The Sunset Limited

     Imagine, there you are, standing alone, in a dank and badly lit subway tunnel. Although some may think their day starts when they wake from their beds, but yours doesn't begin until the train arrives. And so you wait. It smells funny as usual, and the sounds around you are the same as always, weird clanks and scampers. You take this train every day, it leads you to where you earn your pay so that you may keep a roof over your head, hot water in the shower and your favorite lamp lit while you read.

But today, today is different. You felt it the moment you stepped out the door. Even though you felt it inside, you were without a clue as to what it might be. What was so different about today? Without dwelling you move your feet forward.

Many minutes have come and gone, as they happen to do while we live life. Time ticking, moving ahead, leaving the past behind. And still you wait, but is it for your train to arrive or is it something else you wait for?

And then, so suddenly, and without warning, another person appears, like an illusion from a magic show. Poof!
They are sprinting, trying to pick up speed, to where there is yet to be a train ready to board.

Time Stops.

And this person, this lost soul you see, is now a part of you. Your lives have connected unexpectedly. Or was it a matter of fate? Thinking back, remembering how today felt different. But that is in the past now, minutes, hours, days, doesn't matter. What matters is now and here you both are...

So, what do you do?

I was asked this question when I was brought into the world of The Sunset Limited.

 

This is a play written about two men, one black and one white. One is suicidal, he is done with this time, with this life and the other, the man who tries to do right. We are told very little about either man, except through a few of their stories and the conversation they build in a small apartment on the rough side of town. White, who was making his way towards the "big exit" is smart, yet shifty. And Black, who is also intelligent, leads a pleasant and simple life that was reborn from darkness.
Black caught White before he leaped on to the tracks of the Sunset Limited. A train that carries travelers to and fro through their lives.

Cormac McCarthy is a well known writer, and creator of the script The Sunset Limited. McCarthy writes with a strong significance tied to this train, and it begins to form as something much more than just linked cars on a set tracks.

The script is far from complicated as a matter of design. There are two characters, and one set. But the complexity of the connection and dialog between Black and White, or also referred to by Black as the Professor. I created almost two pages of questions that arose from this story.

What brought these two together? Fate? Coincidence?
Are these two perspectives valid in the world?
How can we negotiate difference? Do we?
Are all people worth saving?
Who can best judge our own sanity? Ourselves or those around us?

The sequence at the train station, is not in the script. There really is no description except that Black says the Professor just leaped into his arms, but the Professor completely denies ever even seeing Black. So, this leaves the initiation of these two characters completely up to the reader, or audience.

And so I question my own morals after thinking about what brought the two together is...

What would I have done?

Inside Poetry

I used to write poems all the time.
I used to read a lot of poetry too.
In class, at work, at home, at the coffee shop.
This was usually intertwined with intense journaling. It seemed so fluid and natural to write. I was convinced I was a decent poet, but then again not very many people were "lucky" enough to give them a glance.

Fast forward 15 years.

Here I am, reconnecting with my poetic self in my literature class. I still enjoy poetry but have not tapped into the side of my creativity in so long.

Then and even now I had no idea there was so much more to poetry then self expression or a type of story telling, and in no way am I knocking poetry by saying this. There is so much structure, so much detail.
Poetry has it's very own blue prints.

Each word, line, stanza has a specific role to play. Without these roles the poem would not function. Just like a machine, but maybe a more personal one. Creating the basis of beauty and expression, or maybe mystery and horror.





But not only does poetry have a specific layout of multiple forms, it is also like music.
Poetry has sound, in fact it is made up of just that, sound.

When I sat down to try my hand at deciphering the sounds of poetry I realized
"wow, I have no idea what I am doing"
How do we determine the sound of poetry?

Poetry is made up of something called meters. It is how poetry is measured. There are many different kinds of meter, and within these meters are feet.

"Most traditional poetry in English uses the accentual-syllabic form of meter" (pg 592)

This type of meter is based on not only a set of syllables within each line but also a pattern of accents. Now the statement above says that most poetry uses the accentual-syllabic style, but it is most certainly not all poetry. Lots of poems don't follow a regular or strict pattern.

Once learning more about this I began rereading different poems, as well as reading new ones.
New to me that is.
One of the poems I read was Sir John Suckling's Song. It struck me as somewhat bold. It was like an exclamation.

Now looking at Sir John Suckling, bold isn't really the first thing that comes
to mind. Well maybe except for his mustache. But it's his words that strike you, how they are put together and strung along.

Song
Sir John Suckling

Why so pale and wan, fond Lover?
   Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
   Looking ill prevail?
   Prithee why so pail?

Why so dull and mute, young Sinner?
   Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
  Saying why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,
   This cannot take her;
If of her self she will not love,
   Nothing can make her,
   The Devil take her.

Bold or not, I enjoyed the poem. I then spent some time rehearsing the poem, even saying it out loud to hear and feel the words as it went along.
I began to break down the lines, the words and the syllables. Putting into play what I had just recently learned. As I did this more things began to stand out to me then just the syllables but also things like alliteration, and a precise repetition of whole words and lines.

But bring it back to the subject of sounds, and how this relates to the poem Song, I struggled to find its rhythm and it's metrical form. What type of feet and meters does it use? How many are there per line? How many should there be? Goodness, so many questions.
By the end of the semester I am hoping to have a much better understanding of the fine workings of poetry, and I what I can create with the tools I am continuing to learn.

Poetry truly is an intricate structure and

 I tip my hat to those who can build and shape it using it's true building blocks.  

"This Is Just to Say" William Carlos Williams - my thoughts

What is in a title?

 

Does it tell the same story as the poem itself?

William Carlos Williams
This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

~

The speaker is leaving a message, like a memo, an FYI.
As in "oh by the way.."
This is the tone I get from just the title.
But it is in the poem of course I get the sense of the real tone. A short path to an apology. The speaker doesn't say that they are sorry specifically, but they are asking for forgiveness.
Like a note left on an empty container or shelf by a roommate who had a case of the late night munchies. There is something so frustrating about that. They know they have done wrong. Even if it is as simple as eating a few plums.
Do people really need to put there names on everything? Sometimes.. I think the answer will have to be a yes. Here is something I wrote in response to This Is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams.

Breakfast

I awake
It is early, too early
I splash my face
I lace my shoes

The kitchen is crisp with morning chill.
The heat has yet to make it's presence known.

I open the fridge
My grip tightens on the handle,
My knuckles grow pale
My breakfast, my morning's sweet peace
is gone.

In it's place, a small paper
A few lines of hastily scratched gibberish

My house mate
like a masked bandit in the night,
strikes again                    
                                                                    
I close the door
I shake my head
I cannot eat paper
So what now I ask

Coffee and a morning smoke I suppose
Breakfast of champions


(Illustration- Unknown Artist)

Young Innocent Love

 "15" - Jennelle Wressell

Young innocent love
Rushing new as seasons change
Don't ever let go

The love capable of a teenager is a deeply passionate kind of love. Not so much a lustful passion, but instead an enchanting infatuation. It can be hypnotic, so for a moment they feel they are invincible. I’d like to think my poem touches on that kind of love.

I shaped this poem from a thought I had after reading “Love Poem” by Linda Pastan. It felt like a brief story of how the world can rush by when we are young and deep in love. And how all we can or want to do is stay close with one another. But as I said earlier this ecstasy felt between two beings can alter the way they see world around them.

"when we stand
on its dangerous
banks and watch it carry
with it every twig
every dry leaf and branch”
(5-9;441)

Rushing and racing by so even in those most devoted moments of love they must still be weary of what surrounds them.

"that even as we watch
we must grab
each other
and step back"
(15-18;441)
 True love can happen at any age, but the details of an adolescent love feel far more fantastical. Going beyond one's puppy love.

Emily Dickinson and the Dark

What is it about darkness that leaves us feeling a little uneasy?

 

What could be lurking out there? 

For myself...a few things come to mind.

 

 

...but

Darkness can represent so much more then just monsters. Just as light can have a vast variety of meanings.

The dark gives me a sense of mystery, and a desire to explore it.
In Emily Dickinson's "419," there was a strong theme of darkness present. But it wasn't a scary or evil type, it was more adventurous. I read her poem multiple times and each time I read it something different stood out to me.

First time - darkness
Second time - uncertainty
Third time - a pursuit to understand

I felt all three of these thoughts, moved down a path together. One leading right into the other.
Emily Dickinson writes:
"A Moment -- We uncertain step
For newness of the night --
Then -- fit our Vision to the Dark --
And meet the Road -- erect--"
it is in this part that I see the three themes come together.

The second set begins with "We uncertain step." Almost right away get the sense of  I think the human race are natural risk takers, and that we are constantly striving for new great things.

Next it reads "For newness of the night --Then -- fit our Vision to the Dark --" It almost seems like the darkness is considered bright. When I hear new I think of shinny and brilliant. With it written like it is, I feel like I'd have to shade my eyes from the night. But as in most situations in life, we adapt , we are able to see our path and help to understand the choices we might have to make.

Which then leads my thoughts to the end of that set "And meet the road -- erect --". There are still 3 parts left to the poem, but the curiosity to discover starts there.

Emily Dickinson focused a lot on seeing through the dark, so I cant help but wonder if she was writing about her own darkness. Maybe there was a faint longing to venture out and reclaim the light in her life. Just a thought.

For more info on Ms. Dickinson check out this sweet video, and mustache.

 

 

Noun - Verb - Noun

In reference to Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "The Very Old Man with Enormous Wings"

 

An angel, fallen from above, lies hopeless in a cold, wet chicken coop.

With this thought, a picture begins projecting in my mind.

 

Rain is pouring down, crushing his once white wings.

It was as if the rain refused to let him fly. His feathers sagged with a sense of defeat.

The angels body had sunk into the soft earth, creating a snarled and crooked "mud angel".

A variety of feathers were strewn about the ground of the coop like paper confetti.

But this image I had of the fallen angel was not a joyous one.

Instead it was very somber, and suggested a dark curiosity to the unknown.

 

In the story "The Very Old Man with Enormous Wings," I feel the reader is given a chance at creating their own magic using Marquez's writing and its imagery.

For your viewing and listening pleasure..
 

"The Birth-Mark" - N. Hawthorne

There is something so hauntingly beautiful about the romantic era. I have always had a weakness for whimsically tragic stories. Whether it's works of art, music or literature. Where you are left pondering all the ideas these tales have planted deep in your thoughts.

 (Auguste Rodin - The Gates of Hell, late 1880s) 

"The Birth-Mark" - Nathaniel Hawthorne

 There is a story about a husband and his wife and something, a force unknown or maybe just their own insecurities, something that is pushing them, the wife possibly into deep depression and her husband, maybe to madness. The bride, Georgiana has a mark on her cheek, something I thought was what made her beautiful, something we all hope for when it comes to our own uniqueness. The strength of the mark upon her face was beyond a sense of vanity, but something holding the two lovers apart. It is repeatedly, and then permanently described as a "crimson hand." Not the kind of hand that has granted her with a gift of true beauty. I believed she had a natural spirit, and was enchanted by the thought of a whimsical side to this tale.

 

"..that some fairy at her birth-hour had laid her

tiny hand upon the infant's cheek.." (Par. 7)

It was something that could have given Georgiana great power.

 

"Many a desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing

his lips to the mysterious hand.." (Par. 7) 

However, as time went by it seemed as though there were many in Georgiana's life that did not see this hand as a magical one in of lust and love. Could this have been? Maybe before Aylmer and her time with him. Many saw it as a "bloody hand," something that smothered her ability to be beautiful, to be perfect. Did these feelings or thoughts come on their own, or did her husband help bring them to light. Aylmer loved his wife, it seemed, but he was so in love with the desire for perfection, he could not see her and that she could have already been perfect. Was it his wife's perfection he wanted or was it his own?
This obsession of his had worn on Georgiana, it was clear, and this was breaking her down, she now saw her what once could have been a gift from the heavens, as a mark of shame and disgust. She wanted nothing to do with it. And so Georgiana was willing to do whatever it took to become perfect.

How could anyone have known, that without this mark her soul would be set free of this world.

"Watch the stain of the rainbow fading out of the sky,

 and you will know how that mysterious symbol passed away." (Par. 83)

 

 

When the mark left, Georgiana left with it, and so then Aylmer who is filled with joy that his creation to purify his bride had worked, is left alone. And in her last words to him she cheered for him and also pitied him for he did not appreciate the true gifts of nature.

 



This story was filled with amazing imagery, and a lovely use of allegory and after I read "The Birth-Mark", well actually is more about half way through, I was struck with the urge to search and read and look and upload many of my favorite works of art which happen to be from the 1800s. I am much more familiar with the arts of this time, but I am excited to look into more literature of the era.  

 

(John William Waterhouse - Ophelia, 1889)

  "Truth often finds its way to the mind close muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we practice an unconscious self-deception during waking moments." - The Birth-Mark, Nathaniel Hawthorne

 



All References: (Booth, A., Mays, K. J. Norton Intro to Literature, "The Birth-Mark. New York, NY: W.W. Nortan & Company, Inc, 2011. Print )

"Sonny's Blues" - J.Baldwin

James Baldwin, what a cool cat.

   About half way through the story, I realized maybe I should have read up on the author a little before beginning. I was unfamiliar with James Baldwin, and what his story was. But I read on. And because I was such a clean slate of thoughts and feelings, while reading I became confused at times, possibly because of the type of beginning Baldwin had for his "Sonny's Blues." It started up right in the middle of everything, medias res. I like how that sounds, and plan to use it more often. (This also reminded me of Raymond Carver's "Cathedral", that story seemed to begin already in motion, like I had skipped ahead on accident) So looking back, maybe if I had known more about the author, this James Baldwin, I could have pictured in my head a better understanding of the beginning.
However, even though I was a bit lost on the when of the story, the writing itself blew my mind. There was beautiful imagery, and you could practically feel the words, and that was only in the first few paragraphs, so naturally, I was hooked. 

   As I read on, I learned about the relationship of these two brothers, where it had been, where it currently was and where it may be going. I felt that it was made obvious Sonny's struggles, but his brother, the narrator, what was he struggling with? It wasn't till later in the story that I thought it was finally coming to light what he was dealing with in himself. There were elements of guilt, skepticism and denial. He wasn't trying to judge his own brother, but he felt at times jealous and anxious about Sonny's choices.

   Near the end, when the brother finally goes down to the club, for the Sonny's gig, he is all of sudden in Sonny's world. This was something he never thought about except maybe in a logical way. Thinking how is he going to make a living, where is he sleeping, the basics. He never considered this world as a place of passion and talent, a place of raw energy. But once they are in that night club, once Baldwin sits us down at a table, at the bar, you can feel that energy.

   I felt, as the reader, that Sonny's entire story was revealed at the end.  With the description of their performance on stage, I would have been completely satisfied if that sequence was the entire story. Not to say that the first half wasn't written well or enjoyable to read, it was. But that is how strongly it grasped me. Everything Sonny wanted the world around him to know was on that stage. Maybe it was there every night they played. But for the narrator, Sonny's brother, he was finally, after all of this time, able to actually hear Sonny's story.

   I'd like to wrap up with the second to last paragraph in the story because I thought it was beautifully written and leaves a sense of hope, or optimism. You should read it again, it's pretty darn good.

 

"Then they all gathered around Sonny and Sonny played. Every now and again one of them seemed to say, amen. Sonny's fingers filled the air with life, his life. But that life contained so many others. And Sonny went all the way back, he really began with the spare, flat statement of the opening phrase of the song. Then he began to make it his. It was very beautiful because it wasn't hurried and it was no longer a lament. I seemed to hear with what burning he had made it his, and what burning we had yet to make it ours, how we could cease lamenting. Freedom lurked around us and I understood, at last, that he could help us to be free if we would listen, that he would never be free until we did. Yet, there was no battle in his face now, I heard what he had gone through, and would continue to go through until he came to rest in earth. He had made it his: that long line, of which we knew only Mama and Daddy. And he was giving it back, as everything must be given back, so that, passing through death, it can live forever. I saw my mother's face again, and felt, for the first time, how the stones of the road she had walked on must have bruised her feet. I saw the moonlit road where my father's brother died. And it brought something else back to me, and carried me past it, I saw my little girl again and felt Isabel's tears again, and I felt my own tears begin to rise. And I was yet aware that this was only a moment, that the world waited outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky."

 

- "Sonny's Blues" James Baldwin (Booth, A. & Mays, K.J. (2011) The Norton Introduction to Literature. New York, NY, W.W. Nortan & Company Inc),