User:ChristopherHailey

Response
to Carrie -- Nice work. I'm really impressed by the amount of writing that you've managed to do here. It seems that you have no shortage of inspiration, which I really envy! I think the piece I enjoyed the most was the Alchymyst's Dilemma, for two reasons -- first, because of your clever rewriting of Hamlet's soliloquy, and second, because (as you noted) you cunningly avoided doing a typical compare/contrast essay (which, based on other examples of your analytical and compositional skills, I have no doubt that you could do if you wanted to). So three reasons -- thanks for not boring us. Oh, and I also have to comment on your 'Senses' Oulipo -- I think it is an especially successful example of the style because for the most part you managed to create a very natural-sounding composition, rather than something that sounds like words were just shoehorned in and sentences distorted to fit your limitation. P.S. Congratulations. I think that's the last example of Oulipo that I ever want to read (because it is so much better than most of what I've seen). It quickly becomes rather tiresome, doesn’t it? to Alex (Lee) -- Thank you for your informative essay comparing and contrasting the nutritional values of Vitamin Water with Robert Frost's poetical work. It is a subject that I myself have long considered but I never felt that I could give it the attention that it deserved. I think the importance of this analysis cannot be underestimated, and I applaud the first steps you have taken in your investigation. May I recommend applying for a grant of some sort in order to ensure a steady supply of research materials, if you have not done so already? On second thought - the fact that you have been so OBVIOUSLY CENSORED at the end makes me suspect that there is MUCH MORE to this subject than meets the eye. It is clear that someone thinks that you KNOW TOO MUCH and it would be wise to proceed with caution. It also makes me extremely curious to know what it is that you have found that THEY don't want us to KNOW. I find your ideas intriguing and would like to subscribe to your newsletter. to Luc -- Just read "Exposure" -- nice sequel to a classic. Maybe I'm just cynical, but here's what I think would happen if these events took place in today's society: instead of an immediate acknowledgement that the footage of the Kanamit eating the guard was exactly what appeared to be, some people would argue for opening dialogue, and would caution us not to jump to hasty conclusions. This would set the stage for an interminable political tussle that I'm sure could be dragged out for hundreds of pages and would be thrilling. Thanks for bringing up John Carter of Mars -- I haven't thought about that series in years, but I still remember his first reactions on finding himself on the planet. I remember enjoying those when I was a kid as well, and I think they would make fun movies. I think I'm going to have to reread those now. I enjoyed your perspective shift in "Duty" as well, having coincidentally just watched Star Wars last weekend. I can totally see a stormtrooper fantasizing about how badass they all look. As you led us through the ship I was reminded of one of the scenarios in the game Star Wars: Battlefront in which you take part in the breaching -- that was one of my favorite missions, although it was probably one of the hardest. Actually, I ended up reading pretty much everything that you wrote. Nice job, and good luck to you.

Style
Haiku using "i" as the only vowel:

bird's wings trill in flight spring's thin mists bring limpid rills fill this child's dim mind

A poem written in a Modern style:

modern poem

i've always wanted to write a modern poem like the ones at the back of the anthology (if it's arranged chronologically) (hey does yours only go to 1983? oh i must have an old edition)

they don't have to have rhyme or meter all you have to do is be a bit pretentious and break the lines like this so that it appears that i'm emphasizing some words when really they're just on separate lines : because why not

and of course i have to remember that punctuation is rather frowned upon which makes it interesting if want to stretch out a line for absolutely no reason at all : because i can

theres also usually something about emotions or pain like the searing heat of my carpal tunnel acting up and how that reminds me of something traumatic like   O    like my birth (no i don't really remember that but only  : because i've never been to a psychiatrist)

and repetition repetition REPETITION was that enough RepeTition : just in case

keyboard solo (/) ||                                     o ||  o. ^---^

oh and i can't forget to relate some extremely mundane and uninteresting experience that no one really cares about but me

for breakfast i had my usual banana two eggs cereal milk tea the banana was a bit soft i drank the tea and coughed the cereal was rough it mushied up a bit when i poured the milk into it though

of course when you read it it's hardly poetry at all, just prose broken up	     into lots of chunks to the point where it's				barely rea	   dable but that'll be our secret :

"modern poem" was written in the style of some atrocious 60's and 70's pieces; they are dated relics of an iconoclastic age. You can't help noticing them because they're near the index of the anthology, but usually you never get to them in the course of the class. And thank goodness for that; just a few lines is about all I can stand of their pretentiousness. Nevertheless, I've always thought that it might be interesting to write similar drivel myself. I specifically looked at examples from Margaret Atwood, Sylvia Plath, Ishmael Reed, and Amiri Baraka for despiration. 

Ekphrasis
I experience the crunching of gravel as I walk down the slope. It is more than the sound, more than the feel, more than the sight of it. The gravel gives way slightly, resettling under the weight of my feet, only to find a new equilibrium when I take another step. The clear blue of the sky is reflected in the grey-blue of the tiny rocks below me, and in the sparkling waves of the water to my left. I am flanked by the vibrant green of grass, clearly once well-tended, now madly overgrown and attempting to encroach upon the pebbled walk. I idly wonder what technology had been used to keep the growth at bay for so long.

A shape obtrudes upon my peripheral vision. I come to a stop and gaze upon a hodgepodge of metal. There are a variety of pieces, some of them welded, some of them riveted to each other. I try to coax some sense out of the shape, some meaning out of the abstract form. After a bit I am reminded of a pile of scrap metal that has been painted and made to stand up. No further inkling of reference emerges, and I decide not to waste any more time here. No doubt the significance of this jumble was more obvious in the past.

The path changes. The green of the grass has been transferred to the leaves above me, dangling from thin grey branches. The gravel has yielded to chips of wood, and I can no longer hear myself walk. I see a wide black shape looming in the distance, half obscured by the skinny trees. The path curves a few times, giving me a variety of perspectives on the shape. I appreciate the intent, and am disappointed that such thought was apparently wasted on an object that, it turns out, is extremely regular. It seems to be a large prismatic square in which each arm is very much the same as every other — when suddenly I notice to my surprise that one arm is shorter than the others. An opening! What mysteries could here be secreted from the casual passerby’s view? My interest piqued, I increase the rate of my steps in an effort to curtail an unnecessary intensification of my suspense. I step inside this little space and look around. Within seconds, I realize that my first impression was correct — each arm is indeed the same as every other, and the inside is the same as the outside, except that here the sameness surrounds you. Suddenly sensing my danger, I manage make my escape before the banality succeeds in crushing my soul.

I see now the wisdom of our elders. This area is shunned not because it is physically dangerous, or because there are lost secrets that will upset the balance of power within the tribe. It is shunned because these relics of a long-dead age are products of a directionless, unserious culture — of a time when it was considered more important, more ‘true’ to one’s self, to break the rules than to create a thing of beauty. The peril is to the will, to those parts of the soul that cry out for that which ought to be admired, emulated, striven for. I was reminded of the tales of artists who had designed works with no other purpose than to attempt to shock or anger the society that supported them. Until this day I had not believed such stories; the specifics of such outrages had quickly been lost as society had changed and were now little more than half-remembered old wives’ tales.

I am no longer surprised that this civilization had foundered and vanished. It was a pattern with which I had become all too familiar in my travels. The difference of course was that this place had been at one time ours. I sigh and realize that it doesn’t really matter. As I step into the aircar and set the controls for my ship several miles above, I decide that there is no point in logging my discoveries in this system. There are plenty of habitable planets outside of this sector. By the time the next surveyor comes around in one or two millennia, perhaps this Earth will be remembered more fondly.

Analysis
 Sonnet III Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime: So thou through windows of thine age shall see Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live, remember'd not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.  Process Analysis: On my first read-through of this piece, it appeared to be pretty obviously one of the "Beautiful people should procreate"-themed sonnets.

I underlined the words above that I wasn't sure about and guessed their meanings from context:  fresh repair (of face): after a little thought, it seemed that he was referring to the current state of object's features beguile the world: I knew that it is usually used in the sense of "to charm," but that didn't make sense here unbless some mother: never seen before; taken literally it could mean to curse unear'd womb: my first thought was to read it literally as 'uneared', but that clearly couldn't make any sense. My second was to try to expand the contraction; the only thing I could come up with was 'unearned,' which also didn't make any sense. Then I reread the lines a few time and looked for a more metaphorical meaning, and decided on 'unused.' despite of wrinkles: the most obvious meaning of "in spite of" didn't really make sense considering the whole phrase. So I guessed that maybe he meant 'free' of wrinkles.  Then, in an attempt to clarify the whole poem to myself, I decided to transliterate it roughly line-by-line. Here's what I came up with:  Shakespeare addresses a young woman: Look in your mirror and tell yourself: Now is the time to have a child; Your youth is fleeting and if you don't pass on your genes, You reject the norms of society and disappoint your mother * Because no woman so beautiful Ought to refuse to have a child, * Just as no man ought to be so proud To refuse to continue his line. You resemble your mother and Your youth reminds her of her prime: And when you are old and you look upon your daughter You'll remember how you were when at your best. * But if you do not want to be remembered, Die unmarried, and don't have a child. 

This appears to be one of the Shake's more straightforward poems; the last two lines are a summary of the preceding lines, and he doesn't change tacks around line 6 or 8 of this sonnet as he does in others. I didn't really feel too confident about the lines that I starred, however. At this point it was time to do a little research, so I hit the dictionaries. In order to get get some variety I went with Dictionary.com and Merriam-Webster.com. I discovered quickly that the Merriam-Webster site is a train wreck. It was slow-loading and shows the definitions for only one part of speech at a time (which is not helpful when looking up ambiguous archaic words). Not only that, but it didn't even have 'unear'd' or 'uneared'. Dictionary.com, which is the site I usually use, had all of the words. I discovered that I was pretty close in most cases:  repair : 'condition with respect to soundness' beguile : the meaning that fit best was 'to cheat' unbless : 'to make wretched' unear'd : 'unplowed' despite : I didn't find any uses of the word that were close to my interpretation. "In spite of" seemed to be the best fit in that case.  I reviewed my gloss with these definitions in mind, and I found only one line where the these accurate definitions changed my interpretation: 	Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. ''You cheat the world of your continued beauty ... '' seemed to be a better fit, but I still didn't like the roughness of my interpretation of the end of that line and of the lines <ul>	For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? </ul> So, feeling pretty confident that, despite some small problems, I hadn't missed anything obvious, I returned to class. It didn't even occur to me to look up the sonnet online and see how it had been interpreted by others. As we examined other peoples' interpretations -- which was made a lot easier by seeing the poem on the screen, rather than trying to parse by ear -- my confidence in my interpretation was increased by how I was able to pick up the quirks and unobvious meanings that were pointed out in other sonnets -- particularly the one where Shakes was clearly addressing, with amorous attention, a young man. However, the ensuing discussion of that poem -- particularly relating to the Shakester's introduction to the sonnets, and the fact that most, if not all of them, were written to this youth -- opened up my poem to a new avenue of interpretation. <ul> Shakey addresses a handsome young man: Look in your mirror and tell yourself: Now is the time to have a child; Your youth is fleeting and if you don't pass on your genes, You cheat the world of beauty and disappoint some potential mother. Because what maiden, however beautiful, Would refuse to bear your child? And what man is so foolish to be, through narcissism, the cause of the end of his own line. You resemble your mother and Your youth reminds her of her prime: Similarly, when you are old and you look on your child you'll see, how, free of wrinkles, you looked your prime. <ul>	But if you do not care to be remembered, By all means die childless, and your beauty will die with you. </ul></ul> After class I did (finally!) look up several sites that had analyses of the sonnets, and they agreed pretty well in substance. I looked fairly closely, but none seemed to address the issues I had with the definition of "despite." So, in spite of a lack of supporting scholarship (and in recognition of the fact that there is no explicitly contradictory analysis), I've decided to stick with my interpretation of "despite of wrinkles" as meaning "free" or "lacking" wrinkles.

Personal
While I have not read any poems or stories that have reflected circumstances of my life, I have recognized others in some things that I have read. The most striking example of this happened just recently, around the beginning of the quarter. When I first read the chrestomathy for this class, I noticed the requirement of memorizing a piece. I knew pretty much immediately what it was that I wanted to memorize — Alfred, Lord Tenneyson’s “Ulysses.” I don’t remember when I first saw the poem, but the last lines had made an impression on me — “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield” — they were lodged in a corner of my brain for years. So I started memorizing it pretty much right away, a few lines every night.

At about the same time, I received word that the father of one of my aunts had fallen ill and probably did not have much longer to live. Although I had not seen him too often, we had spoken enough that I got a pretty good idea of his personality. He had always been an adventurous man, and even at an advanced age could be found climbing local mountains. His adventures were not confined to physical exertions, however — he had read extensively, was politically active, and had even run for office in the past.

Now, when I memorize something — especially if I am going to be reciting it — I read the lines repeatedly out loud, and try to fully understand the meaning of the words. “Ulysses” is unfortunately somewhat abstruse in places, so I spent more time than usual in this repetition, and gradually I began to see very strong parallels in this poem between the weary warrior wishing for one last voyage and the man that I knew.

Some of the lines that I thought had an extraordinary connection with him I’ve extracted below:

<ul>I will drink Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; </ul> He did indeed drink life to the lees, experiencing existence to its fullest – both good times and bad.

<ul>For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known,-- cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honor'd of them all </ul> He was an explorer, a warrior, a politician, a thinker, and a family man, with successes and failures in each of these.

<ul>How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! </ul> I think it’s fair to say that rust had no chance to accumulate until the very end.

<ul>Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains </ul> This is the eternal refrain of the old, isn’t …

<ul>this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, </ul> Throughout his life he read a great deal, and was always ready to share his thoughts and ideas with others.

<ul>Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. </ul> Even when the end was near, as much as he could he continued with his adventures. The image of the weary warrior preparing for what he knows is his final adventure is very strongly evoked here, and it is one that I will find it hard to forget, I'm sure.

At the memorial service, I learned much more about his life than I had previously known. Then to my surprise, one of his old friends concluded his eulogy with the remark that there was a poem of which my aunt’s father was especially fond, although the unabashed heroism has perhaps fallen a bit from favor. He then began with the last stanza from Ulysses:

<ul>The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,-- One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. </ul> Needless to say, I had chills. Those last few lines remain some of the most powerful that I’ve read, and that is why I wanted to memorize this particular poem. I am glad that its connection with this man’s life allowed me to understand it with perhaps a little more meaning than I otherwise might have.

Transcription
Once upon a time – and a very good time it was – there were three children playing in a wood. Their names were Brian, Adam, and Suzanne, and they were siblings. This wood in which they were playing was ten acres long, and they would play in it for hours, often in the deepest, darkest parts. Now, some time in the dimly-remembered past, a rope had been strung between two of the biggest trees, and a pulley had been attached to this rope to create a zipline. The children had hours of fun riding this zipline, and playing hide and seek, and building tree-forts. On this particular day, which was at the end of summer when the days were hottest and tempers were short, Suzanne was twenty-five feet up the pulley-tree, as it was called, and taking her time in deciding to take the ride. Adam and Brian called up repeatedly to her – “go!” “c’mon, go!” “what are you waiting for?!” “hurry up and go!” After a little while Brian, who was a particularly impatient young boy, thought that perhaps enough time had passed that it would be a good idea to induce some sort of movement on the part of Suzanne. He therefore proceeded to ascend the pulley-tree himself, making as much movement and noise as possible in order to impart to his sister some amount of the degree of his annoyance, which was not inconsiderable. He was indeed more successful than he could have anticipated – and at the same time, less than successful. For by increasing his younger sister’s agitation, he also magnified her hesitation. In a short enough time Brian reached the launching branch. His sister was still there; this clearly would not do. An argument began, as is so common among siblings, and nothing was said to purpose. It was clear that it was now time for action. So Brian gave Suzanne a little push – well, more of a nudge, really. He hardly even touched her. But it was enough – she went. Unfortunately, she was not holding on to the pulley at the time. Nor to anything else, for that matter. So yes, she went – but straight down. Who knows what thoughts went through either of these children’s minds – horror, guilt, delight? We may never know with certainty – but perhaps we can deduce it by the actions they subsequently took. Suzanne fell through the twenty feet of air approximately as gracefully as an anchor might and landed on the ground – a relatively soft landing, at least compared to, say, concrete – slightly cushioned by a layer of duff and vegetation. In the first moments of shock nothing occurred but the reflexive attempts to draw breath. Once that vital task was accomplished, the breath was expelled as rapidly as it entered, accompanied by a great deal of superfluous noise. Of course there were inquiries into the poor girl’s health, but as she was capable of such a din, it was pretty obvious that she was not very near to death’s door, and probably couldn’t even see it from where she was. So the inquiries were naturally followed a short time later by exhortations to not be “such a baby – there isn’t even any blood!” Adam and Brian, with this settled as their considered medical opinion, then struck out for an area of the forest that was more quiet and conducive to play. Suzanne, being somewhat of their opinion regarding the state of this particular part of the woods, if not of her condition, decided that perhaps there would be more sympathy at home and started on the long journey home. But alas, such was not the case. At home, her oldest brother Christopher would hear nothing of her travails. He was a busy young man, just about to embark upon the adventure that was called high school, and he had no time to listen to the incoherent bawlings of this silly, and no doubt delusional, creature. To be fair, young Suzanne was not noted for any amount of hardiness, and frequently complained of injuries that most children would hardly notice. And this was certainly not the first time one of the children had fallen out of a tree, an occurrence which despite its regularity had previously not produced any ill effects. And after all, he did have important things on his mind. After a while, Brian and Adam straggled home, singing. It had been quite a pleasant day in the forest. Some time after that, the children’s mother arrived home, just in time to take Christopher to school. After examining her afflicted daughter, Mother decided that perhaps a doctor should be consulted. Master Christopher was enlisted in the task of transporting the girl to the family conveyance, which he did with a decidedly poor grace, lovingly picking her up roughly and accidentally gently bumping her head on the car’s frame as he carefully dumped her into the back seat. There was no bound to the resentment he felt at Suzanne’s temerity in usurping a fraction of the specialness of this event. The day was ruined. There could be no forgiveness. Upon arrival at the hospital, Mother went inside and informed those who were most likely to be interested of the situation. In moments there was a flurry of activity and a stretcher was procured. Christopher, who had expected with no small amount of indignation to be required to assist in removing his sister from the vehicle, looked on with an increase, rather than a diminution, of annoyance at the fuss with which she was handled. Immobilizing her head and limbs certainly seemed like excessive and unwarranted care considering what she had already been through since her fall. It was, in a word, ridiculous. But at least she was no longer a concern for the time being, and the rest of the day was his. He never could remember much else about the events of his first day of high school, except for one thing – when the family heard from the hospital regarding Suzanne’s injuries. It seems that she had broken both of her forearms and compressed several discs in her spine from her fall. Upon hearing this news a common but unspoken thought ran through the minds of Christopher, Adam, and Brian – “I guess she wasn’t faking after all…the big baby.” ''[Editor's note for the concerned: Yes, it is a true story, although the names have been changed to protect the guilty. Suzanne did mend in time with no ill effects.]'' ''[Editor's addendum: it appears that those responsible for changing the names of the guilty were derelict in their duty. We apologize for the inadvertent clarity.]''

Memorization
Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Self Assessment
Well, this was a fairly good class, as GE classes go. I found the discussions to be worthwhile and informative, and I hope that I contributed something meaningful on occasion. I was glad for an excuse to memorize "Ulysses," and I'm relieved that my mind didn't fail me, even if my body tried to. I thought that the writing exercises were interesting and challenging. I would have liked to have put up stuff more regularly, but unfortunately, that's not something that's easy for me to change. The main reason I procrastinate on creative projects is simply because inspiration does not tend to hit me in a timely manner. For instance, the story that I transcribed is rehashed or referred to almost every time our family gets together as a big group -- two or three times a year -- and yet I still didn't think to use it for this assignment until literally the day before it was due. In any case, I don't think that the quality of my assignments were negatively impacted by my dilatoriness.