Moments of healing

Have you experienced moments of healing in the natural world in the way Terry Tempest Williams does with the birds and the Great Salt Lake in Refuge? If so, explain.

I've struggled with depression all my life, so the healing or hurting I've received from nature has generally related to that. Oh, I love birds and flowers and all that (the sublime, the picturesque, the beautiful, you name it, I love it all, no matter how wild or manicured), but mainly it's the sun that rules my life. You'd think that Vegas would have kept me cheerful--after all, the sun shines almost all the time--and yet I remember so many gloomy days and nights. How odd, too, that my one perfect day, the one day full of sunshine and love, happened the year I lived in Colorado. You can bet I hold onto that day--fiercely! (...as armor against all the other fucked up days that came after and before.)

But there are moments, moments where the world seems to pause, and those contain the most powerful impressions. I remember lying across a chair and footstool (body on footstool, butt on chair, legs hanging over the arms of the chair) before a huge living room window. Drapes stand open, my eyes droop, and I feel like I'm bathing in bliss. I doze and wake and doze. Voices murmur in the next room, water's running somewhere down the hall, cars drive by outside, but it's all so distant. For a few brief moments, I'm lying in a cocoon of warmth and safety. And then someone enters the room or a cloud passes in front of the sun...who knows? The moment ends; darkness creeps in again.

Another moment: I step outside an icy-cold casino (wherein flashing lights camouflage grubby carpets and pathetic desperation) and the heat envelops me, caressing joints aching from eight hours scrubbing toilets and floors, vacuuming, and making beds. I can barely see or hear, the sun's so bright and the clanking cave I've just fled so dark. For the briefest instant, before the crowds, car exhaust, and city noise break through the momentary haze, the heat actually seems to sear away the filth and smoke that have permeated my clothes and hair and skin. Then, of course, the world closes in again as I'm jostled by the crowd and startled from my moment. Only five minutes to catch the next bus.

Sometimes, though, even darkness heals. I'm lonely, always so lonely, but I walk out into the night because it's the only way I can escape the noise and bitterness and judgments. The stars don't judge. Wounded feelings are soothed by a balmy breeze. It's so silent out it seems like God is listening. My heart quiets, my throbbing head begins to clear, I breathe in, I breathe out, the buzzing abandons my ears. I hear the rustling of trees in the wind. A bird chirps. My shoes scuff the sidewalk. My spine crackles as a straighten my back and fill my lungs. And breathe out again. Nighttime embraces.

Legislating Romanticism

Is there a problem with legislating romanticism?

I don't know if lawmakers drew directly on Carson or not or even if they moved from her to the Romantics that we've studied in this class, but the language within The Wilderness Act of 1964 certainly evokes the ideas we've been exploring throughout the semester. Ideas of "solitude" and a lack of "confinement"--of nature allowed free reign but also protected for the "scientific, educational, scenic, or historical value" it has for man--all this reminds me of the various readings and class discussions investigating the connection that man and nature share. Do I think it's problematic to legislate romanticism? Maybe that's simply the only alternative, the only way we can make positive changes--by appealing to people's imaginative and emotional responses. The language in this act is itself almost poetic: "forces of nature," "the imprint of man's work substantially unnoticeable," even the alliterations of "practicable its preservation": language like this speaks to us beyond the conscious level, touching the place that longs for meaning beyond mere words of practicality. Clearly the composers of this piece were trying to inspire a sense of investment on the part of the public. Seems reasonable to me. We protect that which belongs to us and defend the thing we love. Now here are the poets on one hand, and the legislators on the other, telling us, "Nature belongs to us--to all of us. It has value: historical, educational, scientific. It is part of our heritage. We love it." I guess I'm a lot more taken in by that than "It's good for you. It's your duty."

thoreau's view

In your own words, what is Thoreau's view on man's relationship with nature? Can we see this philosophy in any of the Romantic poetry we've read in the class so far?

Sometimes I just wish I could connect with these writers. Thoreau to me is particularly difficult (though not quite as hard as Emerson). Yeah, I know his other works are different, but it's hard to take it when a writer is so insensitive to the limitations that he himself isn't subject to. Still, I guess I should give the guy some credit; he wasn't rich or anything--quite the opposite from what we heard in class--but I'm so not impressed by his ability to take daily four-hour walks. I saw the English Romantics as pretty out of touch with reality, but they've got nothing on the Americans, as far as I can tell.

But, please, forgive me. I'm currently dealing with real life, which, quite frankly, sucks.

So. Thoreau.

I guess his view of man's relationship with nature is pretty good compared to Emerson's. Though there is this myth building and the implications of potential exploitation, I don't think he really planned it out that way. I think he honestly does see unspoiled nature as important in and of itself, but he expresses his appreciation in terms of conquest because that's the language and mentality he's familiar with.

His is a more engaged approach to nature than that of the British Romantics, from what I can tell. In America, it's apparently all about getting your hands dirty. The Brits, on the other hand, seem more detached in their appreciation and perhaps more self-conscious of their invasion when they do interact, as in the nutting poem. Thoreau seems to take it as given that he belongs there; the British poets appear less sure.

I don't know. That's really all I can say right now.

part 2 of The Walk Blog

(See below for Part 1)

I don't know about vision or sound or language. The hardest part of this assignment for me was just trying to get out of my own head and observe the world around me. I've been taking a lot of walks lately, not so much to enjoy nature, though that's a bonus, but to get away from home. I feel a lot of frustration and so the silence out there helps me become more settled inside. But it generally takes the entire walk before the inner rant subsides.

How relaxed Cardiff sounds, letting her mind wander this way and that, letting sights and sounds take her from one moment to the next--present to past, day to night. How surprised I was to know that she actually took the time to edit in sneezes so that her art more easily speaks to us, drags us in, makes us believe in her--it all sounded so natural.

How enraptured is Emerson, with his disembodied eyes, becoming one with nature. For him, it's all about beauty and communion. He says, "The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon" (14).

But for me...gah! It's all just a blur. Neither sights nor sounds really stick. The health of the mind demands a reprieve from both, so I'm halfway home again before I even start to really see or hear. And then...and then it kind of hits me. The absence of sound, the expanded horizon. Suddenly, I remember once again that there's something in this world beyond me and my petty little resentments. Emerson has an explanation for this one perhaps: "To the body and mind which have been cramped by noxious work or company, nature is medicinal and restores their tone" (14). He says it's the sight of nature in all her beauty. I don't know. For me, I think it's just a matter of being alone with my dog and simply getting out of my apartment, feeling the wind and smelling the open air.

The Walk Blog

It begins with noise and the cessation of noise.

Touch the back of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, as if you're going to make the sound a "k" makes. Now form your lips to make an "o" sound. Then blow.

Softly and then louder and then softly and then louder...

and so on. It should have a sort of guttural harshness to it.

This is the wind blowing

[The voice fades to memory, even as the irritation lingers on.]

The wind ruffles your hair. The leaves crunch underfoot. [She's going to expect us to rake 'em before they've even finished falling from the tree. I'm just waiting for the snide comments to begin.] Take a deep breath; put everything out of your mind.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in.

Breath out.

See, now isn't that better? [We'll pretend it is, or the weight of this awful life will become too darn much to bear.]

But you've only just stepped out the front door, and Ricky's tugging at the leash. Best get a move on.

So down the steps--one, two--and along the sidewalk and then up the neighbors' drive. [The stack of pizza boxes and other assorted trash has expanded even more just since yesterday. It could be worse, I suppose. At least the cooler weather alleviates the stench. Bastards.]

Now you're heading up the block and Ricky's stopping to pee about every five feet, but it feels too nice out to hurry anyway. They'll be time enough for that later.

But go ahead and cross the street. At least that'll give you a moment or two of uninterrupted locomotion. [Nope, he's stopped again. Ah, there he comes. God knows what he's sniffing at in the middle of the street.]

Oh, fine, let's just skip all this. You were bored anyway, no point in lying.

So you're at the edge of town, heading away from the high school and up the hill behind. The wind's blowing so hard that your hair's standing straight up and all other sound is silenced.

This is the sound of silence--it feels heavy on the ears. [In case you wondered, it sometimes helps to yawn.]

About the silence, though: it isn't really, is it? After all, you can still hear Ricky panting, gasping for breath even as he drags you up the hill. And you can hear your heart pounding in your skull. But how do you describe the sound of blood throbbing through the brain?

Now you’re starting to gasp for breath a bit yourself.

Ahhhh, finally! You've reached the top. And the hills surrounding Pullman stretch out on all sides. [Here I have to edit out the trees that are in the way, blocking my view to the south.] You're confronted with a dozen shades of brown. [Would it sound better to say a million? How about a symphony of chocolate? There to the left, a milk chocolate mound; to the right, a bittersweet confection; down in front, a malted swirl. (No, fat women shouldn't mention food. It just proves what everyone already knows.) Oh, hell, how much editing can I do before everything I say becomes a lie? And would it be worth it? Probably the lie wouldn't be anymore interesting than the truth.] The tractors have already made their rounds. And they are rounds...and ovals...and swirls [I've still got candy on the brain, it seems.] Whatever you want to call 'em, the hills around Pullman abhor a straight line.

But focus in. Look at your feet. Okay, not that close. But if you let your eyes wander from the fields to the little patch of weeds right in front of you and then allow your ears to follow, you might notice the slither of wind through the tall, fading grass. Stalk rasping against stalk, multiplied by…well, a lot.

Actually, to be honest, it’s a little drab.

It's not always so dull and lifeless out here, of course; only a month or two ago, the fields were golden and before that a sea of emerald. [I remember the first time I saw this view. It was early summer and the fields were a millio…er, a dozen shades of green. And the smell…. Oh, so hard to describe, but the exact opposite of Vegas with all its asphalt and sand.]

Today it smells like dirt, but such an oddly clean smelling dirt. And the wind is whipping your hair this way and that. Take a deep breath as your heart slows. Everything seems so empty here. [The fields, the sky, even my heart. How different from the almost transcendent views in Shelley’s “Mont Blanc” or Vegas’ Red Rock canyon. Here about the only thing that takes my breath away is dragging my fat ass up yet another one of Pullman’s many hills.] Look around, take in the view, how peaceful it is…away from that cramped little apartment with too many people and too much criticism.

Oh, but Ricky’s pulling you on. [I don’t imagine he misses Vegas or the cement so hot it burnt his paws that one time and made him limp for a week. We never took him out at midday during the summer again.]

Now you’re back among the houses. Not the kind of houses you’ve ever had the privilege to live in, but in another few years when the dissertation’s complete…who knows? You suppose this is what they mean by “middle class,” isn’t it?

This is the sound of a sigh.

[Why I torment myself this way is beyond me. By the time I can afford one of these houses, my kids’ll all be raised, and I’ll be all alone. Then that cramped little apartment with too many people and too much criticism will look pretty good.]

But don’t dawdle. You’ve been gone almost an hour already and you’ve still got to post that Walk Blog and read the book for the paper due in TV’s class and revise the RomEc paper [For God’s sake, you’re a Ph.D. student: have a little backbone, take a chance!] and grade the papers for Beatrice and comment on the drafts for your own class and…. [Oh, fuck, will it ever end?] And why doesn’t someone give that poor dog some love?!

oOOOoooooOOOOoooOOOOOOOOOOooooooo [This is the sound of a dog howling—no, not Ricky. But it reminds me of the mournful sound he makes when a siren sounds close by. I remember in Vegas there were always sirens night and day. And police helicopters overhead. Check to see if the door’s locked, Vaun. Is the door locked? Are you sure the door…yeah, I know, you’re sure. I just worry.]

Now you’re heading up the hill back toward the high school, the one the leads you to the front. Stop to let that car pass and then cross over to the left side of the street. It looks like the sunflower has finally died. You’re reminded of an old man standing there, chin to chest, head bowed in despair, body broken under the weight of the world. [“Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction, the weight the weight we carry is love”…or something like that. Where’s a copy of Ginsberg when I need him?] And the sorrow of the sight carries you to the water tower. And then it’s down the hill and back around the block, and just one more. But you’ve almost walked by your own house. [How different it looks with the golden tree in front that used to be green.] Ricky's pulling you up the steps—one, two.

And then you’re home.

my 1st draft--okay, really 1st freewrite

Okay, to be honest, I haven’t even done enough reading to refer to any sources. I’m afraid I’m going to end up with a close reading because that’s usually what I end up with, but anyway I’ll start.

V.Woolf is the quintessential modernist, and yet she, like any other modernist (or most any other writer, for that matter), is drawing on a long literary tradition. In the past, I’ve looked at woolf’s engagement with classical antiquity to see how she incorporates elements of Greek lyric poetry, philosophy, and drama along with Latin neoteric poetry and the atomic theory of Lucretius into her work, with an emphasis on the Waves. I called this incorporation an appropriation and was especially thinking of it in terms of her using predominately male traditions—and one enthusiastically used by men in later literary periods—to create a new modernist (feminist?) aesthetic.

When I come to Orlando, then, I’m already looking at it through this lens of appropriation and re-creation. Orlando, however, seems to me a book almost entirely informed by romanticism/romantic principles. Of particular interest to me is the author’s depiction of the artist as a romantic figure inspired by nature and motivated by high passions. At one point, the narrator follows the lead of one of the writers we’ve encountered in this class (keats?) in saying that Orlando is in love with death (great, I’ve forgotten my book).

From what little I’ve been able to gather from my sources (having looked at them only cursorily), others have also noted the romantic temperament of this protagonist. What I thought I might do to go beyond that is to look at how nature itself is so intimately tied to that same temperament and to the temperament of people in general in this novel. Woolf seems to suggest either that the weather/environment is creating the character of the age or that the character of the age is influencing the weather/environment. If possible, I’d like to know in which direction this influence flows. Or is it perhaps a mutual thing? Are the two—the character of the people and the natural world—so intimately intertwined in this novel that the influence goes both ways?

What part, if any, does gender play in this system of interconnectedness?

Another aspect I’d like to explore, which may perhaps be closely related to the question concerning (wo)man/nature’s interconnectedness, is the definite tension between the sublime and the beautiful I see in this piece. To me, it seems that the novel highlights this tension, but mainly to disrupt the traditional masculine/feminine dynamic given to us by Burke. I guess it’s not really all that surprising that she should do this in a novel all about gender slippage.

amare est lacrimare

Truly it sets
my heart to pounding in my breast,
for the moment I glance at you, I can
no longer speak;

my tongue grows numb; at once a subtle
fire runs stealthily beneath my skin;
my eyes see nothing, my ears
ring and buzz,

the sweat pours down, a trembling
seizes the whole of me, I turn paler
than grass, and I seem to myself
not far from dying.

But everything can be endured, because….

~*~

No, Sappho, I’d have to disagree: not everything can be endured.

~*~

The love Sappho describes, the one I’ve felt myself at least once before is…

Agony.

But it is an agony that we both desire and rebel against throughout our lives.

Longinus and Burke would like to tie sublimity to greatness in art or to the majestic in nature, but I think that what we seek in literature and nature is simply the agony that we feel while in the heights and depths of love and sorrow—that pure, delicious agony that lets us know we’re alive…however unfortunately.

Burke denies this. He says, in fact, “When danger or pain press too nearly, they are incapable of giving any delight, and are simply terrible; but at certain distances, and with certain modification, they may be, and they are delightful…” (1.7). I agree with the idea that pain and danger pressing too closely are simply terrible, not delightful; what I disagree with is Burke’s definition of the sublime: that it is something that is full of delight and, worse yet, that it is something that must be experienced at, at least, some distance. For, as Burke himself says, feelings of “…pain and danger…are the most powerful of all the passions” (1.6), and, as with any passions, they are most easily felt not by proxy, but in the flesh.

No, I feel that the most truly sublime is generally also the most truly terrible. It is nothing more or less than the ecstasy of pure agony.

And it can only be known firsthand.

When we sense the sublime in nature or in a piece of literature, we sense it with…well, we sense it with our senses—and in the painful tingling of our nerves. Like poor Sappho’s speaker up above, we are indeed overpowered by a certain awful “Astonishment; and astonishment is that state of the soul, in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror” (Burke 2.1). The juxtaposition of images and sensations that Longinus celebrates in this poem has the power to stop me and, yes, to cause me pain. Not because my mind says, “Wow, what a great poem,” but because my body reacts in sympathy with the speaker. And, independent of that, it reacts to the overload of ideas that are being desperately processed by my mind. It’s a pleasant pain, but painful all the same.

But that pleasurable pain is numbness compared to the pain of love I once (not so very long ago) experienced firsthand.

And that, in turn, was less than nothing to the ecstasy of agony I felt after losing a friend to suicide about a month after I turned 22.

Was it pleasant? No. But it sure as heck was the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt. In the days and weeks that followed, sometimes I felt like my heart would burst from all the anguish inside it. In fact, I was so full of feeling—a horrible passion of despair—that it was one of the few times in my life that the words actually poured out of me. I, who have struggled with writer’s block, couldn’t stop writing. I’m not claiming any of it was good, but it certainly reflects the tumultuousness that was inside of me at the time, the anger, the bewilderment, the desperation, and the despair. At the risk of being laughed at, I’m going to share a couple of the works that resulted—though, again, with the disclaimer that I know it’s pretty embarrassing poetically speaking, and I’m definitely NOT saying that the poems themselves are sublime, but I do think they quite honestly capture something of the sublime agony I was feeling back then:


Do you love me / now that I’m dead? / Do you cry for me / now that I’m gone? / Or does the game go on / one more player down? / Was it all for nothing? / Did you even learn one thing? / Did you learn how to love? / Do you know how to care? / Will you ever see / how much it meant to me / just to be held / just to be touched? / Couldn’t you even give me a smile? / But now that I’m gone / do you cry for me? / And now that I’m dead / do you love me? / You played me a fool / treated me like a dog / kicked me aside / when you found another pup / I could have survived / tried to move on / but you couldn’t let it be / You had to have me / on a string / like a puppet / to be played with / when you were bored / Now who’s your toy? / Do you cry for me / now that I’m dead? / Do you love me / now that I’m gone? / And in the night / do you long for my touch? / When you’re all alone / do you remember my kiss? / Do you care? / Did you ever care? / Now that it’s too fucking late / Do you finally care?

Remember me

(Note: Yeah, his wife left him for another man. Needless to say, we were all looking for someone to blame, and she was an easy target.)

~*~

Blue sky above me,
dark clouds surround me,
heartache engulfs me,
a nightmare that just won’t end.

I hear your voice in my head,
see your smile in my dreams,
hold you in my memory.

Tomorrow if I can just go on—
and the next day once again—

I can take it day by day,
and eventually the pain will fade.

But when I’m alone
with all my defenses down,
every memory comes back to me:

I hear you in a song,
see you in the sky;
driving down the road,
I wonder if you’ll pass me by.

And so little to hold onto,
so much I had to miss.
I just got to treasure
every minute,
remember every look,
and
memorize every word
I ever heard you speak.

And the tears inside me,
fighting to be free…

I’m so afraid I’ll forget you,
but it hurts almost as bad
to remember.

I love you—
“Been there, did that!”
I miss you—
“What’s up with that?”
I won’t forget you—
“Keep knocking and someday I’ll answer!”

Someday, I hope to see you again….

In memory of you
Feb. 25, 1993
25 days in Hell

Letter to a character

My Dearest Emily,

I hope you'll allow me to call you Emily. I know we don't know each another, but, honestly, I can't stand to see you being presented as a nameless thing--an object of pity or scorn--when you have an identity of your own--even if no one took the pains or even simply the time to discover it.

You see, in many ways I identify with you, with your plight. Abandoned by the man you loved...there was once a man I loved. Left to raise your child alone...I had three little ones, two of them before I turned nineteen. Treated as if you were mad...well, maybe I was mad. Maybe I am. I was. I am.

But we go on, don't we?

Only...

Only, I know that poet lied about you. He pretended to hear your voice. He pretended to know your mind. He told the world the secrets that you whispered to your child, the consolation, the commiseration, the promises, the pain.

But he knew nothing. He felt nothing. He saw nothing and heard nothing at all.

Maybe rumors.

And, to be fair, even poets can be deceived. By an ill fame with slobbering lips and stoppered ears, even poets can be misled.

Oh, but Emily, how long must we endure these lies? How long must we allow others to pretend to speak for us? If they leave you to wander about, an abandoned mother, with an abandoned child, searching for something in a world of nothing, what right do they have to call you the crazy one?

Emily, I don't know what to do for you. He called you mad--then he taught me how to call you mad as well.

But I've been played the fool too long.

So if it's madness he wants, madness they want, then...

Then maybe I'll be mad too.

With all affection,

In solidarity,

Another Mad Mother

Have I ever felt trapped?

Drawing on Coleridge for this question is so appropriate because in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" it seems that so much of what the characters suffer springs from feelings of guilt and compulsion. I've felt trapped in both literal and metaphorical ways: literally because of finances, family obligations, and--most often--a simple lack of knowledge and intellectual and/or emotional resources; metaphorically because of guilt and fear. Most of the time, I feel trapped by myself. I feel like I don't have the keys to access certain possibilities. And I never stop second guessing myself. And like the Mariner, I often find myself compelled to inflict my doubts on the poor, unsuspecting innocents around me.

Hmmm...I sense that this could easily turn into another one of those moments of self-pitying self-confession. So I think I'm going to switch prompts mid-blog. (How's that for a grand escape?)

So revisiting Tuesday's in-class freewrite:

My Grand Antarctic--er, make that Pullman--Adventures

The most foreign environment I've ever visited is probably--ironically enough--Pullman, Washington. But I should qualify this with "in comparison to where I was accustomed to being."

For me, Las Vegas has been home for over twenty years; it's the town where I came of age and where almost every horrible, agonizing, happy, wonderful thing has happened to me. There are also so many things I took for granted while living there: 24-hour grocery & even department store shopping; movie theaters with twenty screens; 112 degree heat three to four months of the year; lots of sun; lots of places to eat; lots of entertainment; all the places my kids and I haunted from the time they were born; and the ones I haunted even before that from the time I moved there when I was fifteen oh so many years ago (like the high school I dropped out of and the university where I made my way back up).

Then I moved to Pullman.

When I first moved here, despite missing all of the above, the biggest shock was the cold. Even though I moved in at the beginning of June, I felt cold all the time. And it rained and rained (and rained) until I felt like I'd never see the sun again. And even though July brought an end to the rain, it remained chilly (again, only by comparison to what I'd known for the last 20-something years, of course) so that I felt about ready NOT to start classes but to go into hibernation by the time September hit. I imagine the bodies of those Antarctic explorers must have felt a hundred times more out of wack than mine did--especially dependent as they were on a sun that never stood quite where it should (i.e. where they were used to seeing it) in the sky.

But gradually I've become acclimatized--though, admittedly, only after inflicting a year of whining about the weather on anyone and everyone who would listen. Sorry, guys.

One thing I haven't become accustomed to is the quiet and the darkness. I intentionally rented off of College Hill, thinking that I didn't want to be around all the undergrad partying, and, for the most part, this was a good decision. I've come to appreciate the chirping of crickets and birds. However, although I don't really miss the noise of cars and helicopters and people shouting and the occasional gunshot at all hours of the night, I do feel lonelier somehow and isolated here--especially when it's dark out. During the day, there are all sorts of people walking dogs and such, but at night, if I take a walk around the block or down the street, I might not see anyone the entire time I'm out there.

And the dark! Oh gee, sometimes I long for the glitter of the Strip or the glaring bright lights of the corner gas stations. At the same time, I have to admit that the stars haven't been this lovely to me in years. When I look at the sky, I'm not seeing it through a haze of smog and city lights. Again, I guess in a very distant way, I can compare my experience with those Antarctic explorers.

What I miss most about Vegas:

Female Innocence and Experience

I suppose the easiest way to begin is to refer back to Jim's discussion of the "Worlds of Blake" and to how Thel's world fits into this sceme. Of all the things we talked about, the idea that innocence also suggests a kind of sterility really stands out to me for some reason, probably because we generally think of that term--and associated ones like "childhood"--in a positive light. Similarly, to see Thel's world (Beulah) as a place of sleep and the moon makes me think of dreams and escape. Certainly in my own life both sleep and dreams hold some pretty heavy-duty appeal.

But then, in looking again at Thel, I'm reminded of how frustrated this character is in her seeming paradise. Rather than enjoying the flowers and clouds and loveliness around her, she instead laments her lack of purpose and the inevitable (progeny-less?) end to her existence. She's entirely lost and unfortunately is all too aware that her life holds no meaning. Her innocence, in other words, has been tainted by an overabundance of knowledge and a preoccupation with her lack of experience.

Perhaps this is why the seeming consolation Thel receives (from her discussions with the lily, cloud, and earth) is forgotten at the end of the poem with the image of the grave and Thel's flight from its words. She still longs to live and experience and...and I don't know. She's just not happy with what she has or doesn't have, I suppose, and so isn't ready to relinquish her hold on life.

Oddly enough, Oothoon seems to have the opposite problem. She has too much experience--at least according to Theotormon. The speaker speaks of her independent traveling as "impetuous" (23), and it seems that she is made to pay for that impetuosity at the hands of Bromion. But Oothoon isn't willing to part with her innocence so easily. For her, innocence seems to be a state of mind rather than a physical manifestation. So any practical experience doesn't detract from who she is. On the other hand, I'm not sure that it adds to her identity either...basically because there seems to be not reconciliation between her and Theotormon and the Daughters are all still lamenting at the end.

Hmmm...looks like I didn't really answer the question, but I suppose my short answer is that I don't really believe there is really any resolution--or certainly no happy resolution--in the juxtaposition of innocence and experience. But, thinking back to Jim's presentation, I don't think that resolution's necessarily the point. Maybe Blake was really intending to leave us unsettled / unresolved. *shrugs*

it's true

God's alone

And I'm alone

Inside of God.

Are they environmental texts?

I've always thought of the romantics as having a strong investment and appreciation for nature, but now after our discussion this last Tuesday I'm not so sure about the character of that appreciation. There's a certain self-absorption in all these works (that I never noticed on my own) that really precludes the idea of their authors seeing "human interest... [as not] the only legitimate interest." The texts we read seem to be ALL about the poet, and leave room for little beyond that, so I don't really see "human accountability to the environment" as playing any big "part [in] the text's ethical orientation." I always thought of the romantics as poets who went outside themselves to delve into the wonders of the world; now I see them more as writings about themselves and their own responses to, and the inspirations they receive from, nature.

At the same time, I can't help but see these texts / authors as strong precursors to current environmental movements. They do suggest a certain awe of and reverence for the natural world--even if they seem to uphold the feelings of awe and reverence above the subjects causing those feelings. For me, this was especially true in Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale." I don't know if the environment / nightingale was meant to become more than a framing device for the poet to explore his own poetical / artistic longings, but the natural images are so powerful, so immediate that they do seem to take on a life of their own apart from the poet's own egocentric meditations.

Thus, Keats begins his nightingale poem by focusing on his own responses--his aching heart, his numbed/pained senses, and just the way he feels in general (whether envious or happy) about the nightingale and her song (1-6)--but then he inserts this image in our heads of an almost magical creature, a dryad (7), a little goddess or fairy spirit of the tree, who somehow comes alive in a few short lines and stays with us even as the poet returns again to his own reflections and feelings and experience. And later, just when he seems to have left that which inspired him far behind and flies through the clouds in an almost drunken ecstacy of imagination, he comes back to her, telling us that all this while she has been singing and "Still woudst...sing" and that despite his intoxicating flights of fancy he is unable to capture / recreate her song himself (60). This seems to suggest the superiority of nature over man--even the poetic man.

And yet...

And yet the speaker actually appears to regulate the natural world itself to being an invention of human imagination when he wonders at the end, "Was it a vision, or a waking dream? / Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?" (79-80). Here it seems that the speaker credits the elusiveness of the song not to the superiority of nature, but to the poet's inability to translate his own vision/dream/feeling to the physical world.

How do you read a poem?

If you're at all like I am and don't have much experience with poetry, you might feel somewhat intimidated when faced with poems as complex as those we're reading for next week. Having just muddled through them myself over the last couple of days, I believe your best bet would be to start with the footnotes (to discourage your eyes from wandering as you try to focus on the poem) and then read the poem straight through, without pause, as if you understand everything. Don't glance down at the footnotes; don't try to figure out the metaphores; don't think too deeply about hidden meanings or even obvious allusions. Just pretend you know what's happening. This is a good time to appreciate the music of the language without the burden of analysis, so I highly recommend reading at least part of the poem aloud--but, again, don't let it slow you down. The goal for this reading is just to get done so if anyone asks, you can say in complete honesty, "Oh, yes, Blake's Visions of the Daughters of Albion? Of course I've read it; hasn't everyone?" (Okay, that last was kind of a joke, but never underestimate the value of bragging rights when it comes to complex works of art.

But seriously....)

Now go have a cup of coffee: you're gonna to need it.

Okay, it's time to read it again...this time for meaning. Glance at the footnotes as needed, annotate the text itself, make notes / write questions in a reading notebook. This is your chance to play catch-the-allusion and to grapple with any unfamiliar words / images. You might also simply mark particularly difficult passages for further consideration later on. When you're done, spend ten minutes or so just freewriting about the poem--glancing at it once or twice if you need to, but not more than that.

With a long poem like the Blake piece mentioned above, this reading and responding could take a couple hours of truly focused study, so set aside some quiet time when you know you won't be interrupted. Don't rush it; give the poem the time and effort it deserves. Keep in mind that the poet him or herself probably spent far more time than that composing, revising, and editing the darn thing, so the least you can do is give it a couple hours. (On the other hand, I don't recommend doing this with every poem you come across or even all of the poems we've been assigned for this class. Instead, after your first read-through, decide which work(s) most interest and appeal to or offend you. Otherwise, you won't have time for your other classes, let alone family and fun.)

Now set the poem aside again. Go for a walk, hang out with friends, and, while you're doing that, think about poem and talk about it, too...even if it's just aloud to yourself. Try to remember some specific lines and repeat them--again, do it out loud. And, yeah, this is a good time to go online and see what the net freaks are saying about the poem, though I personally find engaging in conversation--even if it's just with myself--will give me a stronger appreciation for a work than simply reading someone else's thoughts does.

Realistically, the next step will be to skim through the poem at least once more before going to class.

But if you have the time and inclination, read the poem again several times, slowly, and maybe only a passage or two at a time. Savor the language, think about the nuances of the punctuation, examine the line length, and enjoy the rhymes and rhythm. And, by all means, test your earlier thoughts and conversations to see if the ideas / readings you came up with actually seem plausible when you have the poem right in front of you.

When you go to class, be sure to ask about those difficult passages you couldn't figure out and to share your interpretations if they contradict those of your teacher and/or classmate. You might be completely off base, or you might have actually discovered something they missed: you'll never know if you don't ask.

And if you actually find the time to do all that, pat yourself on the back. You still might not have found the ultimate meaning, but by this point you've certainly gained an appreciation and at least some sort of understanding for the work that you didn't have before.