Dreams

At first, I didn’t quite know what to make of “Feminisms, Genders, and Sexualities.” As I read, the word “staccato” kept popping into my head and I kept wondering how much of the varied history I would remember or what my final impression would be. It seemed to come at me like a too quick inspection of a patch–quilt, and I just couldn’t seem to get a handle on the page after page description of so many different ways to view the subject matter. For a long time now, I’ve been aware of the fact that there is no simple way to look at gender and sexuality; I’ve met so many people in my life that differ in these areas in so many ways. It wasn’t until I read the following words that I was finally given something I could hold onto: “It is clear from this overview that subfields of feminist and sexuality studies are diverse and multiplying” (237). At that moment, an old familiar unequivocal idea popped into my head, and what I was feeling made sense one more time. For better or for worse I’m a white–hetero–male living in a world of incredibly diverse genders and sexualities, and when that came to mind, so did the last verse from an old Bob Dylan song called “Talkin’ World War III Blues.” It goes like this ––

Well, now time passed and now it seems
Everybody’s having them dreams.
Everybody sees themselves walkin’ around with no one else.
Half of the people can be part right all of the time,
some of the people can be all right part of the time,
but all of the people can’t be all right all of the time.
I think Abraham Lincoln said that.
“I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours,”
I said that.

The Other Side of the Borderland

It was a natural progression for me to head straight into contemplation after reading Susan Stanford Friedman’s essay on how the “new” concept of globalization has led to the naming and claiming of a new field in postmodern studies. All her talk about geography, borderlands, Diaspora, migration etc., led me straight to a place inside my mind that’s been anticipating a visit for over a month now. The lighting was just right, the atmosphere hospitable, and the conversation could not have been more relaxed and informative. With the help of a few old friends, I got a chance to see other places I’d been traveling to inside myself recently, and I'm really not all that happy with what I saw. Some of those neighborhoods were downright ugly, and the images have left a pretty strong impression.

I saw myself walking down dark streets, lit only by dim flickering gas lamps and the dull glow from dirty windows in dilapidated tenement buildings. The night air was cold, and seeped through my jacket on a biting wind. The characters were all hardcases sitting on stoops, leaning on walls, or just staring at me as I passed by. The sideway glance one guy gave me said, “what–the–hell–you–been–comin’–down–here–for?” –– just as I was wondering the same thing myself. And that was only one of the shabby, rundown neighborhoods I've trudged through in the past month or so.

That long moment of meditation, afforded me by Friedman's "Migrations, Diasporas, and Borders," has led to the realization that I’ve been using a lot of external happenings as a reason for feeling hot–tempered lately. But now that the elections are over, nobody got assassinated, and the California Supreme Court voted 6–1 to hear legal arguments against an oppressive proposition, I’ve got no more excuses. Of course, the more personal reasons for my heading down to the dark end of the street are best left for conversations between me and the Milky–Way; but that’s for later. Right now, after seeing clearly where I’ve been, I think I’ve taken the first step toward turning around and heading for the more sunny amiable places on the other side of the borderland. The beach, that’s where I’m heading, and after I’ve lost track of time lazing around with some old friends there, I might just take a long walk in the open woods before cruising up to the jazzy side of town where the music floats by on a warm breeze and everybody’s got a kind word and a good sense of humor.

It’s not that I’ve left these better places behind altogether; in fact, I have been drifting back and forth between them much of the time lately. But tonight, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been walking too often into places that I have no business visiting because they leave nothing but a negative effect on my attitude, and if I keep heading into those dingy back alley’s, it’s just going to become harder and harder to get back out each time. Another thing I know right now is that I’m feeling a sense of gratitude toward Susan Stanford Friedman for sparking a train of thought that led me to an over–due visit with some old friends that have a nice quiet little place a long ways off from the hustle and bustle out there in our globalized society.

Removing Ambiguity

They Say/I Say is really getting good. The chapter on honoring your own voice –– and not getting trapped in the thinking that one must use academic jargon in order to make one’s point –– put a smile on my face. I mean, if it’s the intention of the academic world to open its doors to a more diverse population, then encouraging people to appreciate their own way of speaking is imperative. Also, reminding us all that we have a right to say what comes naturally in order to help get our point across is timely, I think, after reading some of the stifling, overly done essays I’ve been assigned lately. I can’t tell you how often I’ve looked to the ceiling shaking my head while wishing the authors of certain texts would just write in a more straightforward manner, and I’ve also wondered if those same authors choose to write ambiguously just because they know that if they used down–to–earth language, no one would buy what they’re selling. Which is another reason to state things plainly… we have no place to hide that way, and I think readers appreciate that. I know I do.

The best essay I’ve read recently was the condensed, reworking of a conference speech. I didn’t find this out until after I’d read the essay. But, after thinking about it, I’m convinced that the author, Robert Connors, delivered the speech in a natural style because I remember how his essay came at me like a breath of fresh air after plowing through several dry, heady, confusing texts. His paper, for me, stood out as one that had ethos, pathos, and logos in such a wonderful combination that it shined. I loved his humor, I believed his logic, and the unassuming quality of his writing made it easy to trust him. I honestly did see him as a person using relatively down–to–earth language to get his point across rather than one who uses the kind of stiff academic language that oftentimes just gets in the way. The obvious reason Connor’s essay was such a joy to read is that the author wrote in his own voice, for the most part, and not in the voice of a highly trained academic writer. His position on the subject at hand, which he barely hinted at throughout the essay, became clear only at the end, but that was by design. Even though I disagreed with him, I remember thinking that his was the most memorable essay I’d read… and for me, as a sample of clean writing, it may remain the most memorable from that course. And it’s all because this author, who knew full–well how to write in high form academically, honored his own voice and spoke naturally.

I thought the authors of They Say/I Say would have to go some in order to top that chapter and they did with the chapter on “metacommentary.” The first paragraph under the heading “Use Metacommentary To Clarify And Elaborate” is one I’m thinking of copying, blowing up, and hanging on the wall somewhere. I’m also thinking of doing the same with some of the “passages” inserted by the authors of They Say/I Say. I loved the way these passages from other writers were used to drive home certain concepts, and even though this may be off the subject of writing lessons, as far as I’m concerned, those passages have been acting as meta–messages throughout the book, and of course, I love them because I agree with them. For instance, I couldn’t agree more with the statements, “the content of much of our public discourse has become dangerous nonsense” (126), and “show business has created…a destructive form of public discourse” (127). These lines come from only two of many poignant “passages” peppered throughout this book to illustrate writing lessons, and I believe these excerpts are worth reading just for the sake of contemplation. But for writing lessons, these two chapters have been the most encouraging for me because they not only suggest that we all remember our right to say what we mean in our own language, but also that, in order to write with more clarity, we should not be afraid to delve deeper into what we are thinking. This is turning out to be a great book.

Misinterpretation

I began reading Jerome McGann’s essay “Interpretation,” with my feet propped on the make–shift desk in my study. The book was in my lap and I quickly became engrossed, wondering if what I was reading was adding up to the idea that I had complete freedom to interpret his text any way I wanted to. I was so intrigued by the idea that as I reached for my coffee cup, I accidentally spilled a drop on the page containing the words, "As the literary work passes on through time and other hands…it bears along with and as itself the gathered history of all its engagements. Sometimes some of these codes [are]…physical transformations, like book damage […] Often, perhaps even more often, those multiplying histories have to be pursued; who were the readers of the book…?” I stared at the seemingly innocuous coffee stain wondering… wondering whom in the future might get lost in wonder while pondering its presence on the page... and about the nature of the person who spilled it.

As I read on, I could barely hold back the excitement I felt when reading the line, “Literary works can be, have been, performed in a variety of interpretive ways, ‘Did you ever read one of her poems backwards…? A something takes over the mind.’ That is Emily Dickinson’s remarkable proposal for a recitation–based method of radical reinterpretation” (162). Right then and there, I decided to retrace my study of McGann’s essay, reading right to left instead of left to right. At first, I was uncertain whether to just read the sentences backwards, or the words themselves. But, I quickly opted for reading each word in reverse, because, if I was going to do this thing, I was going to do it right. I was on a quest, a glorious quest, bound and determined to find that “something” that would “take over my mind.” The reverse study of this portion of the essay (two pages), took twelve hours, but it was the most rewarding twelve hours I’ve ever experienced. By the time I reached the coffee stain on the previous page, I was in a state of delirious confusion so intense, so concentrated, so magnificently profound that explication defies description. I saw “something” in that coffee stain, something destined to forever remain as only a vision, only an apparition, only a taste of the infinite mystery of life itself.

I have now decided to read all texts backwards, and I’ll gladly take the heat for having absolutely no understanding of what the authors may have had in mind. I am now dedicated to a new and wonderful way of interpreting the work of others without regard for their thoughts or meaning, for as McGann points out at the end of his essay:

To deliberately accept the inevitable failure of interpretive adequacy is to work toward discovering new interpretive virtues […] Riding’s attitude toward the process of critical thinking is helpful: ‘our minds are still moving, and backward as well as forward; the nearest we get to truth at any given moment is, perhaps, only an idea––a dash of truth somewhat flavouring the indeterminate substance of our minds.’ This thought calls for a critical method intent on baring its own devices. We take it seriously because it makes sure that we do not take it too seriously. (168)

God, I love that last line.

Feeling Overwhelmed

Well, I guess I’ve had enough fun with Aristotle’s Topoi. Trying to figure out how to inject a topic of invention into whatever blog I happened to be writing lately has been enjoyable, and his topic “the possible and the impossible” turned out to be something I found useful last night at midnight while writing another poem about…hmm…that’s enough about that. Right now, I’m in the mood to do a little focused free writing about what’s going on inside concerning the Oxford Guide to Library Research, and the amount of information it contains, in the hopes it will ease this feeling of being overwhelmed.

This is a great book. If there was a way I could open the top of my head and pour this stuff in, I’d do it… but the more I read, the more I realize it’ll take at least two years to understand even half of the methods, tricks, and pathways it has to offer for doing research efficiently. I mean, in the first place, just last week, I found it hard to stay on top of this book, which is regrettable, and in the second, I’ve been aware from the start that this is the type of information I will only ever understand by using it in trial and error situations. In other words, hands–on work is going to be necessary to grasp the myriad ways I’m being shown to attack a research project, and hands–on work doing research, for me, takes a lot of thoughtful time. And, these days, it seems to be hard to find any kind of time. For instance, the other day I had to decide whether it was more important to stop for an In–and–Out burger, or stop for gas. I opted for the gas because I figured it would be better to reach my destination hungry than find myself sitting on the side of the road with a full belly and a long walk. But I’m digressing.

Here’s the paragraph from OGLR that lead to this train of thought –– “A repeated theme of this book is that no one way of searching does everything […] You simply have to be aware of the trade–offs among the several search techniques so that your overall strategy can balance their various strengths and weaknesses against each other. Remember, though, that what you cannot do with one way of searching, you can do with another” (133). OK, I get that… but at this point, even though I’m thirsty for knowledge of the techniques contained in this book, and I wouldn’t mind a drink, I feel like I’ve asked for a glass of water and somebody tossed the contents of a bucket in my face. Not that that’s a bad thing. Someday, after going over this stuff enough, in real life situations, I’ll get more and more of a grasp on how to become a good researcher. But at the moment, I really can’t see myself on a “search for articles whose authors are in the English Department of Loyola University of Chicago,” or any other university for that matter, and plugging in something similar to “AD=loyola u* AND AD=eng* AND AD=chicago.” This whole book seems to be suggesting that I figure out a lot of different codes, which I believe would be fun because I do have a nerdy side. But unfortunately, I feel like I have to try and do it between fill–ups and wolfing down junk food, so I’ve decided to take baby steps, and hang onto this book as a reference guide. And who knows? Maybe in a couple years I’ll be able to find any article written by any professor at any university in any country around the world. And, if I can do that, I’ll die a happy man.

Sometimes There is No Argument

You can say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah” if you like, but it won’t matter to me… I know the truth. There’s no two ways about it in this argument, because this one is cut and dried, black and white, without any gray areas at all. In fact, I’ll go to my grave defending the truth in this matter. And the truth is: I did not read ahead in They Say I Say (to the part that talks about the value of taking the “yes and no” stance rather than the “yes or no” stance) prior to writing my October 12th blog. If you’re scratching your head about now, here’s a quote from that blog –– “I still can’t figure out why people insist on the ‘yes or no’ instead of the ‘yes and no’ of it.” So, now that I’ve refreshed your memory –– go ahead. Go ahead and say it. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I know you want to. So go right on ahead. Hell, I’d even tell you that since I haven’t gotten around to writing my profile, and you don’t know me from Adam, you’d be justified. But, you should also know that I will never waver on the issue. I will only repeat. I did not read Chapter four prior to writing my October 12th blog discussing the “yes and no” of autonomous versus mechanical speech. I’ve just always seemed to have an affinity or fondness for looking at the yes and no of important issues.

Everything I seem to be studying these days is based on the yes or no of something. Product vs. Process, Minimalist vs. Directive tutoring, mainstream Dialogue vs. ethnic Dialogue, and the list is endless when you include the world at large. For instance, Rove says the Democrats are responsible for deregulation while anyone with a brain in their skull that’s bigger than a bb in a boxcar knows otherwise, which only serves to prove –– anything can be argued. Aristotle’s Topoi, and Rhetoric in general, supports the idea that structuring an argument is of utmost importance if you want to make your point stick, and the reason? Well, the reason is simply that since anything can be argued you might as well develop an arsenal. But, for me, the important issues, the philosophical issues, the issues that pertain to human nature, and consciousness deserve to be looked at from the yes and no perspective touted by the authors of They Say, I Say.

This little book contains a wealth of weapons for our arsenal of argument. Templates, structure, means for presenting our ideas are offered clearly and thoughtfully. The very idea that they strongly suggest we consider looking at the yes and no of issues is a point I believe cannot be over–emphasized. Of course, there are issues we’ve pondered long enough to develop a conviction concerning which side is the “right” side. But, in regard to arguments that endorse several different ideas, some of which we may be unsure of, I think these authors are wise to suggest that we only address those concepts we’ve considered more deeply. To say “I don’t know” about the rest is OK as far as I’m concerned, since it also shows the reader we’re being honest. Not only that, but why weaken our overall argument by attempting to address issues we are unprepared to address? Yes, They Say, I Say will help us improve our skills at presenting a case, and improving our skills at presenting a case is imperative, since anything can be argued… anything except, of course, whether or not I read ahead to chapter four before writing my October 12th blog… but you can go ahead and say it if you want to… I don’t care… it won’t matter to me… really… I know the truth… and the truth is the only witness I need.

Just Another Contradiction

While plowing through Catherine Gallagher's essay "Historical Scholarship," it occurred to me over and over and over how little I know about most of her references. But, by sticking to it I was rewarded in that two seemingly separate concepts revealed themselves to be connected: first, her idea in the "READER" section that a text changes in scope and meaning largely due to the passage of time, which affects any given reader's perspective toward the material; second, (and my favorite found in the "AUTHOR" section) -- who is the author of any given text, or is there even really an authentic author for any given text? Combining these two ideas would seem to strongly suggest that all texts could be deconstructed to the nth degree with impunity, since all texts are open to countless interpretations, and all authors are nothing more than "endlessly labile [selves]" (176). However, I believe there is an entirely different way to merge these two concepts, and that in the end, this convergence of ideas will demonstrate that anyone setting out to deconstruct the composition Perceval will unwittingly reveal the very thing deconstructionists most strongly deny -- that a constant, or absolute, running through life can appear in a piece of literature.

In the "READER" section of this essay, Gallagher quotes Hans Robert Jauss who says that the historical authenticity of any literary work is based upon "the preceding experience of the literary work by its readers" (181). To clarify this he tells us that the composition Perceval "as a literary event, is not 'historical' in the same sense as...the Third Crusade, which was occurring at about the same time [Perceval was composed]." Then Gallagher -- using "the words of Wolfgang Iser, Jauss's Konstanz school colleague" -- states, "Perceval happens whenever and wherever it is read; the historical text is...thus multiple in time and place" (181). I do understand this; in fact, it is easy for me to see how someone living during the Third Crusade could read Perceval with a different perspective from a Literature Student in the year 2008. While the former would be in the midst of it all, so to speak, the latter would be far removed from the historical underpinnings of the text. However, I am also convinced that the fundamental message concerning "The Quest" would be recognizable by both the old and the new reader.

There is something timeless in mythology like Perceval; the concept of The Quest has been around ever since we first stood up on two legs, and it will be here as long as we are breathing. Every time we put our feet on the floor as we get out of bed, we are all on some kind of quest, so why muddy the point of the myth by saying now that we can read it on a computer screen rather than in a codex, it has somehow drastically changed? Why -- on the fundamental level of message -- would there be any difference in "the way a thirteenth-century manuscript reader would have interacted with a text of Perceval and the way a student in a French literature course interacts with one now" (182). Granted, both would most likely have dissimilar views on details due to their life experience. However, the mythology of The Quest, one of the structural aspects of Perceval, simply stands on its own. It exists in this composition as a reflection of a constant in life. In fact, the very act of attempting to deconstruct Perceval would be the undertaking of a quest.

I believe the timeless quality of this text is due to the fact that the mythology created the text, and not the other way around, and this idea falls directly in line with an earlier statement in the "AUTHOR" section of Gallagher's essay. When she addresses the creation of consciousness she states, "The notion that discourse creates consciousness (instead of independent minds creating discourse) does not require Foucauldian critics to ignore individual writers... but it undoubtedly makes them seem less active as the ultimate historical cause or source of a literary work" (173). If, in fact, the myth created the text of Perceval then what we have is a text produced not by an individual author, but by and through the discourse of many groups over long periods of time discussing the same-shared experience. And this would suggest (if I can borrow a template from an example of Past Fact/Future Fact in Aristotle's Topoi) -- As every person who has lived on this earth through its many ages has been on a quest, we can be quite assured that this will be the common lot for the rest of us.... To me, what this all means, in condensed form, is that those who would argue that The Quest is not a constant in life would be on a quest while trying to prove their point. Therefore, they would be contradicting themselves.

Mechanical and Autonomous Speech

Susan C. Jarret, in "Rhetoric," describes not only the history of rhetoric, but also how differently rhetoric has been viewed throughout the ages. Rhetoric's definition goes all the way from "a good man speaking well" (76), to the idea that all speakers are "subjected to the determinations of ideology, the unconscious, institutions, and systems of discourse" (88). In other words, we are not at all "autonomous speakers," but rather bound by mechanical attitudes brought about by ingrained beliefs, unknown desires, established norms, and our own particular society's methods of communication. For years I've been intrigued by the seeming contradiction in these two perspectives -- how on the one hand, we can be mechanical automatons, and on the other we can be autonomous and original. However, I still can't figure out why people insist on the "yes or no" of it instead of exploring the "yes and no" of it.

There are those who consistently speak from mechanical perspectives, and whatever they have to say could be construed as "unworthy" of our attention, because, in simplest terms, when people are speaking mechanically, their thoughts are not their own. However, if a person speaks from a place of autonomy, which always requires rebellion on some level, there's a chance that what he or she has to say will be seen as "good," in the sense that it is conscious, novel, and has the ability to move others in a positive way. What I've come to notice in life is that just as there are some people who generally speak mechanically, there are also some people who, more often than not, speak from a position of autonomy.

I'd never argue against the idea that we are mechanical beings for the most part, and that some of us can become completely stuck in the morass of learned societal, or core culture attitudes. Like the bible thumper who demonizes the teachings of the Tao, many of us take what we've been fed as children and young adults as gospel. Even those who rebel -- who say, "I don't believe what this society is trying to cram into my brain" -- have lapses back into mechanical behavior. However, it is simply wrong to say we are all in that place, all of the time. There are moments of understanding waiting for anyone who chooses to look for them. If it weren't so, where'd postmodernists come up with their supposedly original idea that all speaking is "ventriloquism" (88)? And wouldn't they be perturbed if someone mentioned that the parable about the "rich man" is a metaphor that exactly describes a person who is loaded with self-importance over his learned attitudes, proving this "postmodern" idea is not so post modern after all. Hmmmm, by adding that last sentence, I think I just proved their point that there's nothing original. Oh well, that's what postmodernist deconstruction does to me, sends me spiraling down that crazy hole dug by the white rabbit where only confusion, confusion, and still more confusion waits. But, I know a way out. In this case, all I have to do is turn my head and point in the direction of an original idea that actually worked... like magic.

Just the other night, I got a good dose of the kind of magic that can happen when one rebels and becomes an "autonomous speaker." Mr. Villanueava's decision to chuck it all, revolt, and speak from his own experience in Boot Straps, -- an act he thought would get him out of academics and not necessarily with blessings attached -- proved to be a boon not only for him, but also for the academic community itself. Instead of being ostracized by that community, he was embraced and acclaimed. Of course, the key idea here is that autonomy can have positive results, but not always. If one looks through history at autonomous characters in general, it will become clear that many of them just plain flat suffered for their ideas, which is why speaking autonomously is always risky business.

A Tool or a Crutch

The preface, introduction, and first two chapters of "They Say I Say" offer writers both a certain type of formatting for academic writing, and a defense for the use of that formatting. It's obvious the book will dig deeper into the "templates" described in the beginning, which are basically forms for presenting an argument and transitioning smoothly in our own writing.

While reading this section I was struck by the idea that writers can either choose to use templates to construct bland, mechanical, formulaic prose, or use them to write with more freedom than usual because the templates have allowed them some extra room to be creative. In the case of the former, the templates would end up being crutches to support the weak ideas of a person either uninterested or uninspired. In the case of the later, the templates would be used strictly as tools to help transmit ideas artistically. When looking at it this way, it becomes obvious that there are definite disadvantages to taking the idea of using templates to an extreme, and there are definite advantages to thinking of templates as reliable, consistent, familiar places we can use as a sort of framework for our ideas. I've also come to the conclusion that how templates would be used depends entirely upon the outlook, experience, and most of all the desire of the writer.

Although I agree that it's "silly" to expect neophytes to stumble on these templates all on their own, I do believe a writer who has experimented enough could end up using them in his or her work without even being able to identify them. In other words, I think that at a certain point in their growth, writers could use the structure of a particular template much the same way they could use metaphor, simile, metonymy, or any other figure of speech, without any understanding at all that what they are doing has been recognized and catalogued as a literary concept. However, the big problem with templates, as far as I can see, would be in handing them over to a novice without first explaining thoroughly and convincingly that they are a tool and not a crutch. That they can be used creatively is without question, but that just like metaphor or simile, they can also be used sloppily.

A perfect example of using the concept behind a template creatively, and almost invisibly, is shown when the authors point to the inspired way Zora Neal Hurston put her own brand on the template for "they say" in the sentence, "I remember the day I became colored" (xii). And I'd be willing to bet my last lone dollar she didn't even know she was doing something that now has an identifiable name. This identification process could only have come from dissecting the work of exceptional writers, like Hurston, who are the true creators of the templates, much the same way Sophocles was the true creator and Aristotle simply the dissector of the perfect Greek tragedy.

On page ten, the authors also talk about how the best improvisational jazz musicians must have some familiar place to come back to when things start breaking down -- or reaching critical mass. Dwelling on that idea, I realized that without the grand template of the Octave, and the smaller template of individual musical scales, jazz would never have been born... or any other form of Western music for that matter. I immediately thought of the structure of all uniquely American music, and once again wondered what our music would be like if not rooted in the 12 bar blues. Templates are everywhere. Aristotle's topoi are templates; templates are found in music, in art, in life itself. So why not try to creatively use the templates these authors discovered when we sit down to express ourselves?

Once again, I can see how a writer, especially one who is not interested in writing well, could use a template in an attempt to skate with a wave and a smile right on by his or her readers. However, if those readers happen to be people who enjoy reading something with at least a tinge of depth and originality, sloppy use of templates will be a glaring deterrent. On the other hand, if the writer has, more than anything else, a true desire to communicate ideas and felling about the subject at hand, then there's a good chance templates will serve as a decent framework or point of reference that allows him or her to be more creative -- kind of like how a good base player and drummer will hold up the bottom end to allow the rhythm and lead to soar a bit.