The following is the final post in this blog. It is an emulation of Mrs. Dalloway by Virigina Woolf. It focuses on the concept of a changing identity, and going through horrific events, and trying to rebuild. While you are reading this, if you could follow this link and play it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRxJgbpdFMg (you may have to skip an ad):
Moments
After Mrs. Dalloway.
Part 1: "She did not pity him, with the clock striking".
An alarm rang. It was annoying to be up at 8:05 a.m. How Adam savoured weekends; times where one could wake and not be bothered by anything else, not a family member, not an alarm clock, just peace. He only have a week left before this ended. But, he wanted it to finish now; he could not stand to sit around and keep waiting. Suddenly, his dog barked. Groaning he stood. He needed to feed his dog, so he set about making his way down the creeky staircase; into the dim living room. No one had cleaned the windows for years it felt like, and upon every surface lay a thin layer of dust. Invisible to him at this point. A magazine lay open on the table. A headline lazily read, an article skimmed. A book half finished sat on top. Another attempt at a story. Notes scrawled in the margin made the book look loved. It wasn't. He hated it. It was another story about stupid people drifting through life interrupted by impossible problems. Dealing with problems no one deals with; an unreal image of the world. He looked at the book and thought to himself, "What will people think of us when they uncover all of this? We didn't give them Shakespeare, or Homer? What, the fucking Jersey Shore?" He smiled at his inside remark. He face was tired, but still had some warmth left. He didn't smile often, all his friends said this. He was a sullen guy, he shouldn't be so grumpy. Quite frankly, in his mind, quite a lot of bull shit. He smiled when he was happy; he wasn't that happy very often.
A loud bark woke him from his musings and he continued to feed the dog; carefully giving him the right amount of food and water, then, after the dog had devoured the small portion it had been given, he let it out. The dog rushed into the light, quickly overwhelming Adam's senses. He sharply closed his eyes, and as he opened them again, he gazed the world as new once again; noticed a bee buzzing close to his door, a wind that blew a branch ever so slightly. Flowers had begun to spread. He took his small notebook out of his pocket and began to note these things before getting frustrated. He whipped the notebook to the ground; furious with himself and observations that could not capture an entire moment, could not describe the buzzing of the bee and the smell of the flowers and the taste of the cold crisp air and the sound of the dog's panting or the light caress of the wind on his face or the million other things he felt at this moment. He whipped the door shut, and a tear rolled down his cheek. He would not be able to share this with anyone. He could not communicate...he could only observe...he could not act...only be acted upon. A clock struck loudly behind him. It was his mother's, a family heirloom in a grandfather clock, set next to the bookshelf in his mother's library. He did not want to think about that...but its incessant ticking always brought him back to it. Always grounded him in this old house he wanted to leave. He could never seem to cross this threshold and get away from the ticking. He heard it everywhere in the house and it followed him outside of the house. He hated the clock, but they didn't let him get rid of it. He just wanted to shut it off but they told him not to. Suddenly another loud bark shook him out of his dreams. A disgruntled dog had been left outside, and wanted to rectify this situation. He looked at his hand as he opened his door. It seemed too old to be his, too wrinkled to belong to an 18 year old...but perhaps because of what he had gone through...the clang of the alarm woke him once again, and he quickly went upstairs.
"Mixed in an ethereal way with clouds and wisps of smoke".
Part 2: "Mrs. Dalloway decided to get the flowers herself"
He did not want to be late. As he stepped into the shower, the torrent of water running down his hair into his face, drowning him, cleansing him felt wonderful. He stepped out of the shower, and staring at his face in the mirror was annoyed. He bent into the mirror, looking at a small blemish before opening the closet and taking some extra strength anti-acne cream to kill it. In all the photos he used to see his father had acne. He refused to accept it, and tried to cleanse himself constantly. The cream left scars on his face, which he began to accept as an identity of his own. Adam, the man who frowned, fed a dog, wrote and killed zits. He was proud of that title, at least a little bit...he had forgotten which stains on the mirror (which also hadn't been cleaned in far too long) were from water or bursts of pus from his face. He quickly dressed and looked at himself again. He felt like a different person; in different clothes, people are different. They can hide that way. When one is naked and alone, they are vulnerable, not able to protect themselves from themselves. One can hide blemishes with hairstyles, one can hide weight with clothes, one can hide a scar running up one's chest from their nape to their neck with a shirt. He wasn't Adam the killer of zits in clothes. He was Adam, the high schooler. Indeed, he looked the part. As he left the room, the clock crashed again. Louder this time, he thought. He walked out of his house, and into the small side street. Pebbles washed beneath his feet, the gravel street felt like a sinking trap. He didn't want to get caught in. The blaring of a siren at the bottom of the street sounded. His back stiffened. He did not like that sound, not since...the clock crashed again. Or maybe it was his imagination. Either way, his thoughts went back to the path and to the sun and the warmth. He left the small side street and entered a far bigger, busier street. Cars flew past and he felt invisible. In fact, he liked the invisibility, it made him feel safe. He could be himself, and no one would notice. If he cried right now, no one would care. He would not even notice himself... He pulled out his recently retrieved notebook to write that down. He liked the warmth of the leather in his hand as he felt the cover slowly. Then, he quickly opened past the first two pages, he did not like to read those anymore...and over to a later page. "I feel safe when I'm alone" he scribbled. He heard ticking and was reminded that he would soon be late. He finished writing his note, and raced across the park. He did not stop to notice flowers like he usually did, did not feel the breeze. He was late and he had something to do...
"Died up among the seagulls."
Part 3: "Fear no more the heat o' the sun"
The doctor was waiting...he sighed. He didn't like the next patient who was coming. He couldn't stand him, in fact. Ever since his parents had died...he had been difficult; years had passed, and yet the patient had not managed to move on. The doctor had gotten his profession to help those in need, but the patient wanted no help. He refused to talk, merely sat there for the hour and then left. The patient always made notes in a little leather bound journal the doctor had told him to keep. It must've been his fifth or sixth by now, considering how much he wrote. He noticed that he never wrote on the opening pages, or at least, never in public. The Doctor wanted desperately to help...but he could not. He drummed his pen against his hand. His patient was late...then, suddenly, as the church bell announced the time, the patient stormed into the room, looking wild frenzied. For the first time he opened up, almost shouting. "I want to be alone! It's safe! It's safe to be alone! I don't like others and they don't like me" with that, he spun on his heels, his shoulder length brown hair whirling with him. "Fear no more the heat o' the sun!" He shouted as he left the office. Adam spun down the stairs away from his doctor's office. He needed to get home. He burst home and the dog lazily greeted him. He stood in the doorway...heard a clock strike...stripped naked (he had no need to hide his identity anymore) and closed the door behind him.
"For there she was".
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Finality
As this will be my last analytical post to this blog, I thought it fitting to talk about endings.
I've been obsessed with endings my entire life. I remember reading as a child, racing through a book to get to the resolution: I just had to know how it ended. I would turn the last page of the book and be left with an overwhelming sense of sadness and loneliness. These characters were gone, I know knew their story, and I could never relive it as truly as I had previously watched it.
In my heavily annotated and marked up copy of Shakespeare's Complete Works, The Tempest comes last. Its last lines read: "As you from crimes who pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free," widely accepted to be the last line Shakespeare wrote. He asks to be set free. Bill Watterson remarks that "It's a magical world, Hobbes Old Buddy. Let's go exploring." as Calvin sleds off down a hill. The Odyssey ends with a declaration of peace by the gods.
I've been thinking about this theme as the year has drawn to a close. Many of my friends from Acting Class are leaving, having been older than me. People I have spent years working with are going to vanish next year. Classes are ending and we recently received our schedule for next year, and we can begin planning ahead.
Most notably in my search of endings is House, MD: a TV show that recently aired its finale. After eight years of absolute brilliance, it is drawing to a close. The last episode is incredible, and the last song, "Enjoy Yourself" by Gus Lombardo so perfectly encapsulated the show.
But, now on to Women's Literature. I thought it would be interesting to include the last lines of the books we've read this year, and then try to find trends and patterns, if there are any.
The end of The Handmaid's Tale, before the Historical Notes reads: "And so I step up, into the darkness within;or else the light." (Atwood, 307).
Jasmine ends with: "I am out the door and in the potholed and rutted driveway, scrambling ahead of Taylor, greedy with wants and reckless with hopes," (Mukerjee, 241).
The play, The Vagina Monologues ends with: "I was there in the room. I remember," (Ensler, 125).
The last piece of fiction we read, Mrs. Dalloway ends with: "For there she was," (Woolf, 172).
I see a trend of being unfinished. Leaving a story open ended. 2 of the 4 books end with a new journey beginning, and Mrs. Dalloway has the possibility of the same. None end with dramatic resolutions, as many plays do. None end with a definite statement. They all (other the The Vagina Monologues) talk about a new beginning. A future. A hope.
The final episode of House is called "Everybody dies". The end of the season has dealt with someone very close to House becoming terminally ill. I think this is true: everyone must die. Perhaps then, literature is the one thing that is able to stay alive. Clarissa will be forever walking down those stairs, listening to clocks tick. Offred will forever be in captivity, in love with Nick, trying to escape. Jasmine will always be between states, between identities. Hamlet will always question "To be or not to be" until the end of civilisation. Shakespeare, Homer, Woolf have all been outlived by their writing. It has made them, in so many ways, immortal. Made them memorable. Made them great. They have affected generation after generation, changed people's lives, transformed the world we live in today. They cannot die.
I've been obsessed with endings my entire life. I remember reading as a child, racing through a book to get to the resolution: I just had to know how it ended. I would turn the last page of the book and be left with an overwhelming sense of sadness and loneliness. These characters were gone, I know knew their story, and I could never relive it as truly as I had previously watched it.
In my heavily annotated and marked up copy of Shakespeare's Complete Works, The Tempest comes last. Its last lines read: "As you from crimes who pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free," widely accepted to be the last line Shakespeare wrote. He asks to be set free. Bill Watterson remarks that "It's a magical world, Hobbes Old Buddy. Let's go exploring." as Calvin sleds off down a hill. The Odyssey ends with a declaration of peace by the gods.
I've been thinking about this theme as the year has drawn to a close. Many of my friends from Acting Class are leaving, having been older than me. People I have spent years working with are going to vanish next year. Classes are ending and we recently received our schedule for next year, and we can begin planning ahead.
Most notably in my search of endings is House, MD: a TV show that recently aired its finale. After eight years of absolute brilliance, it is drawing to a close. The last episode is incredible, and the last song, "Enjoy Yourself" by Gus Lombardo so perfectly encapsulated the show.
But, now on to Women's Literature. I thought it would be interesting to include the last lines of the books we've read this year, and then try to find trends and patterns, if there are any.
The end of The Handmaid's Tale, before the Historical Notes reads: "And so I step up, into the darkness within;or else the light." (Atwood, 307).
Jasmine ends with: "I am out the door and in the potholed and rutted driveway, scrambling ahead of Taylor, greedy with wants and reckless with hopes," (Mukerjee, 241).
The play, The Vagina Monologues ends with: "I was there in the room. I remember," (Ensler, 125).
The last piece of fiction we read, Mrs. Dalloway ends with: "For there she was," (Woolf, 172).
I see a trend of being unfinished. Leaving a story open ended. 2 of the 4 books end with a new journey beginning, and Mrs. Dalloway has the possibility of the same. None end with dramatic resolutions, as many plays do. None end with a definite statement. They all (other the The Vagina Monologues) talk about a new beginning. A future. A hope.
The final episode of House is called "Everybody dies". The end of the season has dealt with someone very close to House becoming terminally ill. I think this is true: everyone must die. Perhaps then, literature is the one thing that is able to stay alive. Clarissa will be forever walking down those stairs, listening to clocks tick. Offred will forever be in captivity, in love with Nick, trying to escape. Jasmine will always be between states, between identities. Hamlet will always question "To be or not to be" until the end of civilisation. Shakespeare, Homer, Woolf have all been outlived by their writing. It has made them, in so many ways, immortal. Made them memorable. Made them great. They have affected generation after generation, changed people's lives, transformed the world we live in today. They cannot die.
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Calvin and Hobbes and Death
I've been putting this post off. A lot actually. I never really knew what to write, to properly talk about this, to say the right things...
Recently (about 2 weeks ago now), an ASL teacher killed herself. From what I gather, she had been depressed for a while and finally decided to kill herself. I didn't think much of it, except how sad it was for both her family and her students.
Suicide is a touchy topic for me. My second cousin killed himself when he was 6. I never met him, nor knew anything about him. I think I realised something had happened when my family stopped talking about him. There had been mention of him: going to Harvard, graduating, etc. in my home life for a while. Then it all stopped. My parents told me about it a few years later, when the decided I was "ready" to hear about it. My question soon became, is anybody ever... ready to hear that? Perhaps more prepared than others but not... ready. This is why one of my first thoughts jumped immediately to the kids. A grade of fourth graders had to be told and taught why their teacher was not coming into school anymore. Kids, no older than six or seven have to learn what suicide is. I was not ready for that lesson when I was seven, and I don't believe I am so much more ready at 17. But, perhaps I'm wrong, and you adapt. You have to be able to learn what is put in front of you. You have to be able to move on. Ms. Dalloway had to move on. She congratulates Septimus on his suicide, in being able to succeed where she could not. She thinks that "it was her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman, in this profound darkness, and she forced to stand here in her evening dress" (Dalloway, 164). She was almost proud of him for throwing "it away while they went on living" (Dalloway 165). Septimus himself "did not want to die" but instead thought that "life was good" (Dalloway 132). This topic is so complicated and tough and...just... forgive my language but shitty to deal with.
I thought about my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Sederjei, who I loved like a second mother. I couldn't imagine even now that I am 17 and haven't been in her class for upwards of 6 years, to be told that she killed herself would be too hard.
One last note about death. I recently was researching an acting project on Calvin and Hobbes. I came across a story that I had mostly ignored in my previous devouring of Watterson's work. It's called the raccoon story. It is beautiful and powerful, and magical. I just thought I would mention it and include the link. It has made me cry every time I have watched it. It is a masterpiece. Helped me to accept death. And life. And friendship. And family.
http://wintersonata13.wordpress.com/2008/10/05/calvin-and-hobbes-the-racoon-story/
Recently (about 2 weeks ago now), an ASL teacher killed herself. From what I gather, she had been depressed for a while and finally decided to kill herself. I didn't think much of it, except how sad it was for both her family and her students.
Suicide is a touchy topic for me. My second cousin killed himself when he was 6. I never met him, nor knew anything about him. I think I realised something had happened when my family stopped talking about him. There had been mention of him: going to Harvard, graduating, etc. in my home life for a while. Then it all stopped. My parents told me about it a few years later, when the decided I was "ready" to hear about it. My question soon became, is anybody ever... ready to hear that? Perhaps more prepared than others but not... ready. This is why one of my first thoughts jumped immediately to the kids. A grade of fourth graders had to be told and taught why their teacher was not coming into school anymore. Kids, no older than six or seven have to learn what suicide is. I was not ready for that lesson when I was seven, and I don't believe I am so much more ready at 17. But, perhaps I'm wrong, and you adapt. You have to be able to learn what is put in front of you. You have to be able to move on. Ms. Dalloway had to move on. She congratulates Septimus on his suicide, in being able to succeed where she could not. She thinks that "it was her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman, in this profound darkness, and she forced to stand here in her evening dress" (Dalloway, 164). She was almost proud of him for throwing "it away while they went on living" (Dalloway 165). Septimus himself "did not want to die" but instead thought that "life was good" (Dalloway 132). This topic is so complicated and tough and...just... forgive my language but shitty to deal with.
I thought about my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Sederjei, who I loved like a second mother. I couldn't imagine even now that I am 17 and haven't been in her class for upwards of 6 years, to be told that she killed herself would be too hard.
One last note about death. I recently was researching an acting project on Calvin and Hobbes. I came across a story that I had mostly ignored in my previous devouring of Watterson's work. It's called the raccoon story. It is beautiful and powerful, and magical. I just thought I would mention it and include the link. It has made me cry every time I have watched it. It is a masterpiece. Helped me to accept death. And life. And friendship. And family.
http://wintersonata13.wordpress.com/2008/10/05/calvin-and-hobbes-the-racoon-story/
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)