mobscene

So I have another paper to do for lit. The prof's expecting 5-7pgs with 2 sources from the anthology and external sources. Not too bad. And honistly, as much as I bitch about having to do these papers, they're not that bad. I just obsess about my writing....regardless of what form it is in. If I was taking a creative writing class, the freakouts would be the same. The manifestation of my writing doesnt matter as much to me as the actual content. And...I mean...William Cullen Bryant wrote "Thanatopsis" when he was 17. Which makes everything I write so freaking bad. Seriously...freaking 17. When I was 17...I dont even want to think about what I was writing. If I ever ever ever have half the talent that Bryant had at 17 by the time I die I will die happy.

I'm not quite sure what I want to focus my paper on yet. I know I want it to somehow incorperate death. I dont know what about death...but somthing. Maybe how life is cyclical and use "Thanatopsis" and Whitman's "Song of Myself" for primary sources? Or use Dickinson and "Daisy Miller" by Henry James to show how sociatal constraints on feminity will kill them. I know it might be a stretch with "Daisy Miller" and even though James is a naturalist and the mosqueto that killed her was probably meant to be just a mosqueto...I took it as somthing more. As her constant alianation from polite company lead to her eventual downfall and death. Maybe? No? I dont know?

I'm really bad at literary analysis. For me, there is no happy medium. I either overanalyze or dont analyze enough. Which sucks. And I know that most of the time the author wasnt thinking what I am. Example....William Crane Williams. His poems (especially "The Red Wheelbarrow" and "This Is Just To Say") are really simplistic. But, I read so much into them and turn them into somthing they're most likley not. Like, in "This Is Just To Say" (text for the poem can be found here), it reads as if it is an afterthought by the eater of the plums (who is the speaker). And the first time I read it, that is all I thought of it as. But, rereading it now, I began to think...plums. Plums could be somthing more. Plums could be...virginity. Which would completly change the meaning of the poem. If plums are virginity, the speaker is a rapist. And the icebox is the woman. Breakfast would be her lover. It makes sence. Because, in the last stanza, it sounds like a sincere apology. But not.

"Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold."

If plums represent virginity, and the speaker is our rapist, then it's almost like he needed to do what he did. "So sweet" being the initial act, "and so cold" being the realization his actions are not to be reciprocated. But, here is my problem. Williams wasnt thinking rape and virginity...he was thinking fruit. But, not knowing that the reader could congigure up basically anything for the plums to represent. As I just proved.

I think that is why I have such a problem with analyzing literature. There are so many ways to look at everything and unless you're inside the author's head or they provide some commentary on each specific work, then you're going to have no idea what everything is supposed to represent to them. And I know it's a bit of a stretch sometimes to justify the symbolism...but do you ever really know otherwise? And yes, some words imply certain images...like the most basic symbolism of a storm implying a trepaditious situation, but I don't think there can really be a right answer with analysis. I like there to be a right and a wrong. Yet...I hate math.

Actually, I dont know if I like the idea of there always being a definitive answer. I think any answer CAN be right if there is supporting evidence. Or...maybe right isnt the best word to use. Maybe...justified? I don't know what word I'm looking for here...but you get it, right?

I want to try to get somthing published by the time I come back to school in August. Maybe just a poem or a rant-turned-essay or somthing. There's this feminist rag that one of my friends is working with back in Midtown. She always liked my stuff...maybe I'll send some over. And I have this short story (aptly titled, "Femazazi No More") that I've been wanting to do somthing with for a while. I think I almost have it tight enough to where I'd be somewhat ok with submitting it. And yeah, I know I'm probably not going to get published. But, I think I need to take the risk and put my work out there. I mean...I talk so much about wanting to be one of the greats of my generation but how will I or anyone ever know if I am/was unless I take that leap. I'm just going to have to grow a set and get over my immense fear of rejection.

Totally changing gears...I havent heard from Chandi in a while. This girl is amazing. She and I were inseprable from the time I was 11 till I left for Maryland. I hope she's doing ok. I mean...she and I were the kids darting out in the middle of the street and yelling "Fuck YOU!" when drivers would give us dirty looks. We were young and reckless and loved it. She's the kind of girl who will smoke you out but make you take the first hit to make sure its straight. She'll yell at you when you quit drinking but will hold your head over the toilet when it starts coming back up. She taught me how to smoke a cigarette, how to shotgun a beer, how to stop caring and just...

let go.