I Get a Shiver in My Bones Just Thinking about...
V. S. Naipaul's A Way in the World has been a joy to read. Compared to the previous novels (Achebe's Arrow of God and Soyinka's Isara) I've had to read for my Postcolonial Lit class, this one held my attention from the very first paragraph -- probably because the narrator, a wannabe novelist who always feels like a stranger/tourist even in a place he used to call home, seems very familiar to me. Every few pages, I have to stop and let an idea sink in (which is probably why I'm still only halfway done), or underline a passage that resonates with stuff I'm beginning to think more about. Like the question of race and identity in this city with its surface multiculturalism. Sometimes I feel this internalized pressure to not forget where I've come from, to not give the impression when I'm interacting with people that I'm at home in this city... because I'm not, and I'm aware of being a racialized/ exoticized/ sexualized other even in the classroom... But at the same time it's been pointed out to me I may be insisting on this difference, even when I don't have to. This is murky stuff I have to deal with in my mind, in my own time. I wonder though how this experience is changing me, has changed me, and what it'll be like when I do go home to Manila, whenever that'll be. Naipaul's narrator says:"To go back home was to play with impressions in this way, the way I played with the first pair of glasses I had, looking at a world now sharp and small and not quite real, now standard size and real but blurred; the way I played with my first pair of dark glasses, moving between the dazzle and the coolness; or the way, on this first return, when I was introduced to air-conditioning, I liked to move from the coolness of an air-conditioned room to the warmth outside, and back again. I was in time, over the years, and over many returns, to get used to what was new; but that shifting about of reality never really stopped. I could call it up whenever I wished. Up to about twenty years ago whenever I went back I could persuade myself from time to time that I was in a half-dream, knowing and not knowing."But despite this half-knowing, he also says, at the end of the first chapter:
"With learning now I can tell you more or less how we all came to be where we were.... I can give you that historical bird's eye view. But I cannot explain the mystery of Leonard Side's inheritance. Most of us know the parents or grandparents we come from. But we go back and back, forever; we all of us go back to the very beginning; in our blood and bone and brain we carry the memories of thousands of beings. I might say that an ancestor of Leonard Side's came from the dancing groups of Lucknow, the lewd men who painted their faces and tried to live like women. But that would only be a fragment of his inheritance, a fragment of the truth. We cannot understand all the traits we have inherited. Sometimes we can be strangers to ourselves."
Snow
Labels: poetry
goodbyes and other pound-ings
Last Sunday, the housemates decided to go up on the roof at midnight and eat the chocolate cake Nathalie had baked. It was Nathalie's second to the last night with us, and we wanted to do something special. We stepped out of the 3rd floor window, climbed the sloping part of the roof to the flat surface covered in ice and snow, and looked up at a clear sky and a great view of downtown Toronto (no pictures, as most of the cameras wouldn't work in -8 degrees Celsius weather). Nathalie said she didn't like saying goodbye, so I didn't, and just hugged her, and we danced a little on the roof. Later, while sipping hot tom yam goong and bandaging my right thumb (which I'd cut against the metal roof ledge while sliding down), I thought about how Nathalie came to live with us, and how temporary our living arrangements are...(Fresh from Paris, she had just started work at a coat store along Queen St., where Ben happened to be shopping. He struck up a conversation, found out she was looking for a place, he said we had an extra room in the house, and days later she moved in and had dinner with us.) It all seems so random and ephemeral and wonderful nevertheless, the friendships and connections I've made in this city...
I've been tackling Pound's Pisan Cantos (LXXIV - LXXXIV), and can't help but be informed by the context in which they were produced... Pound wrote them in 1945 during the 7 months he was detained in a disciplinary camp for military/war criminals near Pisa, Italy --- where, for the first 3 weeks he was kept isolated in an open-air, barbed wire cage, until he broke down physically and emotionally, and was transferred to the building, where he recuperated and wrote. What I find impressive is all the allusions he supplies from memory, aided by the 2 books he had with him: a volume of works by Confucius, and a Chinese dictionary. But what I LIKE is the quality of tenderness in these cantos, the snippets of dialogue and details from his life in the camp... There are definite chinks in his intellectual armor here, probably since he didn't know whether he'd be executed or not, whether he'd see his wife and mistress and daughter again. Though the verse is peppered with dry jibes such as:"the army vocabulary contains almost 48 wordsthere are also lyrical passages that show us a glimpse of his tender side, like when he says "beauty is difficult" and is
one verb and participle one substantive
one adjective and one phrase sexless that is
used as a sort of pronoun
from a watchman's club to a vamp or fair lady"
"measured by the to whom it happensand when he says:
and to what, and if to a work of art
then to all who have seen and who will not" (LXXVI)
"your eyes are like tigers,and when he ends with:
with no word written in them
You also have I carried to nowhere
to an ill house and there is
no end to the journey.
The chess board too lucid
the squares are too even...theatre of war...
"theatre" is good. There are those who did not want
it to come to an end" (LXXVIII)
"nothing matters but the quality
of the affection ---
in the end --- that has carved the trace in the mind" (LXXVI)
on mozarello and other artists
"...MozarelloIf only there were more moments of levity in the Cantos, between the sections of heavy-handed preaching and historicizing that sometimes feels like an extended exercise in alienating the reader. We had a good discussion in our Limits of Attention class, though -- about why many political poets are accused of being anti-lyrical; about our era's obsession with internal moods as opposed to passions that have a stronger capacity to effect ethical change; about the quality of difficulty in poetry; about how Pound compels attention by accumulating details and trusting the reader to make connections between stories and Cantos. Ah ewan. Basta I'm not a fan of Pound; and can now say I've actually read him. On to the Pisan Cantos next week...
Takes the Calabrian roadway, and for ending
Is smothered beneath a mule, a poet's ending,
Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet's ending."
Despite the antisocial tendencies, I'm starting to enjoy talking to strangers who turn out to be interesting, creative people. Last night, at Laura's birthday party, I met Hamutal, who's taking her Ph.D in Philosophy and has the saddest eyes I've ever seen on a woman, and her childhood friend Arieh, a photographer and blogger. Here's his shot of a typical Toronto subway car with red seats, empty as Morpheus' dream train.
The other night, I watched Lars von Trier's Five Obstructions with Richard, and was both amused and blown away. The premise is simple, if a bit sadistic (yes, coming from the director who made Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark, and Dogville -- probably the most disturbing and "thoughtfully disgusting" film I've ever seen): von Trier asks his film idol and teacher, Jorgen Leth, to remake a short film, Perfect Human, Leth made in 1967. The catch is that he has to remake it five times using restrictions von Trier formulates (ex. remake it as a cartoon, or using just 12 frames per edit, or set in "the most wretched place on Earth" -- which, to Leth, is the red light district in Bombay, shown here in the picture behind a transparent screen). It's a wonderful film about creativity blossoming under restrictions, about amorphous mentor-student relations, about an artist's need to risk failure. The fifth "remake," written by von Trier from Leth's point of view and spoken by Leth but making fun of von Trier, is a deliciously layered exercise in perspective, and a moving reflection on art. At the end, I found myself wishing someone would push and impose those sort of restrictions on me, to jolt me out of this complacency.Labels: books, movies, music, photographs, school
back to school
(The grey building with the red tower is the English department, in winter)
(This is the same view of the English Department, in summer)
==> And this is Robarts Library, where I borrow most of my books. Looking at this picture cheers me up -- how can you not admire the talent and humor of an architect who designs a major library in the shape of a turkey/peacock?you were vast unto others
Labels: poetry
Christmas Eve Couch Potatoes


Labels: house, photographs
Where Do I Begin
On the morning of the Kathe Kollwitz exhibit, a young man and woman come into the museum restaurant. She is carrying a baby; he carries the air-freight edition of the Sunday New York Times. She sits in a high-backed wicker chair, cradling the infant in her arms. He fills a tray with fresh fruit, rolls, and coffee in white cups and brings it to the table. His hair is tousled, her eyes are puffy. They look like they were thrown down into sleep and then yanked out if it like divers coming up for air. He holds the baby. She drinks coffee, scans the front page, butters a roll and eats it in their little corner in the sun. After a while, she holds the baby. He reads the Book Review and eats some fruit. Then he holds the baby while she finds the section of the paper she wants and eats fruit and smokes. They’ve hardly exchanged a look. Meanwhile, I have fallen in love with this equitable arrangement, and with the baby who cooperates by sleeping. All around then are faces Kathe Kollwitz carved in wood of people with no talent or capacity for suffering who are suffering the numbest kinds of pain: hunger, helpless terror. But this young couple is reading the Sunday paper in the sun, the baby is sleeping, the green has begun to emerge from the rind of the cantaloupe, and everything seems possible.Slice of Life
I just had a mini scare. I'd slept way earlier than usual (10pm, haha) but woke up past midnight hearing housemates chatting in the kitchen. Feeling hungry, I decided to join them and to toast some bread and cheese. So I got out the Spanish Manchego and had a little trouble slicing its fresh-from-the-fridge hardness. And then the cheese slicer slipped, and I saw part of my left thumbnail (maybe half of the top 1/3, from left to right) sliced. At first I was like, Oh, no big deal, I just cut my nail. Carina told me to wash it under cold water -- so I did, and it started to hurt like hell and bleed a little. Nilo handed me tissue and told me to apply a little pressure -- so I did, and started to feel frantic. Tangina, ang sakit! If this is a dream, I want to wake up! What do I do? Cold shivers ran down my back, and I felt my lips and cheeks tingling, like I was losing color. "I need to sit down," I said, and found a kitchen stool. How I Became Impossible
Labels: poetry
"this city was tailor-made for love"
On Christmas afternoon, with all the shops and malls closed, I stayed at home and watched a DVD of Alan Resnais' Hiroshima Mon Amour that Elmo had mailed me, disguised as a GRE reviewer. The screenplay was written by Marguerite Duras, and as I watched it I remembered why/how I fell in love with her writing upon reading the semi-autobiographical The Lover (still one of the most intelligent erotic books on my list). The film tiptoes around the lovers' infidelity to their respective spouses, and doesn't tackle the interracial love head-on; the focus is on the tension between memory and forgetting, between the construction and fragmentation of a self, between personal and communal history (as the story's set years after World War II) --- and the tensions are so ambiguous and intertwined, and edgy. I was surprised the film was made in 1959 --- its fractured stream of consciousness technique, montage of war scenes, parallel shots, and self-consciousness as a narrative, make it feel so contemporary. And while parts of it reminded me of a poem by Dunn, there's always a sense of worlds and stories and unspeakable things hovering above and beyond the lovers themselves. Hiroshima Mon Amour gets away with a bordering-on-trite statement like "You give me a tremendous desire to love," and finishes with the most poignant act of naming I've ever seen in a film."Tell me more. Tell me. In a few years, when I have forgotten you, and other adventures like this one will happen to me from sheer force of habit, I'll remember you as the symbol of love's forgetfulness. I'll think of this story as the horror of forgetting. I already know it."

On to other luxuries... I'm so happy with the Christmas gifts I bought for myself:So this is the new year...
The Smee Casualty Board! We use the kitchen whiteboard for chore reminders, school and job updates, basic info (we realized after 2 months that we had no idea what each other's last names were), and a tally board for mice. We thought we only had one -- who'd eat only whole wheat bread and sunflower seeds -- and affectionately named it Smee, in a pirate-y mood. Then we discovered we had a family. One mouse entered through the space under my door (one disadvantage to living next to the kitchen) and found its way to my bed (no, I'm not that desperate...yet). Carina and Nilo caught it with an upside down trash can, stuffed it along with my blanket in a garbage bag, and we trekked to the park a block away to "set Smee free!" Except the tame little rodent kept snuggling in my blanket. We had to shake it off...and I had to wash my sheets. Twice. We waged war on Smee's relatives, though, who were only assigned numbers, not names. We caught SIX on sticky paper a month ago, and fervently hope we caught them all. I still have dreams about mice, which I assure you aren't as delightful as the rats dancing in the Nutcracker ballet.
The Gingerbread House! One December night before the term ended, Ben wanted Christmas cookies, and Nilo decided she wanted to make a gingerbread house. So we all chipped in -- my contribution was gladly setting aside my unfinished 20-page paper (on notions of privacy and the female outider in Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire and Lillian Hellman's The Autumn Garden) and making a literal midnight RUN (with running shoes and jogging pants) to the supermarket to buy...food coloring. The baking took two hours, and the house smelled exquisitely sugary at 2am. Notice how the gingerbread roof rests precariously on the walls and uncooked spaghetti supports. With the leftover dough, we made a tree, a cat, a bike, the number 62, a heart, a woman, and a man -- which they let me eat, head last.
Ok, no real story here. Just a cute picture by the front door, of me and Carina supposedly saying goodbye to Adam. Me in pigtails, days before I cut my hair short again and dyed it "chocolate cherry -- just a fancy name for burgundy brown (and yes, I share Kate Winslet's character's fascination for haircolor names in Eternal Sunshine, among other quirks). I love how you can see the stark trees as well as the hallway light above our heads. We're there, smiling, with the liquid glass blurring what's inside and what's outside, just within reach.Labels: house, life, photographs