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"For the sound of a broken heart,
Crack a joke."

-A.E. Stallings




Friday, December 27, 2013

"How did it come to this?"



Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.

--King Theoden, The Lord of the Rings




Tuesday, December 24, 2013

A Memory

There's something special about a childhood memory of Christmas. That moment where you're teleported back to a time where magic lived and breathed within the world and people around you. Let me share one that is especially precious to me: a memory featuring my favorite hero, my mercurial villain, my wise counselor, or, simply put, my Dad....

Each Christmas had its' steadfast traditions. There was the unadorned tree on the eve of, and the decorated tree revealed upon the morning. There was the dining room table resplendent with boxes of cookies in the shapes of a town village. And there was the Yankee Candle set to burn uninterrupted upon the mantle. But there was one tradition that was broken on the night of the memory I wish to share with you now....

It was a Christmas Eve like any other, and my brother and I sat beside the crackling fire daydreaming that we had no need for bed time. No, we were so assured that our drooping lids would bear their weight a bit longer so that we may be the ones to greet Santa as he came down the chimney. But it wasn't to be as our father assured us that we did have to go to bed lest Santa pass by our house that night. Herding us to our feet, our nightly tradition of kisses and sleepy g'nights progressed until my brother, with a startled cry, exclaimed that we had not left out the milk and cookies for Santa's visit. Following his fine example of hospitality and ehem bribery, I too raised the cry. Our father bore this stoically with only a moment of, what I can now understand was, chagrin before raising his hands in defeat. "Oh, of course," he muttered in answer and dutifully led us into the kitchen.

But then a curious thing occurred that my brother and I did not expect. Our father paused, his hand half raised towards the cabinet. Lowering his hand, he turned back to us, his gaze looking from the cookie adorned table to us and back. "Don't you think we have enough cookies out for Santa," he asked, his wheedling tone quite lost on us then. "But he needs his own plate," my brother and I pleaded--both of us quite sure that Santa would be quite put out by us if he did not find a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for his own use. "Oh, but Santa and I had a talk about this the last time he visited us," he assured us, the twinkle in his eye unnoticed as he continued, "He told me that he gets so many cookies and glasses of milk at every other boys' and girls' houses that he would prefer something different." Our eyes wrinkling in confusion, for in what child's mind can there ever be enough cookies, my brother and I stared up at our father and asked, "Like what?" Well, our father responded with that twinkle in his eye and his cheeks rosy with suppressed glee... "Santa wants a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a coke-a-cola."

...Yes Da--Santa, we still remember your love for a sandwich and a coke.

And with that, I leave you to your eve. Much love to you all, and may you all share in a very merry Christmas.



Saturday, December 21, 2013

Fairytales and their Fans

Dear Diary,

I am well aware that you have been the landscape for my doldrums. You need not remind me. And as I am unable to forswear ever doing so again, I hope that you may take the following as a peace offering... yes, I actually decided to use my brain to think on matters other than my morbid feelings. Now, there will be emotions imparted, but I do so solemnly swear that tonights post will not be so damn depressing. What shall we be discussing, you ask? Well, fairytales and their fans: where does all the symbolism go?

Sincerely,
Me

~ * ~

There are far too many fairytales to cover at once, so this may be a post that is revitalized over time as new tales are discussed, but, for now, we're going to mull over one of my childhood favorites: The Labyrinth. Jim Henson and his motley crew brought to life a story that is timeless as well as being rich in symbolism.

  • A young girl on the cusp of womanhood
  • The Fey--beings of magic.
  • A Labyrinth--a maze with choices of path or direction.
  • An owl
    • "Intuition, ability to see what other do not see
    • Capacity to see beyond deceit and masks
    • The traditional meaning of the owl spirit animal is the announcer of death, most likely symbolic like a life transition, change (spiritanimal.info)."
  • A peach--european symbolism: speaking the truth from ones' heart (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peach)
.... and the list goes on and on. I focused primarily upon this list because many of these symbols are closely tied to the main character, Sarah in regards to the hinted at romance with her antagonist, Jareth. Also, I adore the use of these symbols in tandem with the girl who is evolving into a woman because even as they provide a level of mysticism, there is still room for their inate symplicity. We're simply discussing that transition for Sarah--with all of its darkening themes of growing away from childhood, and of burgeoning sexuality. 

Moving on, let's now throw in the "Fans" aspect of the conversation. And what do we have? A loss of all of that juicy symbolism to be honest! I recently began haunting fanfiction.net, and I've had my noise stuck in over a dozen of The Labyrinth fanfics. And now, as I blink into the bright light of day, I realize that almost every single one turns the tale into a smut fest that all too often has a high capacity for abuse in their narratives. Where is the homage that Henson intended as a gift to his daughter (the additional interviews that come with the digital copy of the movie are a gem to watch), and where is the story itself? The lines blur too much for me, and there are only so many scenes of bondage, blow jobs, and baby making that I can stand to read before I roll my eyes and hit the close button.... Don't get me wrong, I can read a smut novel with the best of them, but there comes a point where the meaning is lost and leaves the reader going "huh?"

So, here's my challenge! Let's discuss what twist the tale can take while keeping in mind the lines of symbolism that can guide us... keep us on the rails, so to speak. I'm not saying that we all must forsake the romance between Sarah and Jareth--but keep in mind that we're looking at a fifteen year old with an older man, and I'll give credit to many of the fanfics I read, they did a wonderful job of allowing some growth there for Sarah before delving into the hanky panky--because we all adore a good tale of love, every angsty inch of it.

On my part, I see the potential for the Persephone cannon for when Sarah ate the peach which then, in turn, brings to mind the concept of Snow White who bit the apple that placed her into a death-like slumber/whereas Sarah was cast into a dreaming state by the bite of a peach, ect. As some of you know me personally, you know that I could go on for days with ideas... so let me leave you with this image:

Sarah recited the words that made the world fall apart, "You have no power over me," and thus, she won the game she played against Jareth. The prize? The freedom of her baby brother. But what she did not know was that those were not the words which she would come to rue....

"My Kingdom is as great," she had declared to the Goblin King, and at the strike of thirteen hours (for remember, she had defeated the game in only ten), the Labyrinth answered. A kingdom came into being in parallel to the Goblin's own, a mirror image of a maze surrounding a castle in the distance. The difference, a lone form slept within its towers, and now the Goblin King must trek the insidious pathways that at once seem so familiar but in reality are dangers untold so that the wild magic at work can be contained before the Otherworld is truly cast as something only found in dreams....

Ack, what have I done! I meant to tease and titillate my readers, not give myself another project! My intentions were to prompt the idea of a fan fic where Sarah's victory is not undone or diminished, but instead, the idea is one that merely plays along with the rules of countless fairytale cannons and engulf her back in the world of what makes the tale so fantastical. I have the sudden urge to mutter to myself while simultaneously giggling like one of the fan girls I so often taunt.

There's nothing for it... 'What's said is said.'

But enough about me and my sinuous daydreams. How do the symbols and the tale speak to you?






Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential Quotes #16

Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential Quotes #16:


After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.
— Mark Twain, The Diaries of Adam & Eve


Thursday, December 19, 2013

Absences

The holidays are a bitch. There, I said it.

And with my usual aplomb I've been avoiding talking about anything that pertains to just how I truly feel. As you've probably noticed from previous posts, I have this habit of publishing poems that have caught my eye instead of talking about something substantial... get used to it because this is not one of those moments where I forswear ever doing so again. What? The poems are pretty. See? Peace offering.

Ha! Peace. An individual has only a few experiences over the holidays, I've found. First, there're those like me this year who are spending their holiday alone. No family, no friends, no lover. Second, there are those who are surrounded by people but are still alone. That whole concept of being amidst a crowd, screaming bloody murder and not one taking notice. And then third, there are those lucky bastards that are painfully cheerful the whole time. They're up there with those alien morning people. Now don't get me wrong, if you have the third experience then bully for you. Happy freakin holidays... really.

Le sigh. And yes, I was just pretentious enough to type out sigh. I had to. It fits that whole melodramatic vibe I've got going on. Are you laughing yet? Say yes, say yes! That's the point behind this exercise. Exorcise that angst of pop-belly grandpas in too much red, of Rudolph's need for Puffs moisturized tissue, of burnt turkey dinners, of lover less mistletoe, and of all that holiday crap that comes back every year. It doesn't matter.

Want to know the secret? It's you that matters. Get through these seasons where we're engulfed by happy masks and get back to the point of it all. Celebrate your life. Each year feel free to celebrate your thankfulness for family and blah blah blah, but also realize that it is a matter of being thankful for another year that your life continued... another season that you were able to witness. If you make it through then I promise to do the same.

So, happy freakin holidays... I'll see you on the other side.


Tuesday, December 17, 2013

 "I Have Loved Hours at Sea"

     by Sara Teasdale


I have loved hours at sea, gray cities,
The fragile secret of a flower,
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour;

First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise,
And the great look of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.

I have loved much and been loved deeply --
Oh when my spirit's fire burns low,
Leave me the darkness and the stillness,
I shall be tired and glad to go.

Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential Quotes #14



Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential Quotes #14:

Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins.
— Neil Gaiman


A bit of me....

When I'm considering a story I write a bit of poetry to go with it. It has its uses in getting the creative juices flowing, but then, like finding a really good wine, I find myself content to sit awhile on the poetry itself--in turn, the story, although not forgotten, is never really completed. Sad? Well, yes and no. There are times where I am happily content with the poems that represent one of my ideas, but, on the other hand, there are times where I am agitated by the stories themeselves being incomplete. And, in either circumstance, I daydream of my cast of characters--heroes and villains alike. What would they say here or there, I ask myself.

--What do they say, you ask? Uhhh, well, you see... I haven't written any of it down. No dialogue has found its way into a document because naughty me! it's all, still, within my head. Now wait! Before you--and I know a few of you reading this, so the fear is real--castigate me for my neglect, I offer the aforementioned poems in recompense. They belong to a story that I've been toying with for several years over the idea of fey in the mortal world (and sidenote, I swear I've been holding on to this concept long before the fad erupted into being). The story outline goes a bit like this:

Once upon a time, there were two courts of faerie that had been feuding for a very, very long time. And, as most feuds are want to begin, the conflict had started over a lovers' spat between two high ranking sidhe. On the one hand, there was Aednat, a princess of a seelie court, and although she was raised amongst the ideals of light and, supposed, goodness, she possessed a hard heart. Spoiled, as princesses often are, she could not face being told no. On the other hand, there was Drystan, a king of an unseelie court, and although he was a leader of a people often looked down upon as being dark and, allegedly, evil, he ruled with a balanced heart and only ever did what was best for his people. Loved by his subjects, he had no need for a queen.... Aednat disagreed.

Enraged by his refusal to love her, Aednat cast a terrible curse upon him--his sidhe beauty was masked in the form of a goblin. Terrible to behold, Drystan became that of a thing of nightmares, but what Aednat could not have known was how truly his people loved him. Each donned the cursed masks as well, sidhe to the most lowly of fey, and they joined Drystan into his exhile.

Yet, Aednat was not content to leave him to his changed state: the curse would free Drystan, and his people, only during the darkest months of winter. For a few months, they would be free to walk as they truly are, and thus, she would come to him each time and demand he make her his queen in exchange for the freedom from the curse. Each time, Drystan would refuse.

Time passed, as it want to do, and the landscape of the world changed. The darkest months of winter were no longer bleak landscapes, but instead, lit with light. Drystan and his court embraced the mortal world during their times of freedom as winter was no longer a time for closed doors and ravaging sickness... and it is this type of freedom which led to a certain prophesy where a mortal holds the key to breaking the curse....



          In frost and bitter wind                                                Crippled and torn -- prince I am not --
          I am free but for a time.                                               Yet, gilded in name and blood.
          My mask torn-- discarded --                                        Memory: the dagger which strikes true
          Too soon to take it up again.                                        Opens again the wounds --
          But soft, she calls to me --                                           Courtly bow --
          So sweet, but is she the key?                                        I cringe -- lost in eyes of loathing.
          I have a glimpse of hope --
          So, follow me child
          Down the wayward path.
          A promise is given --
          But will you hold true?


Monday, December 16, 2013

Amidst the lines, I stray....

Refusal 

-Maya Angelou

Beloved,
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips
Your Hands
Your Laughter brave
Irreverent.
Those sweet excesses that
I do adore.
What surety is there
That we will meet again,
On other worlds some
Future time undated.
I defy my body's haste.
Without the promise
Of one more sweet encounter
I will not deign to die.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

What to say?

Well school is on break and everyone has gone home. Whoops: that was a bit melodramatic, but hey, it's how I feel. You see, I have this long standing habit of playing the hermit (insert all stereotypes here). We're talking no visitors, the loss of time, hairy underarms, and a diet of ramen noodles--it isn't pretty. It's strange how something that frustrates me so much, that of being in college and of being a student, is the very means to my sociability. Whine, whine, whine, I want my friends back. It's sad, I know, but they don't allow for me to sequester myself so effectively. They kick my ass and force me to be sociable... they're trying now, but nothing gets me moving more than the allure of an actual sit down. They know my weakness: I'm a talker, a story-teller that will stand on a soap box all the way up until something, or someone knocks me down. So, welcome friends to the online pity party. It'll be short, I promise, and sadly lacking in alcohol....

In answer, I'm off to my own version of Neverland from the confines of the nest of blankets I've made, the giant shirt that I'm pretty sure I swiped from an old roommate, and a pair of fuzzy socks. Damn, where's the chocolate?

P.s. A recommendation:

I have a special love for this story. I was originally drawn to Robin McKinley due to her rewrites of fairytales (which is the cause of my own love for twisting a tale with my own imagination). What's special about this story is that it is not a retelling of a much treasured fairytale, instead, this is a world created by McKinley herself. And in this world, she provided her readers with a unique main character--a heroine with the strengths so inherent to a person, not merely the stereotypes of a woman or a man, she simply is. Moreover, once you get to know me better, you'll recognize my dislike over the Twi-fic popularity of a love triangle, and although this tale features the outline of one, I dare any reader to find fault in how uniquely McKinley weaves the love story through this tale where a legend is born. Additionally, who can remain untouched by a story where a misfit can become a savior, and where a woman can be a knight facing their demons--ehem, their dragons?

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Adjustments

Being a college student can, at times, be a surreal experience. Throw in the fact that I'm a 28 year old surrounded by those who are 8-10 years younger than me, and you can begin to see the picture. Now, refrain from the eye rolls please because I am in no way saying that I am old--if you are, then share that view at your own risk. Anyway, my point is, I find it hard to have much in common with my fellow students. They're still stuck in adolescent dreams, and I? Well, I seem to be stuck in limbo.

My dreams are a funny thing: there is still a want for love--I am female with a love for chocolate and Mr. Darcy after all--but there has been a shift in my ideals. I've never been one to dream of being the princess that's saved by a gallant knight. Hell, I always wanted to be the knight...or the dragon (my guilty little secret is that I'm one to cheer for the dragon to win). But what's changed, you ask? Well, I'm still that gender confused knight, but it's not a damsel I'm looking to save. I'm not looking to save anyone really. Damn, I'm stalling... I can't even seem to type it out without deflecting in some way. But, then again, what do I want? Being a college student, surrounded by these idealists who are no where near where I have come to be, has made me feel as if I am standing at a crossroads with a giant pause button over my face.

I'm not looking for daddy to save me anymore. Nor am I believing that I can be whatever I want with a willy nilly disregard for the realities of the world we live in. Perhaps some of you will mock me and say that I am experiencing a "nesting" syndrome of some kind, and perhaps you're right, but perhaps I'm merely growing up. Perhaps I'm looking to becoming the parent of my own idealistic adolescent.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Now don't get all up and arms at me. I'm not going to go out and get pregnant tonight, the next night, nor the next. I'm merely coming to accept the adjustments in my life as time unfolds my shifting dreams. But don't worry: I still look to that second star to the right.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Work in Progress: Frog Prince



Frog Prince:
a retelling of the Brothers Grimm fairytale...


~ * ~
It wasn’t being a frog that was the problem. Or the fact that I had been a prince beforehand. Or that I had been dumped in some pond far from my kingdom.
No, the problem was that I had to find a girl.
~ * ~
 
 Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's finally happened. After all of my bluster and night long mutterings over how I'd retell the tales of my youth, I finally have one done. Sort of. Mostly done. Erm--how about: done save for the editing process that is then resulting in some rewrites on dialogue as well as a revisitation of the ending. Too wishy washy.... Also, in case you didn't catch it from the aforementioned quote, I've decided to spice up my favorite tale with a retelling from the frog's point of view, with a bit of sass thrown in for fun.

Excuse me a moment as I, ah yes, much better. Now that my mind is out of the gutter. Uh hm, we are looking at a G-rating m'dears...maybe...no. Oh hell, perhaps a PG-rating, but THAT is as far as it goes people. Let me get the initial rewrites done, and then, if copious amounts of bribery insue, I may be inclined to writing a few faity tales with my own brand of the macabre and skanky.

Moreover, moving back to the actual work in progress, I am sorry to say that I will not be posting the entirety of the story onto this blog because I would like, at some future date--preferably in a few years, to have my work professionally published. But being the kind, considerate and fiendish love I am, I will leave you with a few more quotes:

~ * ~
Well, no one ever said that the fairytales had it right. I had a princess. Perhaps not my true love, but it’s not like she had to kiss me, or anything.
~ * ~
She ignored me mostly, but I cannot say that I did the same for her. I watched her, resented her in ways for being allowed to be what I had been cursed for being: spoiled, uncaring of those beneath her, and vain. She seemingly spent hours before her vanity, only to be reduced to a mere human as she slept.
 ~ * ~
 I never told her I was a prince. I guess the fairy thought it would be cheating. But it left me lying here wondering just what she would say upon waking.

 ~ * ~

Again, there will be a few rewrites, but I'm quite content with the personality of my enchanted prince. He had a way of suprising me as I wrote, and he and I have been traveling along together for awhile now--despite how short the tale is, it's been a handful. There's something about a story coming together on its' own though that makes it so much more special to me. I didn't plan out the story every step of the way (save for staying close to the original timeline from the Grimm's version), and a moral actual came out and bit me on the butt right in the middle of writing the scenes. So, I have a special love for this story for not only its ties to frogs, but also because it shared its self with me and allowed me to do the same.



Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential Quotes #11

Because I so love how Little_Songbird's mind works, I just had to share this....

Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential Quotes #11:


Writing is like giving yourself homework, really hard homework, every day, for the rest of your life. You want glamorous? Throw glitter at the computer screen.
— Katrina Monroe






Love, or Not?

July 26, 2012
Through the Looking Glass,
a reading of a collection of poems

    What is love? Like the concept of the soul, love is an intangible force to which we give considerable power. Throughout our history the concept of love has molded, or shattered lives, and the idea of loving another is universal; bridging nations, religions, and language. No greater testimony to this can be found outside of literature. So, what is love? We feel it, we express it, and we attempt to understand it. As the philosopher Socrates once said, “…I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing” (brainyquote.com). Therefore, I cannot give an answer to the aforementioned question of what love is, but what I can do is look to some of the literature which has been inspired by the concept of love, and in turn, perhaps find some form of understanding of the emotion. Within the selected works of William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, Claude McKay, and Thomas Hardy, a pattern emerges as what we term as love poems present an idolization of beauty, and the evolving perceptions of ideal love from the male perspective.
    Universally perceived as the writer of works to whom women swoon over, Shakespeare is a household name in literature. Scholars have estimated that his lifetime was between 1564-1616 (biography.com), and although his plays are what come to mind so readily when one thinks of Shakespeare, it is a staggering fact that in 1609 one hundred and fifty-four sonnets were officially printed (Gwynn 479). Who better to discuss when love is on the table? Yet, here too, the prevailing views of the time showcase how idolization of beauty imparts the endearment of love. In William Shakespeare’s sonnet eighteen “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Shakespeare illustrates to the reader this concept of an ideal love, or lover. Yet, it is the woman’s beauty which lends credence to the narrator’s affection as the subject is compared to an “eternal summer” (Shakespeare l.9). Now, when discussing the concept of ideal love, one must take into account that Shakespeare’s work was written in the sixteenth century. Whereas the lines have blurred a bit in our current society, one must understand that racial awareness and terms such as one’s breeding were paramount to those in our past. So, then, the text comes to life for the critical reader as the idolization of this woman reveals to us the speaker’s idealism of her. From the adulation we gather that she is “compare[d]… to a summer’s day” (Shakespeare l.1). Summer: sun, golden, bountiful… the portrait begins to take shape. “But thy eternal summer shall not fade, / Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st” (Shakespeare l.l. 9&10). Again we can take the text, and find the descriptive use of fair: pretty, pale, pleasant.
    In comparison, William Shakespeare’s sonnet one hundred and thirty, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,” takes us down another path. Instead of the idolization of the speaker’s mistress, she is alternatively compared to the concept of ideal beauty, and the prevailing views of the time are the sounding board to which the speaker compares her. “If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun / If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head” (Shakespeare l.l. 3&4). Herein, the color of the woman’s skin and hair are alluded to; whereas snow: pale, white, soft is compared with dun: dark, dull, brown, and her hair is likened to wire which can be thought of in imagery such as coarse and dark. Moreover, the previous poem’s subject finds her polar opposite in this woman. No summer’s day is found within this descriptive poem of a love based more in reality. In fact, the first line of the sonnet makes this apparent to the reader as it begins with “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun” (Shakespeare l.1). The speaker’s mistress seems more real to us than the woman of “eternal summer,” yet it is to the latter that these men idolize. For, if my statement were untrue, where then does the comparison materialize? Why then is dun not the description of beauty, and snow not the frowned upon feature?
    Shakespeare is not alone in this comparison. William Wordsworth, a renowned English poet, and leading member of The Romantics, lived from 1770-1850 (victorianweb.org). Within the poem “She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways,” Wordsworth shares with us one of his noteworthy Lucy poems which were written in 1798-1800 while residing in Germany (online-literature.com); a story of a lonely, country girl who dies in obscurity. With the lines, “But she is in her grave, and oh, / The difference to me!” (Wordsworth l.l. 11&12) we are made fully aware of the speaker’s affection for Lucy. Yet, in attempting to express the virtues of Lucy, we are again provided with descriptions of her beauty. Like Shakespeare, Wordsworth writes with the perceptions of an English society, and we again come across the descriptor of fair; which brings to mind the aforementioned pretty, pale, pleasant (l.7). When paired further with the comparison of Lucy to that of a violet we are given the inclination to think of her as being beautiful, feminine, and yet fragile as well (Wordsworth 1.5). Moreover, the vivid imagery of Lucy being “Fair as a star, when only one / Is shining in the sky” brings forth another sense of idolization of her for when the lone star dies, there is only darkness (Wordsworth l.l. 7&8); so in essence, Lucy becomes the ideal love to which the speaker laments the loss of, and her unspoiled innocence of being a “maid[en]” allows for her to be placed upon the pedestal of the idolized beauty(Wordsworth 1.3).
    Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Yet, it cannot be denied that social acceptance, and even prejudice can blind the eye to beauty, and although the passage of time allows us to form new opinions and perceptions, the changes are slow to form even as the caste systems of the past blur; taking on new forms. One of the most notable turns in view in American history, from the 1920’s-1935, was the Harlem Renaissance (biography.com). Several years before the Civil Rights movement in the 1950’s, the Harlem Renaissance brought the black community to the center stage as a “cultural revolution” took place in what was dubbed the “capital of black America” in the twentieth century (biography.com). One of the prominent figures in this decade was Claude McKay, a poet and novelist who lived from 1890-1948. In his sonnet “The Harlem Dancer,” McKay illustrates to us a new take on the idea of ideal beauty for even though we are presented with the unmistakably description of a beautiful woman, it is the social ideal of beauty which has been the storm from which she has “Grown lovelier for [having] pass[ed] through” (l.8). As the readers, we can infer from the poem that the idolization of the socially acceptable “fair” beauty is what has placed the subject of “The Harlem Dancer” into the position of prostituting herself. “But looking at her falsely-smiling face, / I knew her self was not in that strange place” (McKay l.13&14).... the word which seems so paramount to me within these lines is “strange” as we are made aware that this beautiful woman is in a place the speaker believes she should not be. Her perfection fills the lines which precede the couplet: “And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; / Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes / Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls / Luxuriant fell” (McKay l.l. 2,3,9&10), but perhaps, in light of the social ideal of beauty, the descriptors cast her in the same light as Shakespeare’s “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.” Without the comparisons that the aforementioned idols pocessed such as fair, golden, or pure, then McKay’s dancer is instead damned for her “swarthy” skin, and “black” hair (l.9).
    Furthermore, what could be more damning than the death of ideal love when your lover’s eyes no longer look upon you and see the beauty they once recognized? Such a moment is captured within Thomas Hardy’s poem “Neutral Tones,” written in 1989. Hardy lived from 1840-1928, and he is most known for “his ironic, disillusioned point of view,” and he is considered “one of the chief predecessors of modernism” (Gwynn 573). Hardy’s tone conveys to the reader not only a disillusioned view-point, but also conveys a sense of vulnerability as the speaker of “Neutral Tones” faces the end to a relationship with his lover. Instead of faced with the aforementioned idolization of the ideal lover, the speaker tells the story of the death of ideal love itself. The imagery lent by the author by placing the subjects in a dismal, winter scene introduces the idea of the woman being cold, barren, or even brittle (Hardy l.1). Moreover, Hardy’s poem reintroduces the imagery of the sun which has factored into a few of the aforementioned works, yet in comparison, this is no golden globe. Instead, “…the sun is white, as though chidden of God,” and later it is remembered by the speaker as being “…the God-curst sun” (Hardy l.l 2&15). Whatever beauty was once admired is instead mired in bitterness, and no longer apparent as the speaker’s memory categorizes his lover’s face with that sun, and also with “…a pond edged with grayish leaves” (Hardy l.16). Ash and gray hues again bring to mind death, and an end to things.
    So, too, do I come to an end as each work has had its moment in the spot-light. The male perspectives on love that William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, Claude McKay, and Thomas Hardy provide in their works resounds with the concept of an idolization of beauty, and the evolving perceptions of ideal love from not only the passage of time, but we also see the idealism from varying degrees of affection toward the women they describe. The question of what love is cannot easily be defined, nor can it be easily categorized. Yet, without a spark of attraction between two lovers, love would have no beginning. Therefore, the concept of one’s need to find beauty, even when their search for such attraction is often influenced by societal norms and/or acceptance, is not something in which to be ashamed of necessarily for romantic love cannot exist without attraction. What is most striking when we get past that simple truth is the power of this theme to have inspired various writers throughout our history. With this collection of poems: Shakespeare’s “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,” Wordsworth’s “She Dwelt Amongst the Untrodden Ways,” McKay’s “The Harlem Dancer,” and Hardy’s “Neutral Tones,” we travel from the sixteenth century to the twentieth, and we continue to find relevance in each of these works as a sense of timelessness is lent to them through the discussion of that thing we can't seem to do without: love.

“So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee”
(Shakespeare 1.13&14).
   
   
   


Work Cited

    Biography.com. William Shakespeare. N.p., A+E Networks, 2012. Web. 25 July 2012.
        http://www.biography.com/people/william-shakespeare-9480323?page=2

    Biography.com. Harlem Renaissance. N.p., A+E Networks, 2012. Web. 25 July 2012.
        http://www.biography.com/tv/classroom/harlem-renaissance

    Biography.com. Claude McKay. N.p., A+E Networks, 2012. Web. 25 July 2012.
        http://www.biography.com/people/claude-mckay-9392654

    Brainyquotes.com. Socrates. N.p., 2012. Web. 25 July 2012.
        http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/s/socrates125872.html

    Online-literature.com. William Wordsworth. The Literature Network, n.p. Web.
        25 July 2012.
        http://www.online-literature.com/wordsworth/

    Everette, Glenn. “William Wordsworth- Biography.” Victorian-web.org. N.p. July 2000.
        Web. 25 July 2012.
        http://www.victorianweb.org/previctorian/ww/bio.html

    Gwynn, R.S., ed. Literature: A Pocket Anthology. 5th ed. New York: Pearson,  2009.
        Print. 25 July 2012.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Everything Must Have a Beginning

How does one begin such a thing as this: this blog, this journal, this--hell,let's call it what it is--diary? Gah, a diary! And not even one that's kind enough to keep my secrets to itself. Who could really dream that such secrets, such common thoughts, and even such t.m.i. moments would be broad casted via a medium open to the entirety of our planet? When I was young--ahem, younger--and a teacher asked my class to doodle what the future would bring, I daydreamed about flying cars, apartments on the moon, and stars within my pockets. Well, the twenty-first century is sorely lacking, but hey! we've got Facebook! (Insert thinly veiled sarcasm there for those who don't know me better).

Yet, sarcasm aside, I have to concede that despite my grumblings--and if you stick with me awhile, there will probably be many--I'm here, sharing with each and everyone one of you who deigns to read along with my ramblings a few secrets, a myriad of common thoughts, and a great deal of t.m.i.

So, stay with me awhile, and hm, how do these stories begin? Ah, yes, I remember: Dear Diary....