Jessicarrot » Things I like

They flee from me…

jessicarrot — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:37:05 +0000

Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)

They flee from me that Sometime did me Seek

They flee from me that sometime did me seek

With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.

I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,

That now are wild and do not remember

That sometime they put themself in danger

To take bread at my hand; and now they range,

Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise

Twenty times better; but once in special,

In thin array after a pleasant guise,

When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,

And she me caught in her arms long and small;

Therewithall sweetly did me kiss

And softly said, “dear heart, how like you this?”

It was no dream: I lay broad waking.

But all is turned thorough my gentleness

Into a strange fashion of forsaking;

And I have leave to go of her goodness,

And she also, to use newfangleness.

But since that I so kindly am served

I would fain know what she hath deserved.

I just came across this poem on my new favorite website. The language/culture/history barriers aside, I think, at first reading it is at least interesting. More interesting with this sexier picture of Sir Thomas. Really, wikipedia and Representative Poetry online, you make it hard to love a man! And, btw, he was over 6′ tall, if that helps.

The comentary by Ian Lancashire is very helpful. But I am still a bit scandalized. I mean, look at the date up there! The man was alive in a time that conjures up some very strong imagery for me. But none of it includes a culture of diverse sexual affairs. Which is very niave of me, I know. I realize that for the species to survive, people were having sex. I just never imagined that they were…writing about it. Even if, very subtly writing about it. Was this the type of poetry people talked about in polite company? I’m dying to know. And how was it that this kind of adultery was so widely accepted that poetry like this survived? And who was this woman, in the 1500s that was taking on a man who “lay broad waking” without any agenda aside from… recreation? Ian Lancashire tells us that this type of poetry is very rare. (I should think so!)

“Courtiers, like Henry, wrote love lyrics in pursuing a woman’s sexual favours, but once seduced, unmarried women lost their power. Few men would complain, in lyrics, about being rejected by someone they had successfully bedded because they usually were fully prepared to move on to new sexual partners…”

So, what catagory of litterature is this? Was it the 1500s version of Cosmo? Its so very subtle, I have no idea if this is something people would giggle about in intimate company or if this would have been in the restricted (through time) to only men?

As for the mystery bird, that wild unfettered creature… I’ll tell you what she deserved, Sir Thomas, she deserved some fragment of history to have preserved what it was like for a 16th century woman in the Court of Henry the VIII! Because apparantly, there really is nothing new under the sun. I find it facinating to find how people have always slipped into the margins of history. The things we know about Sir Thomas Wyatt are dry and boring speculation inside dates and facts. Judging by his poetry, he seems like a very complex and sensative character. I am fascinated.

The poet of my adolescent dreams

jessicarrot — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 19:55:36 +0000

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

The first time I read those words, it was like they were emblazoned on the shield of the absolute warrior-hero of my dreams. Anyone who could put rage and gentle together in a lyrical poem to his dying father was a ROCK STAR in my book. Imagine my heartache when my 12th grade English teacher snidely remarked that this man, the one who so earnestly plead with his dying father to fight and rage against death walked into the White horse tavern on November 9th 1953 and drank himself to death. It wasn’t enough to stop me from adoring this poem, but I was so utterly disappointed that the rock star went out that way. That he just gave up.

Poetry is important to me at the moment, so I’m revisiting all the masterpieces of my youth. I decided to look up my old flame and a quick Google search may have restored my admiration of the rock star who was Dylan Thomas. What if he didn’t drink himself to death? What if he was sick before he went in to the bar? I am so bored of celebrity who-done-it access Hollywood exclusives about the doctors responsible for killing off celebrities. Yeah, doctors screw up, they are human. When they screw up with someone famous, we all get to hear about it. But according to author David Thomas the personal physician of Dylan Thomas likely misdiagnosed a bronchial infection and proceeded to administer the worst possible drug, morphine, assuming that Dylan Thomas’ condition was the result of his heavy drinking.

People have to take responsibility for their actions, I was appalled at this BBC article that lays blame for DT’s alcoholism at universities for not giving him a fellowship, or at the BBC for not giving him a job as a reporter, or on his reliance on American lecture circuits that kept him away from his wife and family. Nope, I don’t buy the whole celebrity=victim thing. Dylan Thomas was most likely an alchoholic, he had only himself to blame for that. And his poor diet, heavy drinking and sleeplessness contributed to his poor health. But I do take comfort in the new evidence. I guess it isn’t that new, 5 year old evidence that the poet of my dreams did not lay his life down in a fit of drunkenness in a bar. He arrived in New York feeling ill, cheated on his wife with the assistant of his agent and had some drinks. After complaining to his physician that he couldn’t breath, his doctor gave him some morphine, which had the affect of further hampering his breathing. He then colapsed and was admitted to the hospital where he lay comatose until his death. His genius brain was deprived of oxagen and he died of swelling to the brain.

I feel assured that he lived, he strained against his poverty, he met his obligations (if not to his wife) with all the rage he could muster, he used up his life until it he intersected with a fatal series of mistakes, and learning too late, I think he must have grieved on his way to the dying of the light.

I guess it is strange to take comfort in that. But I do.

My mind is blown

jessicarrot — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 09:28:51 +0000

I am not the type to read self-help books. I never read any books on child-rearing…and I’m not saying that is a good thing! I just have this stubborn, arrogant personality and I guess I think I really can just dive in and figure it out. A lot of times I can. I think I had most of the tools for parenting handed down from my mother, who was great. But I could have really used some basic skills in organization and scheduling… Anyway, I’m rambling. I decided that I was going to homeschool. I knew why it was important to me, I knew that it had certain advantages for my children but I just sort of threw myself into headlong without a clear idea of how I was going to do it or what my goals were. I am not a trained teacher, but I know what I want my kids to learn and I know I didn’t learn the things I wish I did in school… so basically I’ve spent a good chunk of money on books and work-books and kits with a little bit of success. But until this morning, early at 2am I didn’t REALLY know what I was doing. Now I have a map!

I started reading The Well Trained Mind, finally. Plenty of people have told me to read it. But I’m such an idiot that I rarely read things people tell me to read, just because I figure if something was that important I’d find it on my own. I have issues. Anyway, this book absolutely blew my mind. It is exactly what I was looking for. I learned that I was doing a bunch of things right. But I also learned that I’ve been doing a lot of things wrong. Most importantly, it told me exactly which books to buy and how much time to spend each day, and the order of importance each concept is to get my children to learn exactly what I want them to know. Grammer. There is a reason they used to call it Grammer school. It used to be the place where people got the building blocks of all learning. I highly reccomend reading this book, its absolutely brilliant.

The Well-Trained Mind (A Guide to Classical Education at Home) by Jessie Wise and Susan Wise Bauer.

Ceremony of innocence

jessicarrot — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 06:03:45 +0000

For no particular reason, I just felt like my (late) 4th of July post should include William Butler Yeats Poem, The Second Coming:

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

It is easy to understand why this is one of the most anthologized poems in the English Language. I just revisited this after reading a short story that quoted the line “The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned” I don’t know that I ever really appreciated the power of that phrase. I don’t mean to harp on Iran, but I have never seen something like a revolution unfold. And its facinating to me how social networking tools on the internet have brought the revolution to my family room. I watched a clip of the moment a woman died. It didn’t show the fatal injury happening, just the woman lying on the street and you saw the moment her eyes went from living to dead. Dying is one of the most sacred moments, so out of respect I don’t want to link that video. But I felt so privilaged to see that, and I understood I think more after seeing it the trauma in the words of Yeats in the aftermath of WWI, how it could easily feel that a blood-dimmed tide was drowning the ceremony of innocence. I love writing that gets me to feel emotions, even if they are dark ones. Especially if those dark emotions give me a glimpse of what it is to be caught up in the historical momentum of the “widening gyre” of freedom, peace, apathy, war, freedom. Why doesn’t the center ever hold? And why is it that war is always so awful, we assume it must be signaling the second coming?

I remember so many years ago when the first Iraq war broke out hearing people talk about the inevitability of the Second Coming. And look what else has happened since then. Men have shot at innocent women and children trying to get food. People flew airplanes full of innocent men women and children into the world trade center. A war is being conducted in Iraq and Afghanistan that doesn’t seem to have an end in sight. The financial structure of this country is co lapsing on itself. Things can get a lot worse. There are many more ways for the ceremony of innocence to drown…

So I guess the point of bringing all this up is that… its been almost 100 years since Yeats wrote that poem. I probably don’t understand it, but it feels like someone in shock from a horror to me. But I think that innocence is reborn every day. It has not been one long show of bloodshed and dispair for 100 years. And yet, I think every era in-between can relate to this poem. So I guess the beauty of it is that we can come back from the horror of seeing death come over innocense. We can come out every July 4th and watch the wonder in our children’s eyes as they watch the colorful lights flash in the firework displays. There is something that makes this all worth it. There is something that makes us all keep going. And there must be something that makes a soldier keep on fighting. People keep signing up for it every day. Not just the military, but parenthood. Marriage. Building famlies. All these things that push humanity forward. When I think about th 4th of July, I think about the contrast of overcoming horror and the beauty of rebirth. The idea that things could get a lot worse does not thrill me. But I’m not going to allow myself to be horrified either. Every night brings the dawn. If things get worse, than at some point the rising of the Son will be all the brighter.

Happy Belated July 4th, to everyone who appreciates freedom.

First There

jessicarrot — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 01:13:44 +0000

The best special forces. The perfect combination of hardcore and intelligence.

Thanks, Melin, now its in my head too.

jessicarrot — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 15:50:52 +0000

Weezer: Island in the Sun: Spike Jonze

This is why Tom Waits shouldn’t sing Tom Waits’ songs

jessicarrot — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 19:22:06 +0000

I’m sorry, I just don’t get why people are so loyal. His voice is creepy, homicidal creepy. It has always made me think of a cross between a slobbering bulldog and cookie monster. This works. I get his music this way:

Jai Ho!

jessicarrot — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 03:43:00 +0000

I’m not going to justify myself. I’m just saying… it was so worth it. I’d see it again. I will see it again.

Let it be

jessicarrot — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 06:34:53 +0000

My dad took me and my sisters to see a Beatles tribute band in Raleigh last week. There is something beautifully sad about this song. It speaks to me. If the world was in turmoil when this song was written, it can’t be anything compared to what it is now. The tribute band was very talented and executed the music beautifully. It seemed like they nailed the mannerisms and tone and quality of voice, but there was no magic. Still, it was good enough. Music is lovely and powerful and it sinks down deep into the marrow of your soul. It heals, it lifts, it protects. I think it speaks to our eternal selves. I would do anything to be able to give the world a gift like this.

What I love best about being a mother

jessicarrot — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 15:53:05 +0000

In college I fell in love with India. There was some unexplained connection for me. All it took was one slide show of the busy, chaotic streets of Bombay and I was hooked. I was transformed. I was 19 and living at home and I knew that had to go to India.

When I made it to India (a few months later) I had the opportunity to have a religious tour from one of my traveling companion’s friends. He was a Sikh by birth but fancied himself a religious scholar. When he was explaining the pantheon of Hindu Gods he said something I still find quite remarkable. He compared the entire pantheon of Gods and Goddesses to the Christian concept of the Trinity. (Something that strengthened my belief that God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit are separate beings.) If three beings can be one, why not a thousand? Why not a hundred thousand? There are all these ways of approaching God, all these different aspects of God but really they are all One God. I love the artwork and imagery of the Hindu Gods. One Goddess that I think westerners find particularly interesting is Kali. The mother Goddess.

Our vision of mother is a little more…gentle. The “dark mother” is about female power. She is an incarnation of the Goddess Durga, formed from the sweat of her brow during a fierce battle. Durga is companion to Lord Shiva and protects the earth from evil. In the battle Kali was born into, she was so focused and fierce she actually went a little nuts and started a homicidal rampage. (As evidenced by her belt of human arms and severed heads.) To stop her from destroying everything, Shiva threw himself at her feet. Kali was so startled from her rage that she stuck out her tongue and this is how she is depicted in most Hindu images of her. Why this (sometime) homicidal psychopath resonates with me? Motherhood is powerful. When I had my first son I understood Kali. I described my feelings to other people in a non-Hindu way by explaining that having my newborn son made me feel fierce and primal, like a mother dog. I finally understood why mother animals growl at you when you want to touch their babies. There is this primal protective feeling you have for your babies. I may have got an extra dose because when I have a newborn I never tire of holding them. I feel physically on edge when someone wants to hold my babies. Like I might go unhinged or something. Not everyone can relate to this feeling. But I feel like I must be some kind of normal because this imagery was picked up over a thousand years ago. Kali is about the unexplained power of women. We bleed without being injured or feeling significant pain. We birth children, an absolute feat of physics. And most importantly, as mothers we have the power to calm, comfort and sooth our children with touch. With our hands and arms we solve almost every trouble a child can have. With my first baby, being inexperienced I let people talk me into making my baby learn how to sooth himself by dumping him in his crib and walking away. Its a good practice I think, teaching babies to put themselves to sleep. But I am not cut out for it. I much prefer rocking my babies to sleep. I love watching them drift off and I love being the last thing they see before falling to sleep and the first person there in the morning. They are only babies for such a short time. When I got cancer I felt my mortality. I was confident that I would survive, but being mortally flawed just gives you a new sense of time. Of what you may not have. What I love about being a mother is that my children run to me when they are upset. I love that they want to climb up into my lap when I’m blogging. I love that when they are afraid they want to be near me. It will not always be so. There will be a time when they won’t want me. That is just the natural order of things. Time is just speeding up faster and faster and I am not afraid. My magical mothering powers will only last so long. Then they’ll move on to another deity. Hopefully the one I’ve taught them about.

I am not a Hindu but I get it. I’m entertained by the stories and I find the artwork beautiful and moving. One of my treasures I brought back from India is a soapstone sculpture of Sarasvati, Goddess of learning and wisdom. I love what it represents. And I love what Kali represents to me. The very pit, the deepest darkest stores of love and energy that awaken with motherhood.