My draft for my final take home test: dwellings and disconnected thoughts that will hopefully get my mind going in the right direction.
Explain the Eros/Thanatos, as Hedges describes it in Chapter 7 of his book, as it relates to Kiowa.
The idea of Eros/Thanatos is the idea that dual forces of love and annihilation control every human action in a tug-of-war. Eros is an "impulse within us that propels us to become close to one other, preserve and conserve" (Hedges 158). Thanatos is an "impulse that works towards annihilation of all living things, including ourselves" (Hedges 158). Through the character of Kiowa in The Things They Carried, the Eros/Thanatos is explained in the context of the Vietnam War.
Kiowa is the embodiment of the Eros impulse. Kiowa is inclined to have his fellow soldiers talk out their problems, and inclined to voice his own problems to others. This propensity encourages the other men to become close to him "in communal struggle, the shared sense of meaning and purpose" (Hedges 158). When Ted Lavender dies, Kiowa won't stop mentioning the abruptness of his demise; he keeps repeating, "Boom-down. Like cement," (O'Brien 7) until Bowker is convinced (partly by his annoyance and partly by his recognition of the need to discuss) to ask, "What the hell. You want to talk, TALK. Tell it to me" (O'Brien 18). Kiowa is constantly a catalyst for his unit's sanity; he gives them an outlet to share their feelings and love with the hate and confusion around them.
When O'Brien sees his first dead body of the war, "an old man sprawled beside a pig pen" (O'Brien 225), the other men encourage him to shake his hand and participate in a toast with the corpse. Kiowa is the first to help him rationalize and to speak personally about his experience. He says, "You did a good thing today. That shaking hands crap, it isn't decent. The guys'll hassle you for a while--but just keep saying no. Should've done it myself. Takes guts, I know that" (O'Brien 227). Even though O'Brien explains that he just couldn't bring himself to touch a corpse, and Kiowa misidentified it as courage, the object is that he's trying to help O'Brien come to terms with something horrible and unearthly. He's making sure O'Brien lets out his feelings. He then listens to O'Brien's story about Linda. Kiowa, while encouraging this dialogue, has employed the Eros impulse. His friendliness and willingness to talk is a form of love. As Hedges establishes, "love keeps you grounded," and "an isolated individual is never adequately human" (Hedges 161).
Kiowa typifies the aspect of Eros too that in War and in Love, "we're able to choose fealty and self-sacrifice over security" (Hedges 158). Though unintentional, Kiowa sacrifices his life in War for Love. When "the young soldier" was laying with Kiowa in the shit-field, he pulled out a flashlight, a loss of security, to show him a picture of his girlfriend back home. Then the field was shelled. If Kiowa had not been such a receptive and loving friend, he likely would not have been speaking so happily in the field with this young man, and he would not have been killed if not for his loving compassion for his comrades. Any measure of love is a form of sacrifice; Kiowa encourages others to give up this personal security, and gives up his own personal security to provide and inspire this love.
Even in death, Kiowa embodies the instinct of Eros. His body, his death, causes Alpha Company to unite in Love for him. Kiowa's demise causes Lieutenant Cross to rationalize his pain by mentally writing Kiowa's father a consolation letter, causes O'Brien to open up his feelings about Linda, and causes Azar to apologize and to realize other's pain about the war. Azar says, " Listen, those dumb jokes--I didn't mean anything" (O'Brien 175). He's brought closer to the company, to preserve and conserve the memory and Love of Kiowa. Azar's Love and pain over Kiowa is all of ours. " 'I felt sort of guilty almost, like if I'd kept my mouth shut none of it would've ever happened. Like it was my fault.' Norman Bowker looked across the wet field. 'Nobody's fault,' he said. 'Everybody's" (O'Brien 176).
Kiowa also explains the Thanatos impulse, in his death, and in the basic distance of communication. Kiowa's death eventually pushes Norman Bowker to the disillusionment and "towards annihilation of all living things, including ourselves" (Hedges 158); "he wrote me...'Where's Kiowa? Where's the shit?' Eight months later he hanged himself" (O'Brien 160). Bowker blames himself for Kiowa's death, and with no one to talk to and no way to truly express his feelings, he becomes isolated. His father values only his medals as a symbol of his service, and doesn't care much to talk about pain; his best friend drowned before the war; his old girlfriend is married and happy; and he can't work up the story out loud even to the person behind the intercom who asks him to explain his feelings. Heges explained Norman's situation perfectly. "The shame and alienation of combat soldiers, coupled with the indifference to the truth of war by those who were not there, reduces many societies to silence. It just seems better to forget" (Hedges 176). Norman is reduced to a Thantos annihilation impulse not only by his own inability to communicate, but by the people he loves around him and society around him, which would rather not hear about the shit field, although he has many samples to give out. Ionically, in Bowker's death, he teaches O'Brien how to better articulate pain through his writing, and allows O'Brien to learn the lessons of Eros.
Kiowa is also unable to connect to O'Brien about the man he kills. O'Brien feels like he's killed himself in this Vietnamese man, but Kiowa, even in his compassion, can't understand the true feelings O'Brien has--this is the basic problem in speech and communication, the purest of thought can never exactly touch the truth. This leads to the isolation and pain of Thanatos; "although love may not always triumph, it keeps us human" (Hedges 168).
-people tell him things
-henry dobbins "clergy" pg 119-123
-"linda"
-vietnamese soldier "the man i killed" 124-130
-"speaking of courage"; kiowa's effect on peeps; was killed by helping/listening
(sanders-angry about kiowa's death; norman bowker killed himself; obrien started writing stories cuz of him; cross blames himself for kiowa's death; pg 137- 154
-“O’Brien” learns the importance of communicating, leading eventually to his becoming a writer pg225-
-takes his daughter to kiowa's death site pg181-188
-whose fault is kiowa's death?pg 162-178
Thursday
I hope a poem is appropriate for our final writing paper.
To write is to fight, to win over, to endear.
Writing's has been exciting, no obstacles clear to steer.
Put yourself in your script, and have another beer,
Billy, this is you. My duct has leaked a tear.
Dollars and cents, and no accidents,
I've been studying your mind.
But that's okay, because one day,
your literary Kents, will change to Supermind.
Supermind, supermind, an illusion in the sky.
To study the successful is to drape a blind,
stewing light captured in the stars. Come down, in kind,
to ease your mind and put feet down on tar.
Because when the blind is lifted,
you see the world, a scar,
you know what stews inside of you,
but the scar you'll see forever more.
To describe it is to cleanse the wound,
to explain it is to bend, the mind that toddles along the sidewalk in your head.
Again and again I expound, elucidate, confuse,
until around the scar, forms a perfect, round black bruise.
It seems easy to extrapolate the feelings that I dread
the ones that make me happy, the ones that make me dead.
It troubles me, and has for a while, that the things I think are meaningful
elicit only smiles. How to persuade, how to connect,
the most important elements are those I can't expect.
Aspiring to bray like an animal, I tweak and re-tweak what I said,
to bray is to pray, to lower is to raise, to feed is to offer them
the holiest notion is to bring all those together
that aspire to break away
the world I love, the world I live in
the world I'm trying to save.
They know not what they do, they've good intentions too,
am I destruction and pain? Am I the cocaine and Rogaine
that DOOM wants to pack away? Of course all anyone can do
is rest and jest and speculate, to date, to rate, to spin.
All anyone can do is to try and bait the truth that lies within.
I've learned to connect, I've learned to collect,
I've found my audience, too, you.
I aim to please, I aim to squeeze the hearts and minds of all
My only fear is fear itself.
My only fear is myself.
The virtue of "my consumerism seems consistently and repugnantly omnipresent:"
"Willy had been concerned about the world
from an outlandishly young age."
Oh, to penetrate the circle
people draw around their heads..
I'll have to learn to love them.
Writing's has been exciting, no obstacles clear to steer.
Put yourself in your script, and have another beer,
Billy, this is you. My duct has leaked a tear.
Dollars and cents, and no accidents,
I've been studying your mind.
But that's okay, because one day,
your literary Kents, will change to Supermind.
Supermind, supermind, an illusion in the sky.
To study the successful is to drape a blind,
stewing light captured in the stars. Come down, in kind,
to ease your mind and put feet down on tar.
Because when the blind is lifted,
you see the world, a scar,
you know what stews inside of you,
but the scar you'll see forever more.
To describe it is to cleanse the wound,
to explain it is to bend, the mind that toddles along the sidewalk in your head.
Again and again I expound, elucidate, confuse,
until around the scar, forms a perfect, round black bruise.
It seems easy to extrapolate the feelings that I dread
the ones that make me happy, the ones that make me dead.
It troubles me, and has for a while, that the things I think are meaningful
elicit only smiles. How to persuade, how to connect,
the most important elements are those I can't expect.
Aspiring to bray like an animal, I tweak and re-tweak what I said,
to bray is to pray, to lower is to raise, to feed is to offer them
the holiest notion is to bring all those together
that aspire to break away
the world I love, the world I live in
the world I'm trying to save.
They know not what they do, they've good intentions too,
am I destruction and pain? Am I the cocaine and Rogaine
that DOOM wants to pack away? Of course all anyone can do
is rest and jest and speculate, to date, to rate, to spin.
All anyone can do is to try and bait the truth that lies within.
I've learned to connect, I've learned to collect,
I've found my audience, too, you.
I aim to please, I aim to squeeze the hearts and minds of all
My only fear is fear itself.
My only fear is myself.
The virtue of "my consumerism seems consistently and repugnantly omnipresent:"
"Willy had been concerned about the world
from an outlandishly young age."
Oh, to penetrate the circle
people draw around their heads..
I'll have to learn to love them.
Friday
Free Alcohol For All or What I Learned From A UMass Poetry Reading
I return now from the voice of James Tate's poetry. Or a gold rush. Men and women alike sit lifeless in their chairs, chuckling at the right moments. Frail voice creeps through the speakers, vibrating countless ear drums. But does a further action show potential? Thoughts of pretension worry the minds of the followers. Wine encased in minds; does prose penetrate? Does frailty prevail? Does Bacchanalian sentiment?
Can a thing be judged by that which came after? Perhaps art.
Can a thing be judged by that which came after? Perhaps art.
Thursday
"The Gist" script: My final project video script
the video: http://www.veoh.com/videos/v85453393GEGbFkd
Willy Dachshund, the sense driven, has an uncomfortable anxiety about life around him. Humans especially disrupt his chemicals; they have very questionable qualities about them. Some of them enjoy maple syrup and cream cheese, and others eat ovaries. Willy wrote up a proposal a few years back in a fit of creation for a diet that he knew was effective. It was his own. To hype his product, Willy conceived of a hook to reel customers into his wavering boat of truth. The Dachshund diet enjoyed a glamorous and ubiquitous popularity before researchers declared it cancerous.
Willy had been concerned about the world from an outlandishly young age. Bourne out of an innocent liaison to the zoo, little Willy cried embarrassingly in a main walkway. He’d been confronted by, in a short succession, an expansive elephant pen and an ice cream stand sporting 42 flavors of ominous frozen treats. His father, a man that believes firmly in reserving emotions, afterward could manage only vacillating affection for Willy. Later in Willy’s life, this ambivalence served ultimately to split his family apart. For Willy could endure only strong, unconditional love.
When someone mentioned early-morning malaise, or talked about election politics, Willy cringed physically and metaphysically. It was no different with poverty, war, peace or activism. His mind curled up into itself. Things came with too much variation, too many different forms, too many “right” answers. Willy prayed to the second toe from the left on Jesus’s left foot every evening, asking the glowing apostle if he would not color-correct the world’s moral and physical issues into either spiteful or acceptable forms.
Willy on this particular day was particularly weary of being confused about what he thought should be simple. Willy blearily fingered his glossy periodic table. He rested his hand on it and pretended it was definitive. When that didn’t calm his nerves, Willy sank into a temporary depression. When it did not become a constant or at least oscillating melancholy, Willy was only frustrated further.
So, Willy thought about Sonic Youth—a band that, he was sure, everyone agrees is the epitome of sound in music. He was glad that since 1986, they had kept the same members and have never gone on hiatus or broken up. Bands like Sonic Youth allowed Willy to think clearly.
Willy stepped out of his home on 12 Ample Road, into the blinkingly bright sunlight. He took approximately 5.3 steps toward his garage. This was the moment he overheard an argument about the poetic value of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man Of The Sea. Willy, slowing down uncontrollably in pace, took another 2.7 steps. The old man fearlessly faced an enemy and in his struggled, triumphed. He then unevenly fell to the cement of the driveway. On the ground, Willy’s arms formed symmetric right angles on either side of his chest, his nose and forehead resting solidly on two separate pebbles. I think he did that on purpose.
Willy is rushed to the hospital with the well wishes of his arguing neighbors. It takes 2 minutes and 19 seconds for Willy’s jiggling organs to reach the hospital. Bureaucratically, Willy is rushed into the ER ahead of a man with a swollen lymph node. Many physicians had philosophized over the node’s origins. It was node to be noden for at least another century, and even then, it would be wrong.
After an interminable time under the sterile lights, Willy was slid into a bed in the recovery ward. His cheeks jiggled unevenly as the nurse fluffed his pillow. He had had a myocardial infarction in his left coronary artery. The physicians had revived his wheezing and jiggling heart. When he awoke, steaming uncomfortably underneath the hospital blankets, his consultant told him there were a few complications.
Willy Dachshund, the sense driven, has an uncomfortable anxiety about life around him. Humans especially disrupt his chemicals; they have very questionable qualities about them. Some of them enjoy maple syrup and cream cheese, and others eat ovaries. Willy wrote up a proposal a few years back in a fit of creation for a diet that he knew was effective. It was his own. To hype his product, Willy conceived of a hook to reel customers into his wavering boat of truth. The Dachshund diet enjoyed a glamorous and ubiquitous popularity before researchers declared it cancerous.
Willy had been concerned about the world from an outlandishly young age. Bourne out of an innocent liaison to the zoo, little Willy cried embarrassingly in a main walkway. He’d been confronted by, in a short succession, an expansive elephant pen and an ice cream stand sporting 42 flavors of ominous frozen treats. His father, a man that believes firmly in reserving emotions, afterward could manage only vacillating affection for Willy. Later in Willy’s life, this ambivalence served ultimately to split his family apart. For Willy could endure only strong, unconditional love.
When someone mentioned early-morning malaise, or talked about election politics, Willy cringed physically and metaphysically. It was no different with poverty, war, peace or activism. His mind curled up into itself. Things came with too much variation, too many different forms, too many “right” answers. Willy prayed to the second toe from the left on Jesus’s left foot every evening, asking the glowing apostle if he would not color-correct the world’s moral and physical issues into either spiteful or acceptable forms.
Willy on this particular day was particularly weary of being confused about what he thought should be simple. Willy blearily fingered his glossy periodic table. He rested his hand on it and pretended it was definitive. When that didn’t calm his nerves, Willy sank into a temporary depression. When it did not become a constant or at least oscillating melancholy, Willy was only frustrated further.
So, Willy thought about Sonic Youth—a band that, he was sure, everyone agrees is the epitome of sound in music. He was glad that since 1986, they had kept the same members and have never gone on hiatus or broken up. Bands like Sonic Youth allowed Willy to think clearly.
Willy stepped out of his home on 12 Ample Road, into the blinkingly bright sunlight. He took approximately 5.3 steps toward his garage. This was the moment he overheard an argument about the poetic value of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man Of The Sea. Willy, slowing down uncontrollably in pace, took another 2.7 steps. The old man fearlessly faced an enemy and in his struggled, triumphed. He then unevenly fell to the cement of the driveway. On the ground, Willy’s arms formed symmetric right angles on either side of his chest, his nose and forehead resting solidly on two separate pebbles. I think he did that on purpose.
Willy is rushed to the hospital with the well wishes of his arguing neighbors. It takes 2 minutes and 19 seconds for Willy’s jiggling organs to reach the hospital. Bureaucratically, Willy is rushed into the ER ahead of a man with a swollen lymph node. Many physicians had philosophized over the node’s origins. It was node to be noden for at least another century, and even then, it would be wrong.
After an interminable time under the sterile lights, Willy was slid into a bed in the recovery ward. His cheeks jiggled unevenly as the nurse fluffed his pillow. He had had a myocardial infarction in his left coronary artery. The physicians had revived his wheezing and jiggling heart. When he awoke, steaming uncomfortably underneath the hospital blankets, his consultant told him there were a few complications.
Sunday
A world where everyone has eyes, ears, noses, mouths and dimples on their hands, and they grab things with their heads. The whole structure of society is fundamentally changed by this in that heads don't grab things well, and faces aren't meant to be touching everyday things. Beauty is marked by fingernails, veins and the smoothness of the back of the hand. Due to limited room inside the arm for a throat and vocal chords, everyone has quite a shrill voice, and no one lives at high altitudes.
Wednesday
newest essay
titles I'm leaning to:
white rain deadened
wanderers reach dimly
with rats, lobsters dream
weed rippers leer daringly
whack ramblers lumber dotingly
possible constraints:
-one of the morals must be to bring about social change with what you have
-there must be a few song lyrics in every paragraph or a response to song lyrics
-the narrator must be naive
-puns
-no writing the word "I"
-use as many semicolons as possible
-use a picture for every paragraph, and try to relate the story to it
-coin a few new words (can be a replacement of other ones like "hump" for "carry" in The Things They Carried)
-break the fourth wall, make yourself a character or active participant in the paper/story
-add in necessity for every 4th verb "I need to sleep" "he needed to dive into the glittering waters" "action is never as crucial as it seems; it's necessary to be silent and let things flow sometimes"
white rain deadened
wanderers reach dimly
with rats, lobsters dream
weed rippers leer daringly
whack ramblers lumber dotingly
possible constraints:
-one of the morals must be to bring about social change with what you have
-there must be a few song lyrics in every paragraph or a response to song lyrics
-the narrator must be naive
-puns
-no writing the word "I"
-use as many semicolons as possible
-use a picture for every paragraph, and try to relate the story to it
-coin a few new words (can be a replacement of other ones like "hump" for "carry" in The Things They Carried)
-break the fourth wall, make yourself a character or active participant in the paper/story
-add in necessity for every 4th verb "I need to sleep" "he needed to dive into the glittering waters" "action is never as crucial as it seems; it's necessary to be silent and let things flow sometimes"
Monday
I'm Tall, I'm Small
oh thanks for inviting me
though our time was as short
as our friends
when did we grow so tall?
how've we not managed to fall?
alterior motive kept high
hidden by a cool confidence
I made that up
hidden by blind obviousness
when did we get so big?
why do i feel so small?
i saw Her in passing
She squealed and was laughing
you later snapped me
in a picture and it hovered on your wall
you captured me
but not my soul
we know we're great friends
but yours put my mind to the wall
good visit, overall
but why do we seem so big?
and why do i feel so small?
though our time was as short
as our friends
when did we grow so tall?
how've we not managed to fall?
alterior motive kept high
hidden by a cool confidence
I made that up
hidden by blind obviousness
when did we get so big?
why do i feel so small?
i saw Her in passing
She squealed and was laughing
you later snapped me
in a picture and it hovered on your wall
you captured me
but not my soul
we know we're great friends
but yours put my mind to the wall
good visit, overall
but why do we seem so big?
and why do i feel so small?
"purity"
We slid together frozen in air
Two hands on two backs
content not a care
We slide together suspended on air
a head on a chest
a cute little stare
myopic in love
as myopic in life
sifted through sand
detected a knife
It slides down suspended within flesh
for all the joy, it brang
double in death
Two hands on two backs
content not a care
We slide together suspended on air
a head on a chest
a cute little stare
myopic in love
as myopic in life
sifted through sand
detected a knife
It slides down suspended within flesh
for all the joy, it brang
double in death
Wednesday
Soldier's Home by Ernest Hemingway
An important dichotomy in "Soldier's Home" is between the reality of war and of true existence compared to the supernal haven that those who haven't experienced it exist in. When Harold Krebs arrived in his hometown after his tour, "Krebs found that to be listened to he had to lie." When he lied, he betrayed the reality that he couldn't ignore. Later, Krebs stares at the hardening bacon fat on his plate when his mother asks him to pray. He believes that praying would be a lie to himself and his beliefs and focuses on something real and solid.
His mother also calls him “Harold” while the narrator refers to him as Krebs. The war took away the individuality granted by the name “Harold”, and her calling him this is also a form of a lie. All that comforts Krebs is reading about the battles in which he fought. In this, he accepts death and affirms reality. This shows the dichotomy between the "realities" the post-war community wants to impose on him and the reality of the world he understands from war.
When he consents to get a job, though, he ultimately elects to embrace a lie.
An important dichotomy in "Soldier's Home" is between the reality of war and of true existence compared to the supernal haven that those who haven't experienced it exist in. When Harold Krebs arrived in his hometown after his tour, "Krebs found that to be listened to he had to lie." When he lied, he betrayed the reality that he couldn't ignore. Later, Krebs stares at the hardening bacon fat on his plate when his mother asks him to pray. He believes that praying would be a lie to himself and his beliefs and focuses on something real and solid.
His mother also calls him “Harold” while the narrator refers to him as Krebs. The war took away the individuality granted by the name “Harold”, and her calling him this is also a form of a lie. All that comforts Krebs is reading about the battles in which he fought. In this, he accepts death and affirms reality. This shows the dichotomy between the "realities" the post-war community wants to impose on him and the reality of the world he understands from war.
When he consents to get a job, though, he ultimately elects to embrace a lie.
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