Fadwa Tuqan's Song of Becoming is a poem about growing up and morphing to become legends of time. Gone are the days of childhood naivety and careful laughters.
Gone also are the youthful dreams for slowly they are coming true. Time passes almost unnoticeably for the children have finally grown in life.
When they became of age to the time when they are already the ones who build s nation, their voices became those who "reject, that knock down, and build anew". It is now their time to carry on the cry of their forefathers against those who limit their freedom.
The song of Becoming reflects the cycle of life for after the children have grown and experienced the prime of their life, they now face its polarity which is death. They were once young, they were once adults. Now they are history, a thing of the past who lives on to become legends of time.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Guests on the Sea
Like a nomad who do not have a place of their own, Mahmoud Darwish's Guests on the Sea depicts the cry of the Palestinian people about a homeland who was never theirs. It is a poem carrying their sentiments and hopes about a land taken away from them and a part of them who went away with it also.
The images of "pomegranates" and the "glue of memory" evoke a feeling that they never were a part of something and that they thought that they were castaways in the country of their ancestors . That is why the journey implied in the story is the voyage of the Palestinian people to make their land the rightful place for which they can rear their children and remember their forefathers.
They have become guests on sea- floating and drifting here and to. Once, the sea carried their hope that they will return to their promised land but as miserable as it was for them, their short visit has grown long and the sea kept them from nearing the shore. Sea, do not give us the song we do not deserve- a phrase where they are reminded of the sad distant song heard from the country which they want to call their own. These are the words of a people who are tired of the uncertainties and illusions of having their nation back to be their rightful place and home.
The images of "pomegranates" and the "glue of memory" evoke a feeling that they never were a part of something and that they thought that they were castaways in the country of their ancestors . That is why the journey implied in the story is the voyage of the Palestinian people to make their land the rightful place for which they can rear their children and remember their forefathers.
They have become guests on sea- floating and drifting here and to. Once, the sea carried their hope that they will return to their promised land but as miserable as it was for them, their short visit has grown long and the sea kept them from nearing the shore. Sea, do not give us the song we do not deserve- a phrase where they are reminded of the sad distant song heard from the country which they want to call their own. These are the words of a people who are tired of the uncertainties and illusions of having their nation back to be their rightful place and home.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The Tyger and The lamb
There's really not much that I could say that has not been discussed in class yet I feel the necessity to put my learnings into writing and I hope that in so doing expand my realizations of the poems.
Upon reading the title of the Lamb, I thought that the whole poem was about a description of a lamb or a personification of some sort. Still later, I thought that it was talking about the "Lamb of God", a very spiritual reflection of a person inspired by a lamb and a shepherd. At first, it seems to me that the poem is very mystified but reading a poem over and over again opens avenues for a better understanding of it, so now I come to my most recent understanding of William Blake's The Lamb.
Detaching myself from my former notions of The Lamb, I think that the poem is about an offering of a vulnerable lamb, untainted of its purity and innocence. As I hear in mind its "tender voice" that makes all the "vales rejoice", I think of an unknowing prey that is being targeted by a predator- which brings me to another of Blake's poems The Tyger.
The Tyger for me represents fury and fierceness- like that of a predator always ready to strike its prey. The prey, in this case may be the lamb. It is interesting to note that these two poems contrast each other so that to create a totality of effect, they must not be understood in isolation of the other.
The Tyger and The Lamb signifies the polarities that make up the whole world and even the human psyche.It is in the existence of one that the other finds its meaning as it also holds true that we cannot understand the other fully if the other is not fully understood. It is in the greatness of the Creator who made the opposites not to negate each other but to create harmony out of this seemingly contradicting world.
Upon reading the title of the Lamb, I thought that the whole poem was about a description of a lamb or a personification of some sort. Still later, I thought that it was talking about the "Lamb of God", a very spiritual reflection of a person inspired by a lamb and a shepherd. At first, it seems to me that the poem is very mystified but reading a poem over and over again opens avenues for a better understanding of it, so now I come to my most recent understanding of William Blake's The Lamb.
Detaching myself from my former notions of The Lamb, I think that the poem is about an offering of a vulnerable lamb, untainted of its purity and innocence. As I hear in mind its "tender voice" that makes all the "vales rejoice", I think of an unknowing prey that is being targeted by a predator- which brings me to another of Blake's poems The Tyger.
The Tyger for me represents fury and fierceness- like that of a predator always ready to strike its prey. The prey, in this case may be the lamb. It is interesting to note that these two poems contrast each other so that to create a totality of effect, they must not be understood in isolation of the other.
The Tyger and The Lamb signifies the polarities that make up the whole world and even the human psyche.It is in the existence of one that the other finds its meaning as it also holds true that we cannot understand the other fully if the other is not fully understood. It is in the greatness of the Creator who made the opposites not to negate each other but to create harmony out of this seemingly contradicting world.
Audre Lord's Hanging Fire
Bluntly speaking, I have had a hard time figuring this poem out especially because of the lack of commas and the abrupt shifts of thinking by the speaker. Remarkably enough, it taught me patience and to never give up upon something which initially doesn't make sense.
The poem Hanging Fire is about an adolescent who is confused of the world and of herself. She has so many things in her mind but "nobody even stops to think about (her) side of it". Added to the confusion is that of her being black and female which really affected her self-image. This is detrimental to her for it is in this age that she wants self expression but is limited by the society who tells her that being black entitles her with no place in this world.
This is the reason why she often speaks of death. She may consider it as the only way out when nobody even seem to care- even her mother.
Momma's in the bedroom with the door closed signifies that her relationship with her mother is not that good and its as if her mom always turns her back on her. A sad thing really for a young black lady who seeks for someone to guide her when everything seemed wrong.
The poem Hanging Fire is about an adolescent who is confused of the world and of herself. She has so many things in her mind but "nobody even stops to think about (her) side of it". Added to the confusion is that of her being black and female which really affected her self-image. This is detrimental to her for it is in this age that she wants self expression but is limited by the society who tells her that being black entitles her with no place in this world.
This is the reason why she often speaks of death. She may consider it as the only way out when nobody even seem to care- even her mother.
Momma's in the bedroom with the door closed signifies that her relationship with her mother is not that good and its as if her mom always turns her back on her. A sad thing really for a young black lady who seeks for someone to guide her when everything seemed wrong.
Learnings on The Fury of the Overshoes
I stand in plain amazement as I now open myself up into the world of poetry and to the many more worlds that present itself to me through the poems I read. Today, as I take my obligation to write a blog about the poems the class has already tackled, it seemed to me that as I reread all these poems over and over again, they no longer become an obligation but a tribute to the artists who in their greatness of articulation and wonder, opened for me a lens wherein I can see their view of the world.
Let me begin with Anne Sexton's The Fury of the Overshoes. The poem immediately gave me the notion of "colors" for which the first thing that we associate with childhood and that sense of freedom and spontaneity when every child looks at the world with curiosity and fun. The poem gives me thoughts of cute little dresses, small shoes and those heart melting smiles of little children implying that they still have much to learn about the world.
But then childhood isn't all that fun. The shift in the poem reflects a child's helplessness early in life when she realized that she still depends upon older people to teach her and do things for her. It tells us of how big people modify a child's view of the world and how adults influence their way of thinking.
The overshoes on the other hand symbolize security and protection from the cold, which when placed in the context of the poem may signify that the child's parents or the adults around her treat her with coldness and apathy and that she needs warmth and care from them. The fury of the overshoes then reflects the anger of the speaker for those who left him out in the cold, so to speak. On the line where she is looking for the "big people", maybe she is looking for someone who can help her make sense out of this confusing world but then she has observed that big people do not realize how meaningful each step they take in the journey of their lives.
Let me begin with Anne Sexton's The Fury of the Overshoes. The poem immediately gave me the notion of "colors" for which the first thing that we associate with childhood and that sense of freedom and spontaneity when every child looks at the world with curiosity and fun. The poem gives me thoughts of cute little dresses, small shoes and those heart melting smiles of little children implying that they still have much to learn about the world.
But then childhood isn't all that fun. The shift in the poem reflects a child's helplessness early in life when she realized that she still depends upon older people to teach her and do things for her. It tells us of how big people modify a child's view of the world and how adults influence their way of thinking.
The overshoes on the other hand symbolize security and protection from the cold, which when placed in the context of the poem may signify that the child's parents or the adults around her treat her with coldness and apathy and that she needs warmth and care from them. The fury of the overshoes then reflects the anger of the speaker for those who left him out in the cold, so to speak. On the line where she is looking for the "big people", maybe she is looking for someone who can help her make sense out of this confusing world but then she has observed that big people do not realize how meaningful each step they take in the journey of their lives.
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Artist: Reaching Out
In terms of it being pursued as a profession, I can say that I am never an artist myself. Yet in our mundane living, I believe that each one of us is an artist in ways as ordinary as it may seem. For example, the passion and creativity for which we derive schemas on how we live our lives are expression of the artist within us.In one way or another, we so desperately want to to express ourselves to others that we go to such extremes just because we wanted to be understood. Yet more often than not, other people can be so naive that they fail to grasp the message.
In part, I agree to how Franz Kafka portrayed the artist in the short story as one who has once enjoyed the attention he gets in demonstrating to others that he can break records in his fasting, and it was only after many years that he realized that "no one would take his trouble seriously"; the artist who eventually became past his prime, no longer at the height of his professional skill because of the change in public interest.
I often see artists like the one a hunger artist symbolizes. They so desperately want to prove and express themselves that it seems to me that they don't stop and ask themselves if they are really sending the right message that they want to give. It is sad to know that after their share of the spotlight, their audience looks forward to the new and fresh artists for whom they avidly want to know if there is something they can give. Now the new artist represents a change of time and interest because as time goes on, the public's interest inevitably change with it also.
The artists, who have now been by-gones retreat themselves to the world, suddenly realizing that anyone who has no feeling for his craft cannot be made to understand it. If I were one of them, I would also have to find a way to console myself with the fact that most people will see craft merely as a form of entertainment and not as something more. This is a a sad fact and it is just as futile if I dwell on it much.
Now the new artists takes their chance to make the people understand them. They hone their talents and improve their skills to manifest what they've got. They adjust to the demands of the public and to the face of time so that like the others who preceded them, they will take that long shot in instilling to the people's minds of the nobility of their cause.
On the other hand, I think that the artists who live to please others cannot find autonomy for himself. I believe that one doesn't need the approval of others to measure his art's worth. In the short story, I find it very frustrating to know that the man wasted his effort for people who doesn't give a damn on what he is doing. An artist, in whatever field he may choose to dwell, must strive for the realization of his own potentialities and pursue excellence, not bearing in mind the people who know nothing of his craft.
In part, I agree to how Franz Kafka portrayed the artist in the short story as one who has once enjoyed the attention he gets in demonstrating to others that he can break records in his fasting, and it was only after many years that he realized that "no one would take his trouble seriously"; the artist who eventually became past his prime, no longer at the height of his professional skill because of the change in public interest.
I often see artists like the one a hunger artist symbolizes. They so desperately want to prove and express themselves that it seems to me that they don't stop and ask themselves if they are really sending the right message that they want to give. It is sad to know that after their share of the spotlight, their audience looks forward to the new and fresh artists for whom they avidly want to know if there is something they can give. Now the new artist represents a change of time and interest because as time goes on, the public's interest inevitably change with it also.
The artists, who have now been by-gones retreat themselves to the world, suddenly realizing that anyone who has no feeling for his craft cannot be made to understand it. If I were one of them, I would also have to find a way to console myself with the fact that most people will see craft merely as a form of entertainment and not as something more. This is a a sad fact and it is just as futile if I dwell on it much.
Now the new artists takes their chance to make the people understand them. They hone their talents and improve their skills to manifest what they've got. They adjust to the demands of the public and to the face of time so that like the others who preceded them, they will take that long shot in instilling to the people's minds of the nobility of their cause.
On the other hand, I think that the artists who live to please others cannot find autonomy for himself. I believe that one doesn't need the approval of others to measure his art's worth. In the short story, I find it very frustrating to know that the man wasted his effort for people who doesn't give a damn on what he is doing. An artist, in whatever field he may choose to dwell, must strive for the realization of his own potentialities and pursue excellence, not bearing in mind the people who know nothing of his craft.
Boarder
Pay your rent before the due date. For you, that would be every 15th day of the month. Inform your visitors the visiting hours. Beyond that, I would have you to take the responsibility of sending them away, or else I will. Don't let your boyfriend enter your room. I have you parents' number, you know what I can do; but I don't have a boyfriend. The curfew time is on 10 pm. Inform me if you'll be back later than that. Do you have a laptop? You have to pay additional 200 pesos for the electricity. Do you want to connect to the Wi-Fi? You would have to add 200 pesos more. And the laundry, yes, your dirty laundry, put them on the rack which I will give you later and place them on the washing room on Saturdays. You wash you underwear, don't even let me teach you how. The drinking water on the dispenser costs 40 pesos; you divide the amount among your roommates. Ah! Your roommates, they are all working so among the three of you, you are the student.
If you are all too busy or too lazy to clean your room, call Linda. Ask her to do it for you and pay her as the two of you has agreed. Don't play any loud music so as to disturb the others. I don't think that you need any reminding but I'll say it nonetheless. Don't leave your shoes outside the room. I don't want anyone complaining about a lost shoe. And by the way, did I tell you that I am very particular with regards to payment? Yes. So you have to pay your dues on time. Wait, I'm gonna call my mom. But she just left you here an hour ago.
If you are all too busy or too lazy to clean your room, call Linda. Ask her to do it for you and pay her as the two of you has agreed. Don't play any loud music so as to disturb the others. I don't think that you need any reminding but I'll say it nonetheless. Don't leave your shoes outside the room. I don't want anyone complaining about a lost shoe. And by the way, did I tell you that I am very particular with regards to payment? Yes. So you have to pay your dues on time. Wait, I'm gonna call my mom. But she just left you here an hour ago.
Friday, July 10, 2009
The Liquid
Reasons will never be enough to compensate for the blows against my dignity that Kelly did. It is beyond human understanding- no doubt, and I will never return her actions against me like for like. I don't just get angry, nor do I just get even, I will strip her of everything she boasts of. Enough is enough.
I can endure just as much rudeness she can show me, for you who so well know my nature will not suppose that I can be impatient. Unfortunately, she has arrived to the threshold, but I acted in such a way that would not cause her to doubt my good will.
She prided herself in her mastery of human anatomy and in this case, she doesn't differ from me. We were both medical doctors who established a name for ourselves in our field. Even though she was a popinjay, she would often be invited to symposiums and conferences as a speaker as I once was. She would talk of the possibilities of the subcutaneous fat being a progenitor of insulin or suggest new ways to combat pathogenic organisms in the body.
One day at about dusk, I found her sitting at the cafeteria in the hospital. She seemed lax but I knew she was tense. Kelly has a major operation coming and after years of experience, being taut is a good way to release adrenaline- for a better performance.
I sat next to her while she was sipping her coffee.
"Heart transplant," she began,"son of Senator Mendoza".
"That freakin' bastard who heads the Senate Committee for health?",I said,"who wouldn't forget how he pocketed millions out of the funds supposedly for hospital medications and augmenting research studies?"
"Oh yeah,"she replied,"speaking of research, I am currently exploring the likelihood of the base component of steroids for anesthetic use."
"Yes, I've heard. I don't know if you might find it helpful but I was able synthesize a steroidal liquid out of the findings the professors at the school got."
"Steroidal liquid!"she exclaimed,"how did you do it? Let me see at once!"
"Yes but we have to arrange a date for that."
"No, no, I want to see it now. Besides, I have never been to our medical school for 15 years and your family owns it so you can have access to the laboratory any time you want."
"But you have to prepare for the operation..."
"Oh preparations can wait, I've been doing this forever- but the liquid!"
"Are you sure about that?"
"I'm absolutely certain, now let's go."
"Yes, but first we must go home and tidy ourselves up. Then let's meet at the school by 8 a.m."
"Oh hush, make it 7,"she demanded.
"Alright, 7, that is."I replied.
We parted ways. The sooner, the better.
She didn't bring her car. Good. She arrived 5 minutes before me and we hurried ourselves up to the laboratory. I ushered her to a door that will lead us underground and we changed into our lab suits.
"I never knew this place existed here,"she said,"Have you known this since we were studying here?"
"No,"I lied,"they told me after we graduated."
We entered the first lab and the dim lights greeted us with a sense of eerie. Anatomical models found in every side of the wall and working tables stretch from one side to the other. When I saw her, her mouth was agape. She was looking at a fully preserved human body hanging vertically on the one side of the wall. In an instant, she jumped back.
"I saw his eyes dilate!"she said, astounded.
"How could it? It's dead."
"No, I've never seen anything like this. He looks like he's still alive only that his skin is scraped off him."
"You think?"
I lead her farther to another door- to the room of our destination. It was no different from the other room, only that it is smaller and more corpses lay vertically on the tables. She peeked into the body of a woman sliced open.
"Oh, you got her uterus", and to the body next to her,"You got his eyeballs". And she started laughing.
I motioned for her to sit sown. I considered strangling her from behind the back, but it was beyond my capacity.
"And the liquid?"she asked.
"In a moment." I started toward another door and she stood up to accompany me.
"No, it would be unnecessary to come with me. Just wait here, I'll be back in a minute."
"Alright,"she said, as she raised her lab collar up.
I entered the control room and immediately went to the computer to click the "SYSTEM LOCK". It would lock all the doors and start lowering the temperature of the second room. I adjusted the cold to -5 degrees Celsius.
After a minute, the door started pounding. After thirty minutes, there was none.
Just enough and I started adjusting the temperature of the second room to normal condition.
I waited again and opened the door.
She was lying unconscious just outside the control room. Her skin was white and her lips were pale. I checked her heart. Still beating.
I moved her into the far end corner of the room. I injected a chemical that would inhibit muscle action and started scraping off her epidermis. I started from the skin of her feet working upwards. When I was on the part of her breast, I saw liquid coming from her eyes- tears streaming from her unwinking eyes. When I looked closely, her cornea dilated.
"You are the 100th recipient of the steroidal liquid that works inversely when incorporated in the bloodstream."
More tears.
I considered trefening but that would be too small a hole, so I just sliced off her skull all the same. I cut the vein connecting the hippocampus and the spinal cord and finally scooped it all out of her head.
"Is this the brain she's proud of?"
I looked at her and the tears have already dried. I glanced at her eyes but there was nothing I saw- none but horror.
Adios Doctor.
I can endure just as much rudeness she can show me, for you who so well know my nature will not suppose that I can be impatient. Unfortunately, she has arrived to the threshold, but I acted in such a way that would not cause her to doubt my good will.
She prided herself in her mastery of human anatomy and in this case, she doesn't differ from me. We were both medical doctors who established a name for ourselves in our field. Even though she was a popinjay, she would often be invited to symposiums and conferences as a speaker as I once was. She would talk of the possibilities of the subcutaneous fat being a progenitor of insulin or suggest new ways to combat pathogenic organisms in the body.
One day at about dusk, I found her sitting at the cafeteria in the hospital. She seemed lax but I knew she was tense. Kelly has a major operation coming and after years of experience, being taut is a good way to release adrenaline- for a better performance.
I sat next to her while she was sipping her coffee.
"Heart transplant," she began,"son of Senator Mendoza".
"That freakin' bastard who heads the Senate Committee for health?",I said,"who wouldn't forget how he pocketed millions out of the funds supposedly for hospital medications and augmenting research studies?"
"Oh yeah,"she replied,"speaking of research, I am currently exploring the likelihood of the base component of steroids for anesthetic use."
"Yes, I've heard. I don't know if you might find it helpful but I was able synthesize a steroidal liquid out of the findings the professors at the school got."
"Steroidal liquid!"she exclaimed,"how did you do it? Let me see at once!"
"Yes but we have to arrange a date for that."
"No, no, I want to see it now. Besides, I have never been to our medical school for 15 years and your family owns it so you can have access to the laboratory any time you want."
"But you have to prepare for the operation..."
"Oh preparations can wait, I've been doing this forever- but the liquid!"
"Are you sure about that?"
"I'm absolutely certain, now let's go."
"Yes, but first we must go home and tidy ourselves up. Then let's meet at the school by 8 a.m."
"Oh hush, make it 7,"she demanded.
"Alright, 7, that is."I replied.
We parted ways. The sooner, the better.
She didn't bring her car. Good. She arrived 5 minutes before me and we hurried ourselves up to the laboratory. I ushered her to a door that will lead us underground and we changed into our lab suits.
"I never knew this place existed here,"she said,"Have you known this since we were studying here?"
"No,"I lied,"they told me after we graduated."
We entered the first lab and the dim lights greeted us with a sense of eerie. Anatomical models found in every side of the wall and working tables stretch from one side to the other. When I saw her, her mouth was agape. She was looking at a fully preserved human body hanging vertically on the one side of the wall. In an instant, she jumped back.
"I saw his eyes dilate!"she said, astounded.
"How could it? It's dead."
"No, I've never seen anything like this. He looks like he's still alive only that his skin is scraped off him."
"You think?"
I lead her farther to another door- to the room of our destination. It was no different from the other room, only that it is smaller and more corpses lay vertically on the tables. She peeked into the body of a woman sliced open.
"Oh, you got her uterus", and to the body next to her,"You got his eyeballs". And she started laughing.
I motioned for her to sit sown. I considered strangling her from behind the back, but it was beyond my capacity.
"And the liquid?"she asked.
"In a moment." I started toward another door and she stood up to accompany me.
"No, it would be unnecessary to come with me. Just wait here, I'll be back in a minute."
"Alright,"she said, as she raised her lab collar up.
I entered the control room and immediately went to the computer to click the "SYSTEM LOCK". It would lock all the doors and start lowering the temperature of the second room. I adjusted the cold to -5 degrees Celsius.
After a minute, the door started pounding. After thirty minutes, there was none.
Just enough and I started adjusting the temperature of the second room to normal condition.
I waited again and opened the door.
She was lying unconscious just outside the control room. Her skin was white and her lips were pale. I checked her heart. Still beating.
I moved her into the far end corner of the room. I injected a chemical that would inhibit muscle action and started scraping off her epidermis. I started from the skin of her feet working upwards. When I was on the part of her breast, I saw liquid coming from her eyes- tears streaming from her unwinking eyes. When I looked closely, her cornea dilated.
"You are the 100th recipient of the steroidal liquid that works inversely when incorporated in the bloodstream."
More tears.
I considered trefening but that would be too small a hole, so I just sliced off her skull all the same. I cut the vein connecting the hippocampus and the spinal cord and finally scooped it all out of her head.
"Is this the brain she's proud of?"
I looked at her and the tears have already dried. I glanced at her eyes but there was nothing I saw- none but horror.
Adios Doctor.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Cathedral: From the Blind Man's Point of View
When I was groping my way out of the train, it felt as if I was being pushed around by the people around me. I remember it was nearly forty years since I first rode a train with my parents- my parents whom I have never seen. No, I could not think of another loss to add up to what I am bearing. So I found a place where I could sit on and waited for Martha to pick me up at the depot. What if she doesn’t recognize me after all these years? No, she’d know my face even now. Had I changed my features? I wouldn’t know. I can’t see myself. I am blind.
“Robert” I heard a familiar voice. It was Martha. I turned towards the direction of the sound calling me. What had taken her so long to pick me up? But then I felt a female’s hand on my arm.
“Robert, it is good to see you again!” Martha said, excitedly.
“It’s been almost ten years my dear.” I answered.”At long last, I could hear your voice personally.”
We drove to her house and when the car stopped, I felt the wave of emptiness overcome me again. She got out of the car and shut the door. I could still hear her laughing as she motioned towards the other side to open the door for me. It’s good to have some company. These past few days were too much for me. I love my wife very dearly and I just can’t take it that she’s out of my life. Martha took my arm and led me to the front porch where her husband welcomed me. It felt like I’ve met him already- that I’ve known him for quite some time. His name was Jake.
When we went inside the house, we seated ourselves comfortably at the sofa.
“Did you have a good train ride?” Jake said. “Which side of the train did you sit on, by the way?”
“What a question, which side!” Martha said.” What’s it matter which side?”
“I just asked”, Jake answered.
I didn’t mind him asking at all. I’m used to people treating me this way and somehow, I felt no trace of insult from him.
“Right side”, I said, “I hadn’t been on a train in nearly forty years. Not since I was a kid with my parents. That’s been a long time. Id nearly forgotten the sensation”
Afterwards, Jake asked if I would like a drink, then I remember the last time my wife and I had some wine together, that was on our wedding anniversary, a month ago. I agreed to have some scotch with a pinch of water. We talked further and after that, we had dinner.
When we are done eating, we took ourselves into the living room. I was quite pleased to know that I finally regained my appetite since my wife’s funeral. Martha and I talked of things that happened these past ten years. From time to time, I would ask Martha’s husband something. This man Jake, how does he picture his life? He lives it in a passive, boring way –at least that’s what I thought.
Then Martha told me to make myself comfortable. “I am comfortable” I said. Then she asked me to feel comfortable in their house again. “I am comfortable” I answered. What’s the point in asking me twice? I’ve already been here long enough for them to see evidently that I am at ease. She’s treating me like a child when in fact I’m older than her. After that she left the room.
Jake and I listened to the weather report. From the time she’d been gone so long, he offered me dope. I thought I’d try some with him. That was actually my first time.
When Martha came back, I could smell her despite the cannabis. She smelled of chamomile soap. I bet she has changed her dress for bed.
She seated herself and offered me the strawberry pie that was left over for dinner. The pie was okay, but my wife’s tastes a lot better.
“Maybe in a little while” I answered.
Not long after, Martha fell asleep. She was between Jake and I but nevertheless, we stayed awake. Jake was watching while I listen to the TV. I think that the TV is showing something called a cathedral. I could hear from the narrator that it took hundreds of workers, fifty or a hundred years to build. Oftentimes, the men who began their life’s work on them never lived to see the completion of their work. “Hmmm”I said. So I asked him to describe a cathedral to me because I really don’t have a good idea.
He tried hard to describe what a cathedral is. It seems to me that he is lost for words, that even if he is seeing it, he still doesn’t know how to describe it to a blind man. It’s like hearing a person talking about something obscure to him, so I asked him to find a heavy paper and a pen.
When he got back and placed the materials on the coffee table, I ran my fingers over the paper, down the sides and even to the edges. “All right” I said, “all right, let’s do her”.
I closed my hand over his and he started drawing a cathedral. I think he started with a box and on he went. Later, I asked him to close his eyes.
Martha was awoken and asked us what we were doing. For once, can she stop talking and leave us for a while? “It’s alright” I said to her. Thank goodness she didn’t venture to pry on.
Jake’s eyes were closed as I directed him to go on drawing. He’s doing pretty well and I urged him to keep up. When I thought that he got it, I told him to look at what he has drawn. I waited for him to reply. It seemed that the silence lasted for a long, long time.
“It’s really something” he said.
Finally, I think he was able to picture something without even seeing it.
“Robert” I heard a familiar voice. It was Martha. I turned towards the direction of the sound calling me. What had taken her so long to pick me up? But then I felt a female’s hand on my arm.
“Robert, it is good to see you again!” Martha said, excitedly.
“It’s been almost ten years my dear.” I answered.”At long last, I could hear your voice personally.”
We drove to her house and when the car stopped, I felt the wave of emptiness overcome me again. She got out of the car and shut the door. I could still hear her laughing as she motioned towards the other side to open the door for me. It’s good to have some company. These past few days were too much for me. I love my wife very dearly and I just can’t take it that she’s out of my life. Martha took my arm and led me to the front porch where her husband welcomed me. It felt like I’ve met him already- that I’ve known him for quite some time. His name was Jake.
When we went inside the house, we seated ourselves comfortably at the sofa.
“Did you have a good train ride?” Jake said. “Which side of the train did you sit on, by the way?”
“What a question, which side!” Martha said.” What’s it matter which side?”
“I just asked”, Jake answered.
I didn’t mind him asking at all. I’m used to people treating me this way and somehow, I felt no trace of insult from him.
“Right side”, I said, “I hadn’t been on a train in nearly forty years. Not since I was a kid with my parents. That’s been a long time. Id nearly forgotten the sensation”
Afterwards, Jake asked if I would like a drink, then I remember the last time my wife and I had some wine together, that was on our wedding anniversary, a month ago. I agreed to have some scotch with a pinch of water. We talked further and after that, we had dinner.
When we are done eating, we took ourselves into the living room. I was quite pleased to know that I finally regained my appetite since my wife’s funeral. Martha and I talked of things that happened these past ten years. From time to time, I would ask Martha’s husband something. This man Jake, how does he picture his life? He lives it in a passive, boring way –at least that’s what I thought.
Then Martha told me to make myself comfortable. “I am comfortable” I said. Then she asked me to feel comfortable in their house again. “I am comfortable” I answered. What’s the point in asking me twice? I’ve already been here long enough for them to see evidently that I am at ease. She’s treating me like a child when in fact I’m older than her. After that she left the room.
Jake and I listened to the weather report. From the time she’d been gone so long, he offered me dope. I thought I’d try some with him. That was actually my first time.
When Martha came back, I could smell her despite the cannabis. She smelled of chamomile soap. I bet she has changed her dress for bed.
She seated herself and offered me the strawberry pie that was left over for dinner. The pie was okay, but my wife’s tastes a lot better.
“Maybe in a little while” I answered.
Not long after, Martha fell asleep. She was between Jake and I but nevertheless, we stayed awake. Jake was watching while I listen to the TV. I think that the TV is showing something called a cathedral. I could hear from the narrator that it took hundreds of workers, fifty or a hundred years to build. Oftentimes, the men who began their life’s work on them never lived to see the completion of their work. “Hmmm”I said. So I asked him to describe a cathedral to me because I really don’t have a good idea.
He tried hard to describe what a cathedral is. It seems to me that he is lost for words, that even if he is seeing it, he still doesn’t know how to describe it to a blind man. It’s like hearing a person talking about something obscure to him, so I asked him to find a heavy paper and a pen.
When he got back and placed the materials on the coffee table, I ran my fingers over the paper, down the sides and even to the edges. “All right” I said, “all right, let’s do her”.
I closed my hand over his and he started drawing a cathedral. I think he started with a box and on he went. Later, I asked him to close his eyes.
Martha was awoken and asked us what we were doing. For once, can she stop talking and leave us for a while? “It’s alright” I said to her. Thank goodness she didn’t venture to pry on.
Jake’s eyes were closed as I directed him to go on drawing. He’s doing pretty well and I urged him to keep up. When I thought that he got it, I told him to look at what he has drawn. I waited for him to reply. It seemed that the silence lasted for a long, long time.
“It’s really something” he said.
Finally, I think he was able to picture something without even seeing it.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Short Stories: Thy Lenses to Reality
Just as a film is a moving collection of pictures we perceive as a continuous flow of events, life is a moving collection of snapshots based from our own memoirs. More often than not, when we present a picture of our life, it is accompanied by a story we hold dear to our hearts. Such is also true with short stories- "they are snapshots of the human condition and of human nature" which gives us the "rare chance to see ... more than in real life".
Reading William Boyd's Short History of Short Story, I found myself believing that with the evolution of man, there also evolved the story telling that eventually became a published literary work that we now call the short story. As much as it is a "predisposition of our minds", it all too simply augmented itself into a written form of story telling that possesses a "complexity of afterthought". Moreover, "something about their unique frisson escapes or defies analysis". This is one characteristic of a short story that I personally like because it fosters avenues to explore deeper interpretations of the story's theme. Somehow though, interpretations may differ because we offer ourselves subjectively to the kind of "picture" the author wants us to see but nevertheless, we are able to understand depending on how we are able to perceive.
This brings me to Raymond Carver's Cathedral and the totality of effect that it creates to the reader. The epitome of the story for me, which is reflected on the scene wherein the blind man asked the husband to close his eyes while drawing a cathedral encapsulated the irony in an aspect of my life. It created in me a deep sense of understanding that it doesn't matter if we are given the gift to see the world if we fail to look beyond what our eyes perceive. All of these things around us do not just exist for it is meant to lead, inspire and teach us in subtle ways as it may seem. After all, it doesn't take a blind man to show us the reality of the "human condition and of human nature" that we oftentimes fail to recognize.
Reading William Boyd's Short History of Short Story, I found myself believing that with the evolution of man, there also evolved the story telling that eventually became a published literary work that we now call the short story. As much as it is a "predisposition of our minds", it all too simply augmented itself into a written form of story telling that possesses a "complexity of afterthought". Moreover, "something about their unique frisson escapes or defies analysis". This is one characteristic of a short story that I personally like because it fosters avenues to explore deeper interpretations of the story's theme. Somehow though, interpretations may differ because we offer ourselves subjectively to the kind of "picture" the author wants us to see but nevertheless, we are able to understand depending on how we are able to perceive.
This brings me to Raymond Carver's Cathedral and the totality of effect that it creates to the reader. The epitome of the story for me, which is reflected on the scene wherein the blind man asked the husband to close his eyes while drawing a cathedral encapsulated the irony in an aspect of my life. It created in me a deep sense of understanding that it doesn't matter if we are given the gift to see the world if we fail to look beyond what our eyes perceive. All of these things around us do not just exist for it is meant to lead, inspire and teach us in subtle ways as it may seem. After all, it doesn't take a blind man to show us the reality of the "human condition and of human nature" that we oftentimes fail to recognize.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
