Oh! Sheena

Untitled

2010-07-03T01:03:00.001-07:00

(disclaimer: I don't often write poetry, but the mood was right.)

Spiked with critics, mine
Is the throat you wish for.
When I scream, you’ll pray
For the power to speak.

Sweat, sweet sweat
Dripping victory on the mat: mine.
it’s simple
To ask for my hand

Instead you’re stupid
Clumsy
Lazy
Ugly
Among more tasteless ways I
Could describe you best.

My bad breath beating you
Teaching you
Nothing.
You deserve
Nothing.

Wet with remorse. Yours.
All yours. Mine
is the throat you’ll wish for
When you’re screaming for me
To stop.

My City: An Experiment in Diary Entries

2010-04-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

January 30, 2011
The hipsters are destroying my city.
My brother called me last week to tell me he spotted one downtown, cursing against a blank canvas, smoking a non-filtered cigarette.
Apparently they're ruining his city, too.
We've waged a silent war against them.
But it rains a lot in Portland, so that could account for the fact that they're troubled. Here in Silverlake they have no plausable excuse.
Girls with unique taste in earthy gear populate my city streets and swarm through back alleys and the suicide rates soar, just as their numbers increase. Ironic.
Ultra femme self-proclaimed artistic and musician boys do the same.
I'm at a loss for words.
I put my worries on paper, hoping that some of my writing will alleviate the worry that consumes me.

February 16, 2011
Their ultra liberal views of the world are verging on insanity. This I can see, while I have trouble defining the truths in my own life.
We were raised republican, my brother and I, so I say nothing to him about my silent expedition to the Planned Parenthood in Van Nuys and my second trimester abortion. The thing was so last minute.
I'm confused about who I should elect next term.
We just fume about the lack of jobs available on the market. The hipsters are baristas who serve poison to people like us who see the world for what it is: a tragedy.
Dear City,
You’ve created a perfect environment for these lowlifes at age 22. But what happens when they're 35 and trying to raise a family? A barista salary just won't cut it.
Maybe their music will help them to forget the hard times.
Truth is, I'm worried about what this world will look like when I'm aging.

February 27, 2011
I fear my words have turned to art. I'm not an artist, just a realist.
The hipster next door left macaroons on my doorstep this morning. She knows I haven't left my apartment in a week and a half.
She's worried.
I wish I could voice my concern for her too. Only I wouldn't do it with cookies. I'd tell her to look at what her world has become. Try painting your misery with your oil pastels and then you’ll really be at a loss.
I drew myself a bath.

February 28, 2011
I cradle the phone between my right shoulder and my right cheek as I make small incisions on my toes with a Swiss army knife.
I grimace at the pain but do not let my brother hear it through my voice.
He tells me of recent sightings and I reply with an appropriate “Unh huh” at appropriate intervals. I concentrate more on my feet than I do on his words.
The blood from my toes swirls into the warm bathwater and I watch as the two liquids vanish into each other. It becomes hard to tell t

Bodies (An experiment with metamorphosis)

2010-03-17T20:46:00.000-07:00

I have that curious dream again… the one where the ground breaks away beneath me. Only this time it happens: grappling with the crumbling pavement, I try desperately not to, but I fall. I keep falling. It is not so much the dream that has me in a panic come morning; it’s the fact that as the sunlight hits my eyes to wake me, I am dead.

I reach for my lover who, beside me, still sleeps with that beating heart of his. He does not wake to greet me. Rather, as I touch my hand to his chest he is chilled, pulls the blanket up past his neck, and turns toward my window, as if to seek warmth from the early morning autumn glow.

Let me back up. I’ve been dying for quite some time. It’s something I have sought to evade for years. Only this morning it seems I cannot continue to worm away from fate; the truth stares me right in my face. I pull myself up from my bed—my casket—and I slink to the mirror. My skin sags like a disgusting mutation before me. A frantic awareness of my death-state has me locked in terror as I grab my utensils: a hairbrush, some rouge, mascara, anything to hide this condition of mine. My efforts yield nothing; I am beyond dead. I am decayed.

I am meticulous in my actions, for I have decided it best not to wake my love. I would enjoy throwing my utensils at the mirror in frustration as each one betrays me, but I do not. The hairbrush rips my hair from my skull, and I am left bald, with a giant fissure that will expose the veracity of my situation the moment I am seen. I smear in the rouge and my skin peels away. Panicked, I continue to rub until all that is left of my cheek is the bone, although I do not bleed; dead folks tend not to.

I hear my lover stir. This ghastly shell of mine is sure to frighten him so I try my best not to hover. I lower myself to his level and I sit at the foot of the bed. I brace myself for his reaction.

He blinks morning from his eyes, and stretches his feet. They poke out from the blanket. The stretch of his arms follows.

Delay. I can’t handle this. Should I just run?
He reaches for my lifeless limb. The arm. He hasn’t noticed yet. He looks at me with what seems like reverence and I am without words. We sit in silence for one minute… two… he reaches up to touch my hairless head.

“Gah!” I exclaim, quickly jerking it away.

“What’s wrong with you? Get back in bed.”

I pause at his mindless words, his lack of acknowledgement before I surrender.

He still hasn’t noticed. How could he not?

Silent, still, I allow him to pull me back under the blankets and he croaks softly in my ear.

“I don’t care,” he says, “go back to sleep.”

Clean (an experiment in Erasure)

2010-03-10T10:39:00.000-08:00

I’ll try not to bore you… weigh you down with details. I’ll ground you in something tangible. Something to make you consider me human again. Trust me. I’ll admit a few things.

I was probably a little too harsh with the boy.

I hung him up long ago… like an old coat. I hung him up in pieces so I wouldn’t have to deal with him. He was always my boy. I’d never deny him the title. But it ended there. Like I said, I hung him up. Sent him off, day after day. But just like his father, he always came back. He looked just like Ron, you see. That horrible sideways grin that always seemed to catch me at just the wrong moment. When I was face down in a recipe that I never could get quite right, or when the washing machine broke. Or perhaps I was wiping away the fingerprints from the glass counter tops. I never wanted that counter top. Marble, I knew, was much more suitable for a filthy family, such as our own. Hell, brass might have even worked better. But glass? That glass always reminded me of Ron’s hands, how greasy they’d be just before he’d try to touch me. Maybe it’s for the best that he’s gone.

But he knew better than to look at me like that during chore hour, that boy of mine. It was his fault, really. It seemed he knew what he was doing with that sideways grin and those pale blue eyes, with that damn red freckle he got from that Ron. His fault… I couldn’t help myself. If you had sat me down anytime before this all happened and explained this course of events, well, it would be you who was getting charged with crazy. I hadn’t expected this.

I was cleaning when I saw the stain. I was vaguely compelled to keep scrubbing. He came home with that stain on his cheek. I didn’t raise him to shame me like that. Maybe it was more like a smear, a disgusting red smear that screamed to threaten my dignity to the entire neighborhood. I couldn’t let him shame me like that. No, not today. My house was too clean.

I scrubbed. Just like Ron always had me do. I scrubbed that child, that stain on the cheek of that child. A red smear, that disgusting red stain. I sought to remove that insidious stain and I scrubbed ‘till the red from his cheek was replaced by a smear of red blood. Clean. My boy was not in danger…

So perhaps you misjudged me. I was only doing my job, you see. It was he who needed help. Trust me.

In the Ring (An Experiment in Surrealism)

2010-02-28T10:03:00.000-08:00

My ambivalence seemed to shock the crowd more than the spectacle itself. We stood in the ring as the audience gaped. More out of a need for attention than anything else, she continued to rip the flesh from her body. She tore it away as a child would tear off a blanket in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, at the arrival of some nightmare. Nevertheless, as she peeled the layers, I remained poised. It was, after all, my duty to stage the intervention. She needed to be stopped. Her body was plump, that’s all I’ll say about that. She lay flat on her back and the tissue beneath her skin showed more prominence with each layer she peeled away. Disgusting figure, she was. Even in her skin she was ugly. But without it she was something of an abomination to ugliness. The word did nothing to describe her.
The spectators’ fixation on my stoicism threatened the young, plump maiden, for now in her frustration she had reached her final layer of skin and was tearing away at the muscles. Desperately she tugged away at her flesh. And I, with one hand on my chin, the other on my elbow, considered how I would abolish whatever woe this woman’s skin had caused her. But she seemed more frantic with each passing moment.
I crouched beside her and stroked her bloody throbbing belly. The crowd could not be silenced.
“You’re frightening her!” I howled.
The crowd was a hush. And just as I had calmed them, this pulsating pulp of a woman disappeared. My fingers closed around the air where at once I had her in my grasp. It took me a second to collect myself; the intervention had been underway. I was preparing to give my most moving and convincing speech yet, and she vanished before I could deliver it. What a pity. What a curious disappearance, no goodbye. Never in all my years had I witnessed such a thing. I wiped my bloody hands on the ground before I rose. I could not let the audience witness my shock. I sought to regain my composure as best I could and I stood to face them.
The audience had transformed into a mirror. I blinked at the horror of it all and walked closer to this mirror wall. I pushed my hands against it just to be sure I hadn’t made some tragic mistake. No. I was right. I crept a little closer and nearly fainted at the shock. There I stood, staring at myself in the mirror.
What happened to my skin? It was gone. And there in the ring I stood, grotesquely disfigured, and without my flesh, without my audience.

A Love Story

2010-02-28T10:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Clay,
Well… you did it. Just like you said you would. I hope you know that things will never work for you. You are, and always have been, a loser. I hope you enjoy Santa Barbara, you dick. As for us… well, you’re dead to me. Don’t plan on contacting me when you come home. I hate you. And that is a fact.
Love, Tara
Before I sealed the envelope I stuck the corner of it to my mouth and spat into it- hot, brown, sticky spit that I pulled from the back of my throat with my tongue. I smirked as I stuck the envelope in the mailbox and paused before I trudged back up the six flights of stairs to my apartment. I’d get along without him just fine.
The elevator in my building was still broken despite my desperate attempts to bully the management into fixing it. I figured that of all the major malfunctioning appliances in the complex, a broken elevator was the worst. Since stairs require an output of human energy, and can be quite the liability for people like me, who enjoy booze, the elevator was, to say the least, necessary. But the letter needed to be mailed. He needed to know that his decision was selfish and untimely. So I braved the stairwell. And returned unscathed, I might add.
Despite my current condition, I remember vividly the morning that Clay told me he was leaving.

I was sitting cross-legged and picking away at a piece of the armrest of my faux leather couch until it fell off in my fingers. I watched as it fell from my hand to the ground. I glanced at the clock next to my front door, the one with the cracked face that hung lopsided from my smoke-stained yellow walls.
9:15. He’s late.
Perhaps I demanded too much from my poor friend. Temporal awareness was not a quality that I possessed, so I was unsure why I always demanded it from my male counterpart. Nevertheless, I hated waiting around for people, for anyone.
Just then he walked through the door without knocking. Clay never knocked. I never admonished him for that. He was the only person I enjoyed seeing on a regular basis, so why would I make him knock? His entrance startled me even though I knew he was coming.
I sat upright on the couch and smiled at him. It was an awkward smile, unnatural and forced. The kind of smile that, from the pasty grit in my mouth, caused my upper lip to stick awkwardly to my gums.
My awkwardness had nothing to do with Clay. In fact, that smile was genuine. But keeping secrets and trying to hide my behavior always made me clumsier. For some reason, although he and I shared the same bad habits, Clay often told me that I took it too far. For that reason, there were nights when I didn’t answer his phone calls. I didn’t want to hear it from him. I’d tell him I was sleeping, when really I was sneaking in that extra few hours of partying. I use the term ‘partying’ when what I really mean is sitting by myself on my couch and picking at things… most certainly my skin, and writing nonsense in a composition book that I always swore one day, I’d burn. I was almost certain that he knew. He had to. That Clay, he was smart.
I took a sip from my bottle of wine and tried to wipe the awkward look from my face; Clay hated it when I stayed up all night by myself getting loaded. Maybe he couldn’t tell.
“Your mom came by looking for you last night. I said you were at work,” I told Clay as he greeted me with a kiss on my forehead, grabbed the wine bottle from my hand, poured himself a glass, and sat on the ledge by the window. I laughed because it was a joke of ours, since neither of us worked, yet both of us pretended to, it was our alibi when we needed to avoid people we hated seeing… parents, ex-significant others, and the like.
I took careful note of his silence following my statement.
I could feel him staring at me. Something was amiss, that I could tell.
“What?” I demanded.
I looked back at him and right into those disarming blue eyes, so asymmetrical, so familiar, such a constant reminder that with him I was safe, and thus, in life, I would be okay. His left eye drooped slightly lower than his right. Each time I looked at him I was reminded that my perfect friend was imperfect in so many ways. That helped me to keep him off the pedestal upon which I normally kept the men in my life. Superficial? Maybe. But that was perhaps what kept our relationship equal, slightly normal, and sometimes sane for so many years.
Clay and I met when we were in elementary school. We didn’t really become friends until middle school. I used to think it was because that was when his male hormones kicked in, hence, his noticing me. But we fucked once when I was seventeen and it was the most awkward experience of my life. It was then that I ruled sex out as a reason for our friendship and I began to regard Clay as someone I could truly trust. He held me at the hospital when I had my daughter and sat with me in court when she was taken away. He, unlike many others, never accused me of not loving my daughter. In fact, it was Clay who always assured me that letting her go was the right thing to do; I was, in no sense of the phrase, capable of raising a child… it was better that way.
“I know she did. I stayed the night at her house last night,” Clay responded cautiously, his eyes watching mine as he said the words.
“Okay… weird. Why?”
He paused. That pause! Again. That pause that filled the already smoky room with tension so thick I could gag. That pause that was so atypical Clay, I braced myself for a shock.
“I had her pick me up from the bar. I was doing a lot of thinking…” Clay’s words took me by surprise, since he and his mother had a relationship similar to that of my mother and me. He also hated leaving his car anywhere, so regardless of his condition, I could always count on him driving, anywhere.
I waited for him to say more; I could sense that he was not finished talking.
“Tare, I need to talk to you about something,” his sympathetic tone matched the look in his eyes. His eyebrows were raised, making his big eyes even bigger and creasing his forehead. Clay never talked to me this way. It was jokes and laughter and denial of the pain we were both in at all times. We always avoided real issues and neither of us ever kept secrets, so hearing these words, in that tone, made me realize that the conversation we were about to have would be deep. And I wasn’t quite sure I was ready. But it was coming.
He sat beside the window, smoking. As I continued to stare at him in anticipation of his next words, he looked away. He stared out at the skyline for a moment as the smoke from his cigarette swirled out into the open air.
“Talk,” I made it sound like a question, when really, it was a challenge.
He said nothing for a few seconds, and as I watched him search for the words they began to form at his lips.
“I’m going back to New House, Tare, I can’t live in this city anymore, I just can’t.” He finally spat out the words. “Things have to change. I called yesterday, and the guy on the phone said that there would be a bed for me by the end of the week. I knew I’d try to get out of it, or would change my mind if I didn’t tell someone, so I told my mom. She’s going to drive me there on Monday.”
I could feel the blood rush from my face. I kept my eyes locked tightly to his as I tried to make sense of his words. My pulse began to race and I said the word over and over in my head.
Rehab?
Clay had gotten sober, once before. It was a few years ago, and in lieu of jail. He went to rehab, and I didn’t think of it as a bad thing then because rehab beats jail any day. Who could blame him? His stint there lasted all of two weeks, but when he came back, things had changed. He returned with some lingering notion in his head that told him our behavior was wrong. He still drank every day, but he stopped smoking dope, for the most part. Every now and again he would engage, but only in those moments when the alcohol had him fully disarmed, and only with me, I’m sure. Only this time was different; he was choosing to go.
“I talked to your mom too,” his words sent a chill down my spine, and through my entire body. My mother and I didn’t talk; she wanted nothing to do with me. She had kicked me out of the house when I turned 22 because I couldn’t be around my daughter. I had a court order not to see her. And my mom didn’t bend on the issue a bit. She said I stressed her out too much. I felt myself grow increasingly tense. Clay continued.
“She agreed to pay your rent so you can keep your apartment if you go too. You can come with me and everything will still be here when you get better.”
“Better? What’s that supposed to mean, better?” I mocked him, “Better from what? What are you implying? I don’t need to get better. I’m fine.”
My words rattled with an indignation that took even me by surprise. I rarely got angry with Clay, so it was an unfamiliar emotion. But I did not waver; I went with anger.
“Better, Tare,” Clay’s eyes bore into mine, more deeply, now. He was up from his perch by the window and sitting next to me on the couch now. “You’re not fine, have you looked in the mirror lately?” He reached for my hand and held it in his for a split second before I quickly pulled it away. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for the longest time, but I haven’t been able to work up the initiative. Your skin, It’s gray… you’re a beautiful girl, Tara, but you look like shit, really. It’s not cute anymore; don’t you see what we’re doing here? You can’t really think that living like this is going to work forever.” His voice was softer, almost a whisper.
I looked around my apartment. I saw nothing wrong with the smoke stains, the empty bottles, the broken furniture, the vomit stains on the carpet, or my anorexic cat, who seemed to like the smell of chemicals. Or maybe I did, who knows? But it was comfortable and familiar. And it was all I knew of a home.
“Better,” I mocked again, only this time I muttered it to myself.
“It only lasts so long. One or both of us will die if we keep living this way. I don’t want that to happen. I’m scared, but whatever. If it doesn’t work, we come back. Easy as that. This will all still be here when we get back,” Clay was almost pleading with me now.
I sat quietly for a moment and let the silence creep between us. What I was clinging to, I did not know. How dare he, on a whim, make this arbitrary decision and then somehow act like it’s my job to conform to it? No.
“You know what? No… if you want to go, that’s fine. Then leave. But don’t you dare come in here and try to act like you’re doing me some big favor by telling me how fucked up you think I am. Make your own decisions, let me make mine.”
I slammed the bottle of wine I was holding on the glass coffee table, causing it to crack. That made me even angrier… at Clay. I stood up, too quickly it seemed, because as I turned to stand over Clay, who was still sitting down, still saying nothing, I grew dizzy and had to sturdy myself on the back of the couch. I took a deep breath and remained standing. I looked down at Clay, crouched slightly and began to raise my voice.
“All of a sudden you’ve become the sober police, and somehow an authority on how I get to live my life? You sleep here on a regular basis. You’re like, my best friend. And now suddenly you’re above it? Fuck you.”
Clay said nothing. He seemed prepared for my response; somehow he knew how I would react.
“You know what? Get the fuck out of my apartment; I don’t want to look at you anymore. You’re an idiot. How dare you come here, act like my friend, and then basically tell me I’m a loser?”
I grabbed the wine glass he was holding, and was careful this time when I set it on the coffee table. I stood next to it, hands on my hips and stared at him until he finally got up.
And as he walked to the door I followed behind him, stomping at his heels with each step he took. He paused as he opened the door and looked at me; he almost looked innocent. I glared back with bitter contempt.
“Just go!” my voice pierced through the air and cracked on the “o” and it probably hurt me to say it just as much as it hurt him to hear it. I held back tears. Perhaps I was sad to lose my best friend, but what hurt me more was the fact that it seemed my best friend had just turned on me. He started to walk slowly down the hall; he knew best not to try and argue with me. I stepped backward into my apartment, and then my growing resentment compelled me to call after him.
“Don’t forget that you’re an asshole!” I screamed as I poked my head back out into the hallway.
Clay just turned and looked at me as if to say he was sorry. He paused and stared back at me for a second that lasted much too long, and in that instant, I felt what was left of my capacity for emotion creep away. Betrayal, not sadness, was the only word that came to my mind as I watched him turn from me. The urge to beg him back faded and that insidious need to be on my own took over. And if I would have known that that was the last time I would see him alive, I would definitely have left him with something more profound. Instead I just let him leave.
I turned back inside, slammed the door and bolted it behind me. I picked up the wine. I drank.
I woke up sometime later that afternoon curled around the toilet on the bathroom floor. I was scratching the paint from the walls. The orange square of sunlight that hit the shower curtain just about blinded me. When I lifted my head, it spun around me, so I set my head back down on the cool tile.
As a desperate gesture, my parents showed up in the evening, my three-year-old daughter in tow, to remind me of the deal they had made with Clay. I wanted nothing to do with it. When they left, I didn’t slam the door on them as I had done with Clay. I remember the look on my daughter’s face. She didn’t know me. I didn’t want her to. She clasped her hands behind my mother’s neck and buried her face away from mine. Good. It hurt to look at her. And as they walked away I wanted to run to them and drop to my father’s knees and beg him not to go. I wanted him to hold me like he did when I was little and have him call me his little girl again. For obvious reasons, that urge went unfulfilled. I closed the door softly behind them and dropped to my knees. Alone. I started to sob, alone.

I didn’t think twice about sending that letter. Clay betrayed me, it seemed. When at once we were martyrs together, living dangerously for the cause and “living in the moment” (as we liked to say), he left me alone here. What was I to do without my companion? He knew that he was the only person in the world that I could trust and just like that he wanted to take that from me? No forgiveness. I wasn’t looking back. I hated him.
I picked the foil out from the drawer in my kitchen and morosely walked over to my couch. I lit the fire beneath the foil; it was the only thing in my world that seemed to make sense any more. Drawing a huge breath, I sucked it in. I held it. I blew it out.
You’re safe.
I recited the mantra in my head until the words no longer made sense.
You’re safe.
I tilted my head back and let the taste of burnt coffee and metal sting the back of my throat. I kept my eyes closed for a moment as I let the weight of Clay’s decision sink in, hoping it would slowly start to lift. I found that place between ecstasy and oblivion and I hung my head there. I said the words again.
You’re safe.
I vomited into the basin that I kept behind the couch and tucked it neatly away again. My skin stopped crawling and I finally began to feel like myself. The weight lifted… finally. No more yellow walls, the room went black.
I hadn’t always been that person, you see. In fact, a part of me once had dreams. My only dreams had dissipated and I had become too numb to even have nightmares. All I had were secrets. Secrets and lies. Sometimes I would counter them aloud, in hopes that if someone believed my words, someday I would too. But nobody believed me. There was something about the term addict that resonated, but didn’t rest well with me. Addicts need… whatever they need. I needed nothing, no one. I was fine, you see. I was safe.

Dear Tara,
Well… you did it. I didn’t really think that you would. I’ve been clean and sober for 90 days now and I wish you were here to share this joy with me. You will forever hold a place in my heart. And for you I will live my life a sober man. I love you more than you’ll ever know. I miss you.
Love, Clay

And as I watch him place the letter, tears in his eyes, next to the modest flower arrangement on my modest grave I realize that he was right. They all were. And isn’t that just like me to refuse the lessons in life that people always say death will teach eventually?

Plein Air (An Experiment in Projected Perspective)

2010-02-28T09:57:00.000-08:00

You told her you liked Padero at sunrise, so when she came at 6:27 AM with coffee, it came as no surprise to you. You held her in your gaze for a moment before you looked away and told her to be silent, for the sun only rose one time each day; you did not want to miss it.

“You create things… with your hands,” she mused from over your shoulder.

You continued to paint.

“Too bad you always kill them with your words.”

Silence.

She touched your shoulder and you shrugged her away. This moment, these moments, you’d made a promise never to share with anyone else.

As the sun crept closer to the midday sky, you turned on the footstool to face her. There she sat, wide-eyed and perfect, and you almost looked away again. The sun had transformed her and in that moment, you forgot who was standing in front of you. You took her behind the canyon and made love to her the way you did when you were younger.

When the sun sank behind the mountains, the shadows cast the girl in unfortunate light. You took her home and fucked her and as you lay in bed staring up at the ceiling she asked you, “Why don’t you want to paint me?”

You sucked on your cigarette and considered the question.

Silence.

She stroked your hair as you fell asleep, and as you drifted away you dreamt about her. The canyons were empty, the beaches were vast and with just the two of you there, you decided you could paint just about anything. So you did. And then you painted the shadows that replaced her.

The intruder woke you up.

“Baby it’s time to get ready.”

Silence.

She kissed you on your forehead and as you turned to sit up, your skull bumped into her mouth, and her teeth cut into her lips. She put her hand against her mouth and turned away, bleeding.

You stared at her in silence then headed to the beach. You had missed the sunrise anyway, so you decided to pick a different beach. This time she didn’t come. This time you waited until sunset. And then you started to paint.

You told her you had a problem with commitment, so when she left, it came as no surprise to you. And as you saw her stolen away, you picked another girl. And when she chased you to the beach, you only pictured her.

Morgan

2009-10-01T21:43:00.000-07:00

I’ve always loved the sound in a bar moments before last call. I love the sound of tension. You can hear it if you listen closely in those moments when the jukebox stops playing, the glasses stop clinking, and the people stop yapping. If you open your ears and try to shut down every other sense, that same dive takes on an almost ethereal quality; it’s almost like reading people’s minds. Tonight is full of back-story. I like watching the people who haven’t had quite enough to drink, the ones who have obviously had too much, the ones who are leaving with someone they shouldn’t be leaving with, the ones who are getting left behind… yes that one, I think I’ll talk to her next.

My name is Blue. I guess you could call me a sociopath; at least that’s what my wife told me last fall, just before she took my beloved daughter back to the east coast where she said she was going to raise her in the “proper” environment. I googled the word once. The definition didn’t really seem to fit. Glibness and superficial charm aren’t qualities that I would necessarily say I possess. I know people. I just do. I know people and I know how to get people to do what I want them to do. I wouldn’t say that makes me a sociopath. An observer of sorts, a people watcher, if you will… that’s what I am. And Blue isn’t the name I was given, that is just an alias.

She just sat there, forlorn. Her vodka-cranberry was sweating, the coaster beneath it soaking. I watched as she sucked it dry, I watched her stare at the melting ice. The Mexican guy she came with was playing darts in the corner with a thinner, blonder, younger version of her. Maybe he’s a sociopath… not me. I glanced cautiously in her direction, making sure I read her correctly the first time. She flashed me a quick smile as soon as she noticed me looking. She was prettier than she probably knew. She had problems with her weight, which was apparent. Her dishwater hair, although poorly maintained was long and thick. I liked this.

“Is someone sitting here?” I motioned toward the barstool between us.
The girl feigned standoffishness as she shook her head. I got up from where I was sitting and took my cognac to the spot next to her.

“Goose and cranberry,” I called out to the bartender, “I’ll have another one, too.”
I looked closely at her hands. She had bruises on her wrists and they looked as though they trailed right up her arms, but her sleeves were pulled past her elbows so I really couldn’t tell. When she noticed me looking, she tucked her hands beneath the bar and onto her lap. Her entire body shifted in the stool and the discomfort I felt dripping off of her aura a second ago intensified. I saw her glance toward the Mexican guy again. It was almost as if she was silently screaming for his attention, trying to get him to notice that a gentleman had just bought her a drink. Not a sociopath, a gentleman.

“Thank you,” the girl said quietly when the bartender brought the drinks over.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I didn’t care for a name. I just wanted to know how she planned on getting home later. She hesitated.

“Lucy.”

“Is that your boyfriend, Lucy?”

“No… we just met,” I could tell she was lying. There’s nothing I hate more than a liar. I looked more closely at her face; she wasn’t wearing any makeup and she looked older than she probably was. I gave her a little too much credit when I said she was prettier than she had assumed. She wasn’t very pretty at all. This girl was a liar and a cheat, quite possibly a floozy too. I noticed the shift in my mood and I sought to regain my placidity. My stare softened immediately.

“Well, Lucy, I’m Morgan. And it’s a pleasure to meet the most beautiful woman in the building tonight.

She blushed, “Hardly,” her body relaxed; she brought her hands back up to the bar and tightly gripped the bucket of goose. She took a long sip.

Careful this time not to let her look into my eyes, I reached up and brushed a strand of her stringy hair out of her face; she didn’t exactly shudder away with my touch. My eyes gave me away sometimes, especially after a few drinks. But this, this was too easy.

I read once that nervous people often had the desire to please people. I had that experience once too. Years ago, before I met my wife I frequented a coffee shop in New York’s East Village whose head barista was just about the most nervous little piece of flesh I had ever set my eyes on. She needed me, it seemed. And for months, I was the one to whom she could tell her secrets; her dad never loved her, her mother was a whore… such as she, and her boyfriend was sleeping with someone else. So she did too. I continued that affair for a while, until I caught her lying to me. She had told me that she was no longer sleeping with him, but she was. I could smell his stench all over her one night. She had been such a lying whore that I didn’t even think twice about what I did to her. Not that it would have mattered in the end, because I never could just let people go, I had to send them away.

Lucy was so obviously nervous that I could just about hear her heart pounding beside me. Her every breath caught in her throat and I could hear it over the barroom clatter. She tucked that same piece of hair behind her ear and shifted the barstool toward me slightly. Lucy’s nervousness made boring this entire event, but it was starting to fade… and I wanted to finish what I had started.

Our conversation unfolded more quickly than one would expect from perfect strangers in a dive bar in downtown Los Angeles; perhaps it was a combination of my people skills and her inherent discomfort with life. She grew up in the suburbs and moved to the city to pursue a career in the film industry. Naturally, I thought; this would be the city for that. Little did she know that Hollywood was looking for beauty, a trait that she obviously did not possess. Lucy finally admitted that the man with the younger woman was actually the father of her child.

“He doesn’t love me the way he seems to love other women. I mean, look at him,” Lucy narrowed her eyes at the couple playing darts in the corner, “What does that skank have to offer him? …I’m the mother of his child, for God’s sake!”

I smiled to myself knowing what that Mexican guy in the corner was up to. That inner smile, stayed hidden as I let my face take on a sympathetic, more nurturing gaze. I gently grabbed her hand and smoothed my fingers over a rough patch of her skin. His name is Antonio, and he’s the one who gave her the bruises.

“He was so sweet when we met. Then I had my son and things… things changed, y’know?” I listened to her as she told me the story, shaking my head at the appropriate times.

I matched her stories with some of my own. I used the story I normally used, and it just so happened to fit into Lucy’s scheme. I’m a movie producer and I can get her in… I know people, it seems. You see, I know people. I know people and I know what they want. So sitting in that bar… I got to know Lucy a little more. And she got to know a little bit about Morgan. That poor bitch… she had no idea about Blue.

“Do you need a ride home, Lucy?”

She glanced, once more, to the dartboards in the corner. And just like that, I had her. We finished our drinks and we were gone.

Martyrdom and Rhetoric: A Classical Approach

2009-08-18T01:51:00.000-07:00

In trying to prove a cause, one’s rhetoric is arguably more critical than the cause itself. As Aristotle put it, more than 2,000 years ago, “The modes of persuasion are the only true constituents of the art [of rhetoric]: everything else is merely accessory. […] The arousing of prejudice, pity, anger, and similar emotions has nothing to do with the essential facts, but is merely a personal appeal to the man who is judging the case” (Aristotle 1). What this implies is that countless texts, films, and speeches have been used as a tool for spreading awareness about a particular issue, bringing to light the larger implications of certain human activities. Taking a look at one film in particular, we can get a better sense of how rhetoric can be used to move audiences into a more conscious state regarding a cause, and how simple the task of playing upon what Aristotle called the ethos, pathos, and logos—ethics, emotions, and logic, respectively—of humankind can be. Alan Parker, in his 2003 film, “The Life of David Gale” uses rhetoric and an appeal to the ethos, pathos, and logos of his audience to shed light on the social injustice of capital punishment. The film also contains elements of structuralism and feminism, which we will be looking at as well. More striking than the film itself are the underlying issues surrounding the screenplay; characters and plot become agents which shift the way the audience feels about the death penalty, or causes them to look at it through a new lens.

According to Joy Connolly, “[…] We are all individual subjects, isolated bundles of sensation, imagination, memory, and desire. What shapes us a subjects from without, and enables us to reach out to other citizens from within, is language, the spoken word” (Connolly 2). We could juxtapose this statement to one made by David Gale in the film. He states, “No one who looks through that glass sees a person, they see a crime. I’m not David Gale. I’m a murderer and a rapist, four days shy of his execution” (The Life of David Gale). Looking again at the issue at hand, capital punishment, and our emotional ties to the character David Gale, we see a different kind of crime here. Rather than reports of some nameless murder in the news, we now rest on the intimate relationship with the accused, allowing us to view his situation in a different light. This plays not only on Connolly’s aforementioned statement, but also on Aristotle’s idea of Pathos; establishing an emotional footing with David Gale first allows the audience to look beyond the fact that he is being accused of murder later.

Looking at another scene in the movie, we can see rhetoric being used as an appeal to the logos of the viewer: that is, in an argumentative discourse, regarding the death penalty, between David Gale and the Governor of Texas. In his argument, Gale draws on logical appeal, providing stark facts and statistics to justify his opposition to capital punishment. In his address to the governor, he states, “Forty-Three people that you executed were represented by lawyers who were at one time disbarred or sanctioned” (The Life of David Gale). What this statement does is shed light on the inherent weakness of the judicial system, which is essentially the basis of his argument; the possibility of error in proving someone guilty of murder is intensified when we consider the weakness of the lawyers who represent those trials.

Looking now, beyond Aristotle’s tri-part model of rhetoric, we can use the previously mentioned movie clip to shed light on Plato’s Republic. As one of the earliest proponents of media censorship, Plato argues, “If we want our future guardians to believe that hating one another is the worst evil, they must not be told about the battles of giants or have them embroidered on robes, nor must they hear about the various other quarrels of gods and heroes with their kinsmen and friends” (Plato 17). Even now, we see relics of Plato’s political contributions in daily life, we see it here on the silver screen, as the debate between Gale and the Governor continues, and as Governor Hardin deflects Gale’s statement that the judicial system is flawed by making a statement to which he knows Gale cannot respond, “Name one innocent man that Texas has put to death during my tenure. […] Just give me a name, a man that you can prove was innocent, and I’ll call a moratorium” (The Life of David Gale). Not only does Governor Hardin fail to aknowledge the question, but he immediately changes the tone of the converstaion. This exchange between the two characters solidifies and makes modern Plato’s ancient discourse on censorship.

Shifting now to Aristotle’s Poetics, we can illuminate this film in another light. Looking at Aristotle’s description of tragedy, we find that the plight of David Gale engenders the fear, which Aristotle maintains is a chief constituent of a tragedy. He writes, “ […] the structure of a tragedy should be complex, not simple, and that it should represent actions capable of awakening fear and pity […]” (Aristotle 72). To understand what he means by fear, we must look at his discourse on rhetoric when he defines the conditions in which humans feel fear by saying, “If fear is associated with the expectation that something destructive will happen to us, plainly nobody will be afraid who believes nothing can happen to him; we shall not fear things that we believe cannot happen to us, nor people who we believe cannot inflict them upon us; nor shall we be afraid at times when we think ourselves safe from them. It follows therefore that fear is felt by those who believe something to be likely to happen to them, at the hands of particular persons, in a particular form, and at a particular time” (Aristotle 2). Taking both of these statements, we can make better sense of this film in terms of its tragic nature by looking at the similarities between what Aristotle deems “tragic” and what arouses fear in the viewer. Looking David Gale in terms of the American citizen, the college professor, the father, the husband, the colleague, and the friend, the audience finds a common ground with Gale upon which they can rest. This common ground makes it easy to identify with him, and as his life decays it instills in us the notion that everything he is going through could quite possibly happen to us, solidifying Aristotle’s claim that fear is felt by those who see it happening to them. But Aristotle also maintains that, “[…] change in fortune will be, not from misery to prosperity, but the reverse, from prosperity to misery, and it will be due, not to depravity, but to some great error of man [with a grand reputation]” (Aristotle 73). The demise of David Gale begins with his wife having an affair, continues with his being accused of rape, his loss of a job, his loss of a family, and his best friend being diagnosed with cancer. In every respect this film resembles Aristotle’s model of a tragedy until the very end. Upon the execution of David Gale, the story unravels further and we learn that upon having lost everything, Gale through the aid of a few other death penalty abolitionists, in fact, framed himself for the murder of a woman who actually committed suicide. His own execution was exactly what Gale was seeking; he wanted to preserve the last thing he had left, which was the cause for which he was fighting. One of the final lines from the film comes from a reporter who states, “The ultimate irony is that David Gale, a man who became an unwitting martyr, may achieve in death what he worked for, but could not accomplish in life” (The Life of David Gale). Earlier in the film, Gale stated, “You’re not here to save me, you’re here to save my son’s memory of me” (The Life of David Gale). This is exactly what happened; Gale did not want to be saved, he wanted the truth to come out after he was put to death. Not only does the ending of this film stand in contrast to Aristotle’s description of a tragedy, it seems to follow another model, in which the needs of every character are realized and reconciled.

To make for a more comprehensive assessment, we can try looking at this film beyond the filter of classical literary criticism. Taking the concept of structuralism into account, we see the deeper implications of “The Life of David Gale” and how they can apply to Ferdinand de Saussure’s model of semiology. In his “Course in General Linguistics,” he writes, “The linguistic sign unites, not a thing and a name, but a concept and a sound-image. The latter is not the material sound, a purely physical thing, but the psychological imprint of the sound, the impression that it makes on our senses” (Saussure 61). This idea is illustrated perfectly by the previously mentioned statement by Gale when he speaks of his son’s memory of him. Since we know, through Saussure’s work, that the sign is psychological we can understand the concept toward which David Gale is hinting. Gale wants to be proven innocent not just to support his cause, but also to make his son connect the word “father” to what he actually is, which is a loveing role model and caretaker. Otherwise, the only thing his son will see when he pictures the word father will be the psychological imprint of a rapist and a murderer.

Another example of this binary relationship between concept and sound-image can be found in two separate, but connected clips from the film. Early in the film, there is a scene in which Gale is putting his young son in bed. Here, his son requests pancakes, strawberries, maple syrup, whipped cream, and chocolate shavings for breakfast in the morning. Toward the end of the film, reporters who are covering his execution mention that as his final meal, Gale requested those exact things, which could be considered an allusion to Saussure’s notion that words are negative entities, unless they occur in the binary model; If Gale’s son had never requested that same breakfast earlier in the film, the request for that final meal would appear to be a request for just another meal. Saussure states, “The idea or phonic substance that a sign contains is of less importance than the other signs that surround it” (Saussure 70). He continues by saying, “[…] the pairing of a certain number of acoustical signs with as many cuts made from the mass of through that engenders a system of values; and this system serves as the effective link between the phonic and psychological elements within each sign” (Saussure 70). These ideas drive home the notion that is being illuminated by these parts from the film; audible are the phonemes that make up the words that are listed. However, what is more important is their psychological impact, which, for Gale, is homage; the last meal equals loyalty to his son.

Taking a step back, we look again at the classical model to shed light on one more concept, which is addressed in this screenplay. The film itself is shot as a series of flash backs, in which David Gale is retelling his story to journalist Bitsey Bloom, in a series of interviews. Before the first interview, Bitsey Bloom defends her position that she thinks David Gale is guilty by arguing, “Three different courts found him guilty” (The Life of David Gale). Later in the film, after speaking with Gale on three different occasions, that same reporter argues, “He didn’t do it” (The Life of David Gale). This shift in attitude from a person who, at first, was grounded in her belief illuminates another consequence of rhetoric, as Joy Connolly outlined in her discourse on the state of speech. She maintains, “Concerned as they are with interlocution, rhetorical texts shed light on the process by which language connects human beings within the community and effects change in the world. Eloquence is power: the power to convey ideas and information, to persuade, and to bring pleasure […]” (Connolly 2). Taking this statement, and juxtaposing it with the breakdown of Bitsey’s belief system, regarding Gale, allows us to see just how true the power of rhetoric actually is.

In addition to the rhetoric that addresses the issue of capital punishment, there is also an element in the film that illuminates the concept of feminism; if we look briefly, we can see how the film helps to break down the feminist paradigm, through Kate Winslet’s character, Bitsey Bloom. Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, in their essay “Madwoman in the Attic” revisit this notion of the archetypal female character, and in speaking about one version of common female character, the woman in the shape of a monster, they contend, “[…] they incarnate male dread of women and, specifically, male scorn of female creativity, such characters have drastically affected the self-images of women writers, negatively reinforcing those messages of submissiveness […]” (Gilbert 820). Looking again at the character, Bitsey Bloom, we find no traces of the aforementioned female archetype. And although there is a male intern at Bitsey’s side throughout the film, Bitsey’s character can be considered strong enough to stand on its own.

Looking again at our model, we see that in general, the cause itself is not nearly as effective as the discourse used to promote it. Borrowing from Aristotle, we could say that, “Rhetoric is the counterpart of dialect” (Aristotle 1). What we argue sometimes needs to be combined with what we practice, and there are times when we must practice it indefinitely. In the end, when all other discourse has failed in arguing a case, it is true martyrdom that prevails. Sometimes the tool of rhetoric includes dying for a cause, as it was in the case of David Gale. To quote two different characters from the film, “Almost martyrs don’t count” (The Life of David Gale).

Works Cited
Aristotle. “Poetics.” Classical Literary Criticism. Trans. T.S. Dorsch and Penelope Murray. London: Penguin Books, 2004. 57-97.
Aristotle. “The Art of Rhetoric.” Trans. Hugh Lawson-Tancred. London: Penguin Books, 1992.
Connolly, Joy. “The State of Speech: Rhetoric and Political Thought in Ancient Rome.” Princeton University Press. Princeton, NJ, 2007.
Crewell, Dustin, Melissa Draper, and Colin Mitchell. "The Art of Rhetoric: Ethos, Logos, and Pathos." Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) :: Architecture, Business, Engineering, IT, Humanities, Science. Web. 18 Aug. 2009. http://www.rpi.edu/dept/llc/webclass/web/project1/group4/index.html.
Gilbert, Sandra and Gubar, Susan. “Literary Theory: An Anthology.” Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (812-824).
Plato. “Republic.” Classical Literary Criticism. Trans. T.S. Dorsch and Penelope Murray. London: Penguin Books, 2004. (15-56).
Saussure, Ferdinand de. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (59-71).
The Life of David Gale. Dir. Alan Parker. Perf. Kevin Spacey and Kate Winslet. Universal, 2003. DVD.

Derrida and "The Scientist"

2009-08-13T03:15:00.000-07:00

Postmodernism’s departure from scientific thought, and its immersion in the subjective are illuminated through a host of different texts. Looking at the lyrics from the Coldplay song “The Scientist” we could specifically address one of the major tenets of postmodernism: the theory of differance. The song draws out the idea that a love has been lost, questions have risen, but none of them have been answered. To make sense of the chain of events within the song, we would first have to deconstruct the notion of love. In an attempt to deconstruct the concept, we would ultimately chase the word back to its origin, or into infinity. Jacques Derrida, in his essay Differance, asserts that a final deconstruction of the concept is impossible when he states, “In the end, it is a strategy without finality” (Derrida 282).

Derrida also maintains, “Within a language, within the system of language, there are only differences” (Derrida 286). A major implication of this statement would be that nothing is ever finalized in terms of words, phrases, or communication. One word yields a definition, from which an infinite web of definitions can be extracted. Chris Martin’s struggle in the song suggests that he thinks there is some sort of unanswered truth to his experience, in which science and theory have evaded him. He writes, “Questions of science, science and progress do not speak as loud as my heart.” What this suggests is similar to what Derrida is saying in his discourse when he states, “Every concept is necessarily and essentially inscribed in a chain or a system, within which it refers to another and to other concepts, by the systematic play of differences” (Derrida 285). Chris Martin’s confusion regarding his situation makes sense when we look at it in terms of Derrida’s theory; we can only begin to make sense of what something is after we have figured out what it is not. What Derrida is saying is that Chris Martin may never find the answer to his questions.

This song brings to light the larger implications of this Derridean concept. Looking at the word love, in the postmodern and subjective sense, we find that Chris Martin’s struggles mean everything and nothing at all. The word “love” is so big that its chain of signification will never be broken. Therefore, Chris Martin’s last phrase, “Running in circles, chasing our tails, coming back as we are,” illuminates the issue that Derrida points toward when he says “[…] it designates the unity of chance and necessity in and endless calculus” (Derrida 282).

Ultimately, we are not comforted by science, nor are we comforted by postmodern logic. At least in terms of matters of the heart, as we have seen though the struggles of Chris Martin, these things are painful to dissect.

Works Cited
Derrida, Jacques. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (278-299).
Martin, Chris. “The Scientist.” Lyrics. A Rush of Blood to the Head. Parlophone, 2002.

For the Love of Money

2009-08-05T00:28:00.000-07:00

For the Love of Money

The relationship between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat, as it is illustrated by Karl Marx in The Communist Manifesto, is evident in the social strata among us, even today. Taking a look at a clip from the 1992 film Glengarry and Glen Ross, we find a striking example of how these social classes are interrelated and how this interrelationship creates a cycle of man versus men, in which the bourgeois class is the victor, and the proletarian is the mule.

Alec Baldwin acts as the head of a real estate company, and in his address to the salespeople of Mitch and Murray he drives home the notion that money is paramount. He simultaneously manages to dehumanize his workers by making statements which undermine the significance of any value or worth that they have placed on anything else in their lives: i.e. a family. He also makes references to himself as the kind of car he drives, the watch he is wearing, and how much money he made in a year; he juxtaposes this idea that he is a fancy watch and a BMW with the idea that the man to whom he is speaking is nothing more than a Hyundai. This issue falls in line with the argument made by Marx in The German Ideology when he asserts “[…] the class which is the ruling material force of society, is at the same time the ruling intellectual force” (Marx 656). What this statement proves is that monetary power equals power indefinitely. Without money, or material possessions, people are of no good whatever, unless they create revenue for those in power. Furthermore, with money and intellect at the fingertips of others, people like the salesmen in this clip are left with no defense, and no other option but to do as they are told.

This fact is also evident in the exchange between Baldwin’s character and the employee who tries to pour his cup of coffee. The man is told, “That coffee is for closers only.” Taking the aforementioned statement from Marx, we see that the dynamics of the relationship between the two men points toward not only an inequality on the monetary plane, but on the plane of authority as well; the man with the coffee pot is subject to ridicule in areas other than just the work arena. The salesman is forced to obey his boss as a child would obey his mother.

The salespeople in this clip are without defense or a plan for an immediate revolt. “In those branches of industry in which hardly any period of apprenticeship is required and where the mere bodily existence of the worker suffices, the cost necessary for his production is almost confined to the commodities necessary for keeping him alive and capable of working” (Marx 660). This statement illuminates an issue which helps to keep the common worker at bay. With no area of expertise to speak of, the salesmen in the film are forced work in line with the demands of the employer, for they are expendable and they know it. The exchange between Alec Baldwin’s character and the salespeople for Mitch and Murray are comparable to any exchange one could imagine between those with money and those without money.

“Labor power […] is a commodity, neither more nor less than sugar” (Marx 659). The workers in this film are forced to reconcile their lack of power within the company by taking an immediate action step toward improving upon the value of their own labor power i.e. become better salespeople. On the larger scale, this clip serves as a model for anyone who fits the proletarian schema. “If you can’t beat them, join them.” And, in this case, “If you can’t be them, work harder to please them.”

Works cited

Marx, Karl. The Communist Manifesto. Chicago: Gateway Editions, 1985
Marx, Karl. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (653-664).

Defamiliarization with Gentileschi

2009-07-20T23:51:00.000-07:00

Painting:
Gentileschi, Artemisia
"Judith and Maidservant with the Head of Holofernes"
c. 1625

Two women, hovering in a dimly lit room, seem to be hiding something as they peer out of a red curtain. They are dressed in rags similar to the garb worn by servants in the 17th Century. There is a tendancy to feel frightened... for they seem to be up to mischief. The plump woman who stands above the smaller woman is holding a sword, as if to threaten the other. The positioning of the ladies, coupled with their sizes leads to the notion that the larger woman is in a position of authority over the other. There seems to be a conflict within a conflict as we look again at the painting. The two women in the dark room are obviously covering their tracks from people who are not depicted. Looking more closely, we notice the dynamics of what we actually see in the painting; the crouched woman seems to be dominated into taking actions that she doesn't necessarily feel comfortable taking. The sword near the crouched woman's neck, as well as the look on her face are prime indicators of this fact.

Furthermore, the contrast of light and dark in the painting lends itself to the sense of danger. The two women in the painting do not appear overtly dangerous, although it is obvious that they have commited a crime and are now trying desperately to avoid being caught. A crime of passion maybe? To some degree, have not we all been guilty at one time or another in our lives?

The candle burning in front of the plump woman's face is an ominous clue which causes us to look at other indications that there is foul-play taking place. Symbols from the artist (i.e. the red curtain, and the fearful looks on each woman's face) are further indications of the tension between, first, the two women, and also between the two women and the outside.

Ferdinand de Saussure, in his "Course in General Linguistics" makes a compelling argument regarding semiology, the study of signs and the laws that govern them (Saussure 60). He states that a linguistic sign unites a concept with the impression it makes on our senses (Saussure 61). When we approach the painting again, as humans natrually do, we look to the body language and facial expressions of the women depicted as signs to aid in extracting some meaning from the painting itself. The smaller woman, who is crouched beneath the other has a seeminly apprehensive look on her face. In addition to the look on her face is her body language; she continues to hide something as she looks up from what she is doing, possibly because she is being rushed. According to Saussure, the body language and the facial expressions signifiers and what we get from that when we assess the painting are the signified.

We know that both parts of the sign are psychological (Saussure 59). Keeping this in mind, we can give ourselves freedom in exploring the image in a unique way; one that makes the most sense to us, as individuals.

Works Cited

Saussure, Ferdinand de. "Literary Theory: An Anthology." Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Blackwell Publishing. Maldon, Ma, 2004. (59-71).

Acid is a Gift From God

2009-07-17T00:10:00.000-07:00

“Drinking out of Cups” is a representative animation of a monologue that was recorded during the latter stage of one man’s trip on acid after he locked himself in a closet for hours. Looking to elements of classical literary criticism, we can shed light on this piece, in terms of the Platonic concept of the muse. Plato maintains, "[...] the only thing each individual poet is able to compose well is what the Muse has stirred him to do" (Plato 6). Taking this argument into account, we would need to consider some source of inspiration. According to Plato, every aspect of this video, right down to the man locked in the closet is divinely inspired. He states, "[...] god takes away their reason and uses them as servants, as he uses prophets and divine seers, so that we who hear them may know that it is not these people, whose reason has left them, who are uttering such valuable words, but that it is god himself who speaks and addresses us through them" (plato 6). This statement illuminates the issue which is brought to light through this clip; through acid, this man was able to send the message of God to the audience.

Accodring to Plato, art and poetry are three times removed from the source of what inspired it. In his "Ion" he writes, "[...] your spectator is the last of the rings which [...] derived their power from each other [...]. The middle one is you, the rhapsode and actor, and the poet himself is the first. Throught all these, the god draws the souls of men wherever he wants, making the power of one depend upon the other" (plato 7). What this alludes to is that what we see in the clip came from the twice-removed rhapsode, who is essentially an actor conveying the message of the poet, who is still not the source of the inspiration. The random words uttered by the man are the product of a seemingly profound experience with psychotropic drugs. But according to Plato, the Muse is the source of the inspiration. God, if you will, is what drives this piece. So, would it be a stretch to say that, since the random utterances of the rhapsode are a result of a deep acid trip, that acid is a gift from God? According to Plato, the answer is no. He writes, "[...] for it is not skill that makes them utter these fine things, but a divine force; since if they knew how to speak well about one topic through skill, they would be able to speak about all the others, too" (Plato 6).

Looking again at the significance of this masterpiece in terms of classical literary theory we invariably find that there exists some intangible source of inspiration. This God, or God-like muse, inspires the poets whose works are recited through means of a rhapsode. After its passage through each filter, works like “Drinking out of Cups” are copies of the original, and as close as we—the audience—will ever get to the source.

Works Cited
Classical Literary Criticism. Trans. T.S. Dorsch and Penelope Murray. London: Penguin Books, 2004.
Clip: Dan Deacon and Liam Lynch: Drinking out of Cups
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skCV2L0c6K0