Writing, and what is it......?

'Take Two' on a preoccupation that won't diminish:

Writing, that language on paper, screen and as 'sky-writing,' has fascinated me all my life. At about age four or five I lay on a couch pretending to read a book. Why? To be grownup. I was visiting a playmate's house. I remember a couple of titles of novels in my parents bookcase when I was about ten. This Gun For Hire, and The Sunken Fleet, yet I never saw either parent read a book. My mother was a letter writer. On the beach she wrote a letter to her brother in the country, 200 miles away. I asked her if I could get there if I walked down the beach. That got put in her letter.

During a lonely period as an adult I joined The Letter Exchange located across the Bay from San Francisco. I wrote hundreds of letters using a tiny Canon typewriter on my lap. The replies filled several large cardboard boxes. That was before email and message boards so I wonder if The Letter Exchange still exists?

In spite of those experiences of voluminous writing I'm still not certain about just what is writing. Here's the opinion of just one Linguist and London University professor of English and Drama, Jacqueline Rose in her book on Sylvia Plath, The Haunting of Sylvia Plath. About ten times I've brought up the subject of this book, on writer's message boards for example, and some of the ideas contained therein, but apparently it reads as double-dutch. Here's the list I made from references to writing and language sprinkled throughout her book.

1. Language is anti-phobic

2. All writing is fantasy

3. All Language is metaphor

4. Writing is violence

5. All writing is unstable as to meaning

6. Writing is aggression

I've pasted this list on a folded piece of bond paper glued to the inside cover of Rose's book. Inside the fold I printed AOL's Webster's Dictionary definition of 'Deconstruction,' because number 5 above seems included in the definition:

Main Entry: de·con·struc·tion
Pronunciation: "dE-k&n-'str&k-sh&n
Function: noun
Etymology: French déconstruction, from dé- de- + construction
Date: 1973
: a method of literary criticism that assumes language refers only to itself rather than to an extratextual reality, that asserts multiple conflicting interpretations of a text, and that bases such interpretations on the philosophical, political, or social implications of the use of language in the text rather than on the author's intention
- de·con·struc·tion·ist /-sh&-nist/ noun

One of many reasons the English, Linguistics, and Drama professor went into this stringent examination of the properties of language and writing is that of the five major biographies of Sylvia Plath, written since Plath's suicide, no two agree about anything; each biographer views what is known, and a great deal is known because Plath herself told us a lot, in a far different light.

My thesis is that familiarity with some of these ideas about writing and language will be helpful in reading blogs and message boards. However, I have to admit that in spite of my labor in trying over a long period of time to assimilate the comfort of these 'truths' I still scratch my head in confusion over being misunderstood in my writing, and puzzld quite often by the writing of others. Let me give a far-out, extreme example: a message board poster of practiced, insulting, barbaric, pornographic assaults on everything he's ever read of mine, simply made me furious at first, but his continuing in that vein for years has finally convinced me, paradoxically, that what he really wants is for me to take care of him, end his unhappiness, provide a roof and food for him, and testimonials written by me that he can deliver to prospective employers. But then, that's just my "interpretation," and as Rose, and Deconstruction states, all writing is open to multiple interpretations. Ha!

Some hundreds of years ago when writing letters became commonplace, it is very noticeable how the writer strived to be polite, deferential, charming, and even flattering. In those days, perhaps, letter writers instinctively knew that writing was an intrusion, a bother, something that required time, energy, and education. I'm thinking of studying up on the letter writing style of one of those, say 1700's letter writers, and address you as 'My Lords and Ladies.'

Barry

 

 

 

Choosing A Subject

When I began my journal on Dec. 22, '04 I intended ruminating out loud about the writing of my novel in progress. I've talked here about everything but my novel.

What's close to one is often scary. My novel is loosely based on my life, but freely fictionalized, especially in those parts I'm interested in but lack information about, and have no way to acquire the information because time has passed, people have died, and in some instances those still living won't talk to me. Don't cluck, I didn't kill anyone.

Here's one minor problem yet to be written in full. Is it okay, I ask myself, to speculate about Divine retribution? Characters in my novel, I've already plotted, fear that two calamities, the deaths of two young adults, oldest brother and one of the youngest sisters in a family of what ultimately was eleven children, might be God's punishment.  My Catholic, rural cousins deaths might appear in my writing to be celebrated by me, when actually I was first ignorant, then sympathetically shocked, then in the final stage, I discovered evidence that the family thought they were being punished by God for their cruel abandonment, and robbery of me, a thought that had never remotely occurred to me before.  Yet, diabolically, as time passed I noticed I began to enjoy the idea. Plopped into my lap was perfect revenge for which I don't see how I can be punished too severely, as at the time of the deaths I was 12,000 miles away, literally on the other side of the world. Actually this last twist in the emotional plot only just this minute occurred to me. Writing a journal, you see, can have benefits.

Without the benefit of surrounding characters, not yet written, just remembered but not yet made 'real' in fiction, this story idea summary, a piece in a much larger work, probably reads cold and calculated. Well it is; a novel must be calculated. Cold hearted?  I suppose so at the moment. To live, to be believable it will have to be heated up considerably.

When and if our journal sites, Blogs, become spaces for advertising, this space could feature advertising for life insurance. Gasp!

Barry

 

 

 

 

 

 

JUDGMENT: American Idol Style

Judging performers, and/or actors, is grand sport. America seems to greatly enjoy professional critiques of singers then waiting to see if their evaluations agree with both the critics, and with voting America. I wondered why this unusual format, quite different from that part of what used to be called 'Talent Contests' shown to an audience, the final performances, which now includes the auditioning, winnowing process. Truth be told we somehow like watching the losers lose. Simon has his fans. If he didn't have them, and in large numbers, he'd have been long gone.  

With one huge difference the spectacle of the various stages unfolding is similar to what happened in profession acting workshops such as those conducted by Lee Strasberg, Uta Hagen, Herbert Berghof, and Stella Adler. I must sadly add that all four of those giants of New York Theater are now dead. (Old age.) I was mesmerized by those classes even though no two were alike. I took copious notes. In each case I waited with great curiosity to hear what the instructor/moderator/teacher/guru would say. Each had a very distinct style. By far the most interesting and the most famous and beloved was Lee Strasberg.

The main, huge difference between the critiques of the three panelists on American Idol, and the theater people I have listed, is that the panelists judge not the performance, but the outside appearance of the performer and the performance, the exterior appeal, the energy, and the suitability of the song for the singer.  'You come over as...' as said by Simon for example, would never be said by any of the four acting teachers, even though they were quite different one from another. You can imagine what all three panelists would say to Marilyn Monroe, if they had never heard of Marilyn Monroe, if she went on American Idol and sang. "Happy birthday Mr President..."  They would try to hold their smirk and say thanks but no thanks.

However, that said, those four teachers had a profound impact on theater, movies, television and Pop singing. So, it's intriguing that I have heard from the panelists a few times mention of a singer's private way of delivery. They don't seem to have any faith in that way of performing, but they are not unaware that such a thing exists. To that extent they are somewhat ahead of the rest of America.

One of my favorite Pop songs has been Drive, by The Cars. What I have always loved about the original version is the lonely-sounding, very young male singer in love with the reckless woman who needs someone to drive her home tonight, but who, in her apparent extremity cannot return the young man's love.  Lately I've heard the song sung by a woman, a woman sounding totally indifferent to the woman needing a ride. I believe, have a hunch, that were a young woman to present that song so sung to the panelists on American Idol, she'd be told to take a hike.

We, all of us, love a song that is well acted. No?

Barry

 

 

 

  

BLOG ADVERTISING ???&^%$!!!yUCK

Mr John M Scalzi, our "Editor," seems to have been sent on an errand by his employer, AOL (I think that is what he said), to soften up AOL Members to the idea of having advertising deface their blog. John, get a life! By the way, post a photo of your wife. Doesn't that little girl have a mother?

Barry

I'll post a treatise here on the subject of the evils of advertising contaminating the arts after I get over my extreme distemper.

Bobby Goes to Iceland?

The two BBC (one former) writers David Edmonds and John Eidenow, authors of Bobby Fischer Goes To War, 2004, an excellent history of the highly unusual World Chess Championship held in Iceland in 1972 between the World Champion Soviet player Boris Spassky, and America's Robert Fischer, won by the American, today report in the LA Times that Iceland has offered political asylum, citizenship, to Fischer in Iceland.

I've now read their book four times. The tone of the book, while accurate, is unusually warm and even cuddly toward Fischer in spite of his infamous antics during the beginning of the match when he repeatedly threatened to derail the match if his demands were not met to the letter.

So, I am startled and furious to read these same authors, who according to the photo on the inside, back jacket cover of the hardcover book seem posed gazing at each other as lovers, now declaring Fischer an out-of-control "boor" the generous Icelanders will seriously regret having harbored.

What happened? Did their book bomb? Did the New Yorker do them in with their tepid review? Or, is it merely one more example of fickleness in the arts? In any case, as expertly as their book seems to have been researched they left out a few things which I am about to tell you.

A bit more background first. Many Europeans, not just Russians, believe that the Russian chess player, Spassky, was robbed, and lost only because of Fischer's disruptive machinations during the match. After all, Spassky had repeatedly defeated Fischer earlier, and actually began the match in Iceland two points ahead, the first on a forfeit when Fischer didn't show up, and the second when Fischer blundered like a patzer (Bxh2) in the second game.

So, still smarting from 'Europe's' loss in 1972 a second match was arranged twenty years later, 1992, in the former Yugoslavia with a purse of over 5 million dollars. Again Fischer won, pocketing $3,500,000.  There was a wrinkle. In order to get to the site of the match Fischer had to travel to a country forbidden Americans by the US Department of State. So, his passport became invalid while he was living in Japan, married to Japan's woman chess champion. (Sure would like to get a peek at her!) And so, Iceland, ultracivilized and tolerant Iceland, offered Bobby sanctuary, and God bless them for doing so!

Why did Fischer become so angry with America? I can't offer an excuse, but I sure can offer an explanation. When it was convenient, when it was politically expedient, President Nixon, and his Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, were at great pains to let Fischer know he had their support and very best wishes. Fischer, in his naivete, took this seriously, and therefore went into shock when America so soon forgot their enthusiasm for defeating the Russians and forgot all about him. There wasn't even an invitation to visit the White House!

The book authors, who wrote today's scurrilous L.A. Times op-ed page slander of Fischer's character made at least one big mistake in their book, a detail prejudice might have blinded them to. They do mention in their book Fischer's friend Lina Grumette's visit to Fischer in Iceland immediately before the beginning of the match when it looked as if the match was doomed never to even begin. They omit an important fact I happen to be privy to. Lina Grummette told me in person, tete-a-tete, what they talked about in Iceland: "God" she said. I believe her. At that time dear Lina was about seventy (70) and still 'hot.' Her husband was long dead. She is now dead, or I couldn't gossip like this. Lina had a lifesized, head-and-shoulders oil painting, a portrait of Bobby  on her livingroom wall. Bobby had stayed there for months. Many of his belongings were still there, including some of his chess books. I am positive she was his lover. Small chess tournaments were held in her home, I played in several of those tournaments, which were conducted on the basis of one game per week, usually on a Friday night. I was very fond of her. I remember being startled out of my wits, and my game, when I heard Lina upstairs on the telephone screaming at the top of her lungs at the wife of a man then living with her. I hope you understand, and know that there are many, many older women still expertly hungry for sex long after their permanent arrangements have ended, husbands, long time lovers and others long gone.  Perhaps you are familiar with Benjamin Franklin's praise of such women: "They are so grateful." (Perhaps he should have said, 'Appreciative,' which is less condescending. Let's forgive him, and chalk it up to the language of a former age.)

This is my second, no third, visit to the subject of chess in my journal. I want my journal to be read, by you, so I hope I am not trying your patience. Chess might be the only sport which resists performance enhancing drugs so maybe it will never become wildly popular in America? (<g>) I'm ever-hopeful.

Barry

 

 

 

 

 

Human Migration

Early Human migration, I read in the paper, has been traced from archeologists discovering the bones of pigs killed for eating. First the bones were those of a wild boar, then as the migration continued, and the pigs bred for the most useable meat, left a trail of evolved pig bones.  

For no rational reason I've been embarrassed by the migrations of my family. And even at that I know the migrations of only one side of my family. Everyone knows that America is a nation of immigrants, yet, in my case, that fact is somehow awkward, as if there was shame in my family that came from it's comparative rootlessness. My grandmother for example was Australian born and bred, became unusually prosperous and died alone, fairly early, from diabetes. She left no trace of her family history. It's quite possible that her family had been 'Transported,' and originally came to Australia as convicts. Generations of Australians gloried in their convict past and made a point of boasting of their convict 'Aristocracy,' in a typically humorous, Aussie, upside down manner. But not my Grandmother who hungered for propriety. After all, water going down the bathtub drain spins in the opposite direction in Australia from how it spins in Merrie England.

I'm my dear grandmother's grandson. I'd liked to have been 'Proper,' but it just didn't turn out that way.  I was virtually an urchin migrant, alone, born almost by accident in Fresno, California partly as a result of migration caused by the Great Depression.

Oh the war stories we all could tell! Ha!

Barry

   

'Previous Lives'

In what feels as if happened in a previous life, but wasn't, I had the very good fortune to serve as an 'Ordinary Seaman' on the US merchant ship the freighter USS Ulysses S. Grant, one of the ships belonging the The US Presidents Line.  I boarded the ship in Brooklyn, NY, sailed westward around the world, and disembarked in Brooklyn about three and a half months later. I managed to get permission to re-enter college ten days or so late.

I got the job through The Sailors Union of the Pacific, the SUP. I knew someone who knew someone; isn't it ever so? I knew Clarence Morse, a lawyer for the Pacific Maritime Association, who knew Morris Weissberger, head of the SUP, a labor union. Later, Clarence Morse worked for the US Government Maritime department. I don't know anymore how important the US regards maintaining a large merchant fleet for defense. Troops were sent to Korea, for example, and returned to USA by ship. Now, probably, such transport is all done by huge planes or Navy ships.

Altogether I had thirteen and a half months actual sea time through the SUP, time spent first on oil tankers, out of San Francisco, then an ore ship, then freighters. I wasn't a full union member, I had a 'Permit.' Good unions police their own ranks. I never saw anyone misbehave, show up drunk, or miss the ship. 

I did perpetrate a prank on the 'Grant.' Using my boots I outlined foot prints onto the pages of Life Magazine, painted them black, cut the 'prints' out, then, while at sea in the middle of the night, using paint the color of the mast as glue, placed the foot prints up the mast directly in front of the wheelhouse. I was not seen. Officially, nobody was named the culprit, but the Boatswain did wink at me.

Barry