Chimera Song Mosaic
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Bleh, man, bleh.
I have been gorging myself on grading. I have to get so much (all of it) done before I leave for Vancouver on Wednesday. On that note, I am pleased to know that Trevor will be there.
But I just had a thought: if I were the student and not the teacher, this would be the one semester I might have to let go. I would drop at least one class, probably two, and possibly all of them. But that's the big difference between the teacher and the student, isn't it? Same hectic schedule, variable headache.
I need a chocolate bunny.

Saturday, March 26, 2005
For some reason, I have only just now been able to finish posting the last post (where I go on about the iron curtain in the Vienna Opera House). On the past three attempts, blogger (I guess!) wouldn't complete the post--I only had the first and last sentence of a rather long post. Maybe they were trying to protect me from saying something in inflammatory.

Today is Lucy's birthday! She is nine and doing fine. She is ultra skinny and has many many sutures spangling her abdomen. Oh, to be young, carefree, and spleenless.

I keep forgetting to say this, but, "Yes! Me, too!" I can't wait!

Hope everyone's Good Friday was good, and may your Semana Santa be full of joy.

Sunday, March 20, 2005
* Side note: while I was looking for a link to the Vienna Opera House, which I found, I tried to find out the name of the guy who made the curtain (Rudolf Eisenmenger) and what the curtain was called I know roughly when it was removed because I went on one of the last tours featuring the curtain, and our tour guide said it was being removed very soon because Austrians, sensitive to the world’s opinion of them, would rather remove a curtain they admired that be labeled as promoting Nazi aesthesis. Or more specifically, not removing a curtain that is pretty and serves its purpose because it was created by someone who agreed with some Nazi politics.

Of course, these are my words, remembered only vaguely over the years, not the tour guide's. He was so diplomatic (read: apologetic) that his true feelings could not be discerned. I remembered thinking, what a stupid reason to tear down an iron stage curtain. But then again, perhaps if my sister, father, or professor had been abducted, humiliated, tortured, starved, experimented on, or executed by a person who takes orders from a person who the artist agreed with, I would feel differently.

I found more information. Apparently, the curtain previously depicted a scene from Orpheus and Eurydice (that’s probably why I liked it—I can’t stand the thought of someone destroying a Eurydice!), and it also protected the audience from a possible fire on the stage (or vice versa, presumably). It has not been destroyed; it has only been covered up (like blissful time, thus “healing” the wounds, resurfacing history!) by some modern paintings that are changed according to the opera’s season. I think (can’t really tell what I’m looking at) there is a picture of the original iron curtain here.

Then I found this interesting website that offers photos and brief notes, but not in-depth explanations, of Schonbrunn Palace (comparable to Versailles) today houses many people and many apartments. I don’t think it was like that when I visited, but see? The world changes, and sometimes it gets better. Also, I was surprised to see how very much Vienna and Budapest look like St. Petersburg (or, more accurately, St. Petersburg looks like them). I remember that they/it did, but it’s been a while since I’ve been in Vienna and Budapest. These pictures reminded me. Looky looky.

The new Boston Review is really freakinginteresting. Of course I have read all the poems (typically I do that first and sometimes only have time for that), the bit about Srikanth Reddy’s Facts for Vistors (slightly disappointing—the review, not the book—only because it was so short. I have read Facts for Vistors twice now and have reason and will to read it again, but not the time. Also disappointed because I have much more to say about it than the minireview, but, course, haven’t got the time). Also read Claudio Lomnitz’s “American Soup: Are We All Anglo-Protestants?” two or three times and this morning underlined and annotated it. This is primarily because of interest and also because I was hoping it might be something for my Rhetoric students. It’s not. Only because we don’t have time to dissect this complex piece. Maybe we do have time. We’ll see. Anyway, I really liked it and liked reading it.

I can’t wait to read the rest of the issue because everything tempts me: thematically grouped essays on, shall we say, American Imperialism, Foreign Policy, torture, etc.; something about “gay marriage backlash”; “New Jews from the Old Country: David Bezmosgis, Gary Shteyngart, and Others” (Russia!); a long review of Claudia Rankine’s Don’t Let Me Be Lonely (haven’t picked this up yet but obviously should since—other than her being fascinating—she’s now in Houston and I might actually get to attend a reading or run into her at Brazos Bookstore or Rice Village or somewhere.

Something also really interested me in the old one (last issue, BR vol. 29, no. 6): a review by this interesting film reviewer, Alan A. Stone, whose review of Zhang Yimou’s Hero both fascinated and annoyed me. Briefly, Stone argues that Zhang is moving toward both Hollywoodization and Party Politicalization in his recent films. Stone clearly knows a lot about Zhang. However, I have a huge soft spot for him that partially stems from my aesthetical leaning toward art, not politics (yes, I know they can be the same thing), and partially from overt sentimentalization.

When I first became interested in international (no, foreign) cinema, I didn’t approach from any kind of a study of film per se, but from a study of literature from a poet’s perspective (then a tutored, more regular one) and from a general interest of a commitment to travel and knowing the world, its languages, landscapes, and cultures. My first “favorite foreign films” (if such categories have any value at all) were Chinese, and my first (and really, my only) favorite director was/is Zhang Yimou.

Okay, so I am obviously biased. However, let’s point out of few things: I have never been to China (of course I want to go there, but haven’t yet); I have not yet seen Hero (so you could stop reading right now); I have not formally studied ilm; and I more or less stopped watching Zhang's films when Gong Li, his former muse, split up with him, and his films floundered a bit, while Gong Li floundered a bit (did anyone watch the horribly titled and more or less awful film, Chinese Box?), while Zhang almost immediately shifted to Kung Fuesque territories.

I am not a fan of Kung Fu. In fact, most cinematic fight scenes or other visual feasts of violence (like explosions or car chases—the only car chase I ever enjoyed in a film was in the fabulous Ronin, where you simultaneously got to know the streets of Nice intimately. Something for everyone!) turn me off, bore me completely, and disgust me with their indifference to human suffering. Like anyone, I suspect, I can appreciate the beauty and aesthetic appeal of elegantly choreographed and stylized fight scenes like those of The Matrix, Kill Bill, vol. 1, and the achingly beautiful House of Flying Daggers. Something for everyone!

So am I actually arguing against Stone? I guess not. Rebellion against the Party aesthetic was very clear in the film everyone loved (but I hated, strangely enough! Perhaps because it was not directed by the Romantic and the poetic Zhang but by the Kung Fu Maestro Ang Lee), Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Perhaps I am just annoyed by the idea of rebellion! anarchy! revolution! infamy! for the sake of, well, effort at artistry (or being an artist—wink, wink). Whereas Zhang’s films, like The Story of Qiu Ju (loved it) and Hero, as Stone points out, clearly uphold Party aesthetics, Stone now says that others are questioning whether Zhang has “given in to Communist Party pressure.”

Perhaps, yes, he has "sold out" in the worst way. But is it possible, maybe, that Zhang has, oh, I don’t know, changed his personal politics as the years have progressed? What if supporting the Party is something he actually believes in (in addition to the fact that it is advantageous to him, which I suspect is the real reason behind most people’s political beliefs: fear of change, or fear of the status quo. They really are the same thing).

Another possibility that is not examined is whether or not the Communist Party might have anything of value to add to the international discourse on the individual’s place in society—whether or not anyone is interested in listing to what “they” have to say about that topic. Just as I am persuaded by the United Farmworkers’ Union’s rhetoric here in the southwestern, agricultural part of the United States, might I not be similarly moved by the Chinese Communist Party’s propaganda?

Propaganda is propaganda, as far as I am concerned. If I am able to recognize it as such, I can make choices about how I am going to respond, rationally and emotionally, to it. The obvious distinction is that the UFW’s rhetoric is the rhetoric of the powerless (though not, I must say, the powerless), and the People’s Republic’s rhetoric is the rhetoric of the powerful, the ruling "class." This is a big difference. But I must say that I refuse to be told that I should not listen to something just because it falls under a bad name, or in a bad category.

I’m not saying that Stone is doing this—I’m sure he assumes that intelligent readers will be able to decide for themselves how to deal with this “question.” However, superficially speaking, the easiest way in the world to dismiss an opponent is to call him or her a “bad” name: Communist, Racist, Nationalist, Fascist, Liberal, Republican, Christian, Muslim, etc. Boo to the dogmatic bad-namers! I myself have been tempted to reduce the thoughts and opinions of fellow humans to dog poop, to regulate them to the obscure and lonely, dismal trashheap of the unlistened to.

Despite my personal contentions about some of the issues discussed in the essay, Stone really does give Zhang the benefit of the doubt. His closing statement: “Zhang Yimou has already made another kung-fu film. If creativity is really about survival first and artistic value second then one can only hope that, with his survival assured and his resources fairly unlimited, Zhang Yimou will rediscover the artistic values that made him one of the world’s great filmmakers.” I hope so, too. I would also argue that he has.

Here is my real issue (I suspect) with the article: Stone should have waited to watch House of Flying Daggers before finishing this article. It came out after the film, and I had already seen the film he mentions before I read his article.

And what did I think of the film? Well, it is a miracle. Several things: First, the premise is formulaically, as Stone suggests, like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. It even hosts the same actress, Zhang Ziyi (no relation to the director, I’m told, but “they” say she does bear a haunting resemblance to Gong Li, which I stubbornly refuse to see, partially for reasons of loyalty to Gong). Zhang Ziyi’s character is a rebel who is fighting against the institution, personified by a very good-looking undercover police officer. The fact that the undercover police officer is good-looking is probably a hint that this time Zhang Ziyi won’t play a rather stereotypical rebel with a cause (like she did in Crouching Tiger).

I’m not going to give the story away, because the story is one third of the best part. Suffice to say that it is a love story, and it has a sad ending worthy of any “Chinese film” sad ending of the 90s (Zhang Yimou wasn’t the only one doing this with films like Shangri Triad, To Live, Raise the Red Lantern, and Ju Dou—also check out the wonderful and very painful Xiu Xiu: The Sent Down Girl, brought to Western audiences by Joan Chen—most of these criticisms of Communists China (especially the cultural revolution), lush (for the rich!) Dynastic China, or, strangely enough, somehow both.)

But how dare we (okay, maybe just film critics) try to force Chinese filmakers to create what is most palatable for Western audiences--criticisms of modern China? Isn't violence what's really most palatable for Western audiences anyway?

The second best part—no, the best part of the film—was the beauty. It is the most beautiful film I have ever seen in my life. This includes Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams, which prior to this was the most beautiful film I had ever seen in my life—maybe if it gets digitally remastered, I’ll have to watch it again to see who’s edging up.

The actors were part of the beauty, of course. The guy was super-hot, as I mentioned, and Zhang Ziyi, well, everyone remarks on her beauty and compares her to Gong Li. Stone says, “Zhang Ziyi is known in China as the little Gong Li, and her forte as an actress is the projection of an inextinguishable innocence.”

However, this “innocence” is precisely what I object to about her appearance in the films in general (her natural appearance is no fault or credit of her own, of course). Both Zhang Ziyi and Gong Li are beautiful, no question, but whereas Zhang is young and very thin, Gong is “old” and very curvy, and whereas perhaps the East needs an actress like Zhang to show thin women and everyone else than flat-chested is beautiful (though I doubt they do need this), the West already has Calista Flockhart, Laura Flynn Boyle, and Sarah Michelle Geller. The entire world (of men) do not need yet another visual that validates their urge to copulate with pre-teen girls (although she is not a teenager anymore, Zhang could certainly pass for one—or for a boy. She is often disguised as a boy in her films). Hardcore rebel, ass-kicker extraordinaire, Zhang is nevertheless highly sexualized in every film I have ever seen her in.

So maybe I gravitate toward the politics of beauty, the vanishing point where the political and the aesthetic combine and blur to indistinguishable. Zhang (the director) starts to sound to me like a bit of a lecherous old man. But this isn't really fair (for any reason!) considering Hero stars the mature Maggie Cheung. Maybe what I'm really looking for is for Zhang Yimou and Gong Li to make up and make films together again. Maybe that's what he's looking for, too, in actresses like Cheung.

Back to the acting (and the grace, vision, and sheer genius of the directing), there is not a spare moment in the film (except perhaps the martial arts demos and fight scenes, which for me last a breath or seven too long). The actors breathe and wait and pause, and their interactions are real, real, real. This is such a satisfying contrast with the amazing artifice of the acrobatics.

The third thing I loved about the film is (you guessed it, right?) its politics. It goes down like this: Man is a lazy and slovenly Party-boy, towing the proverbial line of the greedy, fat, and ugly cats without much aplomb. Woman (please, “girl” makes me cringe) is a rebel with a cause, but interestingly enough, there are hints that the cause is as fruitless, self-serving, and superficial as the “best” of them (evidenced by their keen uniforms—artifice and aesthetic propaganda at its highest).

The government is found to be corrupt (big surprise), and the best-organized and most successful rebellion is also found to be corrupt (hmm . . .), so the lovers fantasize about dropping out of life, leaving social responsibility behind, and running away together. This individualist, nonconformist, Bartleby-the-Scribneresque message is so strong that it leaves me, rabid individualistic cum skeptical socialist, who is also a pacifist and quite the Gandhi lover, along with Americans everyone (I suspect, although they are not well-described by the above terms), with a warm, fuzzy feeling. But no. I told you there was a sad ending of Chinese film and Shakespearian proportions. Well, maybe not Shakespearean. Yes, Shakespearean.

I’d have to watch it again. You should, too. Perhaps for the first time. Don’t listen to other people; listen to me. If you love beauty, maybe you even love beauty whose true nature is evil. Maybe we should have kept the beautiful (some say) and historical (created by a Nazi sympathizer) curtain in the Vienna Opera House*. This is a wholenother argument, perhaps.

Aren’t I a grown up? Can’t I view something both beautiful and terrible and be allowed to talk about it?

Happy Iranian New Year!

I'm worried I didn't get the right kind of bulbs, the forcing kind, because the stalks haven't yet escaped their leaf sheaths, and the flowers haven't yet opened. Still, I can't wait to smell them. I can already smell them a little.

Here is my hyacinth poem, written in Montana, where I first started growing hyacinths. The poem came out in an issue of Pierogi Press (volume five, Spring/Summer 2000, edited by Susan Swenson). I haven't seen Pierogi Press in a long time, but I should look for it. It's based in Brooklyn.

Saint Augustine

I won't wake, but be awakened--by a call,
or hyacinth, or heat. My feet don't move

they scull & skim like silvered needles.
I'll bind them, use my arms when I swim the ocean

at the level beneath just breathable
oxygen. Surrounded by a rare reticulum

of paths--so many wormholes. I tried to knit
my lungs in air too thin, too dry to wet

my tongue. I tried to clean the green pith from beneath
my nails. I have smelled hyacinths in glass jars,

learned their obsequious musk, prayed
the dusty crystals of their petals

until their husks were under my skin,
the prickly, the feverish, miserable poisons.

At low air, I once pruned and pinioned my lungs.
They lapped the briny tonic, were stoked

in heavy oxygen. In the front yard, elephant
ears dip like waxy parasols beneath sterling

beauties and climbing blue girls,
& the smooth, thick fingers of st. augustine

cool in the wind & the sun goes down, again
I am in the shade of my own planet.

Update on Lucy: Upon opening her up, a 14 pound tumor was found attached to her spleen. It was removed successfully, the doctors hope, and showed to us in a large galvanized feedbucket. It was the size of a basketball and looked to me like a cow's stomach. The tiny tongue of a spleen was a little red shriveled afterthought curled around one side of the tumor, which was whiteitsh purpleish red and flocked with curd-like fatty deposits. To me, the spleen itself looked like part of a diaphragm coming off a huge round stomach. I told the doctor what I thought, and he seemed to like it. He seemed very excited to be able to do this kind of surgery and, of course, to pull it off successfully. I asked him if the mass inside was all blood or spongy tissue and what would happen if he perforated it. Upon this, he said he imagined spongy tissue with lots of blood (as the spleen hoards blood) and promptly punctured it with the end of a scissor. Thin, bloody yellow fluid seeped out.

That's the interesting part. Looking at Lucy, petting her, and reassuring her was awful. It was nice to do but awful to see her like that. She was a flat slab with a fully shaved belly and an incision (stitched) from her sternum to her pubis. She was still paralyzed from the anesthesia, but she was awake, her eyes were wide open, and she was becoming more awake by the minute. She was absolutely terrified. She doesn't like loud noises or anything remotely scary, and it was pretty noisy in there. Another doctor walked in carrying a huge basset hound, and the dog yelped, and that is the noise Lucy worries about the most. She can't stand to hear another dog in distress. When she is afraid, her huge eyes roll around in their sockets, and you can see the whites, and she reminds everyone of a horse (the rolling eyes, the trotting around, and the skittishness). I could see the whites, but of course, her eyes couldn't roll around at that point. Also, she had lots of slobber coming out of her mouth, and her breathing was very labored. She looked rabid, and I was almost afraid to pet her. Many people think that her excited or anxious face is really an attack face (I have to admit, she does look kind of psychotic when she makes this face, but she would never attack anyone). We pet her and rubbed her ears and looked at her former tumor.

I hated to see her like that, but of course I really wanted to see her much more and especially as she gained consciousness and movement. The very upsetting thing is that we can't see her at all this weekend because the hospital is closed, but we can see her tomorrow morning. She might even come home tomorrow. She is a strong dog and will probably replace the blood she has lost and will probably survive this just fine, provided the tumor is not malignant (which it is probably not). She won't have a spleen, so she won't revisit this particular crisis.

Friday, March 18, 2005
Today's my birthday. It is also the birthday of my friend, Ashlee. Ashlee is the only person who I have ever met who had the same birthday as me who didn't repulse me in some way. To be frank, as a completely naughty and snobbish child (later I realized the proper term for this is "uptight"), I thought I could do better than they, make my birthday proud. In some ridiculous way you might be aligned with someone who had the same birthday you did, and you would want that person to be a "winner" rather than a "loser." I now realize that perhaps I was the loser all along, and the match was perfect. Sorry Ashlee!

If you are in San Francisco at this moment, and you happen to see Ashlee, please tell her happy birthday, or happy belated birthday. Her hair is red and short. She probably has her nose in a book as she walks along. Her nose most likely has a stud in it. She's in town for the four Cs convention (which I suppose looks like a long string of capital Cs, CCCC, and is an English teacher convention--she told me on the phone today: "Imagine this! Everyone here is an English teacher!" I, of course, didn't have anything to say about that).

I don't really have a problem, although I know I seem to have, as in, "What the hell is your problem?" It's mostly that I am worried about my dog. She seems to have a tumor the size of a basketball filling up her abdomen, squeezing her organs against her abdominal walls, her spine, etc. Tomorrow they will "open her up," as they do, how barbaric and, at the same time, utterly clean, and then we will see what we will see. And then we'll know. My dog, Lucy's, birthday is in eight days.

Sunday, March 13, 2005
Happy Birthday, Catfu!
Friday, March 11, 2005
Can you guess where I've been?

Back to grading: "I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth."

Can you guess where I've been?

Back to grading . . .

I want to make upside down exclamation marks.

I know I haven't been blogging (or reading blogs!) in forever, and I have no right to ask this of any of you, but did anyone happen to attend some readings in NYC recently which featured Jorie Graham and Laura Sims? I am so pleased with Laura's recent success! Anyway, and hungry for news.

Sims also recently read at the College of William and Mary; she is fabulous. Look for her poems everywhere.

How come the college wasn't named after William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft? You see how limited my sphere.

A second favor: would the person who emailed me in December please do so again? I am sorry, but I lost the email. Please; I would really like to read your blog.

I'm growing hyacinths right now for Iranian New Year. It's not so much the case that I grow them because of Iranian New Year, but it is the case that the hyacinth bulbs happen to appear in stores several months prior, then I happen to put them in my fridge to chill for two months, then I take them out and put them in their glass vases in the dark for a while, then, when my winter break is over, and they have overwintered sufficiantly, they come out of the cabinet to grow in the sunlight, and it just so happens that all of this tends to coincide with Iranian New Year (this year March 20th).

When they see my hyacinths, my Persian friends interpret all this differently, but I let them because it makes me more Persian to do so. I am riding on the marginal tails of someone else's approval of me, as I am wont to do.

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