McCandless & Dillard

Although I am not yet very far into the reading of Into the Wild, I did watch the film version last night and have plenty of initial reactions. First, let me just recommend the film to anyone who hasn't seen it. It is incredibly well crafted and performed; and in the end, it poses more questions than it answers, which is something I really like in a film. ($2.99 Amazon-on-Demand, rent it!)

Clearly, the biggest question is whether to esteem McCandless for staying true to his ideals, despite where they led, or to condemn him for attempting a foolish and unreasonable existence. Both points of view are based on a number of assumptions concerning the ways in which one “ought” to live one's life, and I think that a case could be justified for either opinion of McCandless.

I can't help but think of Annie Dillard's “Living Like Weasels” when I think of McCandless. The obvious connection between the two individuals is the desire to be alone/at one with nature, but many of the questions posed and ideas posited in “Living Like Weasels” relate directly to McCandless' schema. Near the end of her essay, Dillard describes her desired way of living in relation to that of weasel as “choosing the given with a fierce and pointed will.” The apparent contradiction of choosing a given to me seems to relate directly to McCandless' choice of lifestlye. He held himself to a rigorous moral code and conducted his journey with an inflexible creed. He knew there were other approaches, yet to him there was only one way to do it. Thus, he burned his cash, abandoned his car, and stayed in one place only as long as he needed. His chosen way of life was the given. As Dillard writes and McCandless does, “I could very calmly go wild.”

In the penultimate paragraph of “Living Like Weasels,” Dillard reflects, “The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting...yielding at every moment to the perfect freedom of a single necessity.” To the folks who regard McCandless as a reckless fool, he was fighting, fighting the systematized way of life that they themselves take for granted as the given. But to McCandless, I think, and to those who sympathize with his cause (even if we don't have the guts to do it ourselves), it is most definitely a yielding. Once one recognizes the true course one is meant to take, there is little to be done except be carried away by one's own passion and involvement in seeking the fruition of that passion. Of course, that passion isn't always the desire to be a “leather tramp” or to make on one's own in the wilderness of the Yukon, but I think that anyone who recognizes at what Dillard is pointing cannot help but to feel some sympathy for McCandless.

That being said, the final paragraph of "Living Like Weasels" has a particular, chilling resonance with McCandless' fate, though somewhat different from the slightly indulgent connections I have drawn thus far.  Remember the image of the weasel cleaved to the flying eagle from the beginning of Dillard's essay?  Okay good, so I'm just going to leave with her ending now because I think it speaks for itself:

I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you're going no matter how you live, cannot you part. Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop; let your musky flesh fall off in shreds, and let your very bones unhinge and scatter, loosened over fields, over fields and woods, lightly, thoughtless, from any height at all, from as high as eagles.

Love letter to SEA

I've been meaning to compose a formal imitation of Spalding Gray's love letter to NYC since we discussed it class, and I finally did it.  I wrote it to Thailand, of course, and here it is:

Dear South East Asia,

            For four years, I lived with you and learned to cherish you. I came to you because I sought anomaly and found marvels everywhere I looked. I fled North America and came to Thailand, that kingdom on the peninsula of Indochina, where humid graciousness was paramount and everyone reserved judgment yet intimated uncanny spirit. You gave me an increase of concession because you are so extraordinary.

            When I was a student, my professor assigned an ethnography of Western Apaches. It explores wisdom's situation in physical places and in the preface one conception reads:

Consistent with mundane daily experience, spacial constructs remain unconsidered, because experiencing unnerving dislocation is not in the typical practice of most individuals. However resulting such experiences, superlative enlightenment emerges distinctly.

            That is always South East Asia for me.

I hope that my paraphrase of Keith Basso's preface to Wisdom Sits in Places isn't too convoluted.  Summarizing this notion of how we construct space for ourselves to Gray's syntax was challenging indeed!

Swimming to Cambodia

I found Spalding Gray’s Swimming to Cambodia to be an incredibly moving piece. His brilliance derives from the simplicity with which he performs, calling forth a haunting minimalism that nearly explodes with weight and tension. His use of fragments and digressions give his monologue formal substance and reflect the debilitating psychosis that is at the heart of this piece. I can definitely appreciate what Luis mentioned in class the other day about Gray’s nonlinear form and how it allows him to weave in and out of the opposing emotions of transcendence and damnation, as experienced in the repetition of the “perfect moment” and the “free floating cloud of evil.” The bipolar tension between these deeply intense and symbolic sentiments seems to characterize not just the mood of this individual monologue, but also carry weight in the life of Gray, particularly in its tragic ending. The “perfect moment” and the “free floating cloud of evil” ultimately collide in the monologue (about three-quarters of the way through, if I remember correctly) in a moment of sublimity when Gray describes his experience in the waves: “And suddenly there is no fear because there is no body to bite. There are no outlines, there is no me.” The rate at which transcendence and damnation weave in and out of one another occurs so quickly that they ultimately are weaved together and create this perfect moment that is, in reality, clouded by the possibility of death; however, death—while it still exists—is not feared, because the moment is spiritual and signals a disconnect between body and mind. Transcendence for Gray has occurred, and it is a moment in which time ceases to exist; his voice temporarily calms and gives the impression that his floating is one of eternity—that Gray has been, currently is, and will forever be there floating (this of course is eerie, considering his suicide years later).

The wild, frantic gestures, the speed of narration, the intense spotlight, the sublime oceanic background, and the alterations in pitch that Gray uses in the waves scene (and throughout the piece) also seem to be a nod towards Artaud and his Theater of Cruelty. While my understanding of Artaud derives primarily from a lit class on drama, I can see his influence in the experimental performance art of Gray. Despite the relative simplicity of the performance and staging, it is precisely this minimalism that offers a theatrically overwhelming experience that calls into question not only the sanity of Gray and the characters he depicts, but also the good judgment of the audience who is called to engage with the monologue on a humanistic level. Ultimately, it is the theatrics of the production that carry the weight of language and often substitute for language in their significance, thus assaulting the audience in order to expose a harsh reality of which many are naïve. 

The People of Blue Highways

Hi All!

I want to take the opportunity here to write about a few of my thoughts while reading Blue Highways. I thought the book was pretty boring at first, and I felt guilty for thinking this while I was reading; I felt that I somehow wasn't doing my job as a reader to feel engaged in the text and I was getting frustrated with myself for not being as interested in the book as I wanted to be. I really didn't start to enjoy the book until William Least Heat Moon discusses his meeting with the monk in Conyers, Georgia. I thought this was a beautiful moment. The photo of Brother Patrick captivated me and I loved having the opportunity to connect the face with the dialogue and the monk's story. I really appreciate the photos that Heat-Moon included within the text because it verifies that he actually met these people and went on this journey, and this makes it much easier for me to take his account seriously. The two other people that intrigued me in the book were the God loving Arthur Bakke in Montana and the Native American student Kendrick Fritz from Utah. The photos and Heat-Moon's conversations with these two people made me want to meet them myself. William Least Heat-Moon has a wonderful knack of describing and connecting with people and I think this is what makes Blue Highways what it is. As Professor Urrea mentioned in class, Heat-Moon doesn't write particularly beautiful prose, but his experiences and the people he meets are what captivate people.

William Least Heat Moon on Telling the Truth

It seems we have often been talking about how much truth we find in the non-fiction we've read this semester. The attached videos offer Moon's take on two non-fiction problems: how to write honestly about material that is true but that reflects badly on people you care for, and how to protect the identities of real people while telling the true story. These are helpful perspectives, though perhaps controversial for anyone writing nonfiction.

Hunter S. Thompson

What a tragedy!

I'm always up for something new to digest in literature, yet Hunter was very out there for me to understand. The beginning of the novel, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, was very hard to get across. The writing technique that was presented I could not get in to. I felt like I was missing some important information. Our talks about what kind of person he was and how he lived his life were very informative and then I realized that this guy, really is hard to understand. I wonder how authors can get aware with being SO different. I'm not saying that being different is a bad thing because it is definitely not, but I think I have to get a better understanding of his other works and then come back to, Fear and Loathing. (I hope that is not bad). I could not get into the novel, it was too much of a tangent for me, could not get interested in the story.

I like the idea of traveling across the country, but I want to do it in a respectful way. I admire the challenge that was set forth in the novel, yet I'm not sure if I would go about writing a travel log in Hunter's way. It worked for him because he is this very eccentric guy who didn't give a crap about what people think, I admire that as well.

Since watching the Gonzo film, the day after I took out my type writer and started to fiddle around with it to try and capture what Hunter might have caught when he typed. I want to head back to the basics.

The Gonzo film was very interesting, I liked the documentary I got a chance to see how history is connected to everyone and how Hunter still lives (for the most part) in it.

I have an appreciation for the man, I wonder if given the chance if I would be able to stay in a room with him long enough to find out what was he thinking.

Annie Dillard on Absence

Annie Dillard on Absence
by Daniel Tucker

Review of Total Eclipse an essay featured on pages 9-28 in Teaching A Stone To Talk: Expeditions and Encounters by Annie Dillard (Harper and Row, 1982)

In her essay Total Eclipse, adored nature writer Annie Dillard describes in great detail her eclipse tracking and viewing trip from the coast to central Washington near Yakima. I guess it is less about the trip and more about the eclipse, but she makes the point that they traveled and she makes a bigger point to use the event of the eclipse to go in many wild directions. So it has a literal and metaphorical kind of travel going on.

The thing that struck me the most in Dillard’s description of the eclipse watching expedition was her description of everything she could not and did not see:

“Without pause or preamble, silent as orbits, a piece of the sun went away. We looked at it through welders’ goggles. A piece of the sun was missing; in its place we saw empty sky.”

She later continues to describe the optical transformation that occurred as the sun went away, comparing it to a historic film or a fantasy where nature looked metallic and screams emerged from the sky and everything was subsumed in a sublime vision that destroyed everything except the stars.

She takes liberty with the commonly encountered problem of how to write about something you cannot simply describe.

Final Prompt

I wanted to post my final prompt that we worked on in class the other day, for two reasons: to transcribe from the chicken scratch handwriting in my notebook so that I won't lose comprehension by the time I begin the paper and perhaps to receive any feedback from my wonderful classmates so here goes nothing...

What ticks me off is when an individual isn't true to who they are and in a culture where mass media reigns supreme, many truly aren't what they seem. Tweets get sent out to depict a life that everyone should envy, when in actuality that person's inner soul is empty. Smoking, drinking, and tattoos become labels of what's "cool" but should just be characteristics, instead of being all that defines you. Living to appease others means that you will never truly satisfy yourself. Following trends leads to following individuals and items and losing yourself as many can't draw the line between proper influences and potentially problematic changes to their life. The aforementioned actions aren't harmful when done in moderation but they are when sense of self is surrendered for simply squeezing into the mold others make for you. I simply want to see more people happy with who they are. But I digress...

That's what I wrote in class, verbatim, errors and all. I wanted to see if this was an efficient start and would it make sense to work in either "In Cold Blood" or "Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas" and how those individuals, though problematic in their own right, remained "true" to themselves. Any and all assistance will be greatly appreciated. Thanks everyone.

Dillard's Silence

I find myself falling within the class consensus on Annie Dillard. In reading Teaching a Stone to Talk, I easily recognized her distinguishable skill in using nature to explore the theological and the philosophical (or perhaps using the theological and the philosophical to explore nature—a fine distinction between the two, neither of which I see her shying away from), and yet most of her pieces left me unmoved, uninspired, and indeed not in touch with the sublime she works so hard to capture. Yet it’s difficult to actually determine what it is about her writing that is off-putting and perhaps even slightly disturbing. Of course, I’m willing to acknowledge that the ability to inspire such strong feelings—and strong feelings of quizzical indifference, nonetheless—is sign of individual talent, but where then lies the origin of my uncertain, skeptical, apathetic response? While this is incredibly difficult to answer, I suppose it may perhaps be the way in which Dillard examines and simultaneously uses the substance of silence as both a subject and mode of writing. Dillard certainly uses language as a means to speak and comment upon her foci of nature and spirituality, and yet silence permeates her work in a way that hushes and mutes any signs of ostentation that is characteristic of other writers who typically draw a widely favorable response from readers (hence my initial disconnect?). In her essay “Field of Silence,” Dillard describes the “roadside pastures heaped with silence…the fields bent just so under the even pressure of silence…disguised as fields like those which bear the silence only because they are spread, and the silence spreads over them, great in size” (132). This description of the burden of silence is applicable to her writing, for while language speaks, the “pressure of silence” and that which is unspoken spreads through the pages and calls upon the reader to hear that which has been suppressed. The beauty of Dillard’s writing is quiet and itself evocative of the sublime, issuing forth an eeriness, loneliness, and distance that can be haunting and oppressive. And while I may not be entirely enthusiastic of her work, I can certainly appreciate the subtle emotion that is wrought in the pressing silence of her writing. Perhaps teaching a stone to talk, then, is Dillard’s way of expressing the idea that silence speaks louder and resonates more strongly than language itself.

Joan Didion

Although we have already talked about Joan, I found myself picking up my copy of her stories the other day and re-reading through some of them. I have a sort of love/hate relationship with her up to this point. Most of her stories have this fantastic quality to them, and describe situations and the "American Dream" in much different ways than anything I've read. They are very honest, but seem to never be delivered to their potential. With many, I feel as though I get to the "juicy" part of the story, and then I'm left with nothing more. Sometimes this upsets me, as with a nonfiction piece, I expect their to be some kind of ending, even if it is a negative one. Joan seems to be more focused on leaving the hypothetical and unfinished dreams of depression up to the reader, forcing us to try to make a change based on the dramatic realism to be found within her work. I appreciate them for what they are, and do like them immensely, however, I do find myself wishing she would give me more. Especially since she is smarter than all of us! :)

Introduction

Hey all! For some reason, my Introduction never posted. My name is Jen, and I'm currently a senior ( graduating in May!) with a major in English and a minor in Communications. I have to say that since this is the end of my school career, it has been very nice to take this course thus far. Nonfiction has never been my forte, especially due to my love for fiction and fiction writing, however I have found many ways to connect with it.

It is very surprising to me that I have found several of our authors more than interesting, and view their works as art. This may be due to some of the background research that we have done as a class, which may expose some fallacies to the writings. Although some of this "nonfiction" may be based in fiction, it is attempting to tell a story in its truthfulness as best it can. For that, I am finding another dimension to writing that is assisting me in may of the things I am currently working on.

I hope that you all are enjoying the class as well! It's been a fun semester so far, and I hope that the final projects are interesting!

"I'm not making up any of these stories I'm telling you tonight."

This was one of the funniest parts I heard in Spalding Gray's "Swimming to Cambodia". In a way, it seemed to touch on each of the nonfiction books we've read this semester. What is true in each writer's story, and what makes it true?

Gray's monologue definitely has the feel of a set of anecdotes refined and enhanced over long practice. I felt very much like I was watching a comedy act although obviously some of the material was manic, dark, and disturbing. Since I missed seeing the movie in class, I watched the episodes via Youtube on my own, but I wish I'd experienced the reactions of the class during moments when he seems to pause for an effect or when he really got rolling on a topic. Like other bloggers here, I was distracted by his delivery and the odd sound effects that played at certain moments in his stories. I enjoyed some of his stories more than others, but I had a hard time connecting with Gray - he seemed so tense and at times rough-edged.

There were moments of such absurdity and ugliness in exploiting a people and a historic event for the entertainment of a movie, that I found myself wincing and wondering how he felt about it. Some of his stories were so matter-of-fact, I wondered if he found it as disturbing as I did, until his "Khmer Rouge Primer". The quote that made me believe he was disturbed by the massacre was this: "So five years of bombing, a diet of bark, bugs, lizards and leaves up in the Cambodian jungles, an education in Paris environs in a strict Maoist doctrine with a touch of Rousseau, and other things that we will probably never know about in our lifetime. Including perhaps an invisible cloud of evil that circles the Earth and lands at random in places like Iran, Beirut, Germany, Cambodia, America, set the Khmer Rouge out to commit the worst auto-homeo genocide in modern history."

Teaching a Stone to Talk

This book was one of my favorites of this semester, though I found it hard to read. I wasn't surprised that a lot of other students didn't care for it as much as I did. I think there are certain times when a book resonates with you because of where you've been and what you've experienced and what you are open to thinking about. When I was younger I didn't care much about spiritual things and over time my understanding of spirituality and God has become increasingly complex.

That is the beauty of Annie Dillard's writing, in my opinion. She reminds me of Flannery O'Connor, in the way they both have of examining a God who is awe-striking, glorious, and terrifying. For example, the excerpt we studied in class shows a supreme being that is not discussed in Sunday sermons or hymn books. She asks, "What do we make of a god who has created a giant bug that liquifies other animals and then sucks them dry?"

Sometimes her essays took a lot of detours, so it was hard to follow the point to the end. She made me laugh out loud at her image of all us church worshippers as dog-and-pony acts, circus performers, trying to get God's attention, trying to please him with our contortions and exhortations. Mainstream Christianity likes to portray Jesus as our divine buddy, but in reality we are probably more like the wasp bumbling around the room not finding the open doors and windows. She writes of the divine as something we may strain to understand but is so much more complex and rough-edged than we want to make it.

One part of the essay "Teaching a Stone to Talk" moved me to tears. It is when she says, “It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave. It is hard to desecrate a grove and change your mind. The very holy mountains are keeping mum. We doused the burning bush and cannot rekindle it; we are lighting matches in vain under every green tree.” I think that when one has had an intimate, personal encounter with the Divine and then turned away, there is that longing and loss that she describes. She also writes, “I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. So once in Israel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid.”   There are so many moments like that in life.

After saying all that, there were a few moments that put me off. She certainly seems wary of human interaction and doesn't come across as warm but rather as tough and hard. These are good qualities for some parts of life, but don't draw the reader quite so warmly into her world.

American Dream?

Perhaps it was very fitting that Hunter S. Thompson included a massive amounts of drugs in his book (and I am almost positive that I got a contact high from reading the book, or else someone was wearing a gorilla costume on the blue line).  For many Mexicans they would have to have as many drugs in their systems as there was in the book to be able to attempt to cross the border into the US to reach the American Dream, especially now that the Zetas, one of the biggest drug trafficking families in Mexico, have created their own toll way. You heard it right, their own toll way. The means that if you want to cross the border you have to pay the Zetas in order to do so. And if immigration catches you, well, then you have to pay again to cross again. Quite the business. The funny thing now is that not many people are crossing. Congrats USA, it took the Mexicans to keep the Mexicans out. But many still risk it because they want the American Dream; they want to come to the place where the streets are paved with gold. But according to Thompson, the American Dream is “a huge slab of cracked, scorched concrete in a vacant lot full of tall weeds”. They went to Las Vegas because that is the place where the American Dream can be gotten with as little work as possible. But the house always wins. All in all, the American Dream is a hallucination that cannot be reached. It is like chasing the magic dragon; you shoot up every time in hopes of catching it, but you fail. When the brave Mexicans that do decide to cross get to the US, they realize how elusive the American Dream is. Sometimes they never reach it. They realize, too late, that they have arrived in a country that can arrest you for being a couple of shades darker.

The Dud of Dillard

I'm sorry Luis but I have to agree with the majority of my classmates when I say that I didn't enjoy Annie Dillard as much as the other authors. I couldn't connect and nothing really resonated with me. I just read Angela's post on Dillard and I think she makes a very good point on the difference of the class' attitudes.

I'm at a point in my life where I feel that I am indifferent about my Catholic upbringing. I used to be upset about it. I used to call myself an atheist. And the biggest contradictory about me, is that I sing in a church choir. It's very sad to say but I sing and don't really feel the words. I just love singing even if I don't really 100% believe in them. Sad, I know. ANYWAYS, that mostly explains why I couldn't really connect with the whole searching for God, contemplation, and connecting with nature, etc. I'm just not at that moment in my life where I can relate to her writings.

But I have to thank Angela because she did give me a great idea. I will read this book as I get older and see if my perceptions do change. :)

Flashback to Steinbeck Part 2

Steinbeck’s Real/Imagined Trip to America’s Heartland

I wanted to post my thoughts about my initial reaction to the book and my response to the fact that Steinbeck really didn’t take the trip to America’s heartland, as he said he did, separately because it didn’t really change my opinion of the book, but it did answer a few questions I had about the text.

As mentioned, my opinion of Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley didn’t change when I learned that Steinbeck padded the truth in the book because I believe that regardless of whether his trip was real or imagined that his attitude about the world around him would have remained the same—which is what I focused on when I read this book.   

Steinbeck’s belief that the world as he knew it had changed for the worse, I believe, is for some people, part of the natural process of getting older and having lived long enough to remember the “good ole’ days”, which was usually when they were thinner, stronger, richer, or simply had a fuller head of hair.  I know that at this point in my life (and I am definitely not Steinbeck’s age), my friends and I do it all of the time.   And—I will apologize ahead of the time—I will be constantly doing it, as I relate these books to the experiences I have gone through throughout my life, on this blog (oh, I remember when…)

However, some people might call Steinbeck a big Fake, who has compromised the author/reader relationship by lying about what he actually did. While I can completely understand that attitude, I won’t take him to task about his big fat lies because, truthfully, as long as I enjoyed what I am reading, I could care less whether it is fiction or non-fiction (to a certain point). 

The knowledge that Steinbeck wrote the book in the comfort of his hotel, did explain for me the way he glazed over certain aspects of the trip.  For example, when he visited his son’s school to say good-bye, I found it weird that he did not actually mention his son’s reaction to his appearance or anything else, all Steinbeck mentioned was that the student’s were in awe of Rocinante.  How does Steinbeck explain this? He says “I prefer to draw a curtain over my visit…” (27)  Huh? Yeah, well, now I know why.  Also, I have to mention his trip home. What was that??? One moment Steinbeck is supposedly taking a leisurely trip around America, the next he’s basically racing home because he misses his wife. Again, huh? I thought it was kind of weird that he spent 250 or so pages talking about his experiences as he drove West and a few pages on his return trip.  I, definitely, got the distinct feeling that something wasn’t right, which was confirmed when I learned that he probably didn’t even make it to half the places he said he went. Still, the book was cool with me. 

Flashback to Steinbeck

In Travels with Charley, Steinbeck sets out to rediscover America and himself.  Unfortunately for Steinbeck the America he finds is one that is fraught with uncertainty and, for him, terror. 

Steinbeck states that he wants to go on this journey, incognito, because he feels out of step with what is happening in the “real” America.  However, it is easy to see that Steinbeck’s recent illness combined with his age has probably made him feel as if his days are numbered.  Thus, Steinbeck is probably taking this trip as his last “hurrah” in order to not only to assert his independence as a capable man (to himself and his wife) but also to try to recapture the sense of wonder that he once had with the American landscape and its people.  Steinbeck alludes to this when he recounts how as an American writer writing about American he feels out of touch, and in the next chapter, talks about how his wife married “a man and not a baby”.

The trip, however, does not bring Steinbeck any comfort, really.  Steinbeck’s hope that he would reconnect with the land and its people, is quickly extinguished as he confronts an America that he does not really recognize or understand. Steinbeck’s disconnection and unhappiness with the “new” modern world is apparent in his descriptions of his surroundings.  

For example, within the first few hours of setting out on his trip, he sees a submarine emerge from the water, and he right away links it to death and destruction when he states “submarines are armed with mass murder, our silly, only way of deterring mass murder.” (21)  Further on, when he decides to spend a night in a motel, and is faced with a room that has plastic covered cups and a sanitized bathroom seat, Steinbeck rants about how “Everyone is trying to protect me and it was horrible.” (47)  And, his perspective of the people he meets is also pretty dismal, overanalyzing people’s, apparently, unhappy personalities 

Steinbeck’s attitude towards America, except for a couple of occurances, is pretty dismal all the way to the end of the book.  Steinbeck’s idea that America is no longer at its prime and that it has become destructive place to live is strengthened by his discussions with the people he meets.  Nowhere is this more blatantly obvious than when Steinbeck recounts how a friend of his sadly noted before Steinbeck’s trip that “this used to be a nation of giants” (168), which Steinbeck pretty much agrees with as he remembers everyone he met during his trip. 

 At the end of his trip, it is apparent that Steinbeck sees America, not as a wasteland exactly, but as a country whose glory days are behind her.  Or, is this something that Steinbeck needs to believe in, as a gentleman past his prime, and facing his demise? 

Now, having talked about Steinbeck’s doom and gloom attitude, don’t misunderstand me, I liked the book.  Steinbeck’s, this world has gone to shit attitude (I hope I can say that, if not, sorry), had me laughing.  It reminds of the time I worked at a commissary which was located within a high-rise apartment building full of retirees.  Jesus, the shit they say! (Sorry) Everyday, I would hear about how “in the good ole’ days, this and that would happen…”  Personally, I loved to talk to them because one, I love to talk, and two, because it gave me this inside look at the older generation (I was in my teens).  I met so many Steinbeck-like personalities that when I read this book I felt really connected to Steinbeck, in a –there goes my grumpy old grandpa blabbing again—way.

Annie Dillard and _Teaching a Stone to Talk_

I must admit that Teaching a Stone to Talk wasn't one of my favorite nonfiction texts we have read so far this semester. I think that the book tended to drag on and I don't think that Dillard's view of nature and God succeeded in capturing my interest or attention. I would have preferred to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek instead even though it is longer than Teaching a Stone to Talk; since Pilgrim at Tinker Creek won the Pulitzer Prize I think that book must have been better.

However, when Professor Urrea read the section from Tinker Creek, I'm sorry to say that I didn't find it very compelling or interesting either. I sort of liked the part when Dillard described the bloody paw prints on her chest and described them as looking like roses, but I think the main reason I liked this part was because Professor Urrea has been talking about it for weeks. I really tried to give Annie Dillard a chance, but for some reason I just don't like her writing style or the topics she writes about. I have never been very interested in nature, so maybe that has something to do with it.

The story that captured my interest the most was "On a Hill Far Away." The way that she represented the boy in that story both irritated and interested me. Her condescending behavior toward the boy was rude and cold and I actually made me disklike her a little bit. The boy was clearly lonely and looking for someone to talk to, but Dillard was trying to find excuses to leave. I have the impression that she knew that the boy was looking for companionship, but she didn't have the patience or the time to talk to him.

Spaulding Gray-South African Connection

I was a little late last Thursday when we watched Spalding Gray in class, so the first thing I saw was Gray recounting his swim with the South African Ivan.  Gray’s description of Ivan, as a man who had this above and beyond conceited attitude about being invincible in the water had me laughing my butt off.  Why??? Because my husband is South African, and I swear he has the exact same attitude!! Heck, Gray could have been describing my husband when he recounted Ivan’s conceited remark that Gray’s fear of his drowning was unfounded, because didn’t he know that he was South African, and that South African’s “ride rip-tides for fun!!”. 

I thought this was hilarious!  My husband is from Port Elizabeth, South Africa, and ever since I met him, he has been telling me all about his water adventures that he experienced in his youth.  HOWEVER, let me tell you, that in the last 16 years that I have been involved with this man, I have NEVER seen him step foot in a large body of water.  And there have been more than enough times that I have asked him to join me in some type of activity involving water— I guess this is a good time to mention that I love to swim.  I swim a lot. I have been involved in water sports for most of my life.  I swim laps when I can, and I love to kayak and go white water rafting when I get a chance.  Plus, I take our kids to water parks every year religiously.  Never has he joined in.

This is what our conversations usually sound like…

Conversation 1

Me-Do you want to go with me kayaking?

Him-Nah, where? Oh, no, no, no. That sounds much too easy. In South Africa, I have kayaked in rivers where there are huge alligators ready to eat you. Soooo, NO.

Conversation 2

Me-Do you want to go with me paddle boarding?

Him-Do what?? Where? Oh, no, no, no.  (He, then went into this long rant about surfing when he was young)  When I was a youngster, my friends and I would grab any flat board we saw, and we would surf the Indian Ocean, you know, where it meets the Atlantic Ocean, and where there are humongous waves.  Because, don’t you know? I’m South African and it just comes naturally to us---We laugh at the Europeans and Americans trying to surf our waters. HA, HA, HA.

Conversation 3

Me-So, the kids and I are going to the water park. Do you want to go?

Him- Vero. I am South African, don’t you know, (Duh!), and I do not like to get in any water that is chlorinated.  No. We will all go swimming when we move to California, where we can swim in the Pacific Ocean!!  (We have been “moving” to California for the last few years, but have yet to actually do it because of my, and our oldest daughter’s school obligations.)

As previously mentioned, my husband has yet to join me in any type of activity that involves water.  At this point, I am always teasing him, and joking with him that the reason that he probably has never joined me in any water activity is because he probably can’t even swim, despite being South African—He doesn’t think this is funny.

Furthermore, I would like to recount our conversation when I came back from class last Thursday, and told him about Gray’s monologue, and the episode with the South African Ivan.

Conversation 4

Me-(very excited) Guess what we watched today in class?  Spaulding Gray’s monologues, and he talked about his adventures with a South African, who thought it was hilarious that Gray thought he had drowned…(I  told him about the rip-tide thing)…and then Ivan says to Spaulding, “I am South African. We ride rip-tides for fun” (at this point I am giggling)

Him- (He then looks at me with a straight face) Well. What’s so funny about that? We’re South African.  That’s What We Do.

UUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!

Spalding Gray and Performance

As I said in class on Tuesday, my inital reaction to Spalding Gray's Swimming to Cambodia was that it was boring and difficult to follow. SG's digressions and hyper amimated facial contortions were a distraction for me; Spalding's phsical movements such as taking a sip of water or pointing to cities on the map behind him put me in a trancelike state when I was watching the monologue. I admit that it is partly my own fault for thinking that Swimming to Cambodia was boring; I allowed myself to become distracted, and this undermined my ability to experience the full artistry of the film. To be fair, I think I should probably watch the film again before I make any more judgments about it because I feel like I haven't fully grasped the story. However, I have the feeling that even if I were to watch the film again, I would still find at least parts of it to be boring. I think the reason for this might be that I am having trouble relating to what Spalding is saying about his experiences in Cambodia and Thailand and the insignts that he developed when he was there. Since I have never been to South East Asia, there are some aspects f the monologue that I will simply not understand even though I was trying to imagine what Spalding was describing. The digressions and lack of linearity made the monologue less compelling because I was sometimes unable to follow the storyline, and I often felt like he was rambling nonsense. I realize that he organized his monologue in such a way as to render it compelling and interesting, but I didn't experience this when I was watching the film.

What American Dream?

Jumping in on the “American Dream” conversation…

For all the hysteria and laughable, drug-induced absurdity of Raoul Duke’s and his attorney’s surreal escapades through the desert and the mirage of Las Vegas, comedy remains at best a superficial quality of the novel. Beneath the exterior of this humorously deranged narration lies the ugly underbelly of the drug culture that reveals the despair emerging from the search for the American Dream. For the youth of the ‘60s, the American Dream became not so much a pursuit of economic prosperity, but rather a dream of freedom in which intellectual wanderings manifested in a physical search. The retrospective of Fear and Loathing depicts this seeming clash of ideologies constituting the American Dream and ultimately engages the novel’s pair in the fruitless search for this now vanishing identity.  

The early ‘70s of Fear and Loathing show a continuation of the search begun in the ‘60s, with the beginning of the novel revealing Duke and his attorney eagerly in pursuit of the American Dream—believing its exact locale to be Las Vegas—and quickly transitioning into a mood of despair as the high of the delusion of the American Dream’s existence begins to wear off. It’s interesting to note (and particularly ironic) that this shift in the decades indicates a shift in perspective of not only what constitutes the Dream, but also its situation in the culture; as the American Dream became more difficult to achieve and more fluid in its make-up, it transitioned from occupying a state of being to occupying a specific locale. The novel awards Las Vegas as the site of this soon-to-be-discovered delusion, particularly because it capitalizes on extreme excess. In this way, Thompson mocks both America and its Dream, demonstrating that both symbols are empty save for their own lofty, excessive ambitions that lead nowhere; there is an attempt to legitimize Las Vegas as the referent of both American and its Dream, and yet such an endeavor collapses by the end of the novel, just like the burnt-down condition of the “Old Psychiatrist’s Club” outside Las Vegas that is denoted by locals as potentially functioning as the American Dream. Further, the style of the novel aids in the representation of empty signifiers brought to light through extremes, with the excess of foul language and drug use serving to not so much to depict a reality, but rather to emphasize the absurdity of the delusion.

In reading Fear and Loathing, I found the following passage to be one of the great moments of the novel, a moment that encapsulates and reflects the delusion of the American Dream and the emptiness that permeates its dissolving dimensions:

“…big crowds still gathered around crap tables. Who are these people? These faces! Where do they come from? They look like caricatures of used-car dealers from Dallas. But they’re real. And, sweet Jesus, there are a hell of a lot of them—still screaming around these desert-city crap tables at four-thirty on a Sunday morning. Still humping the American Dream, that vision of the Big Winter somehow emerging from the last-minute pre-dawn chaos of a stale Vegas casino” (57).

“Still humping the American Dream.” What a fantastic image. Duke narrates a reflection in which the American Dream is objectified and sexualized. Tourists to Las Vegas are so desperate to find the American Dream that they latch on to the empty signifier of this desert mirage and urgently thrust, unable to penetrate because of its existence as an illusion. The American Dream has not been destroyed, for such a feat is impossible; rather, the American Dream—as the beginning of the ‘70s reveals—has never existed in reality at all, and it ironically takes the delusional and hallucinogenic state of consciousness prompted by the consumption of drugs to show Duke the truth of the illusion.

Bella Sicilia

For the assignment of an informal imitation or love letter to a city or place I immediately thought if Sicily, Italy. I went there during spring break last year to visit my sister who was studying abroad in the town of Ortigia. It was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

Dear Ortigia, Sicilia,

The vivid redness of your blood oranges haunt my memories; they are unlike anything else on earth. The busy open air market in downtown Ortigia with energetic and passionate Sicilians shouting their wares and winking at passersby truly is a beautiful sight. I wish I could taste your pistachio cannoli and your canella gelato. Besides the food, I fell in love with your sun and the way it reflected off the deep olive skins of the native Sicilians. The Sicilians love to use their mouths to eat, to talk, to smile and to kiss. Ortigia, Sicily reminded me that the world is much larger than Chicago or Wisconsin where I went to college for my undergraduate degree in English; this remarkable place inspired me to live more and think less. Someday soon I hope to go back to you and say "buongiorno" or maybe even "ciao."

The Lives We Choose as Writers

Many times Luis mentioned about being careful of what we summon as writers. Looking at Hunter, Spalding and even Joan....it really made me ponder what writers choose to summon. Reading the great works of these authors and then finding out they've committed suicide or just got lost in the death that happened in their lives. I am a writer and I find myself sitting contemplating on what exactly I should write because of what could actually come of it once those words reach those pages. Okay it is 2012, so I will say....once those words reach those screens. It was just a thought and I wondered if anyone else had those fears or concerns moving forward as a writer.

Dear Chicago

                                                                        March 2012

Dear Chicago,

        For the twenty-two years I lived with you, I still cherish this one moment. Last year, in May, my

boyfriend and I took a walk on the beach. The warm sun toasted our toes and kissed our cheeks. The

waves created a wind so gentle yet strong enough to play in my hair. My boyfriend grabbed my hand

and pulled me onto the hard rocks. We sat on your earth, our Chicago. That snapshot, moment,

memory... will forever be with me...us.

    No other place I'd rather be than in the windy city.

City of Wind

                                                                                                                                      March 2012
Dear Chicago,

For 22 years, I have lived with you and called you home. Born in the bosom of your skyscrapers, I have grown under the nourishment of your environment. For 22 years I have come to love you. Through the tough love of the West Side, to the love of family on the North Side, my love for the city of wind is undying. I have traveled all over the United States, where the locals would compliment on my "Chicago accent". Weeks away from Chicago would leave me nostalgic. I could never move away from here. Ever. This city has given me a cut throat attitude and at the same time, a loving nature. What city can do that?

My friend once said, maybe a little intoxicated, "In this city, if you ain't tough you'll get blown away."

That is still, and always will be, the City of Wind.

Dear West Palm Beach.....

This assignment truly allowed me to escape to my dream world, as I thought of West Palm Beach as soon as our TA mentioned a city or place that we have a lot of love for. Hopefully I did SG some justice with this rendition.  

Dear West Palm Beach:

For 6 summers of my childhood I lived with you and learned to love you. I came to you to learn about my mother’s side of the family and found new love and appreciation from them around every corner. I left the monotony of Chicago and came to Florida, that peninsula off of the East Coast of America, where retirement homes are king and relaxation and hospitality exuded from each household I encountered. You gave me a breath of fresh air because you are so open and kind.

When we were growing up, my mother put thoughts in our head of a simpler time and place from the eccentric lifestyle that we had grown to know from Chicago. Florida was meant to be an escape from reality that was really available to us when we needed it.

That is still West Palm Beach to me.

-DL

Thai/Cambodian Confidential

As I mentioned in class, much of Spalding Gray's Swimming to Cambodia resonated with me in a particular way due to the amount of time I spent living, working and traveling in South East Asia. I think that this is a terrific performance piece, both in style and substance, yet I can't quite get over my strong negative reaction to the amount of time he spent describing his exploits in Bangkok's red-light district, Patpong. This is such a tiny part Thailand, yet it seems to be the association that Westerners almost always make.

I realize that it makes a hugely entertaining story for SG's monologue (I laughed), and he did attempt to highlight that these particular form of in-your-face ping pong shows and parlors developed as a result of the GI's stationed there during the Vietnam War. However, I can't ignore that this point of origin is uniformly eclipsed by naive sensationalism. It's all tourists who go to these hypersexualized venues, and it has become sadly normalized

Yes, concubinage/prostitution does exist historically/contemporarily as an element of Thai culture, but the places Thai men go are vastly more subtle and discrete. Or so I'm told... I've never been to one of these places or shows, tourist or local, that was staffed by women. (I'll leave the ones employed by men and in-betweens up to your imaginations...well, maybe just a hint to pique your interest, this is a non-fiction course afterall and I can be just as subject to sensationalism as SG... I was okay with the make-up, but once the ladyboys started taking off my pants, I had to get off that stage...) I won't go on at length about all the beautiful and wonderful things about Thailand, Thai people, and Thai culture (although I would love to), so I hope that my indignation at the stereotype speaks for itself about what this place means to me. (I will be writing my love letter to Thailand, but haven't done that yet...)

Don't get me wrong though, overall I thought that Swimming to Cambodia was superb. I thought SG's performance was nearly impeccable and the issues he explores are certainly still germane. Cambodia is still reeling from the effects of Pol Pot and Vietnam from our presence there. The wounds we inflicted on that country are immeasurable. What I hadn't realized, was the extent to which our involvement in Vietnam had set the stage for Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge to commit their atrocities against the Cambodian people.

My preferred memories of Cambodia are of Angkor Wat and of slowly getting stoned on a pier over Boeng Kak Lake in Phnom Penh. We didn't visit the the actual killing fields there, but we did go to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. The building complex was originally a school, but the Khmer Rouge transformed it into a notorious prison/interrogation center/place of torture and execution, of the estimated 17,000 interred there, just 7 are known survivors. It was a chilling place to be, and the images of it are still as vivid and haunting as if I had just been there. Look it up on Wikipedia if you want more information.

On the street of Phnom Penh, I purchased a boot-leg copy of the book (yes, they boot-leg books in Cambodia) First They Killed My Father by Luong Ung, the daughter of a high-ranking official under Lon Nol. She was five when Pol Pot's army stormed the capitol, and the book is the horrific account of what her family endured. Most of them didn't survive. It's a tough read because it's so real and recent, but I highly recommend it.

Okay, it's getting heavy so I think that's enough for this blog. I've attached some pics & vids of Cambodia. I have so many that it was hard to choose, so I apologize if you think I've posted too much...

3 of the many temples at Angkor

Boeng Kak Lake

Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum

Market in Phnom Penh

Silly tourists in Cambodia

Spaulding Gray’s Perfect Moment

Spaulding Gray’s Perfect Moment
by Daniel Tucker

I found Spaulding Gray’s monologue Swimming to Cambodia, directed by Jonathan Demme in 1987, surprisingly provocative for such a stripped-down format. In truth, it was not so simple as man at a table with a glass of water and a notebook. It was a highly produced video with multiple camera angles, lighting effects, soundtrack, alternating backdrops and most certainly multiple-takes. Gray utilized a wide range of story-telling and performance techniques which appear simple because they are effective, but most certainly are the result of years of training. He build tension like the best novelists and screenwriters do, by establishing the groundwork and introducing an inciting event - in his case, it was auditioning for a film about Cambodia - from which the story arch is built up and brought back into resolution. In this project there were certainly many subplots and tangents, but he brought them all back to his story of being in this film. My favorite scene was the one where he proposed that he could not leave the film shoot without having a “perfect moment”, suggesting that all exotic trips need a perfect moment to be complete. Check out the clip here:

Love Letter to Chicago

Based on the prompt given from our TA, I have informally “imitated” Spaulding Gray’s Dear New York City on page 113 from Life Interrupted: The Unfinished Monologues (Crown Publishers, 2005).

Dear Chicago,
For eleven years I lived with you and have fallen in and out and in love with you. I came to you because you were down to earth but still contained unknowns. You still contain unknowns and that keeps me curious. I am sometimes charmed by your “realness” but sometimes find it to harsh. I think you need to find a better story than just being “real.” The real mafia and the real politicos with their the down and dirty corruption are now being replaced by the realness of fancy-finance Rahm and his fancy-finance friends. Both are real and both are bad.

There is so much reality in the world and that hasn’t always been enough. Sometimes we need better stories, more myths, dreams that make us imagine beyond “the real.”

I hope as we continue to evolve together you can create new and better stories about yourself. I will try to do my part.

in cahoots,
Daniel Tucker

Spalding Gray's Love Letter to New York

http://nymag.com/nymetro/news/features/n_9787/

Hi everyone,
Good to see you all this week in Lincoln 205.  As promised, what follows this note is the copy of Spalding Gray's love letter to New York.  It was published posthumously in the New York Times on September 11, 2005 and in Life Interrupted, a later collection of his essays, and some notes of reflection from his friends and colleagues.  If you choose to imitate it, remember that it can be to any place you have known or experienced or even imagined.

I've also included a link above to a New York Times Magazine cover story that appeared after his disappearance in January of 2004, but before his body was discovered in March of that year.  Eerie.  At least to me.

But here's the letter:  

"Dear New York:
For 34 years I lived with you and came to love you. I came to you because I loved theater and found theater everywhere I looked. I fled New England and came to Manhattan, that island off the coast of America, where human nature was king and everyone exuded character and had big attitude. You gave me a sense of humor because you are so absurd.

When we were kids, my mom hung a poster over our bed. It had a picture of a bumblebee, and under the picture the caption read:

'According to all aerodynamic laws, the bumblebee cannot fly because its body weight is not in the right proportion to its wingspan. But ignoring these laws, the bee flies anyway.'
That is still New York City for me.

--SG"

Thompson

I found Hunter to be quite the...rebel? If that word even suffices for the behavior we saw from a unsurprisingly intelligent guy. Watching the movie really clarified what we read of and from Hunter. It is a different vibe you get once you actually see that person acting...unethical? He wanted so much from this country...as many of us do. The aspect that really intrigued me was the fact that he was looking for the "American Dream." Sorry Hunter, it still doesn't exist....

Dear Mexico,

I am constantly being reminded of you. Your smells follow me and I find you in the city, the suburbs, my block. I miss Abuelita's house and how I can visit Tia Lily, Tio Jaime, y mis primos Jaimito, Abraham, y Pedro just by walking around the corner. I miss how the air feels on my skin and how the sun bathes me. I even miss being called "guera."
I feel that the older I get, the more I need to see you and visit you. I haven't seen you in over 4 years. I feel that my tongue is slipping from your language no matter how hard I try. Over here in the States, it is considered as an asset. Over by you, I consider it home. Te extrano.
Remember that you are always in my thoughts, in my blood, and in my veins.
I will see you soon, espero.

-Con mucho carino.

Some final thoughts on Hunter S. Thompson

Note: Before we move on to Spalding & Annie, I thought it time I chimed in on Fear & Loathing. As I was reviewing the posts of my peers, I noticed that we all have a lot of the same things on our minds, which gave me cause for both revelation and apology. While thinking about the American Dream as I read F&L, I dog-eared many of the same pages to which several of my illustrious classmates have already referred. I realized that I need to get on top of this blogging so my posts aren't redundant, and consequently I apologize if this one seems to be.

Prior to writing about F&L, I need to state the obvious and mention how the American Dream's ultimate manifestation can have very different definitions for people from diverse backgrounds and with varying ideologies. We can talk about stereotyped white-picket fences and 2.5 children, but the immigrant, the kid from the projects or the suburbs, the born rich, and myriad others likely all want something different. Nevertheless, I think we can at least crystallize the overreaching sense of the AD to a sense of security. Whatever that security means to whomever it means. Thus, it is fascinating that Hunter S. Thompson should attempt to locate the AD in Las Vegas where nothing is certain except chance.

Although he subjects other notions of the AD to more overt scrutiny near the end of the book, I think that HST gives us his own personal take most clearly in the third chapter of Part One. As he first contemplates the kick of drag racing along the Strip—before they've even arrived in Vegas—he states that “old Americans go out to the highway and drive themselves to death with huge cars.” Then, after a full line-break, he continues: “But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country—but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that” (18). (Aside: In my opinion the most laugh-out-loud funny part of the book is when he finally does drag race along the Strip in Part Two, Chapter 8 as his attorney hangs out the window shouting obscenities at the “two hoggish looking couples.”)

Clearly, HST doesn't identify with the old version of the AD, yet he recognizes the tremendous significance of the possible in forming any conception of an AD. Furthermore, he concedes that you've got to have a big set of balls to make it happen here. Indeed he and his attorney do. So I think, that in a sense, his drug-fueled escapades and ripping of norms are his way of living his own idea of the AD: to be free, which essentially it what's “right and true and decent in [our] national character.” HST just had a unique way of going about it. It's his right to f- things up, get into outrageous circumstances, and provide biting commentary on those people who don't even consider the possibilities of the possible because that's what he does. And he does it well. And he's productive. Well, at least he was. This particular time was just right for someone like HST to come along and shred old perceptions, to highlight various notions of how Americans conceive of the American Dream and then sh*t on them. He was able to do this on the campaign trail in the Seventies as well, but as time progressed and society changed, the HST brand didn't seem to fit so well anymore. Nevertheless, as we said in class, that brand had become so indelible that HST couldn't do much else. And well, we know how that ended.

Lastly, I also wanted to note that I do agree with Luis and those classmates who pointed out how HST did bemoan the failure of the Sixties counter-culture despite their destiny to fail. It's clear in the “high water mark” passage quoted in Gonzo and when he notes “that downers came in with Nixon” (202). Moreover, it's brutally realized at the end of Part Two, Chapter Nine (the transcripted section) when upon finally locating the old Psychiatrist's Club, which might or might not have been the AD, HST remarks, “The owner of a gas station across the road said the place had 'burned down about three years ago'” (168), which would have been in 1968.

Thinking of American Dreams

The ending quote from the previous blog entitled "American Dreaming" sparked a lot of "literary" thoughts in my mind, and many along the lines of what we've been introduced to through the world of H.S.T.

"There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning….Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail."

Throughout that era within the 60s, what made H.S.T. stand out then and what has helped “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” maintain relevancy is that idea of energy, which was perhaps the perhaps new sense of energy. He helped infuse into the 60s a sense of radical activity that touched the masses on a personal level rather than by an untouchable celebrity figure. The novel is perhaps the most interesting that I’ve read this semester, or in a couple at least, because not only the eccentric nature of H.S.T. but also through the removal of American ideals from their typical domestic place in New York, until the wild terrain of Las Vegas. Thankfully the book wasn’t as muddled down by eccentric images such as the different exaggerations we saw from film clips and was able to still express the central ideas of a shift from the hipster image and the removal of the American dream from picket fence houses to open terrain and open standards of living.