Biblioteca Blues

Sitting, typing, writing, thinking, thoughts thoughts thoughts, across the page. Does it make sense? can it make sense? is it supposed to make sense? Yes!... Maybe?... Come up with a paragraph about anything. Anything? Turtles? Books? Airplanes? Yes! Anything. Weeeeeell this is about nothing, but i suppose nothing is something, isn't everything something? Sure, yup, indubitably, I am certain of it. simply unquestionable. of course. Now what am i going to write about? I guess i have been writing all along, about what though? Nothing, nada, zilch, zip, zippo, blank, diddly squat, a BIG GOOSE EGG.

Lyrics to Go

As we were sitting in class Prof. Sexson mentioned songs that we initally didn't know what the meaning of the lyrics were when we were children. The Song "Bulls on Parade" By Rage Against the Machine comes to mind. Evil Empire came out in '96 so i was about 8 years old if my math serves me correctly. Growing up between New Hampshire and Massachusetts, and always being on the water, when the line "...Rally 'round the family, with a pocket full of shells..." - I automatically assumed that Zach de La Rocha meant sea shells. An innocent child-like mistake i suppose, but one that makes me laugh every time i hear the song.

Finnegans Wake

As was the assignment, the Page chosen at random out of Finnegans Wake is page 237.

"Return, sainted youngling, and walk once more among us! The rains of Demani are masikal as of yere. And Baraza is all aflower. Siker of calmy days. As shiver as shower can be."

Thoughts of a 20 minute lifetime

What's weird, initially when i think of the 20 minute lifetime, for some reason "The Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka comes into my mind. Gregor's life seems so short, simply a bugs domain, encompassing the little habitat which is his room. I can't say i myself have ever really felt a notion of the 20 minute lifetime. I guess i've dreamt about it, milliseconds seem like minutes, minutes seem like years and the years turn into a lifetime. It is a strange feeling to awake after such a dream because for the first few seconds your eyes are open and you really cannot figure out where you are, when it is, or how you've arrived at this place.

"Street Fighting Man" by the Rolling Stones just came on my itunes. Somehow its opening lines seem to fit. "Everywhere i hear the sound of marching, charging in the street, boy"

Does the saying, "Once in a lifetime" apply here. There's probably too many things i could count that i've done once in my lifetime so far - bungee jumping, skydiving, swimming with great whites, holding my godchild... things like these need to be done way more than once.

When I Wake Up

Eyes Open. Bob Marley staring straight back at me, laughing, smoking, enjoying his enormous spliff. As my eyes wander across my ceiling, Red, Blue, Gold, White, Green and Black - the colors of the South African Flag. Reminiscent of the 6 months i lived there. A great time in my life. It seems so distant, a little over a year ago when i first moved to that wonderful place. Pictures of friends and family greet my sleep deprived eyes. As i turn over, my ears are filled with the constant, annoying ringing of my cell phone, letting me know that it's time to get up. Accompanying my phone on my beside table are my glasses, a candle with a slightly lopsided open book of matches, and my alarm clock, which never gets used and actually does not read the correct time. Next is my desk. The black lamination glued over recycled cork board -a cheap buy from target. Blue curtains keep the light out of my eyes for the time being, they also provide a nice change in color from the Brown carpet, brown painted walls, and now brown comforter and brown sheets that adorn my tiny bed. Maps of South Africa, of mountains snowboarded stream into my consciousness and i look at the towel and washcloth hanging on the back of my door and know that i need to get up and go to work. Countless books lay on my shelves: Cormac McCarthy, Hunter Thompson, Franz Kafka, George Orwell, endless history volumes - some read, some not- and Joyce. I see him sitting there and glaring out at me. As my brown covers are thrown off, revealing cold feet and the legs accompanying them, brown sheets come into focus... I need a different color set of sheets.

Haroun and the Sea of Stories

I thought this book was fantastic! Although it took me only a couple hours to get through, i felt really engaged from beginning to end -- it was just one of those books that i couldn't put down and didn't want to end.

Zembla, Zenda, Xanadu:
All our dream-worlds may come true.
Fairy lands are fearsome too.
As i wander far from view
Read, and bring me home to you.

I thought this little poem at the beginning of the story was great. As i sat contemplating its meaning i began flipping through blogs to see if anyone had posted anything about it. Sam Clanton found an interesting article about it being for Rushdie's son Zafar (notice to Z-A-F-A-R running down the left side of the poem) and the book overall being about a child saving his father and a way to cope with divorce. *Thanks Sam* (Sorry for stealing some of your thunder)

When i first read the book i believed it solely to be about the loss of stories in the modern day. A breaking away from the connection with our roots.

(pg. 86-87) "There was little demand for the ancient stories flowing there. 'You know how people are, new things, always new. The old tales, nobody cares.'....'And if the source itself is poisoned, what will happen to the Ocean-to us all?' Iff almost wailed. 'We have ignored it for too long, now we pay the price.'"

This quote is great. Foreshadowing the inherent dangers of forgetting what we are/were and where we came from are dangerous things.

Butt the Hoopoe is a favorite character from this book. Throughout the book, each of Rushdie's characters makes a sort of social comment or another, which is always great in children's books because it usually is so unexpected. (Sidenote: When George Orwell first published 'Animal Farm' - American bookstores didn't know which literary section to put it in, so it was included with the children's stories!!)

(pg. 67) 'But but but it is because of Speed,' Butt the Hoopoe responded. 'Speed, most necessary of qualities! In any emergency-fire, auto, marine- what is required above all things? Of course, speed: of fire truck, ambulance, rescue ship. - And what do we prize in a brainy fellow?-Is it not his quickness of thought?-And in any sport, speed is the essence!-And what humans cannot do quickly enough, they build machines to do faster.'"

"A machine cannot speak for the mind of men" - Immortle Technique

As we've already started Joyce, and we've now read Rushdie, i can't imagine this book would be considered as lowbrow. Although upon the initial read and though about its subject matter it seems shallow, Haroun and the Sea of Stories offers an amazing look into the mind of Rushdie- one able to take a serious series of topics (mans use of machine, divorce through a child's eyes, losing touch with our beginnings, etc.) and weave them into an easy to read, fun story such as Haroun. Thanks for a great read!

Highbrow vs. Lowbrow

As it's the second week of class, and i am just starting my blog.. here's my take on Highbrow vs. Lowbrow:

As wikipedia so eloquently puts it, "The opposite of Highbrow is Lowbrow, and in between is Middlebrow." Well, now that that is taken care of, as has already been said and re-said in everyone's blogs, the difference between Highbrow and Lowbrow, in my opinion seems to come down to how the author conveys his message to his/her reader. (i.e. the language, tone, style, word choice, etc. one uses). James Joyce's "Finnegans Wake", although considered to be highbrow, is an anomaly to me. I'm taking a creative writing class this semester (trying to finish my English minor...possibly regretting English as a minor now) and it is all based on Poetry. Generally, as reading material i try and avoid poetry. Although not all is the same, i get tired of looking for a deeper meaning, constantly having to reread everything because as my brain gets tired my eyes begin to skip words. This continually happens to me while reading Joyce. 70 different languages, gibberish? And this is highbrow literature?

If liking lowbrow is considered as a vice of the underclasses than consider me a pauper. Straight, direct, perhaps a little artistic flavor thrown in-those are the books i like. Joyce will most likely plague my semester and hover over me like a dark storm cloud. Never the less i will give him a chance and hope that i can break into FW somehow.

I am assuming Rushdie's book will be considered lowbrow simply because of the fact that it remains an immensely easy read and deals with a subject matter in a way that is simple and easy for the reader to follow. It doesn't take much to understand this book, but it remains a vastly entertaining read and one that i will no doubt enjoy reading and re-reading.

When considering highbrow to be "high class" and low brow to be the opposite, i will hopefully find middle ground in which to enjoy each read in this class.

"Everything should be made as simple as possible. But not simpler" - Albert Einstein

"Our life is frittered away by detail... Simplify, simplify, simplify!... Simplicity of life and elevation of purpose" - Henry David Thoreau