Category: Burningbird

Categories
People Writing

Me and Emily: Getting to know you

Today I packed my trunks with borrowed books and made my way through the gray and thoughtful day to fulfill my duty returning my overdue books to the library.

The library is my main charity because I am almost always late returning books and consequently pay nice fat fines. We have a very good deal worked out between us: I check out books whose yellowed pages crack with unused age; and in exchange give them money they can use to buy bright, eye-catching masterpieces of the moment, such as Who Moved my Cheese.

Still, my room has taken on a slightly acidic smell from failing books and my cat can’t lie in the sun on my desk, and it’s time to return my library and begin anew.

Among the books I returned today were Emily Dickinson books: the spine stretched Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson; Emily Dickinson: Woman Poet, the book that roared; Portrait of Emily Dickinson by Higgens with is mention of Emily like bits of candied pineapple among the cake of others faces.

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant –
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind –

There was the enigmatic Open me Carefully with letters from Emily to her sister-in-law with little interpretation, which was remarkably refreshing. Fisher’s We Dickinsons was an easy read, a fanciful tale of Emily told from the perspective of her brother and geared for young high school eyes and ears — all goodness and humor with nary a dark spot to spoil the white pages. It’s badly out of print, having scrubbed all the parts suited to the macabre nature of youth.

There was Habegger’s My Wars are Laid Away in Books: The Life of Emily Dickson, with a minimum of all that sentimental rubbish about the poet. There was another book, and now I can’t even remember the name but it had a green cover, an author whose name began with ‘H’ and repeated bits and pieces from most of what the other books said, which is probably why I can’t remember it and didn’t bother to write down the title. I am not a biographer or responsible historian. I am only a curious person.

If you search for books on Emily Dickinson at Amazon or some other online books store you’ll literally find thousands about her, covering every aspect of her life from sex to prayer:

Emily Dickinson and the Art of Belief, by Roger Lundin

My Emily Dickinson by Susan Howe

The Life and Mind of Emily Dickinson, by Genevieve Taggard

Emily Dickinson and her Culture: The Soul’s Society, by Barton Levi St. Armand

Emily Dickinson’s Gothic: Goblin with a Gauge, by Daneen Wardrop

Feminists Critics read Emily Dickinson, by Suzanne Juhasz (ed)

Visiting Emily, The Diary of Emily Dickinson, Taking off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes, A Vice for Voices, Emily Dickinson the Metaphysical Tradition…

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After a while, though, the books begin to blur together, differing only in their amazing variation of interpretation of a single word or simple act.

There are online sources devoted to Emily, too. One only has to search on Emily Dickinson to return hundreds of thousands of pages, including complete collections of her poems — in two different spots. Considering the number of poems in question, that’s a lot of poetry. Emily Dickinson wrote close to 2000 poems, and over 1000 of her letters to friends and family have survived, though not always unedited.

And the conjecture about her life! There is much fascination with the fact that she only wore white later in life, but if she had just chosen to wear black, nothing would have been said about the sameness of her dress. Her letters and poems are pulled and used as proof of her erotic love for both man and woman, so much so that it began to irritate me greatly, the historians can become so self-sure about their interpretations. I have to think that if she had truly loved as many people as has been claimed, there would have been no room left for writing — all her time would have been spent in a tizzy of frustrated longing with swirls of faces floating about.

Then there are the bees. She wrote passionately several times about the bees. I am sure there was something kinky about that.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

We hear stories about her reclusiveness, but facts surface and we find out that she actually attended church from time to time, or would visit a friend, and see people who visited. In truth, if she weren’t Emily Dickinson we would look at her life and not see anything more than an affluent, educated woman with a small circle of friends and family who liked to write a lot, was generous with those in need, but reserved and even shy around strangers and larger crowds, liked to cook and garden, didn’t like to travel, and didn’t go out very much.

There are facts we know: Emily Dickinson was the middle child of three children, born to affluent parents in a town, Amherst, Massachusetts, steeped in family history. An Older brother named William Austen, a younger sister named Lavinia. Mother ill much of her life, father domineering, but not punitive, and brother leading an interesting but not outstanding life. She and her sister were educated, and were encouraged in their education but not to the point of independence; neither married, both lived at home, took care of their mother, and then their father and then each other.

They had a considerable number of friends who held them in respect and affection, and both were regular correspondents, even with those who lived in town. Both did travel some, but not much and primarily to visit family, or in Emily’s case, to get care for her eyes, which troubled her most of her life.

Emily was interested in books and magazines and journals and was very well read; she loved her dictionary and liked to spend time just reading its pages, discovering new words. To some extent she was interested in the politics of the time, being for the freeing of slaves, but resisting the popular call to join the Christian revolution sweeping New England when she was younger. In fact, if she stood out for any one thing more than another, it was her ambivalent feelings about religion.

“Heavenly Father” — take to thee
The supreme iniquity
Fashioned by thy candid Hand
In a moment contraband –
Though to trust us — seems to us
More respectful — “We are Dust” –
We apologize to thee
For thine own Duplicity –

Emily was a good cook and had a passion for gardening but was indifferent to most other housework. She would make care baskets for those ill, worry about those in trouble, mourn, greatly, friends and family who died, and liked to tease those she cherished. She was friendly with neighborhood children, but didn’t attend many functions, nor did she see many people. One can sense in her letters and in letters about her, that she lived the life she wanted, not one forced on her, by either family or circumstances. In my favorite letter to her sister-in-law Sue, Emily wrote:

We go out very little – once in a month or two, we both set sail in silks – touch at the principal points, and then put into port again – Vinnie cruises about some to transact the commerce, but coming to anchor is most that I can do. Mr. and Mrs. Dwight are a sunlight to me, which no night can shade, and I shall perform weekly journeys there, much to Austin’s dudgeon and my sister’s rage.

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I could go on and doing so repeat other facts easily found online (thus forcing that student coming here to seek answers for their paper, “Who is Emily Dickinson” to give up in frustration at this point and move on…). I think the important thing to remember, though, is that Emily Dickinson wasn’t that different from many unmarried, affluent, strong-minded, white women of the time except for two important things: she loved to write, and she could write. Whether you like her writing or not, it was and is powerful and complex, and I think that’s why so much conjecture happens — how could someone who writes like this lead such a simple life?

The answer is in her work. Emily saw the richness, the nuances in everyday life — of simple likes and dislikes, bees in the spring, autumn leaves, books, family and friends, dictionaries and words, questions of God, slavery, and dying.

How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn’t care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears –
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity –

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I started this quest trying to better understand Emily Dickinson but after reading page after page about her life, I find myself no closer to understanding what she was like, fully, as a person. All we know about her is through her writing: her poetry and her letters. Unfortunately, writing allows the writer to hide in plain view.

The funny thing about this research is that I am not, or was not, a fan of Dickinson poetry. Oh, there were some poems that I liked, but for the most part, I found her work to be cryptic: too verbally rich with too many impressions compressed into too few words. I could not find the key that would open her poetry to me and allow to read poem after poem without feeling an ache in my neck, product of restlessness that lets me know that no matter how much I try to discipline my mind, what I am reading is not connecting with me.

It was a chance remark that sent me on this quest: about Emily Dickinson being unpublished except for a few friends and family while she was alive. I had not studied about Emily Dickinson in school and didn’t know about her obscurity in her lifetime. It amazed me that she wrote thousands and thousands of words that went unpublished during a time when all intellectuals — male and female — aspired to appear in print in one way or another.

I wondered, did she mind?

He scanned it-staggered-
Dropped the Loop
To Past or Period-
Caught helpless at a sense as if
His Mind were going blind-

Groped up, to see if God was there-
Groped backward at Himself
Caressed a Trigger absently
And wandered out of Life.

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Did she mind that she was unknown? Did she mind that her works weren’t being read by many others? We talk about the writer who loves to write regardless of the audience but scratch this insouciance ever so slightly, and you’ll find that there is a drive within most of us to be read. I am not so ‘pure’ as a writer as to be indifferent whether my writing is read or not.

Was Emily indifferent? This sent me to the library and the Internet, and eventually, to a deeper look at her work. In them, over time, I found a connection to Emily Dickinson and her work, and I wonder if that is the strength of her longevity and the root of her popularity — she articulates our formless thoughts and that’s why her writing is so unique, and sometimes so difficult.

Before my readings, I found Emily’s poems difficult to read, and could count on two hands ones that I liked; now, I find I can read all of her work and it means something to me and I can’t bear to choose between the writings to find favorites.

I found the key to Emily Dickinson’s poems — it was within me all along. But it was in her letters and in the words of those who discussed her after death that I found the answer to the question, “Did she mind?”

You cannot make Remembrance grow
When it has lost its Root –
The tightening the Soil around
And setting it upright
Deceives perhaps the Universe
But not retrieves the Plant –
Real Memory, like Cedar Feet
Is shod with Adamant –
Nor can you cut Remembrance down
When it shall once have grown –
Its Iron Buds will sprout anew
However overthrown –

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Categories
Just Shelley

Fat Tuesday became flat Tuesday

I had planned on attending the St. Louis Mardi Gras parade and celebration downtown tonight, but decided against it this afternoon. My ankle and foot are still bruised after the fall a long time ago, which is annoying, and I’m not feeling up to the crowds tonight.

I don’t regret missing out on the drunks, the fights, and the girls lifting their shirts at the drop of a shiny bead. I do regret, though, a little, not seeing the floats, being amidst people having a good time, hearing what will probably be great music, and getting some interesting photographs. Mardi Gras–and the St. Louis Mardi Gras is the second largest in the country– is the type of event photographers want — people in costume throwing off their inhibitions, at night, with nice fast, grainy black and white film. But ’shoulds’ as a photographer have about as much appeal to me as ’shoulds’ as a writer. I’m a hopeless case.

Besides, I can see myself downtown, walking alone back to my car in the dark parking area wearing a couple of thousand dollars worth of camera equipment.

I did get a King Cake though, the traditional Mardi Gras pastry. It’s not bad except for all that colored sugar being a bit crunchy. My roommate got the baby and the coin, and I got the necklace. I have absolutely no idea what this means.

And tomorrow, Emily Dickinson.

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Shelley

Categories
Weblogging Writing

Listening to you

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I’m not sure what happened. I was writing about a personal revelation I had and then somehow the writing became filtered and morphed until some people see echo chambers and other people – too many other people – see it as an attack against an established (pick one: elitist/egalitarian) person/group.

At first I thought the original problem was the example I used, but no, from many of the comments left with my writing, I could see that people were understanding what I said. But then somewhere along the way, the tone changed and each person came along and picked out the pertinent bits and tossed the rest away.

(Tell me, if you’re served a stew at a friends house, would you dig out the beef and toss the potatoes on the floor?)

I thought, well maybe it’s my writing. Maybe my writing really isn’t that great, or I am not making my points effectively. Where before I was talking about a personal revelation– that whole writer/community member thing– perhaps people were reading attack. I made an error in my writing by somehow putting to much focus on the incident rather than my own personal ruminations.

But then there was this little tidbit, left by Dave Rogers:

Now, an interesting question would be to wonder if Don Park would have offered his comment, which he subsequently withdrew because he felt it would distract from another message he wished to convey, if he hadn’t perceived that Marc had pulled the invitation? And, if he had not, would Shelley have offered this essay?

As to the first question, my guess is probably not. As to the second, my guess is Shelley probably would have addressed the issues in this essay at a later time in response to a different event, similar in kind to this one.

Bang on, Dave. The incident was nothing more than an impetus to write something on my mind. What I didn’t realize at the time, though, was the absolute and complete damaging effect mentioning certain names would have on the preception of what I wrote.

This has left me frustrated, not because I care that much whether people or agree with me or not; but because I’m left feeling that people didn’t even bother to read what I had to say. They saw “Danah”, “Joi”, “Cory”, and “Marc” and that was the end of the story for them.

Now this morning, somehow what I wrote about has become mutated even further to not only an attack on Joi Ito and his group, but conferences as well. This has not pleased me. No siree, not pleased me at all.

It was in a bitchy frame of mind that I wondered over to Dave Rogers weblog this morning to read what Dave had to say. I found:

I’ve been sort of participating in a discussion over at Shelley’s Burningbird Weblog and Grill about community, one of my favorite topics. I say “sort of” participating, because mostly the things I write just seem to vanish into the ether. I did get a nice comment from Stavros the Wonder Chicken, and Shelley even quoted large sections of my comments. But nobody ever bothers to stop and tell me I’m full of shit, which would at least suggest somebody read what I wrote.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter.

But it does matter, Dave. Especially when you gave me a pretty good idea of why I got hit by a 2 x 4 last night:

Anyway, I’m starting to get all pedantic again. Most of the discussions about “echo chambers” and “group-think” and “community” are carried on within a very narrow set of beliefs which have been cherry-picked to make us feel as good about ourselves as possible, even if they don’t adequately describe the phenomenon they’re trying to address. As long as we can feel “good,” whether that’s advocating for “emergent democracy” or “smart mobs;” or railing against sexism, elitism, or whatever other “-ism” that has provoked a response, then we’re not going to be inclined to look much further into our own behavior, our own beliefs, our own reasoning. It is superfluous to the goal of maintaining an interior state of homeostasis – usually a feeling which can be described as “good” if only by noting its absence as in “I don’t feel comfortable with…” Or, “I’m offended by…” Which is ultimately why we do the things we do: Because it feels “good.” For the most part it works. But at the edges, it doesn’t, and more and more we’re finding ourselves living at the edge. And woe be unto he or she who challenges what makes us feel “good.” They will be made to feel “bad!”

Jeneane wrote a post this morning on this whole thing, but one sentence stood out because it was all in caps:

DO YOU HEAR ME?

Fuckin’ A, I do. Especially since that was the phrase echoing through my own mind as I tried to work through my frustrations today without a) deleting every last page of this weblog; or b) declaring war on Joi Ito, purely as a desperate declaration of independence; not because I have anything against Joi, but because I’ve been slapped with a brush and painted as such.

Excuse me, but you always write ‘red’.

I do not always write, ‘red’.

Yes you do. You’re dripping with ‘red’.

But that’s not me, that’s how I’m painted. I was painted ‘red’.

You’re just making excuses.

No! No! I’m actually more ‘blue’ than ‘red’.

Sure.

No! Really!

Then why are you dripping ‘red’?

I forgot to duck.

This whole thing reminded me so much of that song from the rock opera, Tommy. Remember the one? Sure you do:

See me.
Feel me.
Touch me.
Heal me.

Listening to you,
I get the music.
Gazing at you,
I get the heat.
Following you,
I climb the mountains.
I get excitement at your feet.

Right behind you,
I see the millions.
On you,
I see the glory.

From you,
I get opinions.
From you,
I get the story.

(Lovely version of Listening to you from Michael Cerveris web site)

Looking at these words one way, you see a lone figure demanding to be seen, to be heard.. But, looked at another way, you see a crowd, about to run over and crush the object of their affection. I love the conflict behind this song.

Listening to you, I hear the music.
Gazing at you, I get the heat.

Following you, I climb the mountains.
I get excitement at your feet.

Right behind you,
I see the millions.

          On you,
I see the glory.

From you,
I get opinions.

From you,
I get the story.

The mistake I made was not in my writing, or using certain peoples’ names or a specific incident as an example; it was to give into the sucking vortex that happened afterwards. People will read what they want to read and if they want to read ugliness into the words, that’s their head, that’s their problem. But once I snapped at the bait, then it became my problem.

It started with being a writer or being a community member, and it returns to wence it came. Or as BlogJazz wrote:

I get to do that here. Without benefit or restriction of audience. There are power-elites in every plane I move. I can’t be touched. I don’t register on their radar. While their gravity influences me, I am fully-powered and able to make my own path. I can’t be cast off since I wandered away long ago.

I’m not joining any battle, or any war, or even paying attention to any more of the bullshit. The reason for this post is to point out the words that Dave wrote and that Jeneane wrote and that BlogJazz wrote, and suggest that you go read them.

See them.

Hear them.

(…and did someone volunteer to have me re-design their weblog?)

Update

And geez, I almost forgot the Wonder chicken. You know if you don’t go see and hear him, he molts all over the server. It’s a mess.

Categories
Web Writing

A True Title

I am enjoying the comments and suggestions about the book title in the last post, and have directed my editor to have a look. In the meantime, for a bit of fun, I’ve come up with several titles that I’d really like to use for the book:

Internet for people who have been screwed online and are now out for revenge.

Internet for those who invested in the dot-com bubble a few years back, and now want to know why they’re holding worthless pieces of paper.

Internet for those with money…what did you say your name and email address was again?

Internet for people who have a more intimate relationship with an email spammer then their own significant other because they at least get the spammer’s email through all the filters.

Internet for people who are scared by their kids knowledge of the Internet.

Internet for people who are scared by their kids knowledge about sex they gained on the Internet.

Internet for those who want to talk about work online.

Internet for those who are looking for a new job online.

Internet for those seeking a warm, caring relationship online, but will settle for a quick roll in the hay. Or picture of same.

Internet for the paranoid and…wait! Wait! What was that?

Internet for the remaining Howard Dean supporters…all two of you.

Internet for Mom, Dad, and don’t tell them about my weblog.

Internet for the censored, spied on, and imprisoned, because the truth will not always set you free.

Internet for the pundits, because you will inherit the Web.

Internet for the meek, because you will inherit the bill.

Internet for people who will not stop clicking on email attachments and whose machines are now a festering bed of evil, with monitors levitating above the desk, and spinning in circles.

Categories
Writing

Best laid plans

…of mice and writers.

Unfortunately I had to cancel my trip, as much as I really wanted to go on it.

Frankly, my book is in a bit of trouble right now, and we, the publisher and myself, are trying to work through the rough spots. It is an unusual book, with an odd name and the publisher is concerned about marketing aspects of the book. Rightfully so – putting a book out on the street is very expensive, and if you don’t sell a set number of copies, you can lose a lot a money.

Welcome to the book biz. For those who think that all there is to a book is selling the original idea, signing a contract, and then writing the book – think on. It’s a difficult, wearing task from start to finish. For everyone.

With this uncertainty, though, I can’t afford to spend the extra money on this trip, even with staying at cheap hotels. I haven’t told my roommate yet, and I so hate to disappoint him.

Come to think of it, I’m not too happy about this myself, either.

But, the sun is shining in Missouri, and the ground may actually be thawed enough for me to get out and do some walking. I guess I can make myself scarce during the day, and we can just pretend I’m not home.