(Untitled Fragment)
Little solace comes
to those who grieve
when thoughts keep drifting
as walls keep shifting
and this blue world of ours
seems a house of leaves
moments before the wind.
-from House of Leaves, by Mark Z Danielewski
---------------------------------------------
This is one of my favorite poems, and I decided to go ahead and analyze it.
"Little solace comes": this sets the theme of the entire poem. It is short and bleak. Some might read it with emphasis on "little", as in "at least there is a little solace"...but that is not the implication here. As we read on, we realize that there is "only" a little solace.
"to those who grieve": this could be specific as in "those who grieve shouldn't because little solace comes"; or it could be general, as in, "we are all grieving." Because the poem has not specified which grievers it feels a little more to me like it applies to all people in general.
"when thoughts keep drifting": again - this could be a specific or general time. The word "keep" implies that the thoughts were drifting to begin with. The griever's thoughts are usually thoughts of grief. "Drifting" implies a passive movement - driven by a current or some other outside force. So thoughts of grief are not something you can really control.
"as walls keep shifting": this seems to have little bearing at this point in the poem, but shifting walls are like shifting foundations in that you expect them to remain where they are. Unlike thoughts of grief, that you might expect to drift the walls you expect to be solid and unmoving. As the walls keep shifting the chaos and lack of control over the mind and thoughts is brought out into "the real world". The author may be suggesting that the outside world, the real world, is just as chaotic and uncontrollable as the emotions of a human mind.
"and this blue world of ours": we have moved from an image of walls (usually associated with buildings - and houses, in particular for this discussion) to the whole world. We have substituted a part for the whole. This motion in the dialogue summons the power of the synechdoche - where a part represents a whole.
"sees a house of leaves": house is typed in blue...as throughout the book, and now reminds us that our world is a "blue world" (mentioned in the previous line). This re-invigorates the use of synechdoche. The title of the book is now connected to a concrete picture: our world is like a house of leaves. The house, with its many (shifting) walls, stands in for "the world". The shifting walls might represent the leaves...
"moments before the wind": the image of this line takes the images of the previous lines and forces us to see those images as frail. If the wind can shake the leaves, then there might be some force on the world/house that can "shift the walls."
The use of synechdoche can now be seen again - in the title (or lack of title) of the poem. Now we can presume that this "untitled fragment" might stand for something more. A "fragment" is simply a small part of something more...the fact that this is an UNTITLED fragment gives us no clue as to what the title of the original work could be...we might assume that it, too, is untitled. The ambiguity could lead us to believe that it does not matter who the specific people or times are...what the specific name of the work is...this leads us to believe that these are general references to all people, all time.
In short we can now see that this poem is simply an unidentified work - a small piece of something standing for a whole, that suggest that the chaos and lack of control over our own inner beings, is representative of humanities chaos and lack of control...our whole world might change on us, and there's nothing we can do about it. We - each of us - become untitled fragments of humanity. The world might be blown away at any moment and there will be little solace to anyone...
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Riding
Through life I ride, when others drive
and though we all arrive at the same time,
I see through passenger windows.
At a grand amusement park I ride...
I ride the mechanical monsters of incredible size,
and return to the ground safe and sound.
Hand in hand I walk the roads,
with friends or someone close.
I usually take comfort knowing I'm never alone.
Still some say, they like the way,
their fate is in their own hands.
You understand, they laugh, because they don't understand.
and though we all arrive at the same time,
I see through passenger windows.
At a grand amusement park I ride...
I ride the mechanical monsters of incredible size,
and return to the ground safe and sound.
Hand in hand I walk the roads,
with friends or someone close.
I usually take comfort knowing I'm never alone.
Still some say, they like the way,
their fate is in their own hands.
You understand, they laugh, because they don't understand.
Friday, February 26, 2010
New Website!
In preparation for my new book - The Wanton Interim - AND the 2nd Edition of my first book - Hallucinations - I have created a new website at http://aelbooks.webs.com/
My Geocities cite was closed down - new site is even better! Go there to find out all about my writing projects, and thanks for being my fans!
My Geocities cite was closed down - new site is even better! Go there to find out all about my writing projects, and thanks for being my fans!
Monday, December 28, 2009
Santa's Bad Day
One particular Christmas season a long time ago, Santa was getting ready
for his annual trip, but there were problems everywhere. Four of his elves got
sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular
ones so Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule. Then
Mrs. Claus told Santa that her mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa
even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were
about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows
where. More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the
toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys. So, frustrated, Santa went
into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum.
When he went to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hidden the
liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally
dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the
kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw
end of the broom.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to the door. He
opened the door, and there was a little angel with a great Christmas tree.
The angel said, very cheerfully, Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely
day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?
Thus began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas!
for his annual trip, but there were problems everywhere. Four of his elves got
sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular
ones so Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule. Then
Mrs. Claus told Santa that her mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa
even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were
about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows
where. More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the
toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys. So, frustrated, Santa went
into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum.
When he went to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hidden the
liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally
dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the
kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw
end of the broom.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to the door. He
opened the door, and there was a little angel with a great Christmas tree.
The angel said, very cheerfully, Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely
day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?
Thus began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Goddard, Harold
Beyond the turning barber pole that rises off of the cement without actually going anywhere, lays a window that mostly reflects the pedestrians outside. Commonly, there can be found a collage of characters clashing together around the pole…passing by without seeing the short balding man behind the glass. Do they care about his dented doorway? Even the balding man himself hates to think about that dent, or to watch the pole anymore, all it ever brings him is a splitting headache.
Forever is a long time, he thinks, but not as long as these past thirty-two years. Goddard was his name. Harold Goddard, a man who had worked here for such a long time, and it seemed to him that this is where he would die. In the past three decades, he has had only a single friend, and she left ten years ago. Just the memory made him frown. Kelly was her name, not a girlfriend, just a customer who came to visit with him every Tuesday. Last time she walked through that door he laughed and smiled as many of the people outside the barbershop do nowadays. Most had thought he was crazy, or sick, or just a mean man. No one cared why he was upset, and so quiet. Oh, that was just fine with Harold, he knew Kelly would never return and he would never have to be happy again either.
Perhaps he had thought Kelly’s memory would fade, but it never seemed to leave him completely. Quietly he whispered the story back to himself, because there was no one else to tell. “Right after ’89 is when it got bad, when Kelly left – you remember her, eh? Such a sweet young thing, always visiting always smiling. Those were the days; it was only after that, that things got bad.” Unaware that a new customer had arrived, he dreamed on.
Very quietly, after that the customer waited for Goddard to reply to his comment, he whispered “crazy old man” to himself. When the barber ignored his greeting the third time he slipped out the door and almost bumped into a woman pushing a cart with an “X” painted on the side. “X” is a strange letter to paint on a cart, and Goddard wondered what it meant…it sure scared him. Yet it wasn’t simply the X which brought terror into his failing heart. Zany as it might sound, it was the woman herself that chilled the air in the room.
Although he had missed the real customer he never missed that girl with the cart. Bright blue eyes, and frizzled hair, the woman would march on by, stare through the hazy glass, and tap the old barber pole on top. Crowds of people could pass by that window at noon, but she would always manage to proceed with her routine, and Harold always looked up in time to spy the woman out. Daylight would always allow her creamy skin to be just highlighted around the edge of her perfect silhouette, how beautiful she looked. Everyone else may have overlooked the woman, but Harold always spotted her, and there was a brief moment of connection between the two. For just a second, the connection was strong, and it made him feel young again, but only for that second. Gentle, and innocent it may seem, but those strong blue eyes, and that X whispered terror in his ear; he was in for some trouble if she ever chose to enter through the dented door, instead of walking on by. Harold was frightened what her visit might mean.
Icicles gripped the awning the next morning. January was here, and Harold was just getting over a cold. Kleenex boxes were strategically placed around the store, and the tired balding man was wearing a knitted cap that he picked up last month. Lately, the cap had really grown on him, and he almost considered it a part of his life. Mostly, he just wore it to work, but recently it had kept his bald head warm at night while he slept as well. Nights without that cap seemed long and tortured. Old men needed something in their life to keep them awake, and Harold was getting as consistent as a gold fish, waiting for the next meal at the same time, watching the woman walk by on Wednesdays.
Quickly Kelly’s memory came back again. Really that last morning she came to see him, she was a little late…he should have known then that she would not be coming back. She was young, probably twenty two, maybe a little older, but she came by on the weekend just to meet with the fifty one year old man. The girl had been accepted to a medical school out of state. Until that moment, he had believed that there might be something worth living for, the “youth of the future” you might call it. Vexed at no one in particular, he became withdrawn and angry. When a month had passed his anger had died down but he was still just as lonely. Xenia, Indiana had lost a good citizen and gained a grumpy old man.
Yellow lights flickering on beyond the glass brought him back to his own time. Zero sympathy, that’s what he deserved, and that’s what he got; unless you count the fact that they let him keep his job.
Alone and alive, that was his own description of his life. Because he had lost the only person he had ever connected with; a total stranger, but for some reason, which he never knew, she would come by and talk to him.
Chimes rang, and the woman with cart walked through his door.
Damn. Even now, he wished it would just end, or improve; he thought about asking what that large X was for, but decided against it. For many people outside the glass he seemed to carry on with his withdrawn ways, but the woman with the cart saw a difference in him that day. Goddard had a quiet conversation with her and watched her smile as she left. How was it that she had passed by so many times without visiting? In a way she reminded him of Kelly, except a little older. Just as she left the shop she spun around, and quickly tapped on the barber poll before disappearing into the world beyond the glass.
Forever is a long time, he thinks, but not as long as these past thirty-two years. Goddard was his name. Harold Goddard, a man who had worked here for such a long time, and it seemed to him that this is where he would die. In the past three decades, he has had only a single friend, and she left ten years ago. Just the memory made him frown. Kelly was her name, not a girlfriend, just a customer who came to visit with him every Tuesday. Last time she walked through that door he laughed and smiled as many of the people outside the barbershop do nowadays. Most had thought he was crazy, or sick, or just a mean man. No one cared why he was upset, and so quiet. Oh, that was just fine with Harold, he knew Kelly would never return and he would never have to be happy again either.
Perhaps he had thought Kelly’s memory would fade, but it never seemed to leave him completely. Quietly he whispered the story back to himself, because there was no one else to tell. “Right after ’89 is when it got bad, when Kelly left – you remember her, eh? Such a sweet young thing, always visiting always smiling. Those were the days; it was only after that, that things got bad.” Unaware that a new customer had arrived, he dreamed on.
Very quietly, after that the customer waited for Goddard to reply to his comment, he whispered “crazy old man” to himself. When the barber ignored his greeting the third time he slipped out the door and almost bumped into a woman pushing a cart with an “X” painted on the side. “X” is a strange letter to paint on a cart, and Goddard wondered what it meant…it sure scared him. Yet it wasn’t simply the X which brought terror into his failing heart. Zany as it might sound, it was the woman herself that chilled the air in the room.
Although he had missed the real customer he never missed that girl with the cart. Bright blue eyes, and frizzled hair, the woman would march on by, stare through the hazy glass, and tap the old barber pole on top. Crowds of people could pass by that window at noon, but she would always manage to proceed with her routine, and Harold always looked up in time to spy the woman out. Daylight would always allow her creamy skin to be just highlighted around the edge of her perfect silhouette, how beautiful she looked. Everyone else may have overlooked the woman, but Harold always spotted her, and there was a brief moment of connection between the two. For just a second, the connection was strong, and it made him feel young again, but only for that second. Gentle, and innocent it may seem, but those strong blue eyes, and that X whispered terror in his ear; he was in for some trouble if she ever chose to enter through the dented door, instead of walking on by. Harold was frightened what her visit might mean.
Icicles gripped the awning the next morning. January was here, and Harold was just getting over a cold. Kleenex boxes were strategically placed around the store, and the tired balding man was wearing a knitted cap that he picked up last month. Lately, the cap had really grown on him, and he almost considered it a part of his life. Mostly, he just wore it to work, but recently it had kept his bald head warm at night while he slept as well. Nights without that cap seemed long and tortured. Old men needed something in their life to keep them awake, and Harold was getting as consistent as a gold fish, waiting for the next meal at the same time, watching the woman walk by on Wednesdays.
Quickly Kelly’s memory came back again. Really that last morning she came to see him, she was a little late…he should have known then that she would not be coming back. She was young, probably twenty two, maybe a little older, but she came by on the weekend just to meet with the fifty one year old man. The girl had been accepted to a medical school out of state. Until that moment, he had believed that there might be something worth living for, the “youth of the future” you might call it. Vexed at no one in particular, he became withdrawn and angry. When a month had passed his anger had died down but he was still just as lonely. Xenia, Indiana had lost a good citizen and gained a grumpy old man.
Yellow lights flickering on beyond the glass brought him back to his own time. Zero sympathy, that’s what he deserved, and that’s what he got; unless you count the fact that they let him keep his job.
Alone and alive, that was his own description of his life. Because he had lost the only person he had ever connected with; a total stranger, but for some reason, which he never knew, she would come by and talk to him.
Chimes rang, and the woman with cart walked through his door.
Damn. Even now, he wished it would just end, or improve; he thought about asking what that large X was for, but decided against it. For many people outside the glass he seemed to carry on with his withdrawn ways, but the woman with the cart saw a difference in him that day. Goddard had a quiet conversation with her and watched her smile as she left. How was it that she had passed by so many times without visiting? In a way she reminded him of Kelly, except a little older. Just as she left the shop she spun around, and quickly tapped on the barber poll before disappearing into the world beyond the glass.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Copy Copy M!
Some say ghosts, I SEE ghosts. They are no rumor to I, nor to Eliot, although the latter is no longer with me. Or with us. But with them. HE IS NOW THEM! The door to a room rattles at times. I saw the secretary walk before it. It happened just after she walked by. She was so pretty too. His shadow caressed the door, and the door jumped. I heard a weak thud. And then again – stronger – it had leaped in its hinges. BUMP, POW, BAM!!! IT IS THEM!!!
And in the ocean of fear I swam, for fear of drowning in fear, I returned my eyes to my glowing screen in front of me. The numbers were plain. My cubicle was plain, but that door – and what lie behind…
This is the day the door opened for Eliot. BAM BAM BAM…like gunshots, only louder. Why did no one else pay any attention? They all passed right by the door, they all knew what was in there – not the ghosts, the other thing. And yet they were content to simply slide their shadows across its wooden face. “Copy Room1” said the little worn plaque. That was only the beginning, I knew – and Eliot, too. He must have heard the bumps, seen the door shake. He approached the room with such caution. Good job, Eliot, don’t let them catch you off guard… I peered over the top of my pc, he had his hand on the doorknob. He turned the doorknob. He pushed on the door, and it opened.
BAM! He slammed it shut behind him, and this time a few other heads did turn. “There goes Eliot” I heard one woman say, a few eyes were rolled, but not (MINE) mine. What lie behind that door, what lurked with that man, what devoured him whole… The others never got the whole story. They said it was a heart attack, but I know better – and Eliot did too. He was witness to the ghosts I knew were in there. And the M-
I hesitate to speak of it even now. A thing so foul, created for one purpose, yet used to serve another. I crinkled the pages in my hands the day I chose to venture there myself. When I gripped that doorknob, yes-it was cold- when I pushed on that door –yes, I had to push hard- sweat dripped off my brow. I took a deep breath and plunged into “Copy Room1”. The door slammed hard behind me, and I knew that probably drew a few eyes from the other side. Fresh meat is what I was to THEM, and that is what turned their eyes to me. Another victim, another sacrifice. I knew I was seeing exactly what Eliot had seen. The Copy M- lie before me. I could hear voices above me (THEM). They haunted the room with that M-….Machine. That thing which was created to copy (copy). That thing that was really used to kill (it was waiting to kill) used to kill for THEM. In a way they were that m- machine. They didn’t just haunt the same room it inhabited. They didn’t just haunt the machine itself, they were the machine. THE MACHINE… THE M-…THEM!!!
Strange as it sounds, it was like I had stepped into the past about four days. I saw Eliot there, hugging the machine. His hand had just dropped a quarter, or a dime (whatever the going rate was these days) into the little slot. His head was face down, blood dripping from his mouth onto the thing. The image disappeared (the image of Eliot) but the thing remained. The voices above me grew louder. By instinct I knew the door was locked, and I knew the voices were THEM. The ghosts that awaited my sacrifice (waited to kill). The entire room did a double take and at once I was in a scene from Polterguist, or the Exorcist or something. A strobe light flickered. Rock music vibrated the room, too much base and drums, and the copy (copy) M- was bouncing around, rocking from side to side. It put on it’s own lazer show, and started printing out copies. The first few pages seemed to be random words, but soon there were pictures. Eliot’s dead eyes…dead mouth, dead tongue, and the life giving blood smeared the pages. Then all the rest of the pages printed out as blood spatters. Then the paper stopped coming out, it was just blood. Real blood. Red blood. Eliot’s blood, soon to be MY blood (MINE). They ghosts were having a grand party here, I held my crinkled pages to my chest like a five year old carrying library books. I backed into the corner, but I didn’t close my eyes. The machine gradually slowed down. I clenched my paper. No, I thought, I wouldn’t let it copy my work (MINE) I could hold it all to myself, I could keep it. The voices above me took on vague forms. I actually saw them (THEM) and they were very familiar. Three guys and this one chick. They looked like a group that used to play…
I blacked out and can’t remember the rest. But I tell you I know they exist. I know the thing in that room is more than it seems, and for some reason it let me live. Every day I sit and peek over my pc. It is still waiting to kill me. Eliot had a fortunate life but I am tormented. He knew they were real. He knew IT was real. But he doesn’t have to live with that…and I do
And in the ocean of fear I swam, for fear of drowning in fear, I returned my eyes to my glowing screen in front of me. The numbers were plain. My cubicle was plain, but that door – and what lie behind…
This is the day the door opened for Eliot. BAM BAM BAM…like gunshots, only louder. Why did no one else pay any attention? They all passed right by the door, they all knew what was in there – not the ghosts, the other thing. And yet they were content to simply slide their shadows across its wooden face. “Copy Room1” said the little worn plaque. That was only the beginning, I knew – and Eliot, too. He must have heard the bumps, seen the door shake. He approached the room with such caution. Good job, Eliot, don’t let them catch you off guard… I peered over the top of my pc, he had his hand on the doorknob. He turned the doorknob. He pushed on the door, and it opened.
BAM! He slammed it shut behind him, and this time a few other heads did turn. “There goes Eliot” I heard one woman say, a few eyes were rolled, but not (MINE) mine. What lie behind that door, what lurked with that man, what devoured him whole… The others never got the whole story. They said it was a heart attack, but I know better – and Eliot did too. He was witness to the ghosts I knew were in there. And the M-
I hesitate to speak of it even now. A thing so foul, created for one purpose, yet used to serve another. I crinkled the pages in my hands the day I chose to venture there myself. When I gripped that doorknob, yes-it was cold- when I pushed on that door –yes, I had to push hard- sweat dripped off my brow. I took a deep breath and plunged into “Copy Room1”. The door slammed hard behind me, and I knew that probably drew a few eyes from the other side. Fresh meat is what I was to THEM, and that is what turned their eyes to me. Another victim, another sacrifice. I knew I was seeing exactly what Eliot had seen. The Copy M- lie before me. I could hear voices above me (THEM). They haunted the room with that M-….Machine. That thing which was created to copy (copy). That thing that was really used to kill (it was waiting to kill) used to kill for THEM. In a way they were that m- machine. They didn’t just haunt the same room it inhabited. They didn’t just haunt the machine itself, they were the machine. THE MACHINE… THE M-…THEM!!!
Strange as it sounds, it was like I had stepped into the past about four days. I saw Eliot there, hugging the machine. His hand had just dropped a quarter, or a dime (whatever the going rate was these days) into the little slot. His head was face down, blood dripping from his mouth onto the thing. The image disappeared (the image of Eliot) but the thing remained. The voices above me grew louder. By instinct I knew the door was locked, and I knew the voices were THEM. The ghosts that awaited my sacrifice (waited to kill). The entire room did a double take and at once I was in a scene from Polterguist, or the Exorcist or something. A strobe light flickered. Rock music vibrated the room, too much base and drums, and the copy (copy) M- was bouncing around, rocking from side to side. It put on it’s own lazer show, and started printing out copies. The first few pages seemed to be random words, but soon there were pictures. Eliot’s dead eyes…dead mouth, dead tongue, and the life giving blood smeared the pages. Then all the rest of the pages printed out as blood spatters. Then the paper stopped coming out, it was just blood. Real blood. Red blood. Eliot’s blood, soon to be MY blood (MINE). They ghosts were having a grand party here, I held my crinkled pages to my chest like a five year old carrying library books. I backed into the corner, but I didn’t close my eyes. The machine gradually slowed down. I clenched my paper. No, I thought, I wouldn’t let it copy my work (MINE) I could hold it all to myself, I could keep it. The voices above me took on vague forms. I actually saw them (THEM) and they were very familiar. Three guys and this one chick. They looked like a group that used to play…
I blacked out and can’t remember the rest. But I tell you I know they exist. I know the thing in that room is more than it seems, and for some reason it let me live. Every day I sit and peek over my pc. It is still waiting to kill me. Eliot had a fortunate life but I am tormented. He knew they were real. He knew IT was real. But he doesn’t have to live with that…and I do
Thursday, November 19, 2009
2012...the number of disaster movies rolled into 1
A new movie (2012) is about a specific year (2012) and gives us exactly what we want:
2012 super cool special effects scenes, 2012 explosions, 2012 giant waves, 2012 huge clouds of smoke and fire, 2012 dogs saved, and 2012 narrow escapes and heroic gestures that lead our race to escape it's doom.
Unfortunately the movie also comes with
2012 bad lines of dialogue
2012 flat characters that all get killed so the audience wouldn't notice
2012 cliche plot twists
2012 scientifically inaccurate statements
All in all, a fun movie to watch on a big screen with loud speakers. Don't expect any real story, or creative characters. It may be scary for some young kids but I thought they pulled a lot of punches myself. I'm surprised they took 3 hours to destroy the world, personally I like the 3 1/2 second method employed by The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy.
2012 super cool special effects scenes, 2012 explosions, 2012 giant waves, 2012 huge clouds of smoke and fire, 2012 dogs saved, and 2012 narrow escapes and heroic gestures that lead our race to escape it's doom.
Unfortunately the movie also comes with
2012 bad lines of dialogue
2012 flat characters that all get killed so the audience wouldn't notice
2012 cliche plot twists
2012 scientifically inaccurate statements
All in all, a fun movie to watch on a big screen with loud speakers. Don't expect any real story, or creative characters. It may be scary for some young kids but I thought they pulled a lot of punches myself. I'm surprised they took 3 hours to destroy the world, personally I like the 3 1/2 second method employed by The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy.
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