‘new’ about a star ex/imploding.

However, in terms of the novel, the word ‘nova’ has a dual role and can retain both its meanings. The first is more straightforward. Lorq Von Ray and his crew literally seek a nova, an exploding star, so that they can perform the insane stunt of flying through it to obtain Illyrion.

The second usage is abstract. When taken as its Latin form, “to make anew, refresh, revive, change, alter, invent,” and with the related definitions of “fresh, young, inexperienced,” the word ‘nova’ reflects the two principle characters: Lorq and Mouse.

Mouse, based on the dates given in the headers, is eighteen at the time of the voyage with Lorq, and the language of the novel reflects this youth not only through Mouse’s (perhaps willful) ignorance in his discussion with Katin, but even more so by referring to him as “the boy by [Lorq’s] knee” (134, emphasis added). While ‘inexperienced’ would certainly be a stretch in terms of cyborg studding, wandering, and playing music, “fresh, young, inexperienced” are all words which seem appropriately applied to Mouse, especially when taking his political obliviousness into account.

In contrast, Lorq is reflected not through his personality, but through the promise of his transformation asserted multiple times throughout the novel. In the initial Tarot reading, Tyÿ predicts Lorq’s future:

The only positive influence from the major Arcana the Devil is. A card of violence, of revolution, of struggle it is. But also the birth of spiritual understanding it signifies. […] You the spiritual understanding of which I spoke will receive. In the…coming struggle, the surface of things away will fall. (118-121)

And again, with Lorq’s aunt, Cyana Von Ray Morgan:

“The Hanged-Man.” She closed the deck. “Reversed. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Doesn’t the Hanged-Man imply a great spiritual wisdom is coming, Cyana?”
“Reversed,” she reminded him. “It will be achieved at a great price.” (160)

These promises of spiritual understanding tie directly in to ‘nova’ as “to make anew, refresh, revive, change, alter, invent.” Lorq will be reinvented by the experiences he has on this voyage; he will be new.

Questions

1. Is there a similar connection to the several and contradictory meanings of the word ‘nova’ with the Red family? How does it interact with the meanings for Lorq and Mouse?

2. What is the significance of a system of mysticism being so well established and respected by a community of the future? Or can it really be explained with psychology and the power of suggestion, as Katin seeks to do?

Bonus Round: While reading this, did anyone else think of space westerns and Joss Whedon's Firefly? I sure did.

Post #4: Schuyler and the Art of Predicting Technology

The aspect of George S. Schuyler’s two serialized novels, The Black Internationale  and Black Empire, which intrigued me the most were the inventions and science with which the followers of the insidious Dr. Belsidus conquered Africa and became a world power. The first of these is Hydroponic farming. 

The Black Internationale’s Sam Hamilton, a chemist, devised the means to grow crops without soil:

One can best describe it by calling it a mile-square rectangle of cement, gridironed by cement dikes a hundred yards apart. These gridirons converted the artificial lake or reservoir into contiguous pools, each about…four feet deep and half filled with greenish water in which plants were growing in serried rows. At intervals of about two feet, slender concrete posts were spaced across the pools and…On to these the plants clung. (48)

Hamilton, at Slater’s questioning, goes on to explain that the pools are kept at proper temperature through the use of steam and that the water is enriched with “chemical food, the same elements vegetables extract from the soil” (49). In the foreword, John A. Williams observes that “[hydroponic farming] was[n’t ] recognized as a viable method to grow food until the Israelis began to use it, mainly through the drip process, after 1948” (xiii).

However, it turns out that hydroponic farming was nothing new, by any means; the growingedge.com article “History of Hydroponics” cites Howard M. Resh: “The hanging gardens of Babylon, the floating gardens of the Aztecs of Mexico and those of the Chinese are examples of ‘Hydroponic’ culture. Egyptian hieroglyphic records dating back several hundred years B.C. describe the growing of plants in water.” But in modern terms, arizona.edu writes that “In the U.S., interest began to develop in the possible use of complete nutrient solutions about 1925” but that “While there was commercial interest in the use of such systems, hydroponics was not widely accepted due to the high cost in construction of the concrete growing beds.” In a different page from the samesource, variations on the hydroponic system are described, sounding shockingly similar to the fields devised by Schuyler’s Hamilton. The only substantial  difference is that the temperature is maintained by greenhouses as opposed to steam power.

In a twisted, contradictory sort of way, this recalls Carl Slater’s musings mid-flight en route to New York:

Physically, we live in the Twentieth Century; psychologically, we live many thousands of years ago. We come into this world made for a life as huntsman or herdsman and find ourselves in an environment of whirling machines, confusion upon confusion for the sake of order…” (94)

While this passage is actually Slater inwardly whining about the complications of courting an active, independent woman (which, naturally, brings up its own issues in context), I think it can also be taken as an overarching theme for the novel as a whole, and especially for this issue. While Schuyler is undoubtedly trying to make an anti-machine age statement with this quote, it also emphasizes the ancient elements of his future, from the historical origins of Hydroponic farming, the Egyptian themes evident in Belsidus’ opulent chambers and the spectacle of the Temple of Love to the cyclic nature of history and conquest.

Questions

1. How do we reconcile the repetition of history evident in Dr. Belsidus’ re-conquering of Africa? His role as dictator/emperor? His attitudes toward Fascism and how he also resembles a Fascist?

2. What other factors in Black Empire can be said to look back (historically) while also moving forward? What about in the other books we have read so far?

Just a Thought...

What with the themes of race mixing in both Imperium in Imperio and Of One Blood, this seemed really pertinent. It also has a lot to say about how identity is, largely, what you as an individual (and, of course, what other people) "see," as was brought up in class. Enjoy.

"Black and White Twins" by Joanna Moorhead

Blog Post #3: Un-Romance in Of One Blood

One of the aspects which struck me the most about Pauline Hopkins’ Of One Blood was the use of Romantic or Romantic-adjacent devices in the story.

One of the first devices I noticed was the use of the weather. Right from the first page, the use of the weather mirrors the attitude – or, as Hopkins might have it, the ‘temperament’ – of the main character: “It was the first week in November and it had rained about every day the entire week; now freezing temperature added to the discomfiture of the dismal season. …Briggs could have told you that the bareness and desolateness of the apartment were like his life…" (1). Hopkins even goes so far as to acknowledge this fact. In chapter II, one of the concert goers jokes about just that: “Great crowd for such a night,” observed one. “The weather matches your face, Briggs; why didn’t you leave it outside? Why do you look so down?” (12). This direct acknowledgement is unusual for such a device, and I can’t recall Hopkins using it again in the rest of the novel. In light of that, the use of the weather and its acknowledgement almost seems like a literary joke.

The other device which I noticed was that of the ideal form in parallel to the ideal being. Two examples especially stand out in my mind. One is of Briggs:

Mother nature had blessed Reuel Briggs with superior physical endowments… No one could fail to notice the vast breadth of shoulder, the strong throat that upheld a plain face, the long limbs, the sinewy hands. His head was that of an athlete, with close-set ears, and covered with an abundance of black hair, straight and closely cut…the nose was of aristocratic feature…his skin was white, but of a tint suggesting olive…His large mouth concealed powerful long white teeth which gleamed through lips even and narrow, parting generally in a smile…indeed Briggs’ smile changed the plain face at once into one that interested and fascinated men and women. …His eyes were a very bright and piercing gray, courageous, keen and shrewd. Briggs was not a man to be despised—physically or mentally. (3-4)

Though there are parts of his description which would render him less of the Romantic “ideal,” like the long teeth and the large mouth, or the fact that his face is “plain,” Hopkins concludes her description with the positives: that his smile makes him remarkable and that he is not to be despised. These are significant features because he turns out to be Ergamenes, the lost King of Telassar and Messiah of Ethiopia. He follows the Romantic assertion that beauty equals goodness. Period. But that’s not the end of what’s going on.

Aubrey Livingston should also be considered under this light. When he first appears, she notes “The voice was soft and musical. …The light revealed a tall man with the beautiful face of a Greek God” (6) and, later, says “…the beauty of his fair hair and blue eyes was never more marked as he stood there in the gleam of the fire…” (18). However, Hopkins also lets the reader know immediately that there’s something to be wary about: “…the sculpted features did not inspire confidence. There was that in the countenance of Aubrey Livingston that engendered doubt” (6). While Reuel’s description (and, arguably, Dianthe’s) mirrors the goodness and beauty device of the Romantics, Aubrey defeats it and does so immediately. The reader is given little concrete description of him except that he is Aryan-looking and is reminiscent of a Greek God, but Hopkins seems to bring it up often, as though the reader might forget: this is significant because of how awful he turns out to be. In doing so, she effectively both uses and subjugates this device.


Questions

1. How does the description of Dianthe Lusk (14) interact with the Romantic device of beauty and goodness? How does her being a soprano contribute to this image? What is the significance of Hopkins’ giving Dianthe the most prestigious position in the choir?

2. In what other ways could it be said that Hopkins is either employing or subjugating established literary devices or conventions? To what end?

Post #2 - Imperium in Imperio and and Examination of Mythic Language

While there is no doubt of its relevancy, there is some argument, and rightly so, of whether or not Sutton E. Griggs’ novel, Imperium in Imperio: A Study of the Negro Race, fits into the genre of sci-fi. While I would argue that for its time, Imperium was indeed a vision of an alternate or unbelievable future and is therefore a SF participant, that isn’t what intrigued me about this novel. In the first half (chapters I – X), there is a heavy sense of the novel as a series of episodic moral tales as well as mythic or fairytale-like language.

It was this language which intrigued me right from the beginning. In the prologue, entitled “Berl Trout’s Dying Declaration,” Berl states:

In the bottom of some old forsaken well, so reads our law, I shall be buried, face downward, without a coffin; and my body, lying thus, will be transfixed with a wooden stave. Fifty feet from the well into which my body is lowered, a red flag is to be hoisted and kept floating there for time unending, to warn all generations of men to come not near the air polluted by the rotting carcass of a vile traitor. (7)

This struck me immediately as a very folkloric sentence. In my studies of vampire folklore, it appeared more than once that it was practice to transfix the body of the alleged vampire into the ground. Doing so didn’t kill them – sorry, Buffy, no snarl and poof of dust – it just fixed them there, undead and still hungry, but unable to move. Treating a traitor in this same way shocked me, but it also has a powerful implication: if he is fixed down, he, and his way of thinking, are both unable to rise, but they still live. If his executioners didn’t fear that his treachery might return, why would they take such care to symbolically abolish it, going so far as to warn people away from the air he “polluted” like an infection? (It’s worth noting here that some cultures also thought vampirism to be catching, as a disease.) He is elevated to a kind of mythic status through these devices.

On a bit of a different note, Berl also asserts “I…pronounce myself a patriot” and cites the trope of a small evil for a greater good (7).  This is also folkloric in a general sense and recalls fairytale and myth.

The strongest fairytale connection, however, comes with the introduction of Belton. His “costume” is carefully noted, calling attention to his mismatched trousers and his coat, which was “literally a conglomeration of patches of varying sizes and colors” (10). Both of these recall the figure of the fool, often represented as the two-tone jester, as well as images of the parti-colored ensemble of Commedia’s Arlecchino.

However, the real fairytale implication doesn’t arrive until the bottom of the page: “A man of tact, intelligence, and superior education moving in the midst of a mass of ignorant people, ofttimes has a sway more absolute than that of monarchs. Belton now entered the school-room, which in his case proves to be the royal court, whence he emerges an uncrowned king” (10). This concept of the fool-king recalls not only cultural rituals and holidays of social reversal (or inversion), but evoke the sort of fantastical transformation one expects of myths and fairytales.

This fairytale structure is reinforced by the episodic nature of the chapters, several of which have a sort of moral lesson to be learned by the characters. The end of the first chapter, for example, offers the proverbial ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’ Chapter III’s ending suggests that only the difficult things are truly worth it (18). The end of chapter IV concludes in proverbial language of its own, “Sometimes, even a worm will turn when trod upon” (24). The end of chapter V teaches never to generalize a single group of associated people together (28). The most important lesson appears not at the end of a chapter, but rather in the middle of chapter VII and the beginning of chapter X, with the lesson on revenge (40, 57). These moral conclusions come with the understanding that the reader will take the same lesson away with them, after the manner of an Aesopian fable.


Questions:
1. If Imperium in Imperio does indeed bring fairytales into conversation with Sci-Fi as a genre, how do they mix? Or is there an inherent conflict between these structures? Is there anything else you have read that reflects a mix of this kind?

2. How does Imperium in Imperio come into conversation with the structure of the Hero’s Journey? Does this contribute to its mythic status, or does it contribute to its SF affiliations? Is it possible that it aids both?

Post #1 - Samuel Delaney and The Pretended

“…The flashing lights, the dials, and the rest of the imagistic paraphernalia of science fiction functioned as social signs—signs people learned to read very quickly. They signaled technology. And technology was like the placard on the door saying, “Boys club! Girls, keep out. Blacks and Hispanics and the poor in general, go away! … The miniature technology you cite is not a shiny, glittering, polished technology. Above all, it comes in matte-black, plastic boxes. From the beepers, the Walkmen, the Diskmen, through the biggest ghetto blaster—the stuff put forward as portable is not chromium. It’s black. With the exception of the silver CD (which, to become functional, must be slipped into its black-encased digital reader), this is a very different set of signifiers from the sparkling bus bars, the quivering dials, and the fuming beakers of science fiction.” (Delaney 188, 192)

In his interview with Mark Dery, Samuel R. Delaney argues that these social signals contained within the images of technology in Science Fiction are part of what used to keep, and potentially what still keeps, black readers, and therefore black writers, away from the genre. However, in the case of the short story “The Pretended” by Darryl A. Smith, he turns this dichotomy on its head and uses it for his own purposes. Rather than allowing the logic of technology to lock him out, he uses it to make his statements.

The future technology the short story focuses on is a sort of AI – or at least human-level intelligence androids. This is the only technology he spends time describing, so that is what I will focus on as his technology of the future, regardless of whether or not chromium ‘keep out’ technologies exist in the extended world of “The Pretended.”

First off, he makes it plain right away that the androids are meant to resemble black people and/or be black people depending on how far along in the story it is mentioned. Secondly, he eliminates even the possibility of a white technology by basing the creation of the robots in guilt and denial: so that humankind can keep pretending both that they never committed the atrocity they did, and so that they can continue to pretend that ‘black aint people.’ Creating white robots would be counterintuitive in this case. Mnemosyne drives this point home: “…White robots. Think of it! White skin over brains made of light. White skin over platinum bones, over crystal-clear blood wid sparkles! That would be so beautiful, Eve! You’d just have to touch a machine like that! …they wouldn’t have to pretend they was God. God’s just what they would be…” (367-8).

In a way, the inclusion of this passage plays into what Samuel R. Delaney is saying about the technology of Science Fiction: that white technology is the desirable technology, and a technology that therefore estranges readers of color. However, by playing with the concept of white technology being impossible in the world setup of a story, Smith relegates the technology of science fiction into the realm of the “matte-black, plastic boxes” Delaney refers to, in effect giving this denied access back.

But it isn’t really as simple as that. Smith has also chosen black technology to make a point, to parallel what “Last Angel of History” termed social reality. It is only through this choice that his point comes across, as it is by grace of the fact that the main characters are robots that they can see the situation clearly: not only is Mnemosyne automatically privy to information about the implied genocide dubbed the ‘Methodote’ because of some kind of glitch, Diva Eve insists, “...You pretend you’re black and people at the same time. They tried to make it so you couldn’t do that. But they couldn’t. You always doin both. Cause they the same thing. Can’t no robot pretend two things is different when they aint. But people? People can pretend two things is different when they aint sure enough” (362). By stripping the situation of its emotional connotations, by technologizing it, Smith lays his thoughts out in fairly direct terms: if the world (read: America) doesn’t stop pretend that ‘black aint people,’ the results can, and will, be catastrophic.

Questions:

How does Delaney’s distinction between black technology and white technology interact with Nisi Shawl’s “Deep End?” Does it play into Delaney’s setup, or does it subvert it after the fashion of “The Pretended?”

How does the concept of the lullaby factor in to Smith’s scheme of dehumanization-through-technology? Does it seem out of place? Is it appropriate?

And an off-topic question, just for fun: Both Nisi Shawl and Darryl A. Smith reference Greek mythology heavily (the Psyche Moth, Mnemosyne, the myth of Galatea). What do you suppose makes these ancient stories vital to pieces set in the future? Does this have anything to do with the concept that “[one] can be backward-looking and forward-thinking at the same time” (Dery 211)?

Christina Van Dyke's The Hunger Games and Philosophy: Discipline and the Docile Body

Dr. Christina Van Dyke of Calvin College, whose interests range from medieval philosophy to the philosophy and politics gender, visited my university today to present her paper "The Hunger Games and Philosophy: Discipline and the Docile Body." Recently published in the book The Hunger Games and Philosophy: A Critique of Pure Treason, she began her presentation with the disclaimer that her discussion would indeed involve spoilers (as will this blog, be warned), and that she agreed to write this paper on a dare. For a dare, I'd say it turned out pretty well.

Van Dyke lectured primarily on social norms, how they come about, and how they control people, as well as the systems of social norms in the Captiol of Panem, Katniss' District 12, and of the militant District 13.

The main parallel she drew was that the way the Capitol controls its people ultimately has the same effect as the way District 13 controls its people. While the Capitol conditions its people to channel self-expression and individuality through lavish fashion trends, parties and entertainment, District 13 accounts for every moment of every one of its citizen's time, forcing its people to channel their individuality through habitual adherence to the rules and regulations of the compound. In both cases, the citizens are rendered 'docile,' unable or unwilling to make their own choices in life. Neither of these systems is, therefore, acceptable to Katniss, who wants to live her own life outside of the social and political ends she has been used for throughout the trilogy.

Ultimately, this is not quite a stretch. In Mockingjay, a substantial amount of time is spent on the fact that Katniss, after she has run her course of usefulness, is considered a threat to the revolution precisely because she doesn't fully support District 13's President Coin. It's even hinted at that Katniss might have been assassinated by Coin's soldiers once her time was up, in order to make a martyr out of her and therefore to be able to continue to use her face and story to inspire support in Coin's regime. There is a running parallel in the novel that Katniss is still a part of the games - even if she is out of the arena, other people are still keeping her in the dark, using her as a pawn to act out their own plans and schemes. There's a parallel between Presidents Coin and Snow from the get-go, so why shouldn't their regimes have the same effects? It makes sense with the themes of Mockingjay, even culminates with Katniss' choice to assassinate Coin rather that Snow when she had the chance: Coin's regime was no better, and Katniss knew it.

One of the things she didn't touch on - probably didn't have room to - was that the Capitol and District 13 are, essentially, in a Cold War. The only reason District 13 survived was that it was the District which produced nuclear weapons, and they armed them and pointed them at the Capitol, so the Capitol did the same. The degree to which the Capitol has control over its people through the aforementioned pursuits/distractions must be monumental, to miss not only a state of Cold War as well as active bombardment of District 13 and deployment of "Peacekeepers" to the rebelling districts.

As it happens, the concept of alienation and estrangement is a central theme to this story. As Van Dyke discussed, Katniss and the other people of the districts seem at the very least abnormal, probably subhuman to the heavily modified and fashion-obsessed people of the capitol in the same manner that the people of the capitol seem like strange, colorful birds to Katniss. Despite the fact she volunteered, it could easily be said that hers, too, is a story of abduction: she is reaped by the socioeconomically dominant culture, thrust into a culture so foreign it might as well be on a different planet, and is finally made to fight for her survival to the death, becoming both a sacrifice and a pop culture icon in that alien culture. Her story ultimately has an end which is nothing less than idyllic, but these themes are still, arguably, the core of her story.

For a post on the Hunger Games series and as a phenomenon, please see tangential's big sister: Hyperbole.

Layered Question Redux: Response

"How does Harry Bittering react to being stranded on Mars and to the gradual assimilation of his friends and family? discuss how his reaction relates to the concept of "the other." What might his reaction suggest about the social climate of the United States in 1949 (postwar culture)?"

In the beginning of Ray Bradbury's short story "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed," harry Bittering is filled with dread, fearing the loss of his identity, soul, intellect, and past (131) - in short, fearing change. This fear is introduced by his panic when confronted with the behaviors of the Earth plants growing up in Martian soil. He clings to these fears throughout the majority of the story, and his reaction to the carefree men in the town exemplifies it: "Bittering wanted to cry. "You've to work with me. If we stay here, we'll all change. The air. Don't you smell it? Something in the air..."" (135).

Bittering's fears are also grounded in the concept of "otherness" or "the other." As a character, he identifies strongly as an earth man - "...We don't belong here. We're Earth people. This is Mars. It was meant for the Martians. For heaven's sake, Cora, let's buy tickets for home!" (131) - and the foreignness of Mars causes him to fear the loss of that identity. Rather than fearing the other in and of itself, he fears becoming the "other," fears being assimilated into the "other". This quality strikes me as odd: it wasn't a dynamic I was expecting. It becomes even stranger as the other characters are assimilated around him, introducing a duality to the qualities of "otherness" in the story - even before the people of the town are 'dark and golden-eyed,' Bittering is the only one who seems to be bothered by the turn of events in the war. He has effectively become the "other" as far as the town is concerned, but in his eyes the 'foreign' entity is the majority.

This story seems, to me, to have a lot to say about McCarthyism/the Second Red Scare. "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed" was published in 1949, in the second year of the decade-long event, which fostered an atmosphere of fear and nationalism in the United States. But before I continue in that vein, there's one bit of housework to do: where are the Bitterings from? Other than identifying as "Earth people," there is no explicit comment on where the family comes from. On 132 it's made clear that the Rockets in New York are destroyed and that the family  is therefore stranded on Mars, and on 140 Cora asks her daughter, "What about your New York dresses?" implying that they at least passed through that city. However, based on the names chosen by the settlers for the landscape (Hormel, Roosevelt, Ford, Vanderbilt, Rockefeller) it's probably safe to say that all of the Martian settlers are Americans.

I think that the family's origin is important because this story comments on McCarthyism in more than one way. The concept of immigrating to another location (country or planet) and fearing the forces already in place recalls the heavy suspicion automatically placed on immigrants to America in this time. This concept is demonstrated by  Bittering's conception of "ghosts" and his bidding the hidden Martians to "Come down, move us out! We're helpless!" (134). By making the Americans the immigrants causes a reversal in this construction. They are no longer staunch in their right to the place they are in.

The name-changing scene on 139 is quite the contrast. After Dan asks his parents if he can go by the name "Linnl" instead, Bittering "...thought of the silly rocket, himself working alone, himself alone even among this family, so alone." This is significant because throughout the story Bittering is convinced that it's Mars itself, a climate or atmosphere, which is slowly changing the people around him, which recalls the feared 'inevitable' spread of communism which extended from the end of WWII until at least the end of the Vietnam debacle. Additionally, his sense of loneliness recalls the atmosphere caused by the second Red Scare and the presence of the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC): effectively, no-one could trust the people around them, because communists are everywhere. In "Dark They Were, and Golden-Eyed," Bittering cannot trust anyone around him because none of them feel the threat of intellectual and spiritual annihilation which he perceives.

The element of this story I find most intriguing is that Bittering's resistance is eventually overcome by a kind of tranquility. There are lots of words which contribute to this feeling: "He was too tired to be afraid" (138), "peace" (138), "Slow, deep, silent change" (138), "refreshing" (139), "...lazy in the heat" (140). The question which this brings up for me is: was this tranquility designed to instill horror at the character's submission, or incorporate the reader into it, effectively obliterating the need for fear of change? Personally, I was made calm as Bittering calmed, probably aided by the use of these soft, decidedly non-panicked, non-menacing words. Hopefully it was able to have the same effect in 1949.