"Ego Tripping" - Nikki Giovanni

One of my favorite poems of all time is this one by Nikki Giovanni. I read it for the first time when I was just out of college, had come out relatively recently, discovered acid jazz and hip hop, was doing open mic readings, and moved into the city to live on my own for the first time (college doesn't really count). Nikki Giovanni was just one of many mind-opening ingredients in a potpourri of inputs that mentally made me over during that time. It was one of the most exciting times of my life, and every time I read this poem the images and feelings I had then come back to me.

While some might claim this is a poem for African Americans or women, I totally felt it was about me embracing life and enjoying it by stealing god's car and driving away while blasting music with the top down!

It's a good set of feelings to remember. Thanks Nikki!

Ego Tripping (There May Be a Reason Why)

I was born in the congo
I walked to the fertile crescent and built
    the sphinx
I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
    that only glows every one hundred years falls
    into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad

I sat on the throne
    drinking nectar with allah
I got hot and sent an ice age to europe
    to cool my thirst
My oldest daughter is nefertiti
    the tears from my birth pains
    created the nile
I am a beautiful woman

I gazed on the forest and burned
    out the sahara desert
    with a packet of goat's meat
    and a change of clothes
I crossed it in two hours
I am a gazelle so swift
    so swift you can't catch me

    For a birthday present when he was three
I gave my son hannibal an elephant
    He gave me rome for mother's day
My strength flows ever on

My son noah built new/ark and
I stood proudly at the helm
    as we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into myself and was
    jesus
    men intone my loving name
    All praises All praises
I am the one who would save

I sowed diamonds in my back yard
My bowels deliver uranium
    the filings from my fingernails are
    semi-precious jewels
    On a trip north
I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the arab world
I am so hip even my errors are correct
I sailed west to reach east and had to round off
    the earth as I went
    The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid
    across three continents

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission

I mean...I...can fly
    like a bird in the sky...

- Nikki Giovanni

More Poetry Inspired by Art

La branche de fleurs, 1906
Henri Matisse
Oil on canvas, 40 x 31.8 cm

Here's another poem I wrote back in 1999 that was inspired by a work or art. This time my muse was Henri Matisse and a much less well-known work of his: Branch of Flowers. There's no quality photos of this work, so I snapped this photo from a Matisse retrospective I own (so the quality is not the greatest).

Matisse is one of my favorite artists, largely due to his use of color, and it's pretty obvious my own approach to art references his style pretty heavily. I also admire how his work evolved over the course of his life, and that he tried new things. Also, his creativity was unstoppable. Late in his life (I believe he could no longer work at an easel), he switched to cutting out colored paper and creating collages. He had an innate need to visually express himself.

Branch of Flowers

Laughing vivacious
she pauses
eyes lowered
over a branch
of magnolia blossoms
as delicate
as her hand
as white
as her skin

Thoughts in her face
and magnolias
joined and freed
to fly forever
in my memory
like birds

- Peter Cholewinski

"You can't be afraid to suck..."

Three Jonquils, 2013
Peter Cholewinski
Oil pastel on paper, 22.9 x 30.5 cm

For the first time in a while, I spent some time drawing. It was mainly to preserve some sense that I'm trying to keep at my work with oil pastels. I did a few contour drawings of some jonquils Jim had picked from the garden and put in a vase, and then I tried my hand at an oil pastel. The result is posted here, and I'm not at all happy with it.

So why am I posting it?

Mainly because it's less important that I did something good than that I did something. Drawing is like building your biceps; you gotta work at it. I'm quite 'out of shape' as an artist, and a crummy workout is always better than no workout at all. So I'm glad I pushed myself. Yay me!

The other reason comes from some advice I got from my friend Gretchen, who is a real artist (and a videographer to boot). Back in 1999, I enrolled in studio painting and began working with oils for the first time. I didn't have any idea what I was doing, and it was exciting. After my first dozen pieces, I remember being very frustrated and complaining to Gretchen that everything I was doing sucked. She told me: "Look, you can't be afraid to suck. If you are, then you'll never learn anything." Realizing she was right, I stopped whining and being precious and pushed on.  No pain; no gain. I continued to churn out crap, but I was getting critiques and being exposed to different techniques. Practice helped and I was building my oil painting muscles. A year or so later, I had a picture in a show - a good one - and sold it.

So here's the reason for the post. What I learned from acting on the 'you can't be afraid to suck' advice is that sucking or, to be more specific, failure is just fine as long as I learn from my failures. Posting this is a way for me to even more objectively react to my work. So, let's get to it.  What's wrong with Three Jonquils?

• Composition is poor - There is no dynamism here. The forms have no energy and do not interact with each other. This gives the piece a flat feel, like it just sort of sits there and makes it impossible for the piece to 'grab' the viewer.
• Background is too much - It overpowers the subject and, even worse, there is no relationship between the colors chosen and the subject. I tried to use complements (red behind the green stems and purple behind some of the yellow flowers) but the tones are somehow off. Too dark and rich. The background also lacks the variation in color and intensity needed for it to breathe. 
• Flowers and stems lack finesse - There's not enough variation in color in the petals, and there's no suggestion of form aside from the outlines. The darker background should have been used to provide this outlining, but it was not. The lowest of the three flowers is best, and the one on top has some electric green along the petal edges that is the beginning of something interesting. But it doesn't go far enough. 
• Trite colors - Not enough mixing and shades/hues to deliver something other than 'GREEN stems' and 'YELLOW flowers'. This is probably due to me using different pastels from the ones I used on Blue Vase. This is a big failure for me, since color is probably the best thing I bring to the table as an artist. If I miss there, then I have little chance of success.

Bottom line, a sense of looseness or play would have gone a long way to making this piece interesting and/or dynamic. As it is it's sterile and dull. So I need to play with the new oil pastels I have, get to know how they work and blend, decide if I like them as a tool, and also just draw more to redevelop that sense of confidence and looseness that comes with being an 'in-shape' artist.

"I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud" - William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) was one of the poets who ushered in Romanticism. Very much inspired by nature, he was a big influence on Transcendentalism in the United States. He also avoided the elevated language of the poets of his day, believing plain-spoken language made the best poetry. To him, poetry was not an academic pursuit but "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings". As we approach spring, he seems like a good voice to share for National Poetry Month.

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Last Summer in the Hamptons

This is the second Henry Jaglom film I have watched (Deja Vu was the first), and I enjoy the rough but immediate feel of both these films. Deja Vu seemed very cinema verite, while Last Summer seems less so. That could reflect that the approach works better in this film or that it was more scripted. Not sure which.

It is very talky, and that does tend to make the movie a bit slow in pacing. However, I like how his movies unfold. The standard plot devices and progression are tossed aside in favor of characterization and interplay between the characters. This makes the film far less predictable and truer to life. It also allows for the characters to be understood as you get to know them, and even for certain aspects of them to remain unresolved.

For me the key to the movie is the first scene - the one before the credits start. In this scene the eldest member of the family consuls her granddaughter about how to make sense of a part she is playing. I'm paraphrasing, but the essence of it was that acting is learning. It's about what happens to you from the moment the scene starts to when it ends. I drew this as a parallel to the entire movie. Each character (and really all of us) are going from scene to scene in life, and perhaps the trick is what happens between the start and end of each scene. The one thing I'd love to learn the meaning of the word the grandmother uses to describe the annual event at the house. No one in the family knows, but I bet Jaglom does and it probably is a big key to understanding his aim with this movie at a deeper level.

Jaglom has created a movie that is an atom smasher...with characters as the atoms. If you like the idea of seeing flawed, intelligent, creative people interacting, combusting, and arriving where they arrive, then you'll love this movie. If you need something a little bit more linear...you'd better pass.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674) is relatively minor 17th Century English poet. I was exposed to him during a wonderful course I took in 17th century English literature at college. While Herrick certainly isn't as critically lauded as the metaphysical poets like John Donne, I found his work refreshingly lyrical compared to the sometimes ponderous works of some of his contemporaries.  This one seems especially apropos for celebrating poetry during National Poetry Month.

His Poetry His Pillar

Only a little  more
I have to write;
Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good night.

'Tis but a flying minute
That I must stay,
Or linger in it;
And then I must away.

O Time, that cut'st down all,
And scarce leav'st here
Memorial
Of any men that were!

How many lie forgot
In vaults beneath,
And piecemeal rot
Without a fame in death!

Behold this living stone
I rear for me,
Ne'er to be thrown
Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up,
If so they please;
Here is my hope,
And my pyramids.

- Robert Herrick

Poetry Inspired by Art

Still Life Before an Open Window: Place Ravignan, 1915
Juan Gris
Oil on canvas, 166 x 89 cm

During National Poetry Month I post pieces from some of my favorite poets. I also dig into my journals for stuff from my past. In early 1999, I did something that I'd never done up to that point and which I have never done again: used great works of art as inspiration for poetry. 'Premonition' came very quickly (in only two drafts) as a result of my response to this painting by cubist Juan Gris, and it was published that year in a small press publication.

The photo here is big enough so that if you click on it you can see an enlarged version.

Premonition

No more wine or bread

Headlines of insanity

Marguerite plays violin -

a sombre vibrato

falling from our balcony

with autumn leaves

to the crowded boulevard

unheeded

For a moment

the boulevard

the town itself

this sunset and empty wine glass

the violin and newspaper

our crisp white tablecloth

pulse with a nausea

of some madman's creation

- Peter Cholewinski

Ben Ehrenreich - "Ether" (2011)

More literature by living people!  I first came into contact with Ehrenreich's writing in the pages of Bomb, which published his short story 'Boys' in its Fall 2012 issue. This story spoke to me in a way similar to Amy Herzog's 4000 Miles. There was no specific plot, but strong characters within interesting situations created what I call an emergent theme. An emergent theme happens when the scenes and/or plot of a story don't build in a direct manner to anything, but as a whole they convey something. Sort of like the joke about a Monet painting: up close (or in its integral parts) it's a big old mess, but when you view the painting as a whole it has meaning.

So I added Ehrenreich's novel Ether to my late winter/early spring reading list. Just finished it a week or so ago, and I was disappointed to find that the power of the short story was not to be found in this novel length work. The style and quality of writing is very much the same, but it feels as though Ehrenreich simply doesn't need a canvas as large as a novel despite the fact that, at 183 pages, Ether barely qualifies as a novel.

Too much of the book is spent introducing characters and jumping between their stories. This kaleidoscopic approach could be enthralling, except that Ehrenreich does not develop any of his characters at all for a good 100 pages. They remain two-dimensional vignettes without any sense of how they will fit together. Could this part of the point? I suppose, but it renders his novel uninteresting and directionless. If it is the point, he did not need 100 pages to convey it. In fact, the only reason I continued reading during the middle half of the novel was that I liked Ehrenreich's prose.

By the time the characters started coming together and I understood what the character of the stranger was, I have to admit I was reading to get to the end. While my attention was not as acute as it should have been as a reader, this ultimately is the author's fault because he failed to set the proper pace. More importantly, I did not find much substance in the last third of the novel in terms of what Ehrenreich did with his premise. There was simply no pay-off to merit the long set-up.

The novel is peppered with interesting devices, such as the omnipresent TV cameras that suggest something about what Ehrenreich is dealing with in Ether. I also liked how the author made himself one of the characters and placed himself in discussions with one of the characters he created. Again, this related to the emergent theme. However, none of this - or the novel itself - ever really went anywhere especially interesting or powerful, and so these devices came off as gimmicks and not the evocative elements they could have been.

I still came away thinking Ehrenreich's a talented writer, as his craftsmanship is plain. However, such skill must be placed behind subject matter and characters that have greater depth or meaning. Otherwise, an author runs the risk of writing a long greeting card: nicely worded but ultimately not deep, relevant, or memorable.

Another Poem With Zen Flavoring

April is National Poetry Month, so it's great that I seem to be on a roll. Surprisingly, I've written another piece that makes use of Zen learning. Sometimes poetry happens most easily when you just let it flow.

Away With Words

You share your revelations -
pearly wisdom divine -
but they run like rain on roofs
when the epiphanies are not mine

The light of answers given
is visions darkest curse,
and enlightenment only heard
leads to its reverse

The lotus of a patriarch
is nirvana of little use,
for we bloom within experience
and cannot receive the truth

- Peter Cholewinski

Man Of My Dreams

No, this is not about Jim. Of course, you'll know that by the tone. Just like the last couple pieces I've written, the seed of this poem was a dream.  I woke from it mentally composing the first several lines of this poem.

After the long dry spell I've had as a writer, I have now written three poems in a month! Also, I don't think I've ever written so many rhyming poems at one time. Maybe just getting back in the swing of things?

Man Of My Dreams

Might of a lion
speed of gazelle
What you desire from me
I cannot tell

Muscular arms
carry me away
as I'm penetrated throughout
by the gentlest gaze

I scent a mate
or perhaps I'm beguiled
by the musk of conquest
that returns to the wild

Might must be free
speed never tamed
and our word wary tongues
leave all unexplained

Animal instincts
see predator and prey
You never say "I love you"
I'm running away

- Peter Cholewinski

More on Everyday Zen

I believe in a few other posts I've touched on the idea of everyday Zen. Everyday Zen is a term I use for the ability to extend the mind state achieved during zazen into normal life. It's the idea is that someone who is truly enlightened should be able to stay in the moment and avoid delusion constantly. Eventually, such a person might be able to exist within an enlightened mind state all day, everyday.

Here's one of the experiences that led me to the concept of everyday Zen.  Years ago, I was meditating on a warm day with the windows open. I was enjoying the sound of the wind and the birds singing. So peaceful! Suddenly, one of the neighbors started blasting some lame music. At first, I was totally annoyed. I was about to get up and shut the window when I thought: "Wait a minute! If I'm really in zazen, why should this music bother me? If I'm in the right mind state, shouldn't I should be able to sit in zazen even with someone blasting death metal music right in my ear?" The idea made a big impression on me, and I left the window open.  Sure enough, I was able to get into zazen again. Not easily and not for long, but then that just means I need more discipline.

To be able to exist in the right mind state in all situations obviously requires tons of discipline, and I am nowhere near being there.  However, as I've thought about this idea and tried to bring what I've learned in zazen to my daily life, I find I have learned how to summon right-mindedness. It isn't everyday Zen; it's more like a sign that I'm learning what the right mind state feels like and to change my behavior when I'm in the wrong way of thinking.

For example, the other day I was on a conference call where we were debating over a topic. During the call I realized I was very tense, and I did not feel comfortable with myself or the way I was coming across at all. I recognized I was in a bad mind state. Since I was alone and dialing in from home, I had the freedom to mute my line and check out of the conversation for a moment. I closed my eyes and, in a matter of seconds, cleared my head as if it were a blackboard that I'd run an eraser over. I was relaxed and my thinking much clearer. I got back into the conversation and was amazed at the difference I heard in my voice. I sounded calm and assertive.  Also, while I hadn't stopped caring about the conversation, I'd disconnected myself from the outcome. I made my points, offered my ideas, debated as necessary but also let myself go with the conversation. There was a peaceful detachment that - I think - made me more effective, less stressed, and much happier overall.

Another example also came from a day when I was working at home. I'd finished lunch really quickly and was about to go back to work because "I had nothing better to do". Instead, I made myself take the full hour off. I just kicked back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling not really thinking about anything. Afterwards, I realized that - impromptu - I'd achieved something of the emptiness I can achieve in zazen. When I went back to work, I was fresh and much more relaxed. "Nothing better to do" indeed!

Naturally, working at home is a much easier place to make such observations and the related corrective actions. Everyday Zen would require much more skill and awareness. Perhaps if I can keep learning, I can eventually get to everyday Zen...

Spring is Here!

May not seem like it. We have 30 degree highs, and there's still snow on the ground. But this is northern Illinois, kids.

The harbinger I depend on for predicting the arrival of warm weather are the appearance of snowdrops. These little clumps of flowers are hardy enough to precede even the tulips in breaking out of the ground.  Snapped this pic of a clump that comes back every year just outside our back door.

Bike riding weather is not far away!

Wind and Stone

I'd previously posted a poem I wrote a while ago called Ghosts. In this poem I compared writing poetry to being 'a spellcaster'. Part of me has always found something supernatural or magical about the creation process, and poetry - especially when it has rhythm and rhymes - can have the cadence of a spell being chanted. This poem came to me as an image when I was either falling asleep or waking up. Of course, this just fires my imagination as these 'in between' times are associated with magic and witchcraft in mythology.

Wind and Stone, which I just finished today, has nothing to do with either magic or witchcraft. Instead, it's one of the few times I've been able to work a concept from my Zen studies into a poem. That, and the fact it's the second poem I've written in less than a month, makes me happy.

Wind and Stone

Saharan winds
carry the scent of burning feathers,
promising rebirth
where the sand and sky blurs

Wary of mirages,
I built my oasis upon this crag of stone;
amid the sand and grit,
I need not crave nor atone

Decade after decade,
caravans cross the landscape
like dunes seduced by the wind,
forsaking permanence and shape

Sun burnt and leather-cracked,
they exalt in an endless journey,
while I mistrust visions
which as mirages ever fly before me

Departing at dawn
they quicken their pace,
unaware that we are destined
to find ourselves in every place

- Peter Cholewinski

Signs of Zealotry?

Okay. Just to forewarn you, this post could easily be filed under "Dude, really? Just chill out!"

I have learned a great deal from Zen Buddhism, and I love how it's impacted my outlook and the way I respond to things. However, there's a thin line between zeal and zealotry.  While reading Joris-Karl Huysmans' Against Nature (my current read), I questioned whether I was potentially showing signs of the latter.

sumi painting depicting nen

As usual (at least in my paperback books), as I read I was making notes in the margins. As I was reading a passage in chapter nine of Against Nature detailing the chaotic mood swings the main character, Des Esseintes, has within the illusionary world he has created for himself, I realized my notes were commenting on his state of mind by referencing the Zen concept of delusion. I was also thinking about him in terms of the famous sumi painting that reflects the concept of first, second, and third nen (see picture). Semi-translation: I was thinking about how Des Esseintes had backed so far away from direct perception of reality that he was lost entirely in delusion. Lost to the point of going a bit nuts.

It occurred to me this was not the first time I'd reacted to art, music, or literature from a Zen perspective. For example, one of the reasons I love Mark Rothko is because his paintings are like visually experiencing samadhi. My entry on Laura Nyro's song "Trees of the Ages" and my post on Zen Buddhism and Existentialism display the influence of Zen in my reactions to music and literature. I even asked myself: "Since there are schools of aesthetic criticism for feminists and socialists and objectivists, why not a school of Zen Buddhist literary or art criticism?"

That thought gave me pause. Do I really want my perceptions colored so deeply? Maybe I'm slowly turning into a 'born-again Zen Buddhist', someone who can't experience anything except through a narrow lens? In other words, was I becoming overzealous about things? As usual with thoughts like this that can't be answered in the moment you have them, I shrugged and pulled out my Scarlet O'Hara routine: 'I'll think about that tomorrow". Except I actually do think about it tomorrow! LOL!

Long story short, I think the definition of a zealot isn't that you let yourself be deeply influenced by something. A zealot is someone who is closed to abandoning what they believe in the light of evidence that it's wrong and, worse, who condemns anything that doesn't fit or agree with the truth they think they've found simply because it doesn't fit or agree. Since that's not what I'm doing, I'm okay.

That's a relief! Because I kinda like the idea of a school of Zen literary criticism!

The Pacific

Sometimes I take photos with my phone and forget about them for months. It's fun to discover them when I end up checking my gallery for some reason. Today I found this photo. It's not the best picture of me, but it certainly captures the essence of the moment for me.

I took the photo about a month ago, during a business trip to Santa Monica. It was the last evening of the trip, and I spent it walking along the ocean. Since it was an evening in January, the beach and pier weren't crowded at all and it was very peaceful. I was walking and watching the sun set over the ocean.

Looking back, it occurs to me that in poetry and literature travelling to the Pacific Ocean is sometimes an allegory for life coming to an end. In my case, maybe it's a phase of my life coming to an end.

Dalai Lama - Conquer Your Self

Here's a great snippet from the Dalai Lama about disciplining the mind. What strikes me most about this is how many Zen concepts he weaves into this short discussion. He's able to explain this stuff so clearly and easily and has such a command of it. Meanwhile, I have so much trouble getting my thoughts on the subject into words that I often just don't try.

I guess that's why he's the Dalai Lama!

A New Poem!

It's been almost a year and a half since I wrote a poem of any kind. Yesterday, I had this knot in my stomach and was feeling very 'stopped up' emotionally. As if something was going to explode, and yet I didn't know what or why. As it got worse, I suddenly had this powerful urge to write. It was like an act of desperation to purge what I was feeling. And it helped.

As I mentioned in a prior post, most poems I write are not rhymed. However, when I do write a rhymed poem, it's often in an attempt to be direct about something. The structure of the rhyme and rhythm force me to think and then images take form around what I feel and...out it comes. I wrote this in ten or twenty minutes and only did minor edits to it. It's a rough little ditty, but I'm pleased to have written something!

Baedeker Blues

I am an anagram
whose letters spell no words
My feet mired in earth
while I'm dreaming of birds

My compass spins
between what I feel and know
I doubt my direction
but my map says to go

Tears in my eyes
I take all the blame
Wondering if every road
would have ended the same

Looking forward does not help
for I'm coasting on prior dreams
whose realized realities
carry me off in chaotic streams

It's time to stop it all
running to nothing, regretting could-have-beens
Brave an uncharted path
until I am happy again

- Peter Cholewinski

Jean Moreas - 'The Symbolist Manifesto' (1886)

Jean Moreas

The next two books on my reading list are Bruges-la-Morte by Georges Rodenbach and Against Nature by Joris-Karl Huysmans. I was led to the books while reading an article in Apollo magazine (on of the art mags I subscribe to). I forget which article. Anyway since these are both Symbolist novels, I thought I would post The Symbolist Manifesto by Jean Moreas.

I didn't really know very much about Symbolism but, in getting to know more about it, I ran across this quote from French symbolist poet Stephane Mallarme: "Paint not the thing itself but the effect that it produces." As I've read more, I've sensed that Symbolism may have been one of the movements that ultimately launched the trajectory of modern art that fueled movements like Fauvism, Surrealism, Cubism, and Dada. The movement was embraced by novelists and poets, as well as artists and seems to embrace the decadent, the ornate, the wordy, and the imagination. The mythic image of Edgar Allen Poe is very much part of the Symbolist ethos.

I lifted this translation from the website Mutable Sound. As some of the sentences seem a little odd, I'm thinking this was either translated a long time ago or is simply a somewhat indifferent translation. But who cares? Stuff like this needs to be preserved in some form! Enjoy (I've included examples of Symbolist art throughout the post).

Gustave Moreau, Young Thracian Woman
Carrying the Head of Orpheus

The Symbolist Manifesto by Jean Moreas (translator: C. Liszt)

As with all arts, literature evolves: a cyclical evolution with strictly determined returns and which become more complicated of various modifications brought by the step of time and the confusion of circles. It would be superfluous to point out that every new progressive stage of art corresponds exactly to senile degeneration, at the ineluctable end of the immediately previous school. Two examples will be enough: Ronsard triumphs over the impotence of the last impressionists of Marot, Romanticism unfurls its royal flag on the classical debris badly kept by Casimir Delavigne and Steven de Jouy. It is because any demonstration of art succeeds inevitably in becoming impoverished, in exhausting itself; then, of copy in copy, simulation in simulation, what was full of sap and freshness becomes dried out and shriveled; what was the new and the unprompted becomes banal and commonplace.

So Romanticism, having sounded all the tumultuous warning bells of uprising, had its days of glory and battle, lost of its force and its favour, abdicated its heroic boldness, became ordered and classified, sceptical and full of common sense; in the honorable and mean-minded attempts of the Parnassians, Romanticism hoped for a false resurgence, only finally, such a monarch had to fall into senile decay, and in the end was only able to be dethroned for the naturalism in which one could grant seriously a value of protest only, legitimate but poorly advised, against the insipidity of some novelists then in fashion.

One waited for a new manifestation of art therefore, necessary, unavoidable. This manifestation, brooded for a long time, has just hatched. And every insignificant practical joke of the cheery-eyed press, all the anxieties of the serious critics, every bad mood of the surprised public in its sheepish carelessness, are only bringing about this actual evolution in french letters more and more every day, this evolution which impatient judges have noted to be, by an incredible antinomy, decadent. However, decadent literature is principally tough, stringy, timorous and servile: all the tragedies of Voltaire, for instance, are marked with these signs of decadence. And for what of these reproaches can be claimed as regards the new school? The abuse of pomp, strangeness of metaphor, a new vocabulary or harmony go together with colours and lines: characteristics of any revival.

We have already offered the name of symbolism as the only one able of indicating reasonably the actual tendencies of the creative mind in art. This name can be supported.

It was said at the beginning of this article that the developments of art offer cyclical extremely complicated differences: for example, to track the exact parentage of the new school we should go back to certain poems of Alfred de Vigny, and on up to Shakespeare, even mystical, even further. These issues would require a volume of reviews, saying that Charles Baudelaire therefore must be considered the true forerunner of the current movement, Mr. Stéphane Mallarmé subdivides the sense of mystery and the ineffable Mr. Paul Verlaine broke his honor in the cruel hindrances to poetry that the prestigious fingers of Mr Theodore de Banville had softened up before him. But the Supreme enchantment is not yet consummated: a persistent and jealous labor invites newcomers.

***

Enemy of education, declamation, wrong feelings, objective description, symbolist poetry tries to dress the Idea in a sensitive form which, however, would not be its sole purpose, but furthermore that, while serving to express the Idea in itself, would remain subjective. The Idea, in its turn, should not be allowed to be seen deprived of the sumptuous lounge robes of extraneous analogies; because the essential character of symbolic art consists in never approaching the concentrated kernel of the Idea in itself. So, in this art, the pictures of nature, the actions of human beings, all concrete phenomena would not themselves know how to manifest themselves; these are presented as the sensitive appearance destined to represent their esoteric affinity with primordial Ideas.

The accusation of obscurity that has been made as regards such aesthetics by readers with broken staffs is not surprising. But what do we make of this? The Pythian Odes of Pindar, Hamlet of Shakespeare, the Vita Nuova of Dante, the Second Faust of Goethe, the Temptation of Saint-Antoine of Flaubert were not they also taxed by ambiguity?

For the precise translation of its synthesis, it is necessary for symbolism to take on an archetypal and complex style; of unpolluted terms, periods which brace themselves alternating with periods of undulating lapses, significant pleonasms, mysterious ellipses, outstanding anacoluthia, any audacious and multiform surplus; finally the good language – instituted and updated–, good and luxuriant and energetic french language from before Vaugelas and Boileau-Despréaux, the language of François Rabelais and Philippe de Commines, Villon, Ruteboeuf and so many other free writers hurling their acute language in the same manner as the Toxotes of Thrace hurled their snaky arrows.

Rhythm: the ancient metric enlivened; a chaos learnedly ordered; the rhyme illucescente and beaten as a buckler of gold and bronze, to rhymes of unintelligible fluidity; the alexandrine with numerous and mobile stopping; the job of first certain numbers – seven, nine, eleven, thirteen – bold in the various rhythmic combinations of which they are the price.

***

Here I ask the permission of you to act out my small INTERMEZZO drawn from a precious book: The Treaty of French Poetry, where Mr Theodore de Banville made to relentlessly incite, such the God of Claros, monstrous donkey ears on the head of many a Midas.

Attention!

John William Waterhouse, The Crystal Ball

The figures who speak in the room are:
A DETRACTOR OF The SYMBOLIC SCHOOL
MR THEODORE DE BANVILLE
ERATO

THE DETRACTOR. – oh! these decadent! What a grandiloquence! What a rigmarole! Our grand Molière was right when he said:

This style represents a vainglory which they call

Fate of good character and the truth.

THEODORE DE BANVILLE. – our grand Molière describes two evils towards which they themselves bring out as many good characters as possible. Of what good character? Of what truth? Apparent disorder, bright insanity, passionate grandiloquence are the truth of lyric poetry. To fall in the excess of figures and colour, the evil is not great and it is not thereabouts that our literature will perish. In the most poor days, when it expires undoubtedly, as for instance under the first Empire, it is not grandiloquence and abuse of the ornaments which kill it, it is the platitude. Taste and the natural are nice things surely less useful in poetry than they think. The Romeo and Juliet of Shakespeare is throughout written in a style as affected as that of the marquis of Mascarille; that of Ducis shines with the happiest and most natural simplicity.

THE DETRACTOR. – but the caesura, the caesura! They violate the caesura!!

THEODORE DE BANVILLE. – in his remarkable prosody published in 1844, Mr Wilhem Tenint establishes that Alexandrine poetry accepts twelve different combinations, on the basis of poetry with its caesura after the first syllable, to arrive at poetry which has its caesura after the eleventh syllable. It amounts to saying that in reality the caesura can be put after any syllable of Alexandrine poetry. Also, it establishes that it is acceptable to have poems with caesuras after the sixth, seventh, eighth, or ninth, or tenth syllables, of all manner of variety and diverse placement. Let us go further: let us dare to proclaim complete freedom and say that in these complex questions the ear decides alone. They perish always without ever having been too audacious but rather not having been audacious enough.

THE DETRACTOR. – terror! You do not respect the alternation of rhymes! You know, Mister, that the decadent dare to afford even gaps! even gaps!!

THEODORE DE BANVILLE. – gaps, the diphthong clearing up syllables in the poem, all other things which were forbidden and especially the facultative job of the masculine and female rhymes provides the poet of genius one thousand means to create delicate effects always various, unforeseen, and bottomless. But to use this complicated and learned poetry, genius and a musical ear is needed, while with the fixed rules, the most mediocre writers can, by obeying them truthfully, make, alas! fairly good poems! Who therefore earned anything in the regulation of poetry? The mediocre poets. Themselves!

THE DETRACTOR. – it seems to me however that the romantic revolution…

THEODORE DE BANVILLE. – Romanticism was an incomplete revolution. Whatever misfortune Victor Hugo, that victorious Hercules with his bloody hands, is not an absolute revolutionary. He let live a party of monsters who were his responsibility to exterminate with his arrows of fire!

THE DETRACTOR. – any renovation is madness! The simulation of Victor Hugo, here is the starting point of french poetry!

THEODORE DE BANVILLE. – when Hugo emancipated poetry, those who taught using his example had to think the poets to come would like him be free and only constrained by they themselves. But this has become for us a love of servitude which the new poets have copied and imitated in their envy for his forms, the combinations, the chalice, the further habits of Hugo, rather than endeavoring to find the new. That’s how, manufactured for the yoke, we fall again from one serfhood into another one. After the classical banality, there was the romantic banality, the banality of the chalice, the banality of sentences, the banality of rhymes; and the banality, that is to say the commonplace become a compulsive thing, in poetry as anywhere else, it is Death. Contrariwise, let us dare to live! and to live it is to sniff the air of the sky and not the breath of our neighbour, this neighbour he should be a God!

Scène II

(Invisible) ERATO. – your Treaty of French Poetry is a delightful, chief work Banville. But the young poets have some blood until with eyes battling against monsters they graze by the side of Nicolas Boileau; they claim you in the field of honour, and you are silent mister Banville!

THEODORE DE BANVILLE (dreamer). – curse! I would have failed in my duty of elder and of lyricist!

(The author of the Exiles pushes out a pitiful sigh and the intermezzo finishes.)

***

Prose – novels, news, stories, fancies, – evolves in a similar sense as does the poem. Elements, seemingly heterogeneous, coincide in that place: Stendhal brings the translucent psychology, Balzac the swelling vision, Flaubert the cadenzas of sentences in ample volutes. Mr Edmund de Goncourt his evocative modernist impressionism.

The comprehension of the symbolic novel is polymorphous: sometimes a unique figure moves in circles distorted by his clean hallucinations, his constitution; in this distortion lies the only reality. Beings in a mechanical gesture, in shaded silhouettes, fidget around the unique personage: these are to him only pretexts to feeling and to guess-work. This in itself is a tragic or farcical mask, of a humanity nevertheless perfect although rational. – sometimes the mob, superficially affected by the ensemble of ambient representations, itself borne along with these alternatives, these conflicts and stagnances towards acts which will abide in incompletion. By instants, individual wills manifest themselves; they earn, gather together, spread for a purpose which, attained or missed, disperses them in the primitive elements. – Sometimes mythical recalled fantasies, from ancient Démogorgôn through Bélial, from Kabires through Nigromans, appear sumptuously grouped on the rock of Caliban or by the forest of Titania in mixolydian modes of the barbitons and octocordes.

So contemptuous of the babyish method of naturalism, – Mr Zola, shone, was saved by his marvellous writer’s instinct – the symbolic novel – impressionism will build up its edifice of subjective perversion, based on this axiom: that art would not know how to search into the objective, what an extremely succinct and simple starting point.

Ferdinand Hodler, Night

Amy Herzog - '4000 Miles'

As mentioned in a prior post, I have assigned myself a reading list for the late winter early spring (maybe it just seems like late winter since we've hardly had any snow!). While I just finished a Zola novel, the official start is now. I have seven books stacked on my desk in order of length (starting with short stuff to build momentum). So my first read is very short, a play. Amy Herzog's 4000 Miles. I decided to add this after reading a conversation with Herzog in BOMB.

I've always found that reading drama is a bit dicey. It's a play; you're supposed to watch it be performed. You're not supposed to read it. Plus, I think I'm also below average at successfully reading drama. But anyway...

My first reaction after finishing the play was: "That's it?"  It seemed like nothing much happened. However, as the play simmered in my mind a bit, I started to realize what Herzog was doing. As it began to sink in, it made me think Herzog is a really good writer! Very adept at avoiding those cheesy melodramatic 'moments of truth' and yet still giving us the payoff such moments usually deliver.

As usual on this blog, I'll avoid saying too much about the plot since I hate to be a spoiler. However, what this play seems to be about is closing distances (hence the clever title) in relationships. The two central characters - Leo and his grandmother Vera - live very far apart from each other. He ends up crashing a her place after riding his bike across the country. At the start of the play, Vera has her dead husband's name on the buzzer and trades calls everyday with a neighbor she doesn't like to make sure neither dies and rots for three days before they are found. This is clearly a disconnected woman.

Leo, on the other hand, seems to be breaking up with everyone in his life for one reason or another. In the middles of crossroads in his life, he decides to bike across the country (almost as if running away). In Scene Two, he professes that "if you approach people with love and trust you can count on getting the same things back from them". However, he approaches his grandmother as if he's a pest and seems more than a little wary of her. He uses his approach with absolute strangers but not his own grandmother.

4000 Miles is about closing these distances. It's very well done in that, like I said, it avoids any unrealistic and maudlin moments. On the other hand, I think I might have enjoyed to see and feel the transition a bit more in the characters. The scenes in the play are windows into the unexpectedly long visit that Leo has with Vera. You can see the progress the characters are making with each other and the way connection is forged. However, for me, it would have felt better to see and feel the relationship build as opposed to the scene-by-scene 'progress reports'. Now I imagine that much of that feeling is up to the actors to convey in their performances, which means Herzog gives her cast a lot of room to drive the emotional core of her story.

I enjoyed reading 4000 Miles and will probably re-read it at some point to deepen my grasp of what Herzog is dealing with. I'd would love to see it performed live or to see another play by Herzog (assuming this one has finished its run). Best of all, I feel as though I encountered something very subtle and natural in her approach to characterization and plot movement that feels very special and unique. Enjoyable to see such control and confidence and certainly something to learn from.

BOMB

This entry is a plug!

I'm a bit of a classicist as far as art and literature go. Pretty much always reading and viewing stuff by dead people. If it's survived, then there's a better chance it's good right? I'm probably that way mostly with literature, while with art I enjoy more contemporary work and definitely with music I'm into digging around into current stuff. Lately, I've become more interested in being aware of current literature and art than ever before. It's not easy finding a way to do this outside of just randomly buying books, which seems inefficient. One magazine that has been helping is BOMB.

What I enjoy most about BOMB is the format. In a lot of magazines which feature interviews with creative people, you get a writer who rattles on about what they think and feel for a page and then a short quote from the creative person in question. Then more explication. It can get so bad sometimes that I feel like I'm reading an essay rather than an interview or a profile. I'm just not interested in the journalist. In BOMB, the format is having artists interview each other. As a result, each issue is a series of transcripts of conversations between creative people. I find this much more insightful, and I get a feel for the person behind the creativity and how they think about things.

BOMB also provides photos of artwork, short stories, and poetry. Some of it I dislike of course, and some of it makes me go 'meh'. However, given my love of the old, I'm amazed how much of it I connect with and/or piques my curiosity. I've picked up several things I might never have heard about as a result of BOMB. Musically, I bought All Hell by Daughn Gibson and Ascent by Six Organs of Admittance. I've just read the play 4000 Miles by Amy Herzog and my reading list for the next few months includes Ether by Ben Ehrenreich and Cervantes Street by Jaime Manrique.

It feels good to start getting in touch , in some fashion, with contemporary output.

Follow-up to 'Phoenixing'

So the reason I blogged about the concept of 'phoenixing' is that I'm in the middle of a life process that is either really mature or just not good at all. In the past, phoenixing was something that just sort of happened. I mean, it took concentrated effort but it's not as if I planned it or anything. I may have become aware that it was happening towards the end, and I can recall a few times dancing to 'New Attitude' by Patti LaBelle when I did realize it (yes, I just admitted that). However, I have never consciously decided to phoenix.

Right now, for the first time, I am making a conscious effort to phoenix. If you've read my blog, you'll notice there are posts titled 'Back To...' Back to Piano. Back to Art. Back to the Gym. Some of these 'back to' entries were premature, because I fell away from the important thing I'd got back to. The reason for all this back to stuff and the mixed results arising from it was my job. It was just sucking up all my time and energy and desire.

I have a new job now, and I work at home. This is a new way of living, and it forces me to reconstruct my life so that my job is an organic part of my existence. My goal is that doing this will allow me to keep going with some of the things I got back to and make a second stab with some of the ones I got back to and then fell away from. Plus, there's plenty I've been wanting to do and just didn't have the time or energy.

So far, my efforts have been modest. I set aside time during my workday for brief mental breaks. For instance, I finish a report and then go play piano for twenty minutes. Or I check some data and then read a few articles in one of my magazines so my pile doesn't get too high. I've started thinking about out how to integrate work outs with work, which is tough because I love to start work early in the morning (as in 6AM!). Just trying out various ways to keep fresh and re-energize myself. Kind of a make-over really.

More broadly, and for after hours, I've created a reading list to keep my momentum going there, and I'm considering going back to school for another Masters degree.  A lot of thinking/dreaming/planning right now, with baby steps of action. However, the idea is that I'm taking back control of my life and, in so doing, am consciously trying to phoenix.  I'm not sure that can work. Never tried it before.

We'll see.

But for now..."I'm in control, my worries are few...ooh ooh, ooh ooh ooooooooh!"

Thomas Mann - Death in Venice (1912)

Death in Venice is a short read, probably more a novella than a novel, but it is fascinating. I read the translation by Michael Henry Heim (pictured here) and found it beautifully rendered, though obviously I cannot comment on how 'faithfully' it was translated. I was attracted to this book because - again - it was written by a brilliant author (who happens to be gay) at the start of the last century.

The plot concerns a repressed older man named Gustav Aschenbach, a celebrated writer and leading thinker of his time.  Acting on a sudden impulse, Aschenbach travels in order to reinvigorate his interest in his latest writing project. He ends up in Venice, where he is dazzled by an extremely handsome teen-aged Polish boy named Tadzio. Aschenbach falls in love with Tadzio but also learns that there is a deadly cholera outbreak in Venice, which is being hushed up so as not to scare tourists away.

That's a spare plot but, as with most novels from this period, the real point is philosophical and interior. As the novel progresses and Aschenbach becomes more obsessed with Tadzio, he comprehends the immorality of his feelings but has little desire to curb them. As he learns more and more clearly how serious the cholera threat is, he never warns Tadzio or his parents to leave. I found this repulsive and certainly picked out the nasty parallel between the callous greed of the Venetians towards the tourists and Aschenbach's failure to warn the object of his feelings.

If you read no deeper than this, Death in Venice ends up being a tawdry story about a pedophile, complete with self-deluded justifications. However, this is the wrong way to interpret the story. First of all, I question whether Tadzio is real or just in Aschenbach's head. Second, even if Tadzio is real, I don't think Aschenbach's interest in him is truly sexual. Rather, Tadzio is a symbol for 'the ideal youth' Aschenbach missed in his own life and now regrets. For me, the Greek mythological imagery that peppers the text encourages this interpretation. At first, the passages use Greek imagery to describe how handsome Tadzio is (impossibly handsome really). Later this imagery transforms into a nightmarish bacchanal rite. Towards the very end of the book, it transforms again. As Aschenbach follows Tadzio and his family around Venice with the boy looking back to "make certain his admirer was still following him", I read it as a variation on the Orpheus myth with Aschenbach cast as Eurydice. Given that the cholera epidemic is in full rage, the fact Aschenbach loses sight of Tadzio here makes the metaphor fit and resonate. Finally, in the very last page Tadzio is portrayed as if he is a siren, and the ending certainly suggests his 'attractive power' has led to a fatal conclusion.

So what to make of all this? It feels as if Aschenbach (and by extension Mann who was a homosexual pretending to be straight and married) is musing over his youth and the lost potential it represents. Aschenbach fights by breaking his erudite but sterile existence but, more obviously and ridiculously, also has himself literally made-over to try to look younger. From what I have read of other readers' comments, earlier translations of Death in Venice either shroud the homosexual overtones or cast them deliberately as pedophilia, completely missing the point because they are blinded by knee-jerk homophobia.

It probably required a gay man (or critic) at some point to surface the true theme contained in Death in Venice and encourage its translation. This novel is not about a love affair with a teen-age boy (note that the book never goes there). It's about feelings of loss gay men may have when thinking back on our youth before we came out. These are complex feelings because while they involve regret, they do not mean regretting the course of one's life. There is a bittersweet, almost poetic, sensibility bleeding out of Mann's prose. Perhaps this was doomed to be overlooked until attitudes towards homosexuality became less hysterical and newer translations could bring the truth of this novel to light.

Mann understands clearly the danger these emotions represent. At the beginning of chapter three, he has Aschenbach express his disgust for the 'make-over' tactic, when he witnesses the same thing being done by another older man. Mann's only possible point with this passage is to clarify that the attempt to recapture youth is pathetic and doomed to failure. Aschenbach himself, however, is carried away through Tadzio and is "no longer inclined to self-criticism...reluctant to analyze motives". He loses his sense of objectivity and becomes trapped by his regrets, feelings, and musings. He cannot move on, either physically - by leaving Venice - or mentally.

This idea of youth being forever lost is taken to an even deeper level in the text. Mann describes Tadzio - or more specifically youth in general - metaphorically through the myth of Hyacinth who "loved by two gods was doomed to death". Another parallel is drawn to Narcissus, the handsome young man who fell in love with his reflection and died (an obvious cautionary message there). More prosaically, Aschenbach notices that Tadzio bears physical traits that suggest he is not destined to live long. Repeatedly, as the book progresses, there is an inextricable link forged between the beauty or potential of Tadzio/youth and it's fleeting quality.

This all makes it clear that Aschenbach's attraction to Tadzio and his failure to help him by revealing what he knows about the cholera plague is not a story about pedophilia. Mann is writing a goodbye letter to his youthful self. It's about how beautiful our youth is, yet a recognition that it must end and we have to let it go.  We all grow older, and there is an inevitable sense of loss related to this passage.

I'll rest my case by noting Mann wrote Death in Venice after an actual encounter where he saw a handsome young Polish man while on vacation with his family. His wife noted the encounter in interviews but said Mann did not pursue the young man as Aschenbach did. It's also telling that Mann was in his late thirties when he wrote Death in Venice, about the time many men may end up reassessing who they are on some level. I know I did. This passage is often spoofed and dismissed as the 'mid-life crisis', involving fast red cars, comb-overs, divorce, and affairs with bimbos. However, for many men - obviously Mann and definitely for me - it's not like that at all. It's a point to stop and think about the difference between being a 'young man' and a 'man'. Death in Venice is about this rite of passage, although it is a tragedy because it focuses on man who is unable to let go of his youth and move forward.

Phoenixing

image source: thephoenix.webs.com

When I was a kid I loved mythology. Just gobbled it up. Jason and the Argonauts, the twelve labors of Hercules, the Odyssey. You name it, I read it and loved it. I wanted to be these heroes. But there was also a more mystical side to my love of mythology as well, a kind of symbolism I cultivated which came to light in my work as a nascent poet. Chief among these symbols was the phoenix. Naturally it was a symbol of rebirth for me, but it also became a symbol of action in that regard. A verb. Since then, in life, I have several time quite literally 'phoenixed'. I shed an old life for something completely new.

The first time I did it was when I was 15 or 16. But a little background first.

As soon as I hit my teens, I crashed and splattered against a wall of who I was. I had a painfully tough time adjusting to the emotions and attractions that came from being a young gay man who didn't know (and didn't want to know) he was gay. There were no positive role models, plenty of negative ones on TV and in movies, and everyone around me condemning me for being 'different'. It was not unusual for me to be called a 'faggot' by kids at school; some of them clearly hated me for no reason other than that. Besides this, I didn't fit in because I liked music and art and writing, and I didn't care about being popular or going to prom or dressing the right way.

To me, most of the kids around me seemed to have had their lives planned out before they had made any choices for themselves. You go to school, fit in, prepare for college, get a degree in something like business, get a job, work a lot of hours, get married, buy a house, have kids... It felt like a machine sucking living creatures into it and spitting them out as deluded zombies who never had a chance to learn who and what they were before being shellacked with white, protestant, upper middle class values and trajectories. I could tell some kids were okay with it because it's who they were in fact. However, I felt the majority were conforming partially or entirely due to the social pressure to do so. And I rejected this.

Ironically, part of the reason I was able to do so was because I was different. I wasn't well-suited to the gravity of expectations in the town where I grew up. This gave me the breathing space needed to stop, think, resist, and ultimately to fly free of what I saw as a sewer of gleeful self-immolation. Of course, while I was very clear about what I didn't want to be I had no notion of what I did want to be...and in many ways that's the worst situation to be in of them all. And without that guiding understanding or goal, swimming upstream and moving against the grain was even harder. Not licking the boots of the popular kids was a mortal sin, not caring that they thought I dressed funny was criminal, and being different was social poison. Doing all these things with no apparent reason behind it could only come off as 'rebel without a clue'.

Anyway, for several years I was extraordinarily depressed. I felt trapped, spit on, directionless, hopeless. I had a few adults step forward to provide guidance, but the majority - especially teachers at school - were only too eager to ad their voices and hatred to the cacophony of 'the crowd' and its universal condemnation of 'me'. Wheaton is also a very religious town, and the religious institutions I went to or to which my friends tried to introduce me pretty much poured acid on me from the moment they laid eyes on me. It seemed that no matter which way I turned, the door was shut and I was 'other'.

It was art, writing, and music that saved me. My creativity was my sanctuary and my therapy. It was where I could express feelings I could not put into words. I could explore the questions I didn't know how to ask. It was my safety valve, and it kept me going for a good six to eight years. Looking back, when I was writing or drawing, I was in a form of meditation. It was not a very disciplined form of it, but some of the essentials of the practice were there in larval form. So I'm sure this is what helped me to hold onto reality and fight back the delusion around me.

Anyway...back to phoenixing...

When I was 15 or so, long before I'd found my way out of this multi-minotaur labyrinth I had been plopped in the middle of, I had a major insight. I realized that though I had allowed myself not to fit in, I had not embraced my 'otherness'. I didn't realize this in words, but I do remember thinking: "You know what I'm different, and they hate me. So why not be real different? Why not go all the way in that direction?" I openly pursued my creative side; I made over my clothing in the new wave/new romantic style of the early 80s (think Duran Duran, Annie Lennox, and Mad Max) to ensure I stood out; I made a whole new crop of friends. I 'made myself over', not just in appearance but my attitude and my life as well. It was a transformation, and I called it 'phoenixing'.

It was still very hard to stand up for myself, and I still had no idea how to deal with the horrible secret of being gay (which weighed very heavily on me all the time). I still had little sense of where I was going. However, I did feel a certain sense of ease and happiness come to me, the true freedom that comes from embracing yourself and having faith that - wherever the hell I didn't know I was going - I had me. I was happy with that.

Phoenixing was very symbolic for me, almost like my own religious rite. Not to be practiced often and only with the utmost seriousness. Each time, it was as if an old phase of my life and myself were consumed in fire and replaced by something new. It was still the same old me, but the 'next level' so to speak. And I was ready to go in that new phase the moment it happened and propelled myself forward in some important, visible way in a very short period of time. Often with people around me noticing and commenting on the sudden change.

I've phoenixed several times in my life since then. It happened in 1988 as part of my decision to go away to college. Then again in 1990 partly due to my coming out. In 1993, with my move into the city. In 1994, as I changed the direction of my career and life. It happened in 1998 when Jim and I bought the house and I moved back to the burbs for a new life, and it happened in 2007 when I turned 40 and reassessed myself through that lens. In each case, career, home, relationships...my entire direction and self-awareness...changed. I fully expect that it will happen again, perhaps many more times in my life. It's the most important experience in life, because it's about growing.

Iron Monkey

This 2002 movie has a lot of potential: The director (Yuen Wo Ping) has done many martial arts movies, and it stars the talented martial artist Donnie Yen. There was also a reasonable cast and plot (about talented martial arts masters playing Robin Hood against a greedy governor) to hold together the many fight scenes.

Naturally, there is some wire-fu since the fight scenes are choreographed by the same people who gave us Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. However, do not expect the fluidity of those fights here; the budget behind Iron Monkey was clearly a lot lower. Even so, the wire-fu is not annoyingly overdone, and there is plenty of skill on display (mostly from Donnie Yen, of course).

Unfortunately, Iron Monkey is so poorly shot that it's sometimes difficult to appreciate the skill of the fighters. There are also too many scenes of 'comic relief' involving the corrupt governor, who is a horny buffoon. For me, this made the movie much sillier than it had to be and detracted from the martial arts.

A lot of people rate Iron Monkey very high as a martial arts flick, but I found it reasonable and not much more. I might watch it again someday, but it's definitely not a 'must-see'.

Polish Ancestry?

Cholewa coat of arms

One thing that happened as a result of reading With Fire and Sword and then the rest of the Trilogy (see last post) was that I got very interested in Polish history. I had never dug much into that side of my heritage but, as I read more about Poland, I was increasingly fascinated by the country's impressive history.

While digging around, I found that - at least according to Wikipedia - this Polish coat of arms was "used by several szlachta families in the times of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth". The families who used it included my last name! Now, of course, I have no idea if this is a definitive connection of any kind or if my family tree even extends back that far. Still it's intriguing to think this might be a part of my history. Further, from what I understand, if I could trace my family back to Poland then the Catholic Church in the town we came from will likely have the family history going back for centuries. Could be exciting to learn about all this (although I have no doubt there are some dark pages in the recent history of the family).

Reading opens all sorts of doors to us. Maybe someday I'll walk through this one to learn more about where I came from. It's interesting how much we can learn about who we are from even the distant past.

Turning to Henryk Sienkiewicz

One of my favorite authors (if not my absolute favorite) is Henryk Sienkiewicz. He wrote what is in my opinion one of the best - if not the best - piece of literature I've ever read (The Deluge), however I love almost everything I've ever read by him. So after being run over by the nihilistic steamroller that was Celine's Journey to the End of the Night and deciding my next read had to be something by an author whose works are more on the heroic side, I turned to Henryk.

He's huge in Poland, and I am half Polish! He achieved his success largely based on three novels he wrote called 'the Trilogy'. The Trilogy is a historical saga with a highly nationalistic themes set during the Polish Commonwealth of the 1600s. The novels were written at a time when Poland had lost its independence so, in some ways, they were a bolster to the pride of the Polish people. Each of the three novels is massive. The first book of the Trilogy is With Fire and Sword which comes in at 1,135 pages. It's also the first book of his that I read. The second book in the Trilogy (The Deluge) is 1,761 pages, while the final novel (Pan Michael) is a mere 714 pages. But the page counts don't matter. All the books in the Trilogy, especially the first two, are epic adventures. Real page-turners in every sense of the word.

There are several reason his books grab me so much. First, his characters are awesome. I can't imagine anyone not falling in love with the always ready to go drinking, cowardly...rather sketchy...but when the chips are down fiercely loyal Pan Zagloba. It's impossible not to like and root for tomboy Basia. Pan Yan is the epitome of 'hero' and he's a fantastic protagonist. Not only are the characters involving, but the plots are epic in scope and fantastic reads. On top of this, Sienkiewicz creates a strong thematic backdrop for those looking for such things.

Aside from his many adventure novels, he wrote Quo Vadis about the rise of Christianity during the Roman Empire. He also penned a more interior novel in Without Dogma, earning the deep admiration of none other than the brilliant Leo Tolstoy. The quality of Sienkiewicz's work ultimately won him the 1905 Nobel Prize for Literature.

So, as I said, when I needed some fresher air after Celine. Sienkiewicz was the first author I thought to turn to. This time, I'm tackling the final major novel of his that I have not read: Children of the Soil. I have little information about the plot, so I'm flying blind here. But so far I'm enjoying it very much.

If you want to try out Sienkiewicz, I would suggest either In Desert and Wilderness (his 'children's story'), Quo Vadis, or With Fire and Sword.

Pete and Jim's Holiday Party Photos

Here are the photos from the party. This time, I made like the paparazzi at a red carpet event and went around shooting pics. The results may be a bit more posed than usual...but we look so good! Thanks to everyone who came; we're so happy you could join us!

Happy Holidays everyone!