My Version of Trust Me

Trust Me
When her son, Harry was three or four, Harriett had been doing the laundry when she came upon her husband’s pants in the hamper, and as was the routine, dug deep into his carpenter pockets to find miscellaneous items that should not be washed in her new machine. Usually, she would come across a beer cap, sometimes some dollar bills along with pennies and paperclips, but today there was a folded four by six inch piece of paper that she withdrew from the depths of his pants. Upon looking, she noticed the writing--very feminine cursive-- which read:
“I thought you should have my number so we can meet up at the pool again. Maybe my lifeguard training will come in handy! XOXO Roxanne 256-9908”
Pool? Again? XOXO? Harriett felt a little dizzy and knew without looking that her face had flushed, but with her miraculously cunning fem-warfare tactics, she decided playing it cool would be the best way to go about this. Her family rarely went out, and she resigned that on Saturday, they would take a trip to the community pool where this Roxanne apparently worked and then, only then would she know the real truth. Perhaps this fancy-scripted woman with the brothel-esque name was just some floozy with whom her husband had no interest. Her days crept by ever too slowly, but she kept her secret to herself until the weekend; she even left the blasphemous note in his pants to go through the wash, as to avoid all worries on her husband’s part.
When the week came to an end, Harriett went to her son, Harold first, who was thrilled to go swimming, and who also encouraged his reluctant father to take the family trip to the pool. She knew that if something was going to happen here, she had to look her finest, as is woman nature, so she pinned her hair up in the most subtle, yet sexy of ways and searched out her little black bathing suit--the one with the mini-skirt attached, as was the fashion-- and headed for the pool with her family.
When they arrived, she paid close attention to her husband, who seemed to be sweating an awful lot. Whether it was due to the ninety-seven degree summer day or the foreshadowing of his doom, she wasn’t completely sure. She hoped it was the former. There were chairs spread out, where Harriett set up camp and set everyone free to play while she scoped out her surroundings. Harold was sort of anxious about the water and hung back while his dad tried to urge him in with him. Soon, a very shapely red-head, dressed in the custom lifeguard attire walked up to three or four year old Harold and swooned at him.
“Aren’t you cute? Are you going to go swimming, honey?” She turned then, and said something Harriett couldn’t make out but she did make out the face that was painted up the front of her husband’s head. A smile and an unsure glance towards the home wrecker and then toward Harriett left a familiar sourness in her stomach, and thankfully the bodacious red-haired buffoon swished off to her podium before any farther steps needed to be taken. All that Harriett could think to do was to dig through her beach bag for sun block to rub into her blindingly white skin. When she looked over, little Hassy was standing at the edge of the pool, sans floaters, with his father beckoning him to jump.
“Jump right into my hands,” and at that very instant, Miss Roxanne bent over at her podium, exposing her round, freckled buttocks, while Harry jumped, trustingly into the chlorinated green pool, through his distracted, piggish father’s outstretched arms and down into the water. Harriett let out a shriek, which apparently caught her husband’s attention, as he immediately reached into the water and pulled out his son.
Harriett was overwhelmed with emotion, as she stormed to the edge of the pool as Harry was carried out of the shallow end, and without thought--without warning, reared back and slapped her husband dead across the face before taking her son in her hands. That night they fought long and hard, and her husband solemnly swore never to speak to the flame-haired woman again.
Years later, Harry asked about that day at the pool and why his father had dropped him, to which Harriett said nothing and her estranged husband plead forgetfulness. It was best the poor boy didn’t know the truth anyway.

William Carlos Williams

Is anyone else just fed up with this guy?? I'm not too huge of a fan of his, although I do think that his manipulation of English grammar is fabulous and to be looked up to. I just think that sometimes he makes no sense, for instance, the Pink Locust poem is predominately about a flower, which throws me off a little bit, because I get distracted by the title and the early reference to the locust, which turns into a complete neglect of the locust analogy. Not that the poem is bad, but that it is frustrating. He uses so many different metaphors and analogies that it encrypts his message almost. I get upset because reading his poetry is hard work, but even when you delve deeply into it, you don't get anything too jaw-dropping. Consider me a Williams critic I suppose--maybe it's over my head!

Questions Galore

What is literature? To me, literature is something spoken or written which makes you think, and in turn warrants a need to be shared and passed along. Why write it or say it if it doesn't need to be remembered?

Who should write it? I should write it. You should write it. EVERYONE should write it.

What is Modern? When I think modern, I think abstract. It is a new way of thinking or doing, or the refreshment of an old traditional way. The way the book classifies the dates of 'modernism,' though...I'm not sure I follow. I think the modern period should be more contemporary, I guess because I don't think the '30s are modern anymore.

What is Regional? I think 'Regional' speaks to the values, core beliefs and attitudes of a certain group of people based upon where we're speaking about. For instance, the South has more of a romantic feel, the East Coast has a busy, self-righteous feel (biased?) and the West coast has more of a laid-back, liberal attitude. I suppose this is different, too based upon your point of view and your biases, because people from the East Coast may have a different view of their region vs. ours.
Which leads me to my next question....

What are our biases about reading unfamiliar texts?
1. Our regional backgrounds
2. Our values, morals, beliefs
3. Critical reviews
4. What we've read from the same author previously
5. Our education level
6. Our disposition to certain themes (romance, mystery, history etc.)
7. Language choices, is it easy to read?
8. Definitely motivation
9. Are we being made to read or reading for fun?
10. Mental blocks, for instance...My husband says he hates to read, but when he goes out of his way to find something that sparks his interest, usually he enjoys it.
11> Our upbringing.
12. Our fears.

What are your fears?
I have plenty, which I will share...since you're asking...Fish. Crazy, I know but I'd go so far as to classify it as a full blown phobia. NEVER will I be close enough to touch a fish, and have just recently been able to swim in lakes and rivers, although for some reason, the ocean has never bothered me. Go figure. I also am mildly afraid of the dark :) as well as being alone in the woods, most bugs, sexually transmitted diseases, death, the death of family, serious illness, failure, defeat, and most recently, bankruptcy.

What is the West?
I guess, my fantastical view that I imagine when I think "west" would be swinging saloon doors, gravel roads and gun duals in the middle of the road with the damsel in distress tied to the railroad tracks, only to be saved just in the nick of time by the dreamy cowboy who comes riding up on his horse out of the sunset. Also, with my distorted sense of direction, I think that West is always left of me, much like North is always forward. (I get lost often) But in all honesty, I think that West is synonymous with New. Western ideas, Western philosophy, Western frontier. New, new new. Freshness, radicalism.

Pagans and Christianity

Lately, I've been seeing in all of the literature I've been reading for my 3 lit classes some very interesting Pagan symbols in a predominately Christian world. I want to look deeper into this new finding, so I've been doing some thinking. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, there are obvious and definitely magical things happening, and that whole story is interesting in that it was a very religious time, and Christianity was at the forefront as well as Catholicism, I believe. Here is where my problem is, I suppose; I don't know enough about the history of religion to tie into the literature, but I do know that Merlin was married to Sir Arthur's sister, Morgan (I think LaFaye) who was behind all of the magic of tricking Sir Gawain into his tests.

Even as far back as Beowulf, there is the battle and triumph of Christianity, which is usually characterized by the known, or the civilized, and Paganism, or the wild and scary. If you think about it, Grendel came from the depths of a cave, lived with his mother underwater in that cave, and underwater would be the utmost unknown--especially in that time. The Green Knight came riding on his glowing green horse out of the woods, and nobody knew exactly from wherehe came.

Really, the comparisons are eerily endless, but never looked at in depth. Shakespeare was also very much into the occult, especially when King James came to the throne after Elizabeth died because James had quite the fascination with ghosts and magic.

In early American fiction--since this IS an American Lit class, I'm finding a lot of crosses between the two as well. Irving refers to some Pagan views in Rip Van Winkle, where there are "fairy mountains" and the mythical creatures who live in the woods and who also gave Rip the liquor that made him sleep for such a long time. Rip Van Winkle occurs obviously around the time of the Revolutionary war which was very much underlined by the strong religious values of our fore-fathers.

So anyways, this is my journey. Before I graduate I am going to become a professional in the realm of hidden Paganism throughout literature. Maybe it had to be for fear of religious persecution, or maybe not, because some Pagan values and ideals are not subtle at all. But I got on this roll here lately just because I'm noticing interesting ties between different things. And I'll stop this rant only to tell you of a poem I read for this class in the 5th edition of our book, in the sheafs of poetry section because it falls very well into this whole theme. It's called The Pagan and the Christian and I stinkin' LOVE it! I'm going to push to read this one in class, because it is definitely worth reading, and I wonder if the author, Elaine Goodale Eastman was an Indian woman...in fact...

So mid-sentence, I decided to google her and she was actually from a Puritanical New England family and moved to South Dakota to live among the Sioux, and actually opened a school there. Hmm. Read it and let's chat about it!

John Donne

Hepworth one day told me that he thought I would like to read John Donne's poems, so I took some time out of my busy schedule :) and dove into one of my other anthologies in which was a surplus of John Donne to discover. My overall first impression was something along the lines of, "woah." He is very almost cryptic in the sense that he combines metaphors that don't necessarily work together so I found myself going..."why the hell is that there, and what does that mean." Okey sort of helped me through a lot of it and with his pluthera of seemingly useless knowledge about little historic tid-bits made my reading make much more sense. Here is my favorite (of what I've read, surely there is more out there) of his poems, and it actually one of his Holy Sonnets, as I found out, he was a preacher or something like that and had twelve kids with his wife of a different religion. Anyways, it is Holy Sonnet 6 and the first line will sound quite familiar, I think. I did to me anyways:

6

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so.

For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me;

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with popison, war, and sickness dwell,

And popy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more. Death thou shalt die.

I really liked it, but I think that some of his other poetry is not simple like this one. Read it, though because it is unlike anything you'll read. The words are pretty awesome, even if cryptic. I really liked his poem, "The Good Morrow" which is a very romantic love poem, but was not as much a fan of the flea. Good read! Oh and he looks just like Shakespeare with a beard!

Delving into Poetry

I love love love poetry, and really enjoyed reading Amy Lowell. She had such beautiful and vivid imagery in her words, but threw in a lot of death as well. It was as if she saw the death in all things, but somehow twisted and tweaked it until there was beauty in that same death. "In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes." She wrote a lot about flowers, and I especially liked The Grotesque, as twisted as it is, with lillies' corpses lolling, and putrid...in somebody's hair! Typically, if somebody is wearing lillies in their hair, you'd say, "how pretty!" Once you think that those lillies are dead and lifeless bodies, decaying the whole time that same lady is dancing--it's kind of gross! I just can't get over her writing. Poets are artists. They are people who really mold words, paint with words. Her words...

"I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against

the want of you;

Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,

And posting it.

And I Scald alone, here, under the fire

Of the great moon."

...are beautiful.

I am the Spring

My blue smoke which lungs purge out
leaves my temple and becomes one
with all that is and was and will be.
The Green Knight's luminosity I see,
Springs coming--He's hiding in the White fir trees.
My legs kicked up, toes chilled
at the end of my bare feet, as I sit.
I listen to the coming of spring,
married to the aged winter, old,
dying.
The pregnant sky pours that life,
and the earth recieves it with subtle song;
the sweet rhythm of the rain,
that dead grass, those strangled blades,
as one they breathe. Pulse. Green,
as the paleness recedes, that whiteness secedes--
and out of the quiet, I hear a roar...
motorcycles out of hybernation
come to life once more, and here I am.
I bore through the words of the dead
bringing them immortality
wishing at once, that I could be
immortal. And here I am.
I am becoming the literature as I sit,
as I put out that ember in the tray,
as I look to the sky and watch it fall,
as my fingers tap-tap on the keyboard.
as I lick the backside of my stamp for this world.
I put it here, here
with the birth of a new season,
is the birth of new craftiness,
new words, for someone to read,
to label and chew up, to criticize.
Here is my legend, world,
I wish you'd digest it.
I hope it leaves an everlasting taste
in your mouth.
Bitter.
Sweet.