Monthly Archives: December 2007

Entertainment story of the year

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Although I don’t watch television often or keep up with popular entertainment, even I, through the Internet community, have heard of Paul Potts and Terry Fator. Potts, winner of Britain’s Got Talent for his operatic singing, and Fator, winner of America’s Got Talent for his unusual ventriloquism-singer impersonation act, are, to me, the entertainment story of 2007.

Beyond their previously unrecognized talents, Potts and Fator appeal to us because otherwise they are so ordinary, so like the rest of us. Neither would stand out for good looks or charisma. Yet when given the opportunity to perform before judges, a studio audience, and TV viewers, both came through like pros — and won over their respective crowds instantly.

How many Potts and Fators are out there — talented but doomed to obscurity for lack of opportunity? While the entertainment industry courts beautiful people with a modicum of talent (for example, Spears), people like Potts and Fator are rarely seen by a broader audience. The same may be true for non-performing artists, too — how many gifted artists and writers never get past the industry barriers that filter out talent and creativity in favor of the known and proven formulas?

I thought of this as J. and I watched part of a biography of Judy Garland on American Masters. Garland’s singing, dancing, and acting talents were recognized early in her life, and she is, of course, a Hollywood legend. Even so, many of those at the executive level in the industry never seemed to forgive Garland for her lack of conventional beauty (with comparisons to Lana Turner) and her alleged weight problem (“105 pounds!” she exclaimed in a voiceover). As we watched Garland, with her lustrous eyes and trembling lips, sing her heart and soul, it was hard to imagine that she spent most of her life lacking confidence in herself, her evident and unique beauty, and her incredible musical and dramatic abilities. I wondered what Garland’s life would have been like if there had not been studios and moguls to influence her and to come between her and the audiences who didn’t care that she wasn’t an emaciated blonde with a perfect nose, who loved her for who she was and for that voice.

Potts and Fator are fortunate to have been discovered directly by the millions rather than by the businessmen who control most of what we see and hear. Judy Garland was made to have her teeth capped and her every pound monitored. For Paul Potts, it is up to him whether he wants to have his teeth fixed or to lose weight. Whether he does or not, like Judy he will still have a talent that amazes and moves us, and we will still want to watch and listen and marvel and applaud. Perhaps Potts will build the self-confidence that Judy Garland was stripped of at every turn and for lack of which she died young and tragically.

Let us hope.

Book review: Cranford

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Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell. Edited by Elizabeth Porges Watson. New introduction and notes by Charlotte Mitchell. ISBN 0-19-283209-3. Recommended.

Not a novel, not an anthology of short stories, Cranford is perhaps best described as a cohesive series of vignettes. Recounted by a young woman of about 30 from the city of Drumble [Manchester], these stories depict family, friendship, and love lost and found in a village dominated by poor but genteel spinsters and widows. “. . . all the holders of houses, above a certain rent, are women.” Small, rural, and elitist in its way, Cranford is a place out of time, where faded fashions and proprieties still matter.

Gaskell begins Cranford with a series of descriptive statements. Some are accurate, while others prove to be ironic. For example, “Although the ladies of Cranford know all each other’s proceedings, they are exceedingly indifferent to each other’s opinions.” While discovering Cranford and the Amazons who possess it, we also learn the dry perspective and voice of the narrator, who clearly loves the village while gently highlighting the foibles of its female inhabitants. “But I will answer for it, the last gigot, the last tight and scanty petticoat in wear in England, was seen in Cranford — and seen without a smile.”

Like Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters, Cranford is focused on gender roles and the different lives of women and men. The sexes share many characteristics; Captain Brown and Peter Jenkyns display the thoughtful, neighborly solicitude associated with women (with Peter going so far as to don a woman’s dress), while Miss Jenkyns (the woman Peter impersonates) exhibits a manly will and resolution. It is the opportunities they have and the way in which they live that separates the sexes. Captain Brown, Peter, and Signor Brunoni have traveled and seen some of the world, and have even influenced it, while Miss Jenkyns, Miss Matty, Miss Price, the narrator, and their friends are constrained by their gender, gentility, and social code to hearth and home. Here, they perform their small household tasks, including ensuring that their maidservants are not disturbed or distracted by “followers,” or interested young men. The social code that prevents any of them from working in “trade” also determines the hours that can be spent outside the home. “Then there were rules and regulations for visiting and calls . . . ‘from twelve to three are our calling-hours.'”

In such a small, interconnected village, everything that happens is noteworthy, and every decision is important if the occasionally cruel social order is to be maintained. “The whole town knew and kindly regarded Miss Betty Barker’s Alderney,” whose fall into a lime-pit warrants Captain Brown’s advice, “Get her a flannel waistcoat and flannel drawers . . .,” so the narrator can ask the reader incredulously, “Do you ever seen cows dressed in grey flannel in London?” Miss Matty’s decision not to marry against her family’s wishes keeps the peace at great personal cost, and her wistful decision to allow Martha to have a follower recompenses her later when the outside world intrudes into her realm with its ugly realities — one of the many signs that Cranford must and will change. When Lady Glenmire renounces her title and takes the name of Mrs. Hoggins upon her remarriage, Cranford reels with shock and dismay, and it takes Peter Jenkyns, and his broader perspective from India, to reconcile the village and its de facto leader, Mrs. Jamieson, with the new ways.

The narrator, who divides her time between her father in the progressive world of Drumble and the slowly and reluctantly changing Cranford, finds herself under the village’s influence. As an observer, she describes the complex set of rules that govern Cranford society and the social slights they necessitate, not without a sense of regret. She is aware of the absurdity of Cranford society’s beliefs and behavior combined with expediency, such as the occasion of Miss Betty Barker’s party for the Cranford elite. “‘Oh, gentility!’ thought I, ‘can you endure this last shock?'” when “all sorts of good things for supper” appear. “. . . we thought it better to submit graciously, even at the cost of our gentility — which never ate suppers in general — but which, like most non-supper-eaters, was particularly hungry on all special occasions.” More seriously, she pities Miss Matty and her lost love and life, and like her other well-meaning friends determines that she shall be happy.

With the arrival of Signor Brunoni and the ensuing panic over the perceived crime wave that seems to hit Cranford, the narrator loses some of her wryness and seems to become nearly as frightened by the rumors of strangers and robberies as her elderly friends. It is the new outsider, Lady Glenmire, who “never had heard of any actual robberies; except that two little boys had stolen some apples from Farmer Benson’s orchard and that some eggs had been missed on a market-day off Widow Hayward’s stall.” Even while caught up in the panic, however, “I could not help being amused at Jenny’s position . . ..” When she speaks of Jenny’s ghost, the narrator says, “. . . for there was no knowing how near the ghostly head and ears might be . . ..”

Through the narrator, who seems to represent Gaskell’s own perspective, Cranford pokes gentle fun at a time and place that had already become a fairy tale-like setting, where goodness outdoes pettiness, justice prevails over setbacks and hardships, and even the prodigal son (or prince) can return to set things right. In Cranford, Gaskell reminds the reader of a recent past that is both amusing and moving, a time to look upon fondly but without regret for the changes that Peter and the marriage of Lady Glenmire/Mrs. Hoggins bring about. The one constant in life is change, and inCranford change is at least as much for the better as for the worse.

29 December 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

New toy: AlphaSmart Neo

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I just ordered an AlphaSmart Neo for taking to the library along with the usual complement of tablet and pencil case. It may take a little getting used to, but most writers who have them seem to like them. Beats the weight and distractions of the old Titanium.

Update: Sadly, the AlphaSmart Neo has succumbed to the tablet. There is room in my heart for both.

The noon of the moon

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On the Wolverine to Chicago

This is a slightly odd thing. I’m on the train from Ann Arbor to Chicago, and I suddenly notice that the surroundings seem somehow familiar, then realize that I am sitting in the same seat as I sat in outbound. I know this because the tray table has the same distinctive marks, and the electrical outlet has the same plastic clip holding it. Both times I chose it because it was the first empty seat that I came to. I suppose Amtrak runs the same cars back and forth between Chicago and Pontiac, but still it seems funny to get the same seat twice on the same round trip.

I had a very good visit with my friends, and my state of mind is complicated by warring and opposite needs — one to be alone and one to be around people. Of course, I will be alone, but I’m not sure that this is good for me now.

I do feel better than I did, which demonstrates the power that hormones have over me. It’s a relief to have some control over myself back and not to feel the arms of the abyss eagerly snatching me toward it and the temptation to succumb.

The other night in Ann Arbor seemed bright to me, even though it was cloudy and the nearly full moon hidden. I mentioned that I was surprised by the seeming amount of light pollution in the area, and my friend and I discussed the topic and the contribution of the full moon.

This morning, though, there could be no doubt. I woke up at 5 a.m. and was surprised to see that my borrowed bedroom was bright enough to navigate easily. I looked out the kitchen window and saw diffuse light, deep shadows, and a clear sky over a still, eerie winter landscape that I could think of as my own, as the only witness to it at that early hour.

When I looked out my bedroom window, I saw the moon high up in the sky, making the moment the noon of the moon. The areas of shadows and those of silvery light combined with the lack of color made me feel like I was seeing the world through the eyes of another species, or perhaps seeing a different world altogether.

The noon of the moon . . . I like that.

A little hysteria, Scarecrow?

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On the Wolverine to Ann Arbor

Saturday night J. came over; the plan was to go to a good Italian restaurant on Taylor Street, but I diverted him to the Christkindlmarket because I wanted to buy something in particular and to see Puppet Bike again. After we parked in an alley and as we were walking to the market, I told him what I was going to buy — only to find out that he had bought it for me after I had told him not to. Typical. It’s a metal bowl from Nepal with a carved wooden stick. Running the stick along the smooth top edge of the bowl produces a soothing meditative tone (you can feel the bowl vibrate). The larger the bowl, the deeper the tone. The simplest principles can be the most fascinating.

Leaving J. with his friends, the pewter people, I headed off to see Puppet Bike. This night, all the puppets seemed to make an appearance. Until it started raining, it was a pleasant night for watching the performance — the temperature was in the 50s. It also seemed to be a good night for tips, but I found myself too shy to step forward and hand up mine (which I wanted to give up specifically to Lefty the Tiger). After about a half hour of trying to talk myself into it and failing to do so, the music ended, the theatre door closed, and it looked like Puppet Bike was about to ride off in the drizzle!

But Puppet Bike didn’t move, the theatre door opened, a new dance started, and J. came along shortly after. Seemingly to make up for my earlier shyness, I now handed Lefty and the others a steady stream of one-dollar bills that made my crush on the little tiger obvious. We didn’t drag ourselves away until after 8:30, by which time the wind had picked up and the rain had made itself felt.

On Taylor Street, nothing seemed to stand out. J. wanted to try something new, so we avoided Francesca’s. After a half hour of driving around, we found ourselves at Pompeii, which proved to be a giant version of the fast-food chain. Not at all what poor J. had in mind, but undoubtedly we were both hungry and tired and so we stayed even as he admitted his disappointment.

At my place, I served holiday spice tea as we opened gifts. One of my gifts from him has not arrived yet, but to no one’s surprise he unwrapped a Nepal bowl — from me.

For me, there were a breast cancer pin, a pewter ornament depicting a woman in an office (somehow even in pewter a computer fails to be quaint), a banana-leaf Santa, a very soft bear, writing paper from Ireland, a tin butterfly ornament, and the Nepal bowl. Then I unwrapped a four-gigabyte flash drive. That seemed odd — I don’t have a particular need for a flash drive — certainly not one of that capacity.

It turns out that it was in preparation for the pièce de résistance — an electronic photo frame from Kodak. Before he came over, J. had called to ask me what version of the Apple operating system I use, and I had said, “What are you getting for me that you shouldn’t?” It’s a great idea that makes me almost wish I had children so I could display their photos in it. But then there is always Hodge.

J.’s rewards for the night out and all this Christmas cheer and generosity were two pieces of pumpkin pie and a long, violent outburst of blind emotion and tears such as I have not displayed since I was five years old. We had been discussing something he had given me for my friends that he wanted me to take on my trip, which I didn’t feel was practical. He was being insistent, and I felt a little bullied and distressed by the idea that my practicality and resistance were turning a gesture that gave him pleasure into an ugly argument that was ruining his evening and that I can’t assert myself without becoming fundamentally unpleasant, even despicable.

It hit me all at once — the physical and emotional tension and discomfort of the prolonged PMS, a lifetime of loneliness and alienation, an old and recent history of broken promises and betrayed trust, a renewed sense of the gap that exists between me and my life and normal people and their lives, and a combined belief and disbelief that somehow, at some time, I have thought, willed, or done something to deserve the unhappiness that always finds me. It’s not the hopeless unhappiness of the poor, the war-torn, the ill, or the dying, but the hopeless unhappiness of the misfit piece, torn from the puzzle and tossed aside repeatedly in frustration and contempt.

With little warning, the dam of control that has been leaking slowly here and there gave way violently and completely, all the more be cause of the stresses that control creates and exacerbates. It frightened J., who doesn’t understand its source; it frightens me still, because I know it could happen again and likely will. Apply all the logic that I will, the rational mind is devastated by the destructive power of the emotions. Once again, I will exhaust myself rebuilding, and yet no structure, even a psychological one is without its vulnerabilities. Instead of becoming stronger and stronger, mine grows weaker and weaker.

I may be beyond even Lefty’s comfort.

Puppet Bike at Christkindlmarket

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Last night, I met J. at the Christkindlmarket. I had wanted to go again when it wasn’t so cold (this night, although warmer, proved to be worse because of the wind) and when I wasn’t burdened with a backpack so I would be free to shop for a gift or two.

The timing turned out to be very bad indeed; I’ve had a rough time lately in many ways, I’m in the final throes of this month’s PMS (just in time for vacation and travel!), and my mine and emotions are amok, so poor J. had to put up with not only a greater level of impatience, but several (embarrassing to me) outbursts of tears. They are neither controllable nor unjustified, but they have to be very unpleasant for someone subjected to them who doesn’t understand them. I apologized several times. I don’t know what to do because being home alone is worse, but it doesn’t seem fair to make someone else suffer, especially at an event like the Christkindlmarket, which is supposed to be a fun holiday diversion.

J. had told me about many times about Puppet Bike and swears he has shown me video of it, but I could not seem to understand the concept until last night. As we were leaving the market, we encountered Puppet Bike. At first we were the only ones watching, but after we stopped to watch so did a steady stream of others. Last night it was Lefty (and partner?) dancing their hearts out on a puppet stage mounted on a bicycle. It’s a brilliant idea, and it made even me smile weakly through the cold and tears. When J. and others handed them tips, the dancing pair would lovingly caress each bill, cradle it between them, and kiss each other sweetly. It was clever, cute, and refreshing. Now I understand a little better why J. gets so excited when he happens to find Puppet Bike.

J. is like a child in some ways — some bad, some good. In this case, he is nearly all child, living in the moment and charmed and enthralled to the exclusion of almost all else by a pair of dancing hand puppets with oodles of personality. It is on such occasions that I wish I could be more like him, turning off my mind, forgetting myself and the world, and simply enjoying a little pleasure. Instead, even as I did enjoy it, I found that the part of my mind that wasn’t sorrowful or focused on my aching fingers and toes was thinking about practicalities, such as that the Puppet Bike person must be very cold, too. Then I began to imagine that, behind the happy, dancing, kissing puppets is a human being who has probably experienced pain, sadness, and all those things that keep us humble and slightly lost in life. So, while the holiday makers and their children around me were delighted by their discovery of Puppet Bike, I was hit again by a tsunami of sadness that had nothing to with anything around me.

I hope to see Puppet Bike again, maybe not soon, but later, when I am less sad (or in better control) and less prone to projecting my own state of mind and more open to a little transitory joy. Just a little.

It may be a while, but it cannot be soon enough.

Book review: The Great Gatsby: The Authorized Text

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The Great Gatsby: The Authorized Text by F. Scott Fitzgerald, with notes and a preface by Matthew J. Bruccoli. Highly recommended.

The west was conquered and the midwest cultivated, so in The Great Gatsby set in the 1920s we turn our attention back east, where to midwestern narrator Nick Carraway and his neighbor Jay Gatsby the green light at the end of the Buchanans’ East Egg dock seems to represent the fertile promise of America, and the dreams and the money that are supposed to make them reality. Some dreams, like the dream of recapturing a romantic past that never really was, become nightmares.

Although he witnesses and participates in deception, including both sides of the Buchanans’ infidelity, Nick wants to appear to be a reliable narrator, which he emphasizes when he says up front, “I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me.” Later, Nick identifies himself with “the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him, too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” Nick’s authorial viewpoint sets the tone for his story and his observations of the brutish Tom Buchanan; his shallow and unsatisfied wife, Daisy; his class-climbing mistress, Myrtle Wilson; and the mysterious Jay Gatsby, the hero of the different unbelievable fictions he tells (when Nick asks him what part of the middle-west he is from, Gatsby responds enigmatically, “San Francisco.”) A confused Nick hears solemnity in Gatsby’s voice and sees sincerity in his look, despite the obvious prevarication.

The most influential literal voice is that of Daisy Buchanan. Lacking the romantic substance for which Gatsby has idealized her as the symbol of his youth — his real youth — Daisy becomes a siren with a siren call. Nick writes, “The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said.” Her friend, Jordan Baker, tells Nick, “. . . and yet there’s something in that voice of hers. . . .” Later, Nick mentions that the “exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain,” and “I think that voice held him [Gatsby] most with its fluctuating, feverish warmth because it couldn’t be over-dreamed — that voice was a death song.” Nick says of Daisy, “Unlike Gatsby and Tom, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs . . .” By contrast, Myrtle is earthy, with “an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continuously smoldering.” Tom, whose affairs we are told have included a hotel chambermaid, seems mostly unsusceptible to Daisy’s voice, while even Nick notes its influence and Gatsby is destroyed by it and by his desire for the real past that every story he tells effectually effaces.

A compact novel concentrated on only a few months in the lives of a few characters, The Great Gatsby is rich with symbolism. During his reunion with Daisy, Gatsby almost stops time literally by knocking Nick’s clock down, but instinctively he catches it before it falls. “We all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor,” Nick writes. Gatsby even apologizes as though he had broken the clock and as though it were a significant loss that his countless money can’t replace. As the reunion continues, Nick says of Gatsby, “. . . in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock.”

Throughout, time is a consistent theme; it is part of what Gatsby futilely endeavors to recapture. He can reinvent a past in which he was “educated at Oxford because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years,” but he and his means cannot recreate the real past. As Nick observes, “Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.” He adds later, “Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams — not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion.”

The Great Gatsby reminds me of The Count of Monte Cristo. Both Gatsby and the count start life as ordinary men and, through circumstances and the determination to achieve a much-desired goal, transform themselves into extraordinary men, ciphers to all but the most observant of their fellows. One seeks to revenge a past wrong; the other ignores the present and tries to reinvent the past as though there had never been a Tom Buchanan and as though Daisy had never loved him. Both efforts take time and unlimited patience and money, but only one is successful. The count revenges his past so he can live better in the future, but Gatsby fails because he does not understand, or want to understand, that the past is written and that the future begins with the present.

Somewhat lacking in heart — the only character who displays genuine emotion is Tom Wilson, Myrtle’s despised husband — The Great Gatsby captures the jaded excesses of the post-World War I era and the American faith in time, money, and effort as the sources and creators of success. The novel also shows the greater power of circumstance and fate. I’ve read The Great Gatsby only once, but to appreciate its structure, symbolism, and richness would take several re-readings. Read once for pleasure, then read again to explore Fitzgerald’s craft.

21 December 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Dream: Fleeing from fire into evil

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I was on a bus that fleeing a city on fire. The bus itself seemed to be on fire, with sparks flying out from underneath. I kept trying to get the driver to stop because I thought that the bus would set fire to the surrounding countryside. The sparks seemed to diminish as we progressed — but where were we going? And who were we?

At last we arrived at a destination somewhere, and I handed someone a cup or tin that was on fire to set in water, someone we all thought trustworthy. At the very last moment, I caught him trying to set it down on a flammable wooden table and snatched it from him, barely in time.

We found that one of our friends, a woman, had no head. Someone who seemed to be a leader said that, to get it back, she must pilot a certain craft whose engine had never been started. Until this craft was ready, we had to guard it very carefully against use. Meanwhile, there was something disturbing about the headless woman beyond the obvious.

Finally, it was the night before the craft’s maiden voyage. We were stressed and strained from the close watch we’d kept on it for so long. In the wee hours, though, there was a commotion where the craft was housed, and, to our horror, we thought we heard the engine starting — condemning the woman to an existence bereft of her head. We flew to the craft — and found the woman herself trying to steal it. We learned we had been deceived by what seemed to be pure evil.