Agree

I do not see

why I should agree

with anyone else

but me.

 

 

It’s a chance that I take

to break out of this crate

in which, I’ve hidden

for too many years.

 

Jump you declare?

How do you dare?

 

This time,

I flat out,

refuse.

what’s wrong with my poetry

What’s wrong with my poetry?

I ask, again, after class.

While others conjure theatrical  images,

All I do is to sound crass.

I realise I avoid emotions,

View life through squeaky clean glass.

But they wallow in manufactured melancholy

and blow it out their ass.

So, what does it take to get the gold star?

The coveted pat on the head?

I suppose I ought not to give a shit.

But, still,  I wonder a bit.

Cats of Many Colours

CATS OF MANY COLOURS

Marmalade kitten

pie in my sky,

you’re the apple of this little girl’s eye.

Marmalade kitten

I’ll hold you tight.  Come on

let’s go home, right?

 

Tommy Oyster

my middle man

I couldn’t be a bigger fan.

Tommy Oyster

softest grey and white

Formal dress?  Let’s make it a night.

 

Dead cat

the colour of ebony

Why won’t my feelings flow?

Dead cat

Is it a felony?

At my age, I can’t let you go

What if Greece goes Bankrupt? Astrology suggests this might be for the Best!

What if Greece were to go bankrupt?  Astrology suggests this might well be for the best.

Using the Greek national chart of 13 January 1822 (based on the date of Greece’s Independence declaration from the Turks), we find that since 2010, transiting Pluto has been putting direct pressure on Greece’s natal Uranus/Neptune conjunction in Capricorn.

According to Liz Greene (The Outer Planets & Their Cycles, CRS Publications, Sebastopol, CA, 1996, pp 63-64) , Uranus/Neptune represents  ‘… the fantasy of the perfect state which is like a benign mother-god taking care of each individual and free of greed and aggression.’   Liz further suggests that with this conjunction the political system is really a religious vision.

Enter Pluto.

Pluto is about natural evolution.

Pluto is the Great Goddess ‘Necessity’; ignore her at your peril.

Pluto means survival of the fittest.

The Greeks have nothing to fear from Pluto if they’ve been dealing honesty with themselves by weeding out the deadwood as they’ve gone along.  But if they haven’t, then anything past its ‘sell-by’ date will be swept away.  If they fail to let go gracefully, Pluto will rape, steal, and pillage.  Pluto is an outlaw.  Pluto isn’t pretty.

To my mind, this suggests that Greece’s problems have little to do with finances and debt and getting these under control.  Instead, it has everything to do with changing the unrealistic expectations of a society which had become accustomed to a vision of  ‘Messiah’ in the form of a government that will be all things to all people.

Another EU financial bailout would only perpetuate this delusion a bit longer.

It’s time to let Pluto have her way.

---

 

Valentine’s Day / Flash Fiction/ Shards of glass

At last, the twins had fallen asleep and my mother was watching reruns on the telly.  Now was my chance.  Patting my purse, I slipped out the door and hurried down to the shops.  This would be Bob’s and my first Valentine’s Day together and it was going to be absolutely fabulous.  I was certain of that.

Although money was tight, by taking in some sewing I’d been able set aside enough for the perfect gift.  Before we’d met, Bob had been a real wine connoisseur.  That’s what his best mate, Jack,  had told me, and although Bob and I’d never shared anything more exotic than a pint of Fullers, it gave me great pleasure to know that, once upon a time, he had drunk only Chardonnay.

Gathering up my courage, I pushed open the door to the new wine shop on the corner of Market Street.  A little bell tinkled.  It sounded so jolly – just like at Christmas.  And there, on the counter, along with jars of cheeky chilli-pepper chutney and fat, white balls of goat’s cheese, was the pair of the most beautiful wine tasting goblets in the world  - Chef Sommelier – tall, sleek, and wondrously thin.

“How much?”  I asked even though I already knew.

“Fifty-two pounds.”  The leprechaun-like man stroked his beard.   “Gift wrap?  Extra five quid.”

I shook my head and glanced up at the clock.   Bob would be home any minute now and I still had to take his shirts to the cleaners.   He was very fussy about his shirts.  Understandable.  In his job, he had always to look his best.

Having misjudged the effect of rush hour traffic on the buses, I arrived at my neat little front door at just past quarter to six.

“What’s for dinner?” asked Bob, as he sat propped along with my mother in front of the telly with a beer.

“Hold your horses,” I said.  “First, I have to have a peek at the girls.”

In the safety of their room, I pressed out some silver wrapping paper I’d been saving for a special occasion.   After adding some curly red and white ribbon, I scribbled ‘I love you’ on the gift tag and rehearsed my presentation for the last time.

Sadly, nothing ever turns out as planned and at the last minute, instead of reciting my pretty poem, I just held out the package and smiled.

“What’s this?” he said.  “It’s not my birthday.”

“Valentine’s Day,” mumbled my mother.

“Oh,” he grunted and turned away.

“Open it,” I urged.  “Please?”

“Wine glasses?” He pulled a funny face.

“For your Chardonnay.”

“My chardonnay?”

“Just like in your wine connesisour days.  Jack told me all about it.”

“Jack’s full of shit.  How could you be so stupid as to believe a word he says?  By the way, how much did these cost?  They look expensive.”

“Fifty two pounds,” called my mother from the couch.

“You spent fifty two pounds on these?” he growled.  ”Are you crazy, woman?”

“I…I wanted…”

“I don’t care what you wanted.”  One by one, he heaved the goblets against the wall.  ”I want you to stop wasting my money.”

As shards of  glass shimmered back at me like cracked ice, I remembered the jolly little bell in the wine shop and picked up the broom.  Next Valentine’s Day would be absolutely fabulous.  I was certain of that.

Literary Criticism / passage from Winterson’s ‘The Passion’ – how did I do?

The following is an extract from Jeanette Winterson’s novel, The Passion.

After this, is my literary critique (close reading) of the passage.  It was written for a course.

How did I do?

…………………………

The surface of the canal had the look of polished jet.  I took off my boots slowly, pulling the laces loose and easing them free.  Enfolded between each toe were my own moons.  Pale and opaque.  Unused.  I had often played with them but I never thought they might be real.  My mother wouldn’t even tell me if the rumours were real and I have no boating cousins.  My brothers are gone away.

Could I walk on that water?

Could I?

I faltered at the slippery steps leading into the dark.  It was November, after all.  I might die if I fell in.  I tried balancing my foot on the surface and it dropped beneath into the cold nothingness.

Could a woman love a woman for more than a night?

I stepped out and in the morning they say a beggar was running round the Rialto talking about a young man who’d walked across the canal like it was solid.

I’m telling you stories.  Trust me.

 

When we met again I had borrowed an officer’s uniform.  Or more precisely, stolen it.

This is what happened.

At the Casino, well after midnight, a solider had approached me and suggested an unusual wager.  If I could beat him at billiards he would make me a present of his purse.  He held it up before me.  It was round and nicely padded and there must be some of my father’s blood in me because I have never been able to resist a purse.

And if I lost?  I was to make him a present of my purse.  There was no mistaking his meaning. 

We played, cheered on by a dozen bored gamblers and, to my surprise, the solider played well.  After a few hours at the Casino nobody plays anything well.

I lost.

We went to his room and he was a man who like his women face down, arms outstretched like the crucified Christ.  He was able and easy and soon fell asleep.   He was also about my height.  I left him his shirt and boots and took the rest.

 

She greeted me like an old friend and asked me straight away about the uniform.

‘You’re not a solider.’

‘It’s fancy dress.’

I began to feel like Sarpi, that Venetian priest and diplomat, who said he never told a lie but didn’t tell the truth to everyone.  Many times that evening as we ate and drank and played dice I prepared to explain.  But my tongue thickened and my heart arose up in self-defence.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………..

 

This engaging passage is from Winterson’s postmodern, metafictional, magical realism novel, The Passion. [1]  In it, our heroine (Villanelle)[2] uses her romance with the married ‘Queen of Spades’ to investigate the discourse of (lesbian) passion through the motif of games of chance.[3]  That the reference to a deck of playing cards is the only clue to the identity of the object of Villanelle’s passion is significant.  In ancient myths, to know one’s name was to hold power over her.

Names are power.

Words are power.

Who controls this power?

Not you.

Not Villanelle.

Not me.

According to Christopher Butler, the most important postmodern ethical concern is the relationship between discourse and power (Postmodernism – A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002, p.44).  Through the discourse of power we are normalised – made ‘uniform’ – by inviolable truths thrust at us by advertisers, and political and religious leaders.  (Butler, 50). By pushing back at the boundaries between ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’, Winterson asks us to challenge the discourse of power.   To do this, we must suspend our most cherished beliefs and what better way to do that than through ‘fiction?’

According to the Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, magical realism is a kind of modern fiction in which ’fabulous and fantastical events are included in a narrative that otherwise maintains the reliable tone of objective realistic report.’ Magical realism urges the reader to set aside her usual assumptions and see her world through new eyes.  Magical realism turns away from science and empiricism and returns to folklore and mysticism in order to undermine the establishment’s established ‘truth’.  Only in this way can we hope to explore different ‘truths’ about our world and how we live in it.

 

‘Could a woman love a woman for more than a night?’

 

According to the Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, metafiction is a ‘fiction about fiction’, which ‘openly comments on its own fictional status.’  The technique is purposefully jarring so as to refocus the reader’s attention from the story to the process of storytelling.  The technique, especially in conjunction with the first person narrative, is often used for self-reflection.  First person narrative always raises issues as to narrator reliability.  In the same way that we listen to a friend relating a story, we are aware that it is filtered through her perceptions and prejudices.

This is wholly appropriate for our friend, Villanelle.  For even as she searches for meaning, she reminds us that – in the end, it might all be fiction.

I’m telling you stories.  Trust me.’

As friends, we do trust her.  Equally, forewarned is forearmed.  Why the exhortation if all were as it would seem to be?  The heightened tension forces us, as Winterson doubtless desires, to pay even closer attention to the text.

 

‘Could a woman love a woman for more than a night?’

For readers to creatively address this question, Winterson must craft an atmosphere in which such things appear possible.  This she does par excellence.  Through imagery, we slip into the soft, slow, dreamy world of nighttime where, from personal experience, we know the borderlands of reality are blurred.

In the first paragraph, we discover that the surface of the ‘canal’ has the look of ‘polished jet’; we begin to relax with the onomatopoeia – polished – the ‘shhh’ of our mother encouraging us to stop fussing and fall asleep.   We sink further into the reverie as Villanelle takes her boots off ‘slowly’, pulls the laces ‘loose’, and eases them ‘free’.  We are invited to ‘play’ with her as she examines her own ‘moons’ (webbed feet) – ‘pale and opaque’ – ‘moons’ that even she is not certain are ‘real’.  The invoked lunar world is akin to the unconscious – a fascinating – yet dangerous place – in which intuition and feeling take precedence over rationality and thought.  Here, anything can happen.  Here, things really do go bump in the dark.

“Could I walk on that water?”  With this example of intertextuality, we are launched into the metaphysical, miraculous world of faith.  With this example of intertextuality, our spiritual selves are challenged to rise above the negativity of the material world to be fully realised in the bosom of God. By referencing the Bible (Matthew 14:22-33), Winterson cleverly triggers brand awareness.  God is a powerful spin-doctor.

Names are power.

Words are power.

Who controls this power?

Not you.

Not Villanelle.

Not me.

The powerful truth is that, without faith, there is no redemption.  Be not afraid.  Yet doubt not, we are not safe.  Without faith, we could still ‘falter’ at the ‘slippery steps leading into the dark’ and ‘die’ in the ‘cold nothingness’.  But if like Villanelle, we have faith to ‘step out’ of our normalised selves, we too, might walk ‘across the canal like it was solid.’  And this canal is not just any canal, but one at the Rialto in Venice.  It is entirely in keeping with the metaficitional technique for our story to be set in such a carnivalesque atmosphere.  It is entirely in keeping with magical realism to utilise hybridity.  By introducing a ‘real’ place into the magical (fictional) world – we are yet again reminded that there might be multiple planes of reality.

 

‘Could a woman love a woman for more than a night?’

 

In the next paragraph, Winterson introduces another dimension of the discourse of (lesbian) passion – gender politics.  Here, we find yet another metafictional reminder that as readers, we stand between the narrator and the story she relates.  ‘This is what happened.’ Do we believe?  Should we believe?  After all, if Villanelle were not trustworthy, then why would she take us into her confidence and explain that actually, she had not ‘borrowed’ the soldier’s uniform, but ‘stolen’ it?   Yet it is ‘well after midnight’ at the ‘Casino’.  Here, anything can happen.  Here, things really do go bump in the dark.

In this sequence, Winterson uses variations of the word ‘play’ three times in quick succession.  Repetition hammers home her theme that to achieve insight, we must enter into the spirit of play.  Such an invocation is a common feature in postmodern fiction.   Are we, as readers, willing to take a chance and ‘play’?  After all, it is an ‘unusual’ wager.

Or is it?  If we (women) win, we get a man’s ‘nicely padded purse’ (money and all that it offers).  If we lose, we forfeit our ‘purse’ – our female sexuality – our passion – our selves.  With this example of metonymy, we are confronted with the quid-pro-quo aspect of gender politics.  Oddly, although this association might be unpleasant, it makes sense if we take the time to consider it.  After all, even though most of us would not consider ourselves prostitutes, we realise that there is some element of bargain in our own gender politics.

Could the price of ‘playing’ ever be too high?

‘I lost.’

‘Face down’ and ‘arms outstretched’ – Villanelle is used by the solider ‘like the crucified Christ.’ Such imagery reminds us of the price both men and women pay for redemption from the ‘original sin’ (reputably) committed by a woman.  However, if we (women) are clever, we still might turn this around.  Villanelle does. Because the ‘officer’ (who is no gentlemen) was ‘about (her) height’, our heroine is able to steal his ‘uniform’ and, in effect, change places with him.

Donning uniforms make us ‘uniform’, normalised.  I am told that English schoolchildren wear uniforms for just this purpose.  Further, uniforms endow us, for better or worse, with the stereotyped qualities of those who usually wear them.  We’re in the army now.  Soldiers wear ‘uniforms’.  Soldiers are men.  In the ‘uniform’ world, women love men not women.

 

‘Could a woman love a woman for more than a night?’

 

When her ladylove suggests that despite her uniform, Villanelle is not a ‘soldier’, she replies that ‘it’s fancy dress’.  This conjures images of a masked ball, during which we have an opportunity to dress up and play at being something other than ourselves.  Being other than ourselves allows for self-reflection.  First person narrative always raises issues as to narrator reliability.  In the same way that we listen to ourselves relating a story, we are aware our stories are filtered through our perceptions and prejudices.  This is wholly appropriate for us.  For even as we search for meaning, we remind ourselves that – in the end, it might all be fiction.

‘I began to feel like Sarpi,’ says Villanelle.  ‘That Venetian priest and diplomat, who said he never told a lie but didn’t tell the truth to everyone.’  With this example of hybridity, we are yanked back from the brink.  Google Sarpi.  He is not fiction.  Villanelle’s statement is also a paradox.  Oddly, it makes sense if we take the time to consider it.  After all, even though most of us would not consider ourselves liars, we realize that we do not always tell the truth.

Many times during the evening of eating, drinking, and playing ‘dice’, Villanelle is ‘prepared to explain’ but her ‘tongue thickened’ and her ‘heart rose up in self-defence.’  Who among us have not had a similar response when faced with the possibility of losing that for which we have a passion?  Might we be more like Villanelle than we’d like to believe and if we are, where does that leave us in regards to whom we’ve believed ourselves to be?

‘Could a woman love a woman for more than one night?’

 

Winterson’s emphasis on play as well as her playful writing style seems to suggest that not only will we will never have an answer, but also we ought not to care.  As with all postmodern works, the question posed by the author is never the same as that answered by the reader.  Each of us has her own reality and – as the saying goes – fact is stranger than fiction.

Names are power.

Words are power.

Who controls this power?

Not you.

Not Villanelle.

Not me.

‘I’m telling you stories.  Trust me.’

­­­­­­­­­

---

[1] Winterson has chosen to write this novel in the Romantic Tradition that, according to the Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, relates ‘improbable adventures of idealized characters in some remote or enchanted setting’. Her choice supports the purpose of postmodern literature, which means to examine the impact of words on our lives. According to Peter Otto (“Literary Theory,” An Oxford Companion to the Romantic Age – British Culture 1776-1832, ed. Ian McCalman, Oxford University Press (1999), pp. 378-385), romance is intended to focus a reader’s ‘response to objects’ in such a way as to allow him to better ‘examine (his) passion.’  This is precisely the effect Winterson intends to achieve.

[2] In my chosen portion of text, Villanelle’s name is never disclosed.  However it is interesting to note that the poetic form, villanelle, is often used to express passion. The sledgehammer effect produced the two rhyming lines (aba) is potent and obsessive. Although Winterson does not utilize the villanelle form in my selected passage, her style is similarly repetitive and obsessive and I suspect that the name chosen for her heroine is no coincidence.

[3] While this section of the novel deals with lesbian – non-uniform – passion, other sections deal with other manifestations of passion.

Related articles

• Review: The Passion by Jeanette Winterson (tonguesophistries.wordpress.com)
• Not Your Same Old Magical Realism: New Mexican Stories of the Fantastic [Video] (io9.com)
• VIDEO: Winterson: ‘My mother was a monster’ (bbc.co.uk)
• Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? by Jeanette Winterson (nellafreund.wordpress.com)

Today you can win back your dignity and self respect

With the sun in Aquarius  (breakthrough and reform ) and the moon in Libra (  harmony and peace), today is Six of Swords Day.  It is also the first day we’ve seen the sun in Oxford for some time.

The Six of Swords is not a happy card.  Yet it does suggest some sense of harmony resulting from coming to terms with yourself.  Each of us has strengths and weaknesses.  But in today’s world of constant competition, it is all to easy to identify with what you do wrong rather than what you do right.

The serene state suggested by the Six of Swords does not spring from the tranquil heart as it might do with the Six of Cups, but rather from a tranquil mind.

In his essay ‘Answer to Job’, Carl Jung suggests that physical reality is just one kind of reality.    If someone holds a belief (regardless of whether it is possible or not of physical manifestation) and such belief holds meaning for that person, then that belief is as real as anything else.

Scary – when you come to think about it.

Even scarier if you’ve come to believe that you don’t measure up.

I win – you lose.   For better or worse, this is the world in which we live in today.

On a Six of Swords Day, you can utilise your mind’s capacity for understanding to help come to terms with the negative beliefs you’ve piled on about yourself.   On a Six of Swords Day,  you can win back your dignity and self-respect.

The Unexpected Benefits of Shame

In his highly readable book, A Blissful Journey,  Geshe Kelsand Gyatos suggests that instead of being a punishment, shame  restrains us from doing that which the person that we wish (or ought to wish) ourselves to be ought not to do.

In this context shame is not a painful conclusion, but a joyous opportunity.

For Buddhists, shame is the frontline defence against inappropriate actions.  Such actions not only produce negative karma (locking you into the painful cycle of rebirth) but also lead to difficult rebirths.

But even non-Buddhists find inappropriate actions to be trouble.  Folks tend to get annoyed when one steals, murders, and cheats.   Likewise, they shy away from those who frequently lose their temper and fail to honour their commitments.  Indeed, during the course of a single day, you are confronted with a whole host of activities that someone considers inappropriate. If you wished to comply with all of them, you might as well just stay home.

The reality of life is that we cannot always abide by an external set of rules when deciding what we should or should not do.

Yet assuming that you want to be ethical, what standard might you use?

I suggest using your own ‘sense of shame’.

Assume that you wished to use your mobile phone in a place where it was prohibited.  You might be tempted to do it anyway – especially if you were (1) in a hurry, (2) pretty sure it wouldn’t harm anyone , and (3) fairly certain you wouldn’t be caught.  If – prior to giving way to temptation – you considered how you’d feel if you were caught, you’d have your answer.

If you’d feel embarrassed or guilty, then deep down you know that you ought not do it.  This is regardless of the logical arguments you might make to the contrary.

However, if you truly wouldn’t be fussed, then you might as well give it a try.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being – Saturn & Jupiter in Existential Balance

Astrologically, we equate responsibility with Saturn.  With Saturn, we undertake our duties and obligations seriously and in this way, we achieve.

When things go wrong however, we’re more reluctant to take responsibility. Thus the downside of Saturn is fault and blame.

In On the Genealogy of Morals (3:15), Nietzsche has suggested that fault and blame are the bitter fruits of ‘responsibility’.  This is because in our society, responsibility is not understood in terms of our ‘ability to respond’ but instead in terms of the spirit of revenge.

In existentialist terms, the spirit of revenge is a powerful narcotic that numbs the inevitable pain and misery of existence.  ’Shit happens’.  It happens despite the ‘best laid plans of mice and men’.

When we respect misfortune as an inevitable part of living, we can utilise our innate ability to respond to life  (Nietzsche).

But whilst embraced by the spirit of revenge, no man can respect true misfortune.  He can have no understanding of the context in which misfortune manifests.  Focused on channelling his passions into vengefulness and spite, such a man can never respect, let alone love,  anybody or anything.

Only a foolish man believes that each misfortune which befalls him, was intentionally directed at him.   Yet many of us do just that.

A more productive approach might be to take ourselves less seriously.   This might be achieved through the more positive aspects of irresponsibility – i.e. having lightheaded fun.  Not only does  light-heartedness promote health, but it also helps us to learn – and accept – basic realities about life.

The natural antidote of Saturn is Jupiter.  When Jupiter  functions properly,  we are optimistic, take chances and have good luck.  Too much Jupiter however leads to extravagance and frivolity – hence the bad associations with irresponsibility.

In my book, balance is the key to health and happiness.  It would seem Nietzsche might agree.  According to him (in a theme developed by Kundera in his novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being), the heaviest burden (responsibility) is also boundless freedom (irresponsibility).

In this regard, taking responsibility for your own life allows you to accept it for what it is – a game of chance in which sometimes you win… and sometimes you lose.

Blaming yourself or others achieves nothing but more pain.

The Dangers of Individuality – The Sabian Symbol for Today

With the Sun moving towards 24 Leo, the Sabian Symbol for today is an ‘untidy, unkempt man’.

Usually with Leonine energy, we think of proud playfulness, openhearted generosity, and confident charm.   But sometimes, it can all go wrong.

The ruler of Leo is the Sun, which can be equated with the Ego – that part of your personality that maintains the balance between impulses (‘id’) and conscience (‘superego’).   When balance is achieved, you have the unruffled self-assurance so often associated with Leo.  Actually, you’d expect nothing else.   Leo is ‘fixed fire’.  The Leonine ego must come to terms with itself by turning not to the world outside, but instead to within.

Yet after such intense soul-searching, it’s imperative to share your hard-won wisdom with your fellow man.  Most spiritual traditions emphasis this final leg of the Self’s journey as the most important.  This makes perfect sense as Leo’s balancing energy is to be found in its opposite -Aquarius -the epitome of social responsibility and the egalitarian ideal.

But when the ego fails to find balance, the result is complete self-obsession and an unattractive insensitivity to the wider world.

Today’s Sabian less is not just for Leo, but also for everyone.  Individuality is key to human happiness.  But without balance, the exact opposite is attained.  Hence we find the image of this Sabian Symbol – a negative, perverse satisfaction in the neglect of self.