Cacophony and Euphoria

Blindness - Saramago

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 04:07:53 GMT

I'm new to this community and am enjoying your posts and insight. The book I'd like to complain about is entitled Blindness by José Saramago. This book won 1998 Nobel Prize for Literature and I cannot fathom why.

Saramago's Blindness is an apocalyptic tale, describing the catastrophe and horror of a pandemic blindess. Victims of this sudden and mysterious blindness are doomed to see only white (instead of black -- how wonderfully creative). The story is told through the eyes of the one woman who has inexplicably been spared by the illness . She describes how the ill are quarantined, left for dead; she shows how governments crumble and ociety falls apart. Through her point of view,we witness tensions, and victories, between groups and individuals. We realize how difficult it is to band together when no one can see.

Sounds like a good storyline in theory -- but it just isn't. For a book without much narrative, one expects at least a strong theme; or great character develop; or some evocation of strong emotions. This book brought me nothing. The characters are completely one-dimensional, the storyline has been done countless of times through better dystopic novels.

The worst part though, is Saramego's incoherent, run-on sentences and lack of punctuation. An average sentence extends for 3 or 4 lines and comprises 60 words. However, there was one sentence in the middle of the book that lasted two pages. There is no puntuation to differentiate when characters are speaking. The whole thing is a mess. At first, I thought it was to add chaos and a sense of confusion to a story where everyone was blind. Apparently not-- he writes everything in this fashion. I challenge you to look up this book on line and read an except. It is simply horrifying. I was so frustrated with this book; the only reason I kept reading was to see what all the fuss was about.

This story has been acclaimed for being a brilliant parable, but I fail to see what is so brilliant about a rehashed storyline if there is no additional benefit of interesting characters, good dialogue, narrative intrigue, or evocative moments. Sometimes, I feel like prize committees just look for the craziest thing out there and try to play it off as avant-garde and artsy, when really, it is just pure crap. If a high school or university student tried to hand this in for a creative writing class, I guarentee they would fail.

Thu, 05 Feb 2009 05:38:39 GMT

Look Now!

The dozen twinkling slivers,
That sliced through the open sky—
Waved majestically—
But retreated far too soon.
So that when, at last, I blinked against,
the weight of heavy-lidded eyes,
All that was left to wish on,
was the shadow of the moon.

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 06:44:17 GMT

Something of the night wind's whistle
made me remember what he once said--
a stranger's pain in grave admission
of his love wishing he were dead
and in my head the words, they flitted
colours like the sounds they made
where red meant stop not love or passion
but green meant growth not go ahead

Wed, 02 Jan 2008 09:00:45 GMT

I am awake in the middle of the night, shedding tears in the dark. If someone were to walk into the room to see me slumped in my bed, covers curled around my waist, tissue-box at my side, with only the soft light from the monitor to highlight my furrowed brow and reddened nose, he or she might conclude that I am grieving. A photograph of this scene may compel sympathy, evoke concern, rouse compassion. But as photographer Diane Arbus once said, “A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.”

The first secret: the only thing keeping me up is a cold.

The second: while there are reasons for me to be weeping and clutching a broken heart through the wall of my chest, these tears are merely a symptom.

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 04:27:57 GMT

Exploring Nostalgia

I love late-night trips to fetch small items whose luxury is often mistaken as necessity. In particular, the procurement of milk evokes strong nostalgia. I am reminded of childhood sleepovers and carefree summers, where the urge to bake at 2am would overcome us and the trips became as much a tool to strengthen friendships as a symbol of ever-growing freedom. We'd talk all night as earthy scents from the open window mingled with the scent of rising muffins and jolted our displaced memories into immediate thought.

I love when the rain falls so heavily that the windows are slick with water and the trees and flowers become abstract distortions. I love leaning into the window and feeling the aura of moisture and coldness on my skin without actually touching the glass. I feel like I'm in a watercolour painting, where an untaught and heavy hand has driven the colours to viciously attack each other and bleed deeply on the canvas battlefied. I feel the draw of romanticized passion and violence without ever having to suffer true bruises.

I love objects with deep histories; that belonged to someone else before they fell to me. When I run my hand over woodgrain, or polished stone, or cool steel, or velvety plush, I love to feel not only the differential sensation along my fingertips but also the ghostly touches that preceded mine. When the surface of the material reflects what past eyes have stored in their keeping, my heart feels lighter for learning another's story without polluting the silence.

I connect with objects because of their unbiased ability to capture emotion. With paper, I remember the secrets I've shared; with glass, the sadness I've experienced; with wire, my frustrations; with beads and thread, my restlessness; with photographs, my inspiration. In the same way that I love translating thought to poetry--so that others can feel what I am feeling without ever knowing my mind--I also love reading old words. It comforts me to know that there exists a vessel where humans can be both exposed and hidden; where we can record images of our pasts, without having to taint the actual scenes with the inaccuracy of biography.

Nostalgia is sweet and heavy like cheesecake and irish coffee. I have been nibbling and sipping for months now and the nausea is finally setting in.

Thu, 28 Dec 2006 10:37:15 GMT

Illness may be a Consequence of Labelling Alone

We often speak of our desires in layperson's terms; expressing our unusual activities and sentiments in the language of the normal and socially-accepted. However, the affixation of certain words to ordinary behavior can suddenly categorize it as taboo, irregular, dangerous. We can be both normal and deviant depending upon our choice of words.

Heterogeneity Precludes the Discovery of Truth

From the study of epidemiology, I have learned that truth is based on our perception of reality and dependant on our sample population, our methodology and our interpretations. I have learned that the truth is esentially unknown and our experimentation will drive us closer to it if we are systematic, unbiased, consistent and thorough. However, all scientific studies have flaws, no matter how stringent the methods are or how meticulous the scientists are. Yet, if truth is not possible in this realm of anal-retention, how can truth be possible under any normal circumstance? Most humans live their lives without systematic guidelines. We act and react inconsistently, we record our memories haphazardly, we let biases and paranoia affect our inferences. For this reason, the truth is far more scattered in reality than it is in a controlled lab or clinical environment. Everyday, I hear more versions of the truth. At least in science, I can choose to believe the faction with the greatest body of evidence. Here, I cannot choose. There are no liars because despite the differences in the story, everyone is telling the truth.

Behaviour is Dependant on the Environmental Stimuli

To state the obvious: different people react differently to different stimulus. Sometimes our choice of a confidante is not based on trust of the individual but rather on the reaction we are hoping to avoid or acquire. Because unexpected actions lead to differential interpretations of our personality, it is often best to be suffer our secrets silently in order to maintain our relationships.

Sun, 22 Oct 2006 18:37:35 GMT

a stranger spoke a secret,
and i knew not what to do,
i said 'i can only listen--
but the choice is up to you'

Mon, 09 Oct 2006 06:44:59 GMT

"We forget our guilt when we have confessed it to another, but the other does not usually forget it"
-Nietzsche

Mon, 28 Aug 2006 06:13:07 GMT

the joy is captured
not by the manufactured image
but by the muddy rainbows
underneath my fingernails

Sat, 12 Aug 2006 05:54:16 GMT

Snell's Law

I dream
an image of you
obscured by interfering waves.
your depth so distorted
i cannot grasp your hand--
even at the calculated angle.

Tue, 08 Aug 2006 03:53:38 GMT

Under the lens the glaze is only eggwhite,
the marble is mere shale,
the potions you've been brewing, base—
the only gold, locked in my eyes.
But even without forgery's aid
I cannot deny or match,
your sweet, unyielding beauty;
though imperfect under glass.

Fri, 30 Jun 2006 13:49:47 GMT

A child I loved grew inches,

And our laughter slipped away,

Until what I considered night’s birth,

Became the murder of each day.

The sun was once a phoenix,

Whose dusk feathers were red beams,

That brought colour to our bedtime tales,

And guided stories, into dreams.

But children sprout by inches,

And then they grow by feet,

And though out heights grow ever closer,

Our worlds no longer meet.

So day’s end became the slaughter,

Of the blazing pheonix head,

And the blood, staining the horizon,

Darkens the doorway to my bed.

And as I watch day dying,

I feel tiny hands in mine—

The sun may resurrect tomorrow,

But we’re still victims of cruel time.

Sat, 17 Jun 2006 20:53:26 GMT

the addiction

drown them with that burning drink
that does not come from vial
and smoke them with that smouldering stick
without subjecting self to fire.
see them through the filter
of the never-resting eye.
melt them with the brilliance
of mind’s dream-coloured light
strike them with the very weight,
that presses deep into your chest.
as you smother cheek in down,
be rid of them in rest.

Fri, 19 May 2006 03:38:49 GMT

"It is not enough to be in the possesion of genius--the time and the man must conjoin. An Alexander the Great, born into an age of profound peace, might scarce have troubled the world--a Newton, grown up in a thieves' den might have devised little but a new and ingenious picklock"
- Diversions of Historical Thought, John Cleveland Cotton

"The microbe is nothing; the terrain everything" - Louis Pasteur

Despite who we are, or who we try to be, we cannot realize our dreams if our environments do not support us.

Tue, 21 Mar 2006 05:06:40 GMT

i love the gratuitous use of exclamation marks in emails that i expected to be formal. i love when those who seem eternally stoic throw in a smiley face at the end of their sentences. i love the break in convention and the allusion to feelings embedded within the simple text.

Wed, 01 Feb 2006 03:57:01 GMT

He spoke about inspired air,
And did so, without pomp or flair,
As if, somehow, enlightened, he may be—
He spoke the words in even tone,
And suddenly, I felt alone,
For I felt no muses stirring within me.
His speech was slow, but my thoughts, fast,
Until finally, and at long last,
I understood what his phrases meant!
I breathed a sigh (of inspired air),
There was no extra meaning there—
He spoke just of air, and not of vision, spent.

Thu, 26 Jan 2006 03:34:29 GMT

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I’ve come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left it’s seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
’neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of
A neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one deared
Disturb the sound of silence.

Fools said i,you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you.
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon God they made.
And the sign flashed out it’s warning,
In the words that it was forming.
And the signs said, the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls.
And whisper’d in the sounds of silence.

- Simon and Garfunkel

Sat, 14 Jan 2006 03:57:27 GMT

there was a time when i would catch glimpses of unreal places from the corner of my eye. The movements in the bushes were from gossamer wings, not sparrows. now, when i think of hands, instead of remembering touch and smoothness and warmth, i think instead of muscles and bones; of flexor digitorum and the carpi. instead of the rough indentations of willow tree bark, i think of salicylic acid, then carbon. the tear-shaped leaves on the waspy branches remind me only of chlorophyll. i don't think of glee or joy, but seratonin.

i live to break down the world down into smaller parts...but look at what is happening. the world is breaking me down first. i guess everything does have an equal and opposite reaction.

Wed, 16 Nov 2005 07:29:25 GMT

Transition State

When stepping into puddles,
Elicits only goaded sighs,
And you long to call a plumber,
To mend the faucets in the sky,
And the dew, beading on flowers,
Seems to only weigh them down,
So that under wind-swept water,
Their bending stems make frowns,
And the shimmer of the pavement,
Threatens your harried pace
And droplets on the windows,
Reflect as teardrops on your face,
Then your heart has lost its wonder,
For that wonder’s soaked and torn,
And there is no more childhood,
just a growing adult scorn.

Fri, 23 Sep 2005 06:24:50 GMT

I read this the other day:

The Eskimo asked the local missionary priest, "If I did not know about God and Sin, would I go to Hell?"
"No," said the Priest, "not if you did not know."
"Then why," asked the Eskimo earnestly, "did you tell me?"

Wed, 10 Aug 2005 22:03:29 GMT

a chinese proverb says that the summer insect cannot talk of ice.

this is the largest challenge for a writer; to be in the position of the the summer insect, trying describe things i have never experienced and thus, cannot understand.

Tue, 02 Aug 2005 04:03:41 GMT

kayak ride

hidden by green sprawl and dying tree,
a tribe of yellow dancers gathered,
the light, reflected by the water,
danced along their floating feet.
mouths open, and awaiting kiss,
the dragonflies delivered message,
of the golden lovers’ trysts.
as i, alone, and jealous,
drove a paddle through still water
to a place that knew no passion,
only a decrepit sort of bliss.

Circle, circle

Fri, 01 Jul 2005 02:49:22 GMT

I came home inspired by the abating heat; hypnotized by the way the breeze directed a synchronized grazing of skirts against assorted thighs and knees. I watched white skim mocha, pink caress cream, green tickle ebony and all other sensations and colours in between. I saw a sea of calves made solid by the pressure of tall, strapping heels.

I slipped into the crowd and disappeared. I slipped into the crowd and heard the click of a million footsteps; felt the beat of a million hearts; and when I looked up, saw a million dreams tucked behind shielded eyes.

My purple bag thudded against the side of my leg as I walked at a quick, but unrushed pace. I felt the craft box bump against my calf and thought of its innards; of the vibrant and pearl-glazed glass beads; of fishing line and embroidery thread; of enough feather covered paintings to fill a shoebox, emptied of its lean, pointed stilettos.

June ended as it began: with the passionate weather gods making enough love to fill the world with a thick and humid cloud. It ended with skirted beauties calling out for attention but unknowingly blending into a leviathan abstraction. It ended, for me, with the same wonder, with which it began— with the unmoving air pregnant with its deep and muted hope, and its swelling frustration.

Though I felt it, I never came to know a single stranger’s hopes and dreams. I fed off of their quiet desires and unconsciously shared mine. They must have felt the aura of sorrow and joy that trailed me, but they would never know what was in my heart, or in my bag. I was reduced, just as they were to me, to the residue of a feeling. To a pair of legs swept under blue flowers and brushed by a bouncing purple bag.

Tue, 14 Jun 2005 01:31:08 GMT

mmm, i love the moody anticipation before a storm. it gets me so pleasantly frustrated when the humidity builds and a communal tension gathers in the air. people act differently when the sky darkens; it becomes all the more apparent in large crowds, for this is where the animalistic instincts are most prevalent and observable.

then as the first droplets crash on the pavement, the tension is broken. as the first drops splatter, all the ripening edginess is released. strangers waiting for buses are united by the sharing of umbrellas. good-natured laughter erupts as they pour into shelters, with the water scars slashing their urbane attire.

i love a good storm.

Sun, 13 Mar 2005 01:16:46 GMT

Starving Artist

Cheap erasers
leave ghostly faces
that haunt the landscapes
of the off-white pages