Follow by Email

Saturday, December 31, 2011

The Still Point of the Turning World

Is existence the opposite of time?

After some reflection, I arrived at this question today. It's New Year's Eve, the one day of the year when we seem to stop. Most of us, even the most appalling of cretins (and there are some), give some thought to where we've been and where we hope to go. We can't help ourselves.

In these still moments, we are alive to self. We are in that place T.S. Eliot called "the still point of the turning world":
   ...Neither flesh nor fleshless;
    Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
    But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
    Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
    Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
 So here we are today at the liquid center, within the heart between beats, placed in the awareness between one thought and the next. And towards what end? Peace? Clarity? Maybe, but recognizing and honoring this place, bringing it to mind every day, living outside of time is my resolution for the New Year. There is a lot of talk about "living in the moment" but this is different. This place, devoid of regrets or goals, triumphs or fears, those products of the ticking clock, is the only thing that is real. The past, imperfectly remembered, is gone. The future may never be. And this still place is all our existence has ever been, each moment following on the next. It is time, after all, that molds our perception that anything is passing away or approaching. And what is time but a human device to make us run fast?

In the play Our Town by Thornton Wilder, the character Emily dies in childbirth and is allowed to go back and relive a day with her family. She chooses her twelfth birthday and is shocked by the beauty and pathos of the small moments. She asks the ever-present Stage Manger, "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?" He answers that most don't, except the “saints and poets, maybe.” 

This year I will be the same age as my mother when she died after a life of trying to keep all the plates spinning, all the pots boiling, and above all, hearing the clock tick forward while she glanced over her shoulder at the past. I wonder now if she ever gave herself these moments of quiet awareness. I hope so. This year, rather than a traditional resolution, I will give myself a gift and a charge: to live when I can at the still point and love what's there.

Happy New Year

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad. 

Monday, December 26, 2011

Do Sleeping Dogs Lie?

Silver waiting to read the comics.
It's the day after Christmas and, all through our house, not a creature is stirring except for our 178 lb. Irish Wolfhound. Silver is dreaming. He is a big dog and he has big dreams.

Like humans, dogs enter the REM/dream state about 20 minutes after falling asleep. Silver's paws twitch ferociously and he makes mewling sounds for about four to five minutes before he sinks into a more silent repose. I wonder what fills his dreams? On the surface, Silver seems to be enacting a sequence in which he is clearly chasing something-- or being chased. However, research suggests that, like humans, dreaming animals relive sequences of their waking moments. This is what confuses me. Silver is, as noted, a big dog. Nothing has ever chased him anywhere. As far as I know he has never chased anything. He never leaves the back yard where there is nothing to chase. Does he tap instead into deep ancestral memory? Some shared  recollection of pre-domestication? I don't think so. Like yours and mine, I think Silver's dreams are full of fears and wishes. Silver's subconscious is composing a fiction.

This conclusion may seem to be something of a leap, but there are several connections between point A (Silver is dreaming) and point F (Silver is composing fiction).  Anyone who lives with animals knows they can understand the outcomes of sequential actions (e.g., sit, beg, treat), but these are not always simple sequences. When Silver was a pup, I was attempting to train him not to sit on the furniture. Silver understood the sequence: I would let him in, he would walk into the living room and jump up on the couch. I would try to shame him by saying in a loud voice, "No, Silver. Bad dog!" while grasping his collar and pulling him onto the carpet. He repeated the sequence, but I became more watchful and blocked most of his attempts.

Too smart to continue in this way, Silver eventually combined his efforts with another sequence he had learned: the alarm bark sequence. Ever since he had caught his paw in some loose decking, Silver knew that I would come running if he sounded the alarm bark. One day Silver was outside and sounded the alarm. As he anticipated, I came running. This time, however, when I came outside he was not in sight. I had to go around the corner of the house where he was waiting. As soon as I was there, he side-stepped me, flew onto the deck, pushed open the door, ran into the house and jumped on the couch.

This sequence involved complex thinking beyond mere sequence. Silver had created a plot. He knew that I might be able (for a few more months at any rate) to run interference between him and  his couch. He also knew that he even if I saw through his ruse de guerre, I would never outrun him. He looked so pleased with himself I just let his stay there.

To some degree, fiction is the arrangement of sequences, which Silver demonstrated he understood. Further, by inventing a strategy to beat me at my own game, Silver had lied to me in his actions -- and what is fiction but a kind of lie? He also showed that he understood character --mine -- and introduced the critical ingredients of emotion and motivation -- his.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Little Match Girl Redux

 In 1845, Danish writer Hans Christian Anderson wrote a tearjerker called "The Little Match Girl," which tells of a poor child who must brave a freezing New Year's Eve selling matches to passersby and bring the money home to her abusive father. In the course of the evening, she lights each match for a little warmth and in their fleeting light visions of her deceased grandmother reveal scenes of beauty and hope. In the morning, the girl is found frozen dead.

For some reason, this little tragedy is a holiday favorite. Maybe it's the combination of snow, a child protagonist, and the opportunity for parents to share an "it could be worse" story. I have a feeling it will be especially popular this year. Hard times on Main Street almost guaranty it. After all, almost 21% of all children in the US live in families with incomes below the federal poverty level – $22,050 a year for a family of four. When you consider, however, that a family four actually needs an income of twice that much to meet basic expenses, about 42% can be considered low income.

And now it's the holidays, a time that should at the very least provide a small island of happiness in a sea of hard times. Not even close for many -- especially those who have been counting on a continuation of the payroll tax cut to afford a celebration.

Politics has me riled more than usual and it's difficult to write when I keep growling. Remember 2008 when the distress over a tottering Wall Street sent John McCain tearing off the campaign trail to vote for the bail out? Whether or not this action was necessary to recovery is debatable, but the recipient of this unprecedented largess is not. Today, politicians in Washington seem to have had so little experience in cooperation that they can't figure out how to pass legislation that they all seem to support. Why this prolonged bickering and reluctance to act? Is it because the beneficiaries of this tiny gesture are middle class workers and their families rather than Wall Street moguls?

I suspect the continuation of the payroll tax cut will pass before long -- perhaps in the next few hours it seems. We're coming up on an election year after all. But one little band aid does not a tourniquet make. Happiness is draining away in a land when families become poorer, hope becomes more faint and some political bullies are even suggesting that child labor laws are "stupid."

Many historians say the Victorians invented childhood as we know it, evidenced by the stories of Anderson, Burnett, and others. But will it emerge intact from the greed and shortsightedness of our era? Or like many other treats, will it only survive for the elite?

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Here in the Stag-Nation

This is just the dining room!
I have been trying to put my books into some semblance of order which always leads to trouble. However, all it takes is coming across one book I've been meaning to look at again, and off I go into another more engaging task. Mind you, we have been thinking about putting the books in order (and attempting to do so in a desultory manner) for the entire fifteen years we've lived in this house, but nothing ever comes of it. I have actually dusted them, sometimes with help, three or four times.

This time, the culprit book was Wickedary (A.K.A. Websters' First New Intergalactic Wickedary of the English Language Conjured by Mary Daly in cahoots with Jane Caputi). This strange volume establishes once and for all that feminists -- even radical militant feminists -- do have a sense of humor. It also demonstrates that feminism is rooted in a way of thinking that suggests rather than prescribes behavior.

Wickedary, as the title suggests, is largely devoted to words (new, old, invented and deconstructed) and demonstrates their power to (re)form our thinking and (re)define self. Here are a few examples:

crabby adj : having the characteristics of a crab--active, pugnacious, tenacious, Self-sufficient, able to move in all directions. Example: Susan B. Anthony

goad-god n : the divine role model for the little goadfathers who goad, prick, spur, prod, and bore all natural creatures within their reach

methodolotry n : a common form of  academic idolatry: Glorification of the god Method; boxing of  knowledge into prefabricated fields, thereby hiding threads of connectedness, hindering New discoveries, preventing the raising of New questions, erasing answers that do not fit into Respectable Categories of Questions and Answers

phallocracy n rule by Godfather, Son and Company

stagnation n : 1 :  the eternally atrophied "Afterlife" of the Happy Dead Ones. 2 : nation governed by stag parties; the perpetually stagnant state
I love paging through this book and still being almost shocked by some of the entries, recognizing how many ideas have come closer to being held and honored by progressive mainstream thinkers (male and female), and being dazzled by Daly and Caputi's verbal cosmology. However, reading through Wickedary at the same time politicians are bullying their way through the airwaves is disconcerting. This is a book most of them would gladly burn, deeming it dangerous, evil, and destructive -- judgments that would surely provoke a hoot from its authors.

My problem with politicians is not so much that I disagree with them --  although I generally do -- but the degree to which they appear to resist real change and focus instead on solutions drawn from popular false dilemmas. We can either raise taxes or create jobs. We can attack Iran or invite destruction. Education can only be improved by raising standards or more testing. Like Methodolotrists politicians seem only arrive at solutions that sift  into prefabricated fields, thereby raveling the threads of connectedness, ensuring a return to old patterns of failure, turning a blind eye to painful realities, fleeing solutions that do not fit into Respectable Categories of How We Have Always Done Things here in the great Stagnation.

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Mouse Parties and Tiaras : Language and Love

My husband, Jose, is Brazilian. He is well-educated, a brilliant engineer and inventor, and kind to animals, but I think I fell in love with him because of his charming way of speaking English. After our first date, for example, he sent me an email that said, 
"I want to apologize for being so impatient to hold you. I should have conversed more, so I could explore your curious mind. But I was too anxious, like a dog with a cracker!" 
The image is overwhelming. Who could resist that? Not I! 
Another time I was speculating about what I might do when I got profit-sharing from the company I worked for at the time. He said, "Better be careful, sweetie-pie. Do not count with the egg in the ass of the chicken." How could you not treasure that up in your heart?

In the early days of our marriage, Jose travelled a lot and was often gone for weeks at a time as he bounced from Munich to Singapore to Maryland. One time when he was out of town he called when my friends Jan and Jenny were over. 
"What is this noise? " he asked.  "A mouse party?"  
I asked him what he meant.
"When the cat's away, the mouse will have a party."
Don't you love translation? 
The interesting thing about language is that it so often creates our reality. Ever since, anytime we three convened it was a mouse party. What had been just friends getting together for the evening became an exclusive club. Jenny bought us tiaras and we wore them as we drank champagne, made "visioning" collages, and watched chick flicks. At this time of year we'd always watch "Love Actually" again. The film starts with a memorable voice over from Hugh Grant who plays England's Prime Minister:
Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around.
Love springs from the strangest places -- English passed through Portuguese,  friends embraced princesshood, death reminded us that our job on this earth is not survival. Jenny and I and many others lost our friend Jan last night.  Jan was the sweetest and least demanding of souls, but also sassy and wise and brave. Brave enough to wear a tiara, speak the truth and travel the cancer road without becoming a victim. Even as the end came rushing toward her, we could raise a sparkle in her eyes and see the place our love for her sprang from.

Jan never wanted a fuss made over her, so there will be no funeral, just a gathering of friends in a few days. Jenny and I will drive together from my house. And we will be wearing tiaras.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

The Versatile Blogger Award

How nice is this? Fellow blogger and writer extraordinaire, J.D. Mader, has made me a recipient of the very distinguished Versatile Blogger Award. For a very good read, check his blog, Avoiding the Stairs. I can only say that I am humbled and would like to dedicate my award to Newt Gingerich, in hopes that he will pass along his lead in the Republican race to another more worthy than he (but still beatable) -- as I am doing in  accordance with the rules of this reward.

Yes, there are rules.

1. Thank the blogger who honored you and be sure to link to his or her blog, as I have above. Thank you, J.D. You are a gem.
2. Share seven things about yourself.
3. Pass the award on to five deserving bloggers.

So seven things... I am advised these ought to be witty, but will hope readers will settle for succinct.

1. I am currently reading Catherine the Great: Portrait of a Woman by Robert K. Massie. Next on the bedside table is Death Comes to Pemberley by P.D. James.
2. My favorite line from a movie: "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"
3. It took me nine years to get a B.A. because I kept changing my major (classical studies, French, drama, folklore, English). 
4. I love opera. When I was twelve I sneaked backstage and got Joan Sutherland's autograph.
5. I also love Willie Nelson. He hugged me once in Augusta, Maine.
6. I believe in reincarnation.
7. Last time, I didn't.

And now, the next recipients of the Versatile Blogger Award are:
Helen Heubi  
Bill Woolum
Tish Jett
Tom Kepler
Peter Pappas 

So, newly honored writers, enjoy your moment in the sun. Speak only the truth. Go forth and enlighten.

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Are we the roots that drive us?

In his most recent film, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, Werner Herzog explores and reflects on the oldest human artistic expression known, the 32,000 year old paintings in Chauvet Cave in France. Herzog's journey, highly restricted and specially authorized, takes us where we'll never be allowed.

The cave's treasures are not only highly sensitive to whatever bacteria and moisture that might accompany visitors, but the interior is choked with an invisible and poisonous combination of radon and carbon dioxide. No one can stay longer than three hours. Despite limitations on the number in  party (Herzog himself had to form part of the crew) and the relatively short time devoted to the shoot, the film is remarkable. Although a steel door guards the entrance to the cave and the fragile world inside, we are allowed   to touch minds with our ancestral past.

Filmed in 3D -- a first for Herzog -- we see the scattered jaws of cave bears and sabre-toothed cats lit by sparkling stalactites, and the grand  murals of strangely docile, even smiling, rhinos, lions and horses.

The depiction of these sweet-faced creatures speaks to our ancestors' relationship with the world. They devoted the cave, a space approximately the size of a football field, to images of predators and and prey. In fact, there is only one human image in the whole gallery: almost hidden, deep in the back is the mother goddess from whom all bounty flows.

Almost more remarkable is that this enormous cave was never inhabited. It was a place  of ceremony or inspiration perhaps, but never an abode. Probably the most prominent, valuable natural asset of these people was the dominion of artists who clearly held a place of high honor in the community.

Imagine for a moment: if the most honored in our society were to create images that described our relationship with the world,. what would we see? I have my own ideas as you will have yours. But as you imagine, consider as I do the question: has evolution only been physical? Will we ever, as a society, equal those who came before us?

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Pomegranate: Fruit for a Dark Season

Winter, if judged by temperature, came to Oregon about two weeks early this year. In the garden, everything stopped. The jays, generally willing to share the peanuts I set out for them, have become increasingly belligerent. The warning pangs of arthritis sing me awake in the morning. There is a saving grace, however, and I don't mean the upcoming holidays. This is the only time of year I can buy pomegranates.

I love the taste. I even love the difficulty of getting to the fruit, mining the seeds like garnets. (It should be difficult to reach the payload. After all, mythology warns us that a mere six pomegranate seeds sentenced Persephone to her annual six months in Hell.) But there is much more. I love the rounded weight in my hand, the tough red rind (which yields more than double the antioxidants of the fruit), and the hat-like peak of the flower end. Inside, the seed arrangements are so complex that any angle you slice reveals a different pattern, from star to Rorschach.

I am obsessed, but so have many others been. The pomegranate appears both in Homer's works and the book of Exodus. As one of the seven species of fruit that blessed the land of Israel, it is a symbol of abundance and new beginnings, and the motif  brightens Judaic art.

Pomegranates embroidered on a tallit

Pomegranates flank an inscription from the Song of Solomon
Look anywhere in the art of the Middle East, the Mediterranean or countries that benefited from their trade routes, and you with find evidence of the pomegranate's importance in civilization's shared consciousness.

  Madonna of the Pomegranate by  Botticelli, 1487

Persian "Pomegranate Orchard" carpet

Coronation of Henry VIII  and Catherine of Aragon  under the Tudor rose and a pomegranate

And who could be surprised that Salvador Dali produced his 1944 work, One Second Before Awakening from a Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate?

I can imagine Dali at his easel, the juice of a pomegranate dripping from the tips of his grand moustache, his mind joined with the ancient fruit and all its odd associations. Fertility, danger, beauty beneath a harsh surface.The opulent weds the impossible.

On the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, my engineer husband indulges one Brazilian superstition: we must  have pomegranates in the house.We each take six seeds, bite the fruit pulp from them, and place the tissue-wrapped seeds in our wallets to ensure prosperity in the year to come. It's  everyday magic--and the mythic promise that the months of cold, damp Hell will give way to spring. In the meantime I'll eat pomegranates.

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

What's in a name?

The last time I wrote here about my composing process, an unplanned character had just sauntered onto the page of my new book and addressed the protagonist, Liz Venables, as "monkey girl."  As of that writing, I didn't know who this was, what he or she was doing in the novel or what was going to become of the story I thought I was going to write. According to my synopsis, The Ghost Doll was supposed to be a much darker book than Fool's Journey, but here comes this clownish character changing the sultry tone of Chapter 1.

Many writers admit that their plot has been interrupted by the entrance of a new character. Often, too, the characters reveal their names. I've ended up with some odd names for characters --Hippolyta, for example-- and if you don't let them have their own way, they will fight you throughout the novel. This new interloper in The Ghost Doll says his name is Oscar. Fine, but not just Oscar: his name is Oscar Maier. Accepting though I might be of auto-creationism in fiction, I could only shudder. Sure, the surname was spelled differently than the commercial product, but a character named Oscar Maier is necessarily a weenie.  And why would there be a weenie in my lovely, dark ghost story? Unless the story had changed itself when I wasn't looking. It wanted a little humor perhaps? It didn't want to take itself so seriously.

In a way it was a relief. Spending the next year or so writing a dark book didn't sound like much fun -- and clearly the book agreed. Once I let Oscar into the story, it flowed. better. Suddenly there was banter instead of all that tedious introspection. I discovered that Oscar  was Liz Venables' half-brother. Admittedly, he a weenie, but good-natured, not too bright, dangerously inept, generous, spacy and gay. Liz needed someone like Oscar in her life to keep her spirits up  in order to confront everything I plan to send her way.

Many writers attest to experiencing this phenomenon, this point when the manuscript assumes a life of its own. Perhaps it explains how Shakespeare came up with Romeo Montague -- a Scotsman in Verona?
 Och! Whit leam kithen thro' yonder windae? (But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?)
It's a good sign, though. When writers have to chase after characters, it must mean their books are alive, and their stories are playing out almost independent of governing hands. Weenie or not, Oscar tells me I've tapped into the source and I'd better stand back and let it flow. Knowing that writer may have little more control over the story than the reader keeps me humble, and reminds me to honor the Muse, whatever she may send my way.

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Inadequacy by Design

The most recent picture of our grand-daughter, Beatriz, shows me a little girl who does not want to go to school. I don't blame her. I didn't much want to go to school myself. I skipped school a lot when I was growing up, right up to the 15 day per term limit. I even skipped so much kindergarten that the teacher, a friend of my mother's, suggested I wasn't ready for school. (In my family, this is referred to as "when Mary flunked kindergarten.") There were a lot of reasons to dislike school -- algebra, jocks, assemblies -- but most of all it was the mind-numbing dullness of the whole institution.

The tedium of schools is ironic. Enter "engage students" into Google, and you'll get about 25 million hits. Everyone wants students to be engaged so they will in turn learn their skills, be able to locate and apply information, and think critically about the world they live in. What's more, we have learned a great deal about teaching and learning. Numerous teaching approaches and strategies actually do engage students and support critical thinking.The problem is that schools weren't designed to encourage thinking to begin with. Here's a little history:

In 1892, the Democratic Party adopted a platform plank to ban factory employment for children under 15. This was the same year that Ellis Island opened in response to staggeringly high numbers of immigrants. The question was, if all these immigrant children are coming and we can't put most of them in factories, what do we do with them? The answer was, "Get them ready to be good factory employees." Have you never wondered about the school system's obsession with punctuality? School bell or factory bell, we want students to be on time. What about following instructions? Waiting to be called on? Sound like good training for a factory worker? It's no accident. By 1892, they were reading the handwriting on the blackboard.

1892 was also the year the Committee of Ten, chaired by Harvard's president Charles William Eliot, was formed to standardize the curriculum of high schools in preparation for the onslaught of  immigrant children. Eliot argued that the purpose of education was to prepare students for their “evident and probable destinies in life.” Children of factory workers should be educated as if that were their destiny. Children of more elevated parents, typically enrolled in private academies or studying under a tutor rather than attending public schools, would continue to be educated for a variety of possibilities.

Although the demographics have changed, schools are much the same as they were in the 19th century, despite access to iPads and the Internet. The most recent major legislation affecting schools was No Child Left Behind, and its effects were just as insidious as those of the Committee of Ten. Whatever its intentions, the effect of NCLB was to honor standardized testing above any other measure of success -- which meant that teachers were focusing on regurgitation rather than thinking. Further, NCLB didn't seek excellence. Rather, the goal for each school was adequate yearly progress. Adequate!

In whose interest is this subtle campaign against thought? I would guess the same as it was in 1892. The factory owners of yesterday are the 1% of today. A thinking populace is not in the best interests of those who would maintain their elite status. Those who think are inclined to protest. Those in power attempt to put them in their places. As Carl Gibson notes in a recent article, "The recent Black Friday mobs of consumers pitching tents in parking lots and rioting over $2 waffle irons were met with silence from the police." Yet pitching tents on public property and protesting peacefully merit pepper spray and billy clubs. The difference? One group showed up punctually to follow a marketing campaign's instructions. The other group? It was just saying No.

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Of sage and saging

Today is Thanksgiving, here in the U.S., a day we give thanks for the bounty in our lives. More cynically, it commemorates our early congress with Native Americans: they gave us corn and we gave them smallpox. It is one of the better holidays we celebrate here and in my memory it always starts with waking up to the smell of sage.

Our mother made the best  dressing in the world. It was buttery, dotted with onions chopped infinitesimally small so that none of us kids would recognize and reject them, celery, and enough sage folded into the hand-torn torn bread (no cubes for us) to make us remember it all year. One of the best things was testing for sage. As mom was putting it all together in the big black skillet, she'd would call us into the kitchen -- there were six of us kids -- and ask, "Does this have enough sage?" We'd each get to try a bite. I always told her "no" so I could have another taste after she added more, and I suspect my siblings did as well. And then we'd watch as she stuffed the big gruesome bird and staggered with it to the oven.

Later when we had our own homes the recipe began to change. Suzy added mushrooms and walnuts. I adopted her changes but added bulk sausage which introduced even more sage. Pete even made a stuffing with feta cheese one time. Nancy, more of a family purist, would say, "Please just make it the way mom did!"

As I've wandered in and out of various spiritual journeys, I've  adopted other ways to use sage, especially in cleansing ceremonies. I'm not sure what the reaction between negative energies and burning sage is, but I know it makes me feel safer and closer to the times when humans first threw dry leaves onto their fires and discovered their sweet and bitter aromatics. One friend tells me that the burning of sage helps us wash off the world before we enter sacred space.

Today when you are making dinner, sprinkle a little sage on the burner, for what is Thanksgiving but a sacred space in the year, a time we celebrate what and who we have? I'll be remembering my childhood today and be thankful that memory is so tenacious that I can clearly see the parents and sisters I've lost, and the brothers and sister I still have. We think we only remember in words and pictures, but there is a primal connection between whiffs of smell and episodic memory. Today in  my kitchen, I'll be breathing deep into the jar of sage and sprinkling some on the burner to summon the memories I cherish and keep at bay whatever was not love.

Please consider supporting this blog by clicking on a sponsor ad.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Characters Behaving Badly

“The Well of Lost Plots is where vague ideas ferment into sketchy plans. This is the Notion Nursery: The Word Womb. Go down there and you’ll see plot outlines coalescing on the shelves like so many primordial life forms. The spirits of roughly sketched characters flit about the corridors in search of plot and dialogue before they are woven into the story. If they get lucky, the book finds a publisher and rises into the Great Library above.” from Lost in a Good Book, by Jasper Fforde.

Last week. You will recall, I was re-reading The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde. When I finished, I couldn’t help myself and picked up its sequel, Lost in a Good Book. In this volume, Thursday Next is moonlighting as a Jurisfiction operative, policing crimes which take place within books. Not crimes like murder or theft, mind you. As apprentice to the intrepid Miss Havisham on occasional leave from Great Expectations, Thursday faces such duties as preventing minor characters, bored with their roles, from book-hopping without the proper permissions.  In the world of Jurisfiction, books and their characters have little to do with their authors, who seem almost incidental. 

This is how I feel when I’m writing. The characters are stubborn at best and out of control at their very worst. They don’t seem to care what direction I think I’m going; they just do what they please. Unless you write fiction, you have no idea how disconcerting this can be.

I didn’t experience this phenomenon until my second book, High Spirits at Harroweby. My protagonist, Selinda Harroweby (who was to have been modeled on William Congreve’s poem about “Pious Selinda”) has just fled to her chamber in a temper when there is a tap at her door. I hadn’t planned this, but thought perhaps the entry of a trusted servant would be a good opportunity to reveal back story. Instead, in walks a little girl in a nightcap. I had no idea who she was as first, but I soon learned that she was Selinda’s little sister, Lucy – and she had to be worked into the plot.

This happens to writers all the time:

It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does.
-          William Faulkner
One of my standard -- and fairly true -- responses to the question as to how story ideas come to me is that story ideas only come to me for short stories. With longer fiction, it is a character (or characters) coming to visit, and I am then obliged to collaborate with him/her/it/them in creating the story.
- Roger Zelazny
On my one and only longish story my characters surprised me several times by explaining to me in words of one syllable how they should behave and what their back story was. It surprised me at the time. I suspect it's universal.
  - Geoff (from a post on a website for transgender writers)
It’s good to know I’m not alone, because it happened again this week. I am working on another mystery, The Ghost Doll. My protagonist, Liz Venables, is a sculptor. In the opening scene, she is working on a new piece for an installation. She is hanging upside from an overhead pipe and wielding a blowtorch to reshape some wire mesh. This sort of thing is hard enough to describe without stretching the reader’s credulity to the snapping point, but all of a sudden in walks someone – man or woman I’m not sure – who greets Liz, “Hey there, monkey girl?” Some character I haven’t planned for has just walked into the novel. Friend? Sibling? Soon to be ex?  No one else spouts that kind of talk.

I certainly have to stop and re-think now. S/he’s here for a reason and will just have to continue the scene to find out what I need to do to the plot. Like Thursday Next, I am stuck in the Well of Lost Plots. Chapter I is going to take a lot longer than I thought!

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Grammar makes liars of us all

When people find out that I write fiction, they often ask where I get my ideas,  how I come up with characters, where I get their names, how I found an agent, etc. I always answer, but the odds are I'm lying.

Deirdre of the Sorrows
Here's what I mean. The main character in The Fool's Journey is named Deirdre Kildeer.  I loved the name Deirdre when I was a romantic adolescent and, because the character Deirdre changed her identity when she was young, I reasoned that a girl with poetic tendencies like my own might choose a name associated with myth and tragedy. (I also liked the name "Antigone," but it doesn't look as good on the page.) Deirdre's surname began as Kildare. She is also a university professor and I realized that students might address her as Dr. Kildare -- which raised specters of Richard Chamberlain in his 1960s series of the same name. Alike in sound, "Kildeer"  popped into my head, perhaps because my friend Meg is from Kildeer, North Dakota. This worked well because Kill+deer (dear)  added  psychological symbolism into Deirdre's choice of name.

This explanation is sheer invention. Very little of my character-naming process was a matter of decision. As I wrote, synapses fired and connected and I went with them. That is what we call inspiration, or creativity or the Muse. It became fiction when I superimposed the sequence and grammar necessary for explaining how I came up with the name.

Inventive thought is interior, full of words and images. We make sense of the mental melange and are able to communicate it only when we add structure. The explanation above contains elements that are true, but are only one version of what happened in my brain when I was writing. To me, the interesting thing is that ideas will never come to anything unless you translate them -- in jotted notes, word maps, outlines, conversation -- by adding some kind of grammar.  If we didn't need to tell anyone anything we wouldn't need grammar. Interior thought would be sufficient. James Britton, who called this inventive phenomenon "shaping at the point of utterance," encouraged teachers to allow and support the inventiveness that arises out of articulating semi-formed ideas in both numerous drafts and in conversations about them; this, as opposed to lock-step manner of "first draft-only draft-done" so many of us suffered in our schooling. I might also add, that if we must teach formal grammar, a focus on how its structural components help us communicate would not go amiss.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

At last -- freedom from hierarchy

In the 1980's, scholar James Burke created a show for PBS called Connections. In the course of each episode, he would demonstrate the interconnectedness of cultural and scientific evolution, noting that "there is always a connection but, if the link has never been made before, nobody knows it's there." Through a circuitous examination of ideas, Burke would reveal such connections as the use of cobalt in dyeing Ming vases to its importance in the manufacture of computer chips.

 Popularizing this kind of thinking has led to numerous insights about the importance of personal idiosyncrasy and historic serendipity in the analysis of technological progress, but it is also illuminating to see how the development of ideas in education can also be a matter of chance--or even destiny. Let's try it, and I promise that I will arrive at something thought-y.

Two years before Abraham Lincoln's 1863 Emancipation Proclamation, Tsar Alexander II of Russia issued a Declaration of Emancipation for his feudalistic empire's serfs, bonded laborers whose crown-enforced duty was to work for landed nobility in exchange for protection. The entry of an entirely illiterate population into society was fraught with problems, many of which were analyzed in essays written by novelist Leo Tolstoy. In these essays, Tolstoy laments the inability of former serfs to understand why written stories hold more value in society than those circulated in oral tradition, and speculates on ways in which education might help move the children of serfs forward into a more enlightened mindset.

Fast forward sixty odd years to young Russian cognitive psychologist Lev Vygotsky, who reads Tolstoy's essays and uses them to round out his own ideas on literacy acquisition. About the same time, American educator John Dewey visits Russia, meets Vygotsky and they discuss the ideas of the Pragmatic Movement. As a result of this conversation, some have suggested, Vygotsky began to articulate his ideas about the Zone of Proximal Development and scaffolding in terms that were less speculative and more concrete.

So, as Robert Frost reminds us, “way leads onto way”. It’s interesting to me that the way events unfold is similar to how the brain works: interconnected pathways of information snap and fire, allowing new insights, raising new fears and enabling new ways of thinking.  I love the lack of hierarchy both in Burke’s view of history and in cognitive function. We think we need hierarchy, but it’s really just there to help us categorize and explain. Nothing really happens that way. Life is a whole lot more like a collage than an outline. How liberating!

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

The Silly Putty of Memory: Neuroplasticity

About three years ago, my husband Jose took a spill down the basement stairs which resulted in a traumatic brain injury.  It was terrifying and fascinating. After several generally non-responsive days in the hospital, they advised that I put him in an adult care home. I knew there was no future there and took him home to heal.  He started to improve within days, but we ended up going through six weeks of amnesia together.

Jose remembered his languages and could respond to questions in English, Portuguese, Spanish and French, but everything else was slow: how to move around, talk, think. A native Brazilian, Jose had been in the States for about twelve years at that time,  but he didn't remember it. As he began to talk more, I learned that he thought he was in Sao Paulo. He was angry that I wouldn't drive him to his home in Rio. He knew the dogs (of course) and he knew that he should know me, but it took a long time before he began to put all the pieces together. Slowly, his life took shape again. He's fine now, except for a diminished sense of smell.

I've been reading about the brain ever since. I highly recommend The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph From the Frontiers of Brain Science, by Norman Doidge. The author recounts remarkable stories of people who have overcome enormous physical and mental disabilities through the emerging science of neuroplasticity. There's the woman who, after an injury to her inner ear's vestibular system, feels herself in a perpetual free-fall, unable to walk or perform any task which requires a sense of balance, a stroke victim deprived of the use of his right arm, even an amputee suffering from phantom limb pain. Through the efforts of pioneers in emerging brain-mind science and the experiential exercises they devised, all were able right themselves.

Doidge goes even further, though, as he demonstrates that our thoughts can change the structure and function of the brain and its limitations. In education as in other fields, we've learned that the brain is essentially unchangeable. We've generally been encouraged to help students - especially the learning disabled - to find strategies that leverage their existing abilities rather than changing the brain itself. Part of the problem, he argues, arises out of the common metaphor which compares the brain to a machine, and prompts us to use such terms as "hard-wired" and liken synapses to permanently connected circuits.

In the book's preface, he states:
[Neuroplasticians] showed that children are not always stuck with the mental abilities they are born with... In the course of my travels I met a scientist who enabled people who had been blind since birth to begin to see, another who enabled the deaf to hear; I spoke with people who had had strokes decades before and had been declared incurable, who were helped to recover with neuroplastic treatments; I met people whose learning disorders were cured and whose IQs were raised; I saw evidence that it is possible for eighty-year-olds to sharpen their memories to function the way they did when they were fifty-five.

I know what you're thinking, but Norman Doidge is not just some neuro-scientific version of Shirley MacLaine. He is on the Research Faculty at Columbia University's Center for Psychoanalytic Training and Research, in New York, and the University of Toronto's Department of Psychiatry. The scientists whose work he explores are leaders in their fields, often Nobel laureates.

I find Doidge's book enormously liberating for myself (perhaps I am not stuck with my mental short-comings) and for the field of education. Finding that the brain changes physiologically as a result of experience makes me even more committed to such approaches as project based learning, but it also prompts concern that we are not exploring the possibilities and implications of experiential learning to the extent we should. Are we limiting efforts by focusing primarily on content standards? Are we ignoring the standards of the mind?

Monday, November 14, 2011

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

I am in word mode today. This happens occasionally when I come across a word I love and it leaps from the page begging for me to use it in a sentence. Today, it's gnosticism. Gothic to look at, difficult to spell and define. We all know (or at least use freely as if we did) agnosticism -- some sort of socially acceptable form of atheism  --  but what, pray tell, is a gnost? It doesn't sound good or look good, if you come from the gut-level response school of etymology. However, sounds and appearances are sometimes deceiving. (Enervate, for example, sounds like it should mean "stimulate." Doesn't, though. Just look it up.)

The root gnos derives from the Greek to know. This is actually where the English word know comes from, but for fun, we changed the the g to an k, though we retain it in prognosticate, ignorance and diagnose.  OK. But gnostic? Gnosticism? The ic and  ism of knowing? That seems a little all-encompassing --- and it should: Gnosticism seems to be not just knowing, but beyond knowing: the essential, the essence, the esoteric nature of spirit and spirituality. Gnosticism, in many of its incarnations, rejects the material world and in some cases, most notably A Course in Miracles, suggests that the material world and all of our supposed experiences are the soul's nightmare. Pain, greed and evil didn't arise out of sin -- we made them ourselves out of fear. The Course, its followers claim, is the word of a disappointed Jesus revealed to a pair of transcribing physicians at Columbia University.

Gnosticism isn't new. We can find traces of it all the way back to Zoroastrianism. Interestingly, for a term that seems -- to me at least -- quite innocent, gnosticism has a lot of detractors. It even has its own heresies led by "false teachers." Christians as far back as St. Paul are spooked by it ("knowledge falsely so-called" in 1 Timothy 6:20). You have to ask, what is so scary about gnosticism, this intuitive understanding of spirituality? Too much independent thinking outside the Book? Not enough rules? No support for Bingo nights or collection plates? It's certainly tempting to think so.

So, gnosticism. My word of the day. Maybe next time we'll do silhouette. I love how it's spelled, the little whisper of h, how it looks on the page, how ...

Saturday, November 12, 2011

The Dangerous World of English Literature


In preparation for starting another book, I've decided to indulge myself re-reading some of my favorites. I started last night with The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde: surrealism at its most entertaining. The story takes place in an alternate England of the mid-1980s where literature is the obsession that drives a nation. Protagonist Thursday Next, a literatec (literary detective), is hot on the trail of arch-villain Acheron Hades who has wickedly stolen Jane Eyre right out of her novel! This is a world where Shakespearean and Marlovian adherents duke it out on street corners, manuscripts are held hostage and family pets are more than likely genetically re-engineered dodos named Pickwick. In the world of The Eyre Affair, people live -- and are shot dead -- for literature.

I adore almost everything about Jane Eyre (except for some of the movies based on it, especially the most recent!) and the Brontës (except for that poor excuse, Branwell). My first dose came with the Classics Illustrated comic version (these may have been early versions of Cliff's Notes) belonging to one of my older sisters. Why should it have been so thrilling? Is it a testament to Charlotte's genius that I could be mesmerized by a mere outline of the story and some really, really bad art? What other explanation is there for my living and breathing Jane Eyre and being terrified at the notion of any attic until I was well through my adolescence -- this despite the fact that I actually never read the book until the summer I was fifteen. Or is this phenomenon merely predictive of one's becoming an English lit major and talking funny the rest of her life? (Some people claim they can actually hear my semicolons!)

I don't know for sure, but my fixation with Jane and her various dilemmas and odd quirks cannot possibly have been good for me. My teens were not normal: I lived in a different century. I my big crush was a fictional hero. I studied the speech and manners of all the characters until I could have passed for one of them.  This obsession (along with its counterpart, Pride and Prejudice) served me well in later years as a writer of historical romance, but I know my classmates at Kellogg High thought I was downright weird. They were right. Later, when I finally had my first literature classroom and introduced my 11th graders to Jane Eyre, they proved undeserving of the honor: they mocked the dialogue, questioned the period's moral scruples and called the work Jane Air-Head. I decided then -- and stuck to it for almost a year -- to never teach anything I cared about.

In the years to come and thanks to numerous mentors (thank you, Don Graves and Jane Hansen), it became clear that every student needed the freedom to follow their own obsessions in their reading and writing choices and learn what they could from them. I found out I couldn't make them care about what I loved. I could only create environments where it was all right to care about just about anything. That insight saved my teaching and possibly my students.