The Dave Matthews Band's Before These Crowded Streets did not always have radio-friendly singles. Significant trimming had to happen with "Crush", for example, and their more intricate songs like "Spoon" and "Pig" never got airtime. "Don't Drink the Water" was, if I recall correctly, also abbreviated for the radio. "Stay (Wasting Time)" did see airplay and it is one of the few times I feel that the song was better abbreviated. The ebullient energy of the song wears me out. By the time the closing riff is performed for its twenty-second (!) time, I'm definitely ready to go--not something that you want from a song called "Stay", though it does feel fitting for the "(Wasting Time)" part of it. If this makes it sound as if I don't like this song, you're jumping to conclusions. I do enjoy "Stay", albeit in a more abbreviated form. Repetition has always been a hallmark of Dave Matthews' music--you don't get 15 minute long jam-sessions when playing live if you aren't repeating at least some of the musical motif--and it has varying degrees of success. I think the circular patterns of "Satellite" and "Rhyme and Reason" (both from the band's Under the Table and Dreaming album) utilize the repetition in a way that emphasizes the different themes of the songs while also providing room for texture and reinterpretation throughout the repeats. "Stay" has many delightful textures and movements…it just takes too long at the end, repeating again and again the same enthusiastic mandate to "Stay on in!" and insisting that it "Makes you wanna, makes you wanna…stay!" That's the ending of the song, however: The rest of the song is a joy. Opening with a crisp, unabashed B flat, "Stay" introduces the primary guitar part--beautifully doubled to allow a more compact version of the chord progression to be embellished and emphasized by an alternative fingering pattern. Songs in B flat don't allow for a lot of open notes on a standard-tuned guitar, and while Matthews may have tuned down a half-step for this song, it wouldn't be necessary. (Watching the music video, I'm almost positive that he didn't play a tuned-down guitar; seeing him live, he doesn't change out his instrument unless going from a six-string to a twelve-string or a bass.) This leads me to assume that he simply keeps control of his strings, rather than letting an open note come through and ruin his jam. For a guitarist as sloppy as I am, part of what I like about playing this song is the tightness. I can punch the B flat 5 or the more robust B flat major chord and both sound good, if in different ways. The song builds off of the chord progression steadily, adding the bass, drums, and then the bigger sounds of the saxophone and subtle strains of the violin. This consistent layering builds the euphoria of the song, which in turn enhances the lyrics. I find it interesting that the chorus steps back from the energy of the intro and verse--fewer chords are strummed and the pickwork is also reduced. The chord progression is simple (E flat to F to E flat to C and so on), but the voicing is peculiar: Instead of playing an E flat major, Matthews elects to play an "Ebmaj7(no3rd)" (which looks like nonsense to me; one of the reasons, I suppose, I'm stuck playing tabs instead of sight reading real music) and an Fsus4. In other words, the slight variations on his chords help to maintain the lightness that the chorus is supposed to allow. Much like a roller coaster that needs to take the cart back to the top of the hill, the chorus goes easy on us so that we can be pushed back into the more frenetic verse. The interlude's saxophone riff is one of my favorites of the band's repertoire, not only for its apparent simplicity, but its overall attitude. I just…dig it. It's groovy, staccato and precise, clean and memorable. Normally, if there's going to be an instrumental solo of some sort, I prefer the guitar--I've a bias, you see--but I think part of what I love about this song is how perfectly the sax fits into this piece. Playing it acoustically--which is how I listen to most of this album nowadays--it is much less satisfying to plunk out the fifteen or so notes than hearing that brassy hoot running down the scale. And, though I prefer to incorporate the whole song rather than the abbreviated music video--and going against everything I said at the beginning of this essay--I do regret not having the powerful, enthusiastic final note of the song ring out. This song isn't designed to fade out…it ends as emphatically as it begins. I guess that shows you can't have it all. The lyrics are as follows: We were walking Unlike the politically charged accusations and satire of the previous two songs, "Stay" is very much an afternoon in New Orleans (or, at least, I feel that it works so well in the music video to have the pre-Katrina New Orleans dancing and parading in the streets that I assume that the song takes place there). Matthews' most frequent muse--romance, flirtation, love, sexuality--comes to play throughout the song. As far as a counterpoint to "Don't Drink the Water" and running into the darkness of "Halloween", "Stay" almost feels out of place were it not for the fact that it's the exact sort of reprieve the heavier material requires. Much like "Pantala Naga Pampa" and "Rapunzel", "Stay is a lighthearted affair. It's about incredible moments that feel like they're instantaneously too short while lasting forever. "For a moment this good time would never end" is beautifully paradoxical and part of the reason why the song is constructed the way it is (even if I get bored in the final twenty measures).
Lyrically, there isn't a lot of symbolism or depth, I would argue: It's pretty much on the surface. Still, the descriptions rendered are interesting. I particularly enjoy the image of a hot day's back being broken by rain clouds, in part because I used to live in Miami. There were days--many days, I should say--where the heat would be so oppressive and thick that all I wanted was some rain. Of course, the rain would never last, so the heat would return after the storm, making everything muggier and hotter than it was before. Still, the reprieve, while it was there, was a beautiful thing. While on the topic of the lyrics: I don't think Matthews necessarily has a fascination or obsession with sweat, though I do find it strange to see it here and, a few years later, in their Stand Up album, as part of the lyrics in "Dreamgirl". And, from a practical and hygienic point of view, the opening verse is not something that I personally find romantic. What may work, though, is the responsibility-free moments we occasionally get with those whom we love. For me, I see this entire song about taking advantage of a rare, wonderful day where things are just the way they ought to be. That's the kind of world in which we'd willingly waste some time…where we just want to stay. I beat Final Fantasy VIII for what is, I believe, the third time in my life. The game was released twenty years ago and has been a divisive entry into the franchise's storied history the entire time.
I, a fast and furious fan of Final Fantasy VII, insisted that my mom buy me a copy of the game the day it came out whilst I was still at school, so I could start it as soon as I got home. There are vague memories of my mom giving me a hard time about not being able to find it…or the people at Target not knowing something about it? I can't remember that part; I just recall that I spent a lot of time listening to The Aquabats versus the Floating Eye of Death! album and grinding away with Squall and friends. Maybe the nascent at-home Internet connection led me to some walkthroughs or perhaps it was an actual guide (though I doubt it; I have no memories of using a printed guide), but I recall sitting in my brother's bedroom (where the PlayStation was), one toe on the X button so that the characters would automatically attack the bad guys and my hands would be free to work on my pre-calculus homework. I happened upon a strategy of having Irvine injured so badly that he could automatically use his Limit Break, as well as the Initiative ability so that he would start the round first, then blasting away the mini cactuar monsters in order to give my Guardian Forces extra AP as quickly as possible. I remember getting into arguments with kids at school about how the "fantasy" part of Final Fantasy didn't preclude (not that I used that word) it from being an actual fantasy, despite the high-tech world. Debates about who was better, Cloud or Squall (answer: Cloud), probably also came along with my first experience with Final Fantasy VIII. This was in the beginning of the school year--fall of '99--which also coincided with me finding my first (and only) girlfriend. Gayle was interested in "geeky" stuff, too, so I lent her my PlayStation at one point, during which time she played a lot of Final Fantasy VIII as well (going so far as to rename Angelo "Steve" in honor of me). Bonding over a mutual experience like that, I'm sure, helped to cement the relationship that eventually built into our 14-year-long (and counting) marriage. So I have fond memories of Final Fantasy VIII, a game that I would likely have repurchased had Square Enix ever figured out a way to recreate the files and publish it in HD mobile or PS4 versions. As it stands, I still have my original copy, which has stuck around despite multiple moves and large-scale reorientations of my life. For Valentine's Day, Gayle bought me a book dedicated to the game, which pushed me to slide the black-sided disc back in and revisit Balamb Garden, Esthar, and that theme song that so surprised and delighted me when the lovers were first talking in the Ragnarök. The Story One of the things that I've noticed about my enjoyment of these long-form video games is that it's kind of tricky to remain focused and interested in the story long enough to feel as though a cohesive tale has been told. This is something I've been struggling with in the realm of large, meaty books (though it wouldn't surprise me if I set aside this critique this summer and return to Derry, Maine): Sustained attention. My brain is tired; it's hard for me to really focus on a single thing for prolonged amounts of time, at least when it's during the school year and so much of my mental energy is invested in my students. For me to actually finish Final Fantasy VIII, I had to swear off Overwatch (I gave it up for Lent this year) and only focus on this PlayStation title. Each night, I logged a couple of hours, eventually ending the game a touch under 40 hours. By doing this, I managed to get a much stronger focus on what was actually happening in the game. Yes, I took a couple of side quests seriously, but I ignored my completionist impulse for the most part and pushed through the story in a consistent, about-10-hours-per-disc rate. Though there are still some bits that are confusing (I, for example, never connected that Laguna was Squall's dad, despite the fact that they look similar--I needed the book to draw that line for me), and some of the details are a bit extraneous, I feel that the story is pretty solid. Squall's character really changes a lot from the beginning, when he was too cool and isolated as a person to get into anything approaching a relationship. He eventually learns--most prominently during the scene in outer space where he has to throw himself into the void in order to catch Rinoa--that he truly does care about others, about people, and that he is willing to go to the ends of time to help the woman he loves. There are some contrived moments, that's for sure: That none of the characters recognize each other from their time together as friends at the orphanage until about halfway the story is a bit of a cheat, for example. And, since there's always the option for the player to select who is in the party, my specific experience--having Zell, Squall, and Rinoa as my main crew--is shifted from what others may have chosen to do. It's a single love story about some teenagers (another weird decision, in terms of the kinds of responsibilities that are put on the team, most particularly Squall), but it's told with an ensemble cast. The plus side to this is in the video game world: I can pick and choose who I think is actually on the adventure, rather than having the story dictate that (for the most part). The down, though, is that I never felt as connected to Selphie or Irvine, as I never tried to learn more about them. They were periphery to the main story, and their conflicts always felt tangential--as did Quistis' after she was demoted from being a teacher (how did she get so advanced? We're never told)--so much so that it's only now, as I write this, that I realize the game never explained why Irvine froze up. If he was such a great sniper, but always choked, why was he assigned to the team? And, for that matter, what happened to the icicle through Squall's chest? We never get an explanation to his mysterious healing*. These gaps notwithstanding--as well as the sometimes bizarre shifts in tone, such as the weird zombie attack on the train early on, or the bafflingly advanced technology of Esthar (which breaks down when you need it most) in the midst of magical sorceresses who are bent on using their magic to destroy the world--the story as a whole is exciting, varied, and enjoyable. There's a lot of history that's hinted at, and though the feeling of being the only human on the planet is as pervasive here as it is in the other Final Fantasy titles of this time period, the interweaving of the different times--as well as conversations that drop parts of the past into the narrative--manages to make the story feel as though there are still parts about the world left unexplored by the time Ultimecia is destroyed. I do want to point out one of the things that really worked well for me (and this is definitely a personal weakness**): I really like the manic pixie dream girl trope. Yeah, I know it has a lot of problems. The issue with it, though, is that there's nothing in the girl's life besides helping the morose guy learn how to loosen up and show emotions. In the case of Final Fantasy VIII, Rinoa does have a purpose--she's a military radical that's trying to overthrow the government. Her goal is attained earlier on in the story, but she herself is an interesting character, complete with her own doubts, desires, and skills. She doesn't feel like a walking trope, designed simply to pull Squall out of his cold shell. Instead, she feels to me like a fully-developed person, with different points of view and significant choices to make. There's a symmetry to the beginning of her relationship with Squall that I really like. In the famous dance scene, Rinoa looks over at Squall and smiles, pointing up at the sky. She's excited about the fireworks and is sharing that with him. At the very end--before the credits roll, when it's still a little ambiguous if Squall survived the cataclysmic final fight--we see her standing on the balcony. We can't see who she's talking to, but she smiles and does that same gesture. It's a subtle, beautiful way for us to know that Squall made it and is there, too.*** Influences I have to admit, though, having recently replayed Final Fantasy VII, the influences of the perennial favorite shine through in FFVIII, sometimes beyond the circumstantial. Amnesia plays a massive part in both games, as does the magic system and how it affects the world (though it's more pointed in VII). Both protagonists end up in outer space; both go to great lengths to rescue the damsel in distress (both of whom are unique women whose magical inheritances make them targets of the oppositional forces to the hero). A graduation into different forms of transportation features heavily in both. The list could go on, though I think the point stands. This is something that Harold Bloom talks about in his book, The Anxiety of Influence, and though I don't know the text well enough to see how it might apply to Final Fantasy VII and Final Fantasy VIII, it's clear that the successor was trying hard to hew close to what worked for the predecessor. This isn't necessarily a bad thing--VII is a masterpiece, and it's understandable that they wanted to emulate that. But, at the same time, it made the game feel slightly more iterative rather than innovative--except, of course, the dreaded Draw system. Draw System Compared to the materia system from Final Fantasy VII, the Draw/Junctioning system is…less than impressive. The main issue I had as a teenager was that, if I wanted to have an overpowered attack, I had to use the best magic and, after using that magic, I was no longer as physically strong. This criticism still stands, but it's not as much of a deal-breaker as I used to think. Though it is true that the experience of sitting through endless animations of your characters Drawing magic from their enemies isn't the most thrilling of things to do, I found that there were times when I could do as I did when I was younger: Put my toe on the X button and do something else whilst my characters buffed up with additional Drawn magic. I would fold laundry, read a book, or goof off on Twitter for a few minutes--a pleasant enough way to spend the evening--while a powerful enemy, smitten with silence, failed to cast spells on me and allowing me to get my magic reserves swollen. But what makes the system more interesting to me than it was back then was the risk-reward of magic harvesting that I didn't see until this time around. I found that I could focus more on how to get the most amount of magic with the least amount of damage, the system was more interesting and variegated. Boosting the Guardian Forces was still rather dull, but by the time I got Counter attached to a physical-attack heavy Squall, most of the encounters weren't too painful. And I like that. Once I had some of the Guardian Forces' abilities unlocked, generating the kinds of magic I needed wasn't as tedious. Attaching different magic that I'd found onto defense or weapons made the characters more powerful in ways that I didn't anticipate at first--like when I fought a Ruby Dragon and had enough Firaga equipped to my defense that it healed me instead of hurt me every time it attacked. Where it ended up being the most interesting--and, at times, frustrating--was when I was in the final fight of the game. Ultimecia's attacks would kill off the GF I summoned, so I had to rely on other spells. However, she could also nerf my accumulated magic--once, she took out the spells that boosted my HP, dropping me from over 7,000 to about 3,500. This removal of what I was expecting forced me to reconsider how I was fighting, which order to place my attacks, and tweaked the game on me even in the last moments. That kind of depth would have been fun throughout the game, but at least it happened at some point. Final Thoughts Final Fantasy VIII is, in my mind, the most ambitious of the PlayStation era games. VII was risky; IX was safe. VIII was hoping for something different: It feels like the game was trying to get a strong emotional response. Rather than fridging the would-be girlfriend for shock value (as in FFVII), Final Fantasy VIII wanted to create a relationship on the screen that the characters could care more deeply about. The player who first met Aerith in the slums of Midgar may or may not have cared about Cloud's relationship with her (as in my case; I liked Tifa much more). To prevent that same problem, Quistis, the first female Squall meets in the game, doesn't get to have her name changed. The designers didn't want players to name Quistis after a real-life girlfriend, only to have the real relationship form later on in the game. It's this sort of thoughtfulness that makes me believe that the designers were interested in telling a more complicated, a more emotional, a more…well, ambitious game. For the most part, I think it worked. Not a perfect masterpiece, and not nearly as well done (despite my feelings, the Draw system really did work against it, and the age of the protagonists made it feel more like a high school romance than anything that deserved the amount of passion as some of the characters exhibited) as FFVII, but still an excellent addition. If I had to rank the Final Fantasy games that I've played (which isn't all of them), I'd probably put VII in the top slot, and then VIII either as second or third (X is really impressive and does a lot of things right). It's an impressive piece of work and deserves more credit than it gets. --- * This is nothing compared to the clear, obvious death of Ryu Hyabusa in the first Ninja Gaiden for the X-Box. He's killed--spine severed and gore gushing from the wound--in the prologue of the game. But then, after a tidy cinematic, he's back in fine form and wearing his sexy leather getup. What's up with that? It still bugs me, even after all these years. ** Why is it personal? Well…I kind of married a manic pixie dream girl. Gayle and I were at some con or another and we went to a panel specifically about that and other problematic tropes. She asked what "manic pixie dream girl" means. I explained that it's the optimistic, happy girl whose sole purpose in the story is to make the dour, morose main character see that there's a lot of great stuff in the world and he shouldn't be so gloomy all of the time. "Oh," she said. "So, me, basically." The big difference between the trope and my wife (and, as mentioned above, Rinoa), is that there's nothing wrong with having an optimistic, outgoing person paired up with a reserved, introverted type. That's good storytelling, inasmuch as there's contrast and difference of opinions that lead to conflict (though not antagonism). The problem with the trope is when that's the entire character. If all Rinoa was good for was to get Squall to be happy, then there's a problem. As I argued above, that's not what I see from the game. That being said, Rinoa is put in the damsel in distress position far too often. Despite that, she is capable of a great deal, which I like. But…yeah, she's helpless too much in the story. So that sucks. *** The after-credits final shot, where it has Squall and Rinoa clearly together and smiling and happy, is--to my mind--unnecessary. Perhaps it's because of pushback from the vague, unsatisfying ending to Final Fantasy VII, but it seems like the designers put that in to make sure that no one was misunderstanding what was going on here: The hero of the game and her knight both made it through the ordeal and are happily together. It's a happy ending--not a strong suit of the PlayStation era Final Fantasies, I would argue--and a good one. But it doubts the ability of the player to recognize that action, to see what that smile means. It doesn't trust us to understand the subtle ending already beautifully provided, and that's too bad. Tiny missteps like this one (and the tropes I mentioned above) are what mar the story. Not irredeemably, of course. The game is still brilliant. I talk about my writing goals a lot on this site. I've a couple of reasons for this: I find that writing things down helps me to understand stuff better. (That's why I started the close listen to Before These Crowded Streets, for example.) Another thing is that I often find closure when I do so. That is, as something bothers me or comes to my attention, by writing about it, I find myself closing off the idea and feeling it's complete. I constantly write about how my writing goals are working because neither of the reasons I write about something applies. I don't feel I understand my goals better, nor do I find any closure.
Writing is an ongoing process for any writer, I think. In no way am I exceptional about it. Other writers desire greater success--any success, I suppose is more accurate--just like I do. It's not that I have anything specifically, notably unique to say, save it's my own voice speaking. I don't really know what it means to work hard at writing. I can track quantity--and I have been, rather obsessively, for years--and I know that I feel as though something has happened when I've actually accomplished a hefty amount of writing…but is that what working hard looks like? Rumors and urban (urbane) tales claim that Hemmingway wrote fewer than 1,000 words a day, while Stephen King clocks in a purported 2,000. I remember reading somewhere that Terry Goodkind wrote for twelve hours a day, seven days a week (which sounds exhausting). I get about 45 minutes three times a week to write with my students. I drop between 1,200 and 1,600 words--average being solidly 1,500--words. That's, maybe-almost-but-not-quite 5,000 words a week in my fiction. I can write more--a lot more, sometimes--but the circumstances are always special. What I'm getting at is that I can put down a lot of writing, if I bother to, but lately I haven't. This year I wanted to try to find a different balance, and now that we're two-thirds through March, I'm not so certain that I've found anything. I don't write as much, and there's an incipient fear of opening up a blank document that hasn't haunted me since I started doing daily writing. I'm like an athlete that only wants to play the game but never go to practice: I haven't been putting in the time at the keyboard to feel like I'm progressing--in that nebulous way--as a writer. It's hard, too, because of mental drain. The weather is finally starting to pull out of the bitterness of winter--though I'm sure there's still a cold-snap that'll punch the valley before we can settle into warmth--and Daylight Saving has returned (yay!), so some of my mental issues are pulling away. Nevertheless, I'm not in a good position with writing this year. I wanted to be putting away about 50,000 words a month: I'm not even halfway there this month and I have eleven days left. Reading is the same. I don't want to crack a book, despite having purchased a bunch in the past few weeks. I don't want to do anything but sit and play old school videogames. I'm not being sarcastic here: I gave up Overwatch for Lent this year (and I'm totally not counting the days until 18 April), so I've only put time into Final Fantasy VIII. The drive to do anything different simply isn't there. Sure, I've done a couple of worthwhile things. I wrote a song on the guitar--something I haven't done since my early college days--and I've written a couple of pretty good essays. I submitted my query for War Golem and even got my first rejection on that one. So it isn't that I'm useless and done nothing…I just don't do anything consistently any more. The habit of daily writing was, apparently, something easier to let go of than to form. The question that always picks at me is whether or not it even matters. I don't write as much. So what? Do I miss slapping together an essay each night? Sometimes, but not always. Do I feel accomplished when I write something instead of being lazy? Sometimes, but not always. Ugh. I don't know what I want anymore. I mentioned a while ago that my writing block has been pretty bad lately. I've been able to push forward in a little novel, so on that front it's coming together a bit. I just…I don't know how much I care anymore. Writing has been a long-standing aspect of my identity, and suddenly I'm thinking more and more often that I don't have much to contribute. It isn't about whether or not I'll get an agent or published (at least, not completely about that). It's just this…malaise that's been sticking to me. If I've always thought of myself as a writer, and I don't want to write…do I still want to be me? Well, I'll figure it out, I'm sure. I'll probably write an essay about it, even. Probably. NO SPOILERS: Captain Marvel is great. So is Captain Marvel. (See why it's so important to italicize the titles of books, plays, albums, and movies, kids? It makes a difference.) Of the two origin stories of people named "Captain" that take place in the past, I liked it much more than Captain America: The First Avenger. I've liked Carol Danvers' character for a couple of years--she showed up in Marvel Ultimate Alliance 2 back in the early days of the PlayStation 3 and then made a strong showing in the mid '10s that made me aware of her. No, that's not to hipster brag, but instead to put out there that, in terms of high-powered female characters in the Marvel universe, she's a good choice.* SOME SPOILERS: One of the things that I love about the MCU is how they're willing to do deep-cuts in a way that appeal to the mass audiences and still give a strong verve that shows their roots: Guardians of the Galaxy is pretty out there--I hadn't heard of them until the movie was released--and they're now major fan favorites. Captain Marvel is, I think, in a similar vein. The movie's premise--taking place in 1995 as it does--was a fun departure. We've had Captain America: The First Avenger happening in 1945, and a couple of parts from the two Guardians movies transpiring in 1985 (-ish? I haven't watched them in a long time, so there might be a more specific date that I could look up but I won't; and if Ant-Man happens earlier, I wouldn't know, as it's the only duology of the MCU that I haven't seen). Otherwise, the MCU dabbles in the not-too-distant future (considering the level of technology, maybe it's just safer to say that it's an alternate present). For Captain Marvel, the nods, flashbacks, and shorthands utilized were adroit and enjoyable. What better way for us to know that the story is happening, not at the same time as Infinity War, but before it, than to have the heroine crash through the ceiling of a Blockbuster? (And, hilariously, pick up a copy of The Right Stuff?) Gayle and I both really enjoyed it, as the music was almost all (quite deliberately, I'm sure) selected from popular songs from the decade made by female artists. There was some Nirvana and R.E.M. that I noticed, but, for the most part, it was number one jams from Garbage, Hole, and No Doubt that were rocking the soundtrack. The NIN shirt, flannel, and cut jeans looked perfect on Brie Larson, the actress playing the captain, and the technology references and jokes landed well for me. Another aspect of the production that was really appreciated was the respect that the camera had for the character. The camera never lingers on lady parts, all of which are logically protected (considering the role that Danvers has to play throughout the film). Additionally, Carol Danvers was never sexualized nor objectified. She didn't look unattractive or frumpy, but she wasn't being glamorized or catwalked either. I love Gal Gadot's work as Wonder Woman, and that character deserves to be heartbreakingly gorgeous in basically everything she does, so the fact that Marvel (both the studio and the character…and the movie, I guess, which makes the italics thing kind of tricky at this point) goes in a more practical direction is a good way to demarcate difference.** There probably was a lot of pressure to live up to Wonder Woman's success, and I think that it was wise to find the variety that they did. Plot wise, it had a fairly predictable "reveal" of the real baddie, but there were a couple of surprises that worked well for me. I walked in with the idea that the Skrull would definitely be super evil--Secret Invasion and all that--so the change in their behavior partway through caught me off-guard. It filled in some gaps--why Captain Marvel wasn't around before the Avengers Initiative got off the ground, for example, or how she could have survived the Snappening--and, in typical Marvel tradition, strongly sets up and supports the next chunk of the story. Some people dislike the way that these "B-story" characters end up being ancillary and stepping stones to the bigger dangers, but it doesn't bother me. Captain Marvel has a great story that has a lot of focus on her growing as a person, making her own decisions and going her own way--which is what I wanted out of the movie. That there are other components that are building up the broader MCU doesn't detract from that, to me. Admittedly, I'm the target audience for this sort of thing. I may not be as well-read in the comic book lore as I would like, but I've read enough Captain Marvel comics to know this movie was on brand for the character and her place in the world. So maybe I'm able to intuit certain story elements that wouldn't be as easy for a more casual moviegoer to appreciate. But, hey, I'm not them. A couple of things about Captain Marvel's strength: I think it's safe to say that she is, in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, at least, the strongest hero, and second strongest (to Thanos only) character of them all. The comics have different ways of depicting power (in the comics, for example, Wonder Woman lifted a planet; in the movie, she struggled with a tank), so from what I can tell, Captain Marvel could lay down Hulk in a single punch. Movie Wonder Woman and movie Captain Marvel wouldn't be much of a fight: Marvel would wipe the floor with the Amazon princess. But that's not really germane--"Which one's stronger?" isn't a very interesting analysis. What's significant is how both Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel are--and are not--particularly feminist. There are lots of ways that feminism enhance and improve texts, and the one area that they almost always force writers of fantasy and science fiction (myself very firmly in this camp) into new narrative directions is that feminism encourages "strong female characters". The issue with this--and, again, one that both of these films struggle to understand--is that a "feminist" movie*** isn't about "ra-ra-girl power! Yay!" but instead looking at the resolution of the conflict in ways that are inherently more feminine. So while Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel easily pass the Bechdel test (which, everyone should always remember when this test is invoked, doesn't point toward quality of the film, but rather a very low bar of required content), both characters use violence and anger as their tools to solve the crises. There's nothing wrong with a woman being angry, of course: She has emotions. They ought to be used in various ways. But how do both women stop the Big Baddie™ at the ends of their roads? Anger and violence…the same thing that everyone else uses. Strong female characters aren't actually about strength qua strength--they aren't dudes with boobs. There are different, acceptable ways that they manage conflict which don't require fists. The mercy extended their adversaries in both films points toward that realization, but the mercy can only be extended because of the raw power that each woman has over their opponents. Peter Parker "defeats" Sandman at the end of Spider-Man 3 (a flawed movie, of course, but it gets this part right) not through punching him, exploding him, or sucking him into a Dustvac (as he does in an early comic), but by forgiving him. That's the kind of thing that I need to practice doing, as my physique does not lend itself to fighting off intergalactic hordes. This isn't to say that there isn't a lot of progressive work inside of both films. They're interested in making the characters thoughtful, flawed, nuanced, and capable of fixing the mistakes that they make. That's good writing; that's good character development. That's what makes a "strong female character": Not how much she can dead lift or how many punches she can take, but how willing she is to own up to her mistakes and confront those who have treated her unjustly. The frustrating dilemma about this genre is that, formula- and expectation wise, we audience members expect a cool fight in the third act, some spectacle-filled clash between superpowers. If Captain Marvel didn't blow some stuff up with her energy blasts, we would feel frustrated. (Think, for example, about how one of the big criticisms about Superman Returns was that there wasn't enough action--hence the hiring of Zack Snyder for Man of Steel--though Superman Returns has a lot of other problems in it, too.) So finding a way for the character's strength, rather than her arm's strength, to be the thing which solves the problem is hard to do with all of the genre expectations. I don't blame Wonder Woman nor Captain Marvel for failing to find the perfect way to do that. I love the fact that both of them show mercy on the antagonists, even though it wasn't an easy thing to do. That's a step in the right direction. I wonder if there's any way to really square this circle, now that I think on it. Anyway, the movie is great. I really liked it, and though I don't have the same love for Carol Danvers as I do Diana Prince, Captain Marvel is certainly up there as one of the better Marvel movies.**** --- * I personally would have preferred She-Hulk, but there's already a green-skinned woman in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and that might be crossing the beams a bit too much. I couldn't get a solid answer about future projects from the internet--a lot of speculation, but maybe I just missed the accurate information? Anyway, I don't have a huge catalogue of She-Hulk titles, but John Byrne's run was meta and tons of fun. If Marvel wanted to have a go with Marvel-exclusive fourth-wall breaking in the PG-13 realm, they could copy themselves (to an extent, I guess?) by having her be comedic in the same vein as Deadpool. But, considering how much hate manbabies have over female-led comic book movies, having a She-Hulk film that's cutting a little too close to Deadpool's territory may not be the best move, especially if there isn't anything really fresh to add to the whole thing. I'm digressing a lot in this footnote. Okay, I'll stop. ** In the comics, Captain Marvel's switch from the black one-piece swimming suit and thigh-high boots (see below) to the blue, gold, and red motif was one that got fans rumbling. While I personally wish they'd kept the sash--for no reason other than that I love sashes on characters, for some reason…long headbands, too…and capes--the comic moved into this slightly more armored version of the character quite a while ago. It's an excellent move, honestly, because it translates onto the screen much better than the domino-mask-and-evening-gloves look, and makes it more believable that she's a warrior out to stop a war than it would if she instead looked like she'd just come from a Baywatch audition. *** In some definitions. Feminism is a large community, and not without its own self-contradictions. I acknowledge that.
**** Geez, four asterisks? There's gotta be a better way to handle multiple footnotes. Anyway, I brought you down here again because I think the idea of ranking the different films is kind of stupid, despite what I said above. The Marvel Formula © ®™ is operating on essentially every level in almost every movie. While some are more or less forgettable, they all have a particular tone or feeling to them. It ends up being more about what suits someone's fancy than anything else. And my fancy on this one? Why do I still like Wonder Woman despite the rocky third act? Because there was so much riding on Wonder Woman doing well, resonating with audiences, and believing in itself. There's more to watching a movie than simply the images on the screen. The baggage, expectations, assumptions, and histories of everyone who walks into the cinema are different. That variety is important; it shapes the experience. (Remind me to tell you about my viewing of Iron Man 3 to expand on that.) For all its quality and, in some areas, superior execution, Captain Marvel can't be, can never be, what Wonder Woman was when it came out. Diana Prince had to pave a path that Carol Danvers could only follow in. The need for a female-led superhero movie to be a commercial and critical success was palpable when it came out. Despite the intense injustice of having so much ride on Wonder Woman (especially when duds like Batman v. Superman didn't destroy the careers of those attached to it), Gal Gadot and Patty Jenkins pulled off a necessary story. The real life narrative about whose stories deserve to be told is as crucial to a movie as the movie is, sometimes. (Black Panther is another great example of this.) Because Wonder Woman came first, because it earned the emotional power that the No Man's Land sequence created, because it paved the way, Wonder Woman will always be the "superior" of the two films, despite having more problems with it than Captain Marvel did. Okay. I'm actually done now. Thanks for sticking around to the after credits. As my reread of Shakespeare's entire oeuvre limps on (I'm way behind on my goal), I can now cross off Titus Andronicus' bloody romp through bitterness and revenge. It's kind of nice to know that such emotions will be tucked away for some time--at least until I reach Timon of Athens. This play…man. I'm feeling like there's a recurring theme in these early Shakespeare plays: I'm kind of glad that I'm not going to reread them anytime soon. Taming of the Shrew, Two Gents, and Titus Andronicus are all…unpleasant, though--to Shakespeare's credit--differently so. I chalk it up to a comparative thing: I know that Shakespeare can do better than what we got, but he didn't know that when he was writing these things. Obviously, 3 Henry VI worked well for me, but its predecessor was rough. My next one is 1 Henry VI and that's a rough piece, too. Essentially, I'm gritting my teeth so that I can get to Richard III and the rest of the enjoyable work that Shakespeare put down after these early attempts…stumbled, shall we say? It should be mentioned that these plays aren't objectively bad. Other playwrights would be proud to have their names on something like Taming of the Shrew. But I can't escape my moment in history any more than Shakespeare could, so the lens through which I stare at these plays can't help but wish for better representation, stronger characterization, and less casual sexism. It's inescapable that the stuff is there, and I can contextualize it and read through it just fine. But it is still hard to read about the domestic abuse of Katharine or, in this case, the violation of Lavinia and not blanch. And blanching is an apt term for this play. It starts off with conflict and tension--something that good writing is always supposed to have--and it never really lets up. People always vie for control or power in this play, and (another early flub in the Bard's work) change their minds with dizzying rapidity. This shifting of ideas isn't quite like what George does in 3 Henry VI where he's literally moving from one side of the conflict to the other and back again. I mean like this: Act 1 scene 1 opens with Saturninus and Bassianus arguing about who should be emperor of Rome. Marcus, the brother to Titus, comes in and speaks some words about how great Titus is and asks the two to stop arguing about being an emperor. Saturninus says, "How fair the Tribune speaks to calm my thoughts." Bassianus follows up by completely altering his mood: Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy (trust) Just like that--a handful of lines from Marcus--and a potential civil war is averted. People will affirm one thing and, by the end of the scene, go against what they just said. It's almost whiplash-inducing.
However, the real frustration with this play, in my opinion, is that Shakespeare (who was never big on the Aristotelean version of playwrighting in the first place) doesn't give us a tragic hero whose fall we can pity. While Shakespeare will revisit the abused old man trope in King Lear (to a completely different effect), his treatment of Titus is one of disdain. There's little nobility in Titus, save that he would rather be maimed himself than allow others to be dismembered for him. Aside from that virtuous behavior, he's pretty horrible. When Tamora pleads for mercy, Titus says that they must sacrifice her son: "…and die he must/ T'appease their groaning shadows that are gone" (1.1.125-6). Why? To appease the dead? Tamora, then, is understandably infuriated; when her fortunes change and she's able to seduce Saturninus (who was demanding Lavinia and then, abruptly, lusts after the queen of the Goths instead), she is--understandably, I think, though not justifiably--keen on using her newfound power to extract vengeance on Titus. Her coldness and ruthlessness are characteristics that Queen Margaret demonstrated earlier, with Lady Macbeth becoming the eventual example par excellence by the end of Shakespeare's run. What she lacks, however, is any sort of interiority that other evil women in Shakespeare--Lear's daughters come to mind--will enjoy. Thus her schemes are particularly abhorrent, as they seem to lack much motivation save she was wronged. She laughs at Aaron's plot to rape and mutilate Lavinia, actively cheering on her sons and devising a way to frame Titus' sons for the murder of Lavinia's husband, Bassianus (see, for example, how she's told by Aaron of the plot in 2.3.38-45 and then she calls him her "sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life" (51)). The play itself is best known for the pie baking part at the end, but there are few moments of levity or redemption of character behavior at all in the play. Generously, I could argue that Shakespeare is condemning the bloodthirsty cycle of vengeance, robbing Rome of any sense of justice. A wrong righted is not done through another wrong. But the conclusion is implicit and thin, drawn as it is in the shadows of the grotesqueries that this play contains. Yes, there's cannibalism when Tamora and Saturninus eat meat pies into which Titus has baked Tamora's rapist sons. There's traumas galore--decapitations of Titus' sons, his own dismemberment (for no purpose, it should be added), the savage raping of Lavinia on the corpse of her dead husband--and a couple of other moments to add to this. The baffling response of Marcus to Lavinia's horror (in which he waxes poetic from 2.4.11-57, a good three to four minutes of soliloquizing about the gruesome mutilations rendered her) is only overpowered by the shock at the abrupt murder of Lavinia by her own father in front of Saturninus and Tamora during the final scene. My brother saw the Globe put on a production of Titus Andronicus a few years ago. Not only did someone pass out during the play due to the gore (a common occurrence; apparently, they had paramedics standing by* for that very reason), but the stage was so coated with fake blood that intermission saw the stagehands squeegeeing off the planks so that the actors didn't slip on it. The whole play left me feeling uneasy and uncomfortable. My wife and I saw one version of the play, and though it was well done, I don't think that I would really want to see it again. It's gruesome, dark, and nihilistic, the kind of play that makes most any day one of sunshine if only by contrast. Rather than plumbing the depths of human loss, as Shakespeare will do with other tragedies, it relies on blood-spilling spectacle to shock its audience into an approximation of emotion. Though immensely popular in its day (considering that other popular entertainments of the time included bearbaiting and cockfighting, the sanguinary nature of the play was probably a draw, rather than a detraction to the Elizabethan audiences), Titus feels like there was some violent demon inside of Shakespeare which had to be exorcized. Fortunately for us, it was; Shakespeare will not shy away from explicit violence in other works, but he will rely on the humanity of it, rather than the spectacle, to explore the interplay between power and revenge. I'm glad to have this one done. --- * I almost said "at hand", but that seems a little tasteless when talking about Titus, don't you think? It's painful for me to sit down and actually admit this, but I have a problem. It's one that I've had for some time now--over a year--and though it comes and goes in intensity, it never fully goes away. I've tried a lot of different things to get rid of it--pep-talks, distractions, buying something expensive to guilt-trip me into changing, and pretending it isn't there--but nothing really works. I used to deal with this back in my early college days. It was really hard; I found myself being more depressed than usual (which, since I didn't know I had dysthymia back then, I didn't realize that my problem was amplifying my depression, not the other way around) and immensely frustrated.
I get writer's block. Up until October 2018 (and I'll get to that date in a second), I really only had one major episode of writer's block. Back in my freshman year of college, I took a science fiction class. It was…okay. Thinking back to my educational experience, I don't know what I really expected or strove to get out of any particular class. I didn't really know how to learn--not the way that I've since seen the purpose of education--and I found myself taking classes that simply sounded like fun. I really enjoyed my science fiction class in high school--enough that I'd taken it twice, actually--so I hopped in to get the college-level version. For the most part, it was fine. I read a bunch of stuff that I never would have picked up otherwise--always a plus--and I got a broader sense of what the genre could do. One of the things that didn't work out for me, however, was the critiques I got from my professor on some of my writing. Up to that point, I had always been told that I wrote well, with few criticisms from my teachers.* Therefore, when I got my paper back, all marked up in green ("green for growth!" crowed my teacher when she explained that red made an edited paper bleed, and that was disheartening), I wasn't prepared for her comments. In retrospect, it probably wasn't my best story--I can hardly remember what it was about. As a mostly-discovery writer (I force myself to write outlines now, but that's a more recent development) who thought that he was a good writer, I explored my way through to the end of a weird story and then left it at that; I'd never edited my work in high school, why should I in college? Anyway, I have no idea if she was being generous or grievous in her grading, but I certainly felt attacked at getting a B+. All these years later, it still stings when I think of one phrase in particular that she disliked because she didn't understand what I was saying. The character was cowering in the corner, and I described her as "hiding behind her knees". Too weird, apparently, for my prof. When I got that paper back, its gruesome green grade leering off of it, I hit a major bout of writer's block. In those days, I wrote on a computer in my bedroom that was running WordPerfect software, and I remember creating new document after new document trying to write an opening that made me want to keep writing. It was the digital equivalent of a legal pad, pages torn off, wadded up, and thrown into the overflowing rubbish bin in the corner. I spent a long time in a tailspin over the grade. It was less the B+ that rankled (though that hurt) and more her "not getting" what was, frankly, one of my favorite lines from the story. (Clearly it meant a lot to me; I'm remembering it pretty well for it being 18 years down the road.) Eventually, I managed to tug something out--a lot of it through world building and character design; ancillary work on writing that helped lay a groundwork that my writing could develop later on--just in time to leave for my mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. While I wasn't explicitly forbidden from working on my writing during my mission, I never felt comfortable doing much with the ideas that I had developed before arriving in Florida. As a result, I let my writing languish, putting daily writing in my journal to document the events of my mission instead of a fictional world I had invented in my mind.** After I got married, I took the beginning ideas and, after about a year or so (maybe longer; I'm not really sure), I had finished my first real*** novel, The Terra Campaign: Impetus. From that time, I've been working on one novel or another. Once I wrote a 310,000 word behemoth that I still feel is one of my best concepts--even if it didn't actually work the way I had thought that it would--and I even have some small NaNoWriMo projects that I've knocked out over the years. I have over a dozen completed novels… …and I haven't really felt like writing anything lately. Since I started taking Wellbutrin (coincidence? Correlation? Who knows?), I have had a significantly harder time writing. These essays drain some of my writing juices, admittedly, but I have been more and more disillusioned with my place within a writing community since I started taking pills to help reduce my depression. November 2017 saw a novel, but I hadn't really been on the medication for long at that point. By the time my novel writing class showed up in January 2018, I had no idea what to write about. I tried my hand at some horror, I picked at other ideas. Nothing interested me. June 2018 was on the horizon and I still didn't have anything to do with my writing retreats. Fearing I would ruin this rare opportunity, I cottoned onto an idea for a sequel to War Golem and slapped together something that is honestly embarrassing to me in retrospect. I may have printed out the book--I don't know, I haven't looked for it; I think it's somewhere around here--but I don't have plans to look at it again. Possibly ever. When my January 2019 writer's retreat cropped up, I still had a NaNoWriMo novel languishing, so I spent most of the time there slapping an ending on that particular story, rather than trying anything new. I'm orbiting around a novella that I really like, but I don't know where it's going. Now I'm in my novel writing class again and I have an idea that I'm working on. But when I thought about coming up to my office today and writing anything in that piece, I realized that I needed a haircut. And then I needed to take care of my water softener. Oh, and I needed to do the dishes. What about that comic book about Silk that I checked out from the library? I had to read that! My guitar wasn't about to play itself, so I had to give it some attention. Then I was hungry--can't write on an empty stomach. I even went so far as to open up my document of It and try to copy down some of King's words to try to prime the pump for my own writing: I closed it almost immediately. Now I'm using this essay as a way to avoid the work. My blockages, before a brief aspect of my life, are eating up more and more of my life and my bandwidth. I worry that there's a hypocrisy in this, as I have breezily given "sage" advice to students who are struggling with the same thing. Now that I've succumbed so deeply to the problem, none of my flippant answers help me. And, lest you think this is a post without irony, I've sent off four queries for my recently-completed-the-editing War Golem--a record for me, as I've always been more of a sniper-shot kind of submitter, rather than a net-caster--and I should have my rejections in hand by the end of the school year. Why would I be looking for representation and trying to sell my book if I don't feel I have any books left to write? That nothing I come up with is enough to overpower the slightest distraction? I still have a goal of writing at least 50,000 words per month, even without my daily work here on the website. Thus far, I'm on track. But I constantly feel like I'm on track to nowhere in particular. And that's hard. --- * There can be a lot of explanations on this front: They never read any of my work is high up there. Or, since I didn't struggle (for the most part) to remember the differences between "to", "two", and "too" or when to make a new paragraph, they assumed that the stories, likewise, were good. Or, perhaps, they were good…in comparison to other teenagers. Whatever the case was, I never got anything but A's on my creative writing whilst in high school. ** Some people might argue that serving a mission is actually trying to push a fictional world I had invented in my mind onto others. Those people are being mean to say that. *** I wrote a lot of Spider-Man fanfic when I was a kid. There was one that I wrote that was actually pretty good, which I finished sometime before my mission, I think. I can't really remember right now. That book kind of counts as "my" book, but since it's based on someone else's characters, I don't add it to the list. I have about 19 total writing projects, at varying degrees of doneness. I guess it'd be 20 if I included my old friend, Spider-Man. To say that the fourth track on Dave Matthews Band's Before These Crowded Streets is anti-imperialist is as uncreative as coming up with a band name like "the Dave Matthews Band". In my mind, however, this song's power is not just in its message but also in its delivery--its simplicity is its power; its complexity is its worth. To start off, "Don't Drink the Water" has to be looked at from an African point of view--and by that I mean a Southern African point of view. Dave Matthews was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, and spent time, off and on in his childhood, in that country. In other interviews (which I couldn't find right away, so this may be hearsay), Matthews acknowledged that the sonic tapestry of South Africa influenced him throughout his life, and Carter Beauford, the band's drummer, locks into that pulsating rhythm in the song. The drum line--a couple of bass kicks and then some distinct snares--is the guitar line. Matthews's earlier work didn't see a lot of unique tunings--no capos, no open tunings, and until Everyday, he didn't use electric (or baritone) guitars--so this song was, reportedly, called "Drop-D"* during the production of the album, as it's the first to really feature this alternative tuning (though "Crush" is also in drop-D). This is how the guitar and the drum end up as the rhythm section: Matthews' striking of the low D is in time with Beauford's kick and Stefan Lessard's bass D. Instead of allowing those three parts of the band to break into lead guitar, bass, and drums (the last two often being the rhythm section), the song pulsates with all three instruments marching along in tandem. Despite this potentially static beat--written in 4/4 time and a scant 84 bpm in the album version--the intricacies of the bass line (freed up to be more melodic and riff-laden than the guitar part, for once), the droning of the violin, and the contributions of both LeRoi Moore's saxophone and guest-artist Bela Fleck's banjo all interweave in such a way that the music becomes layered and complex. One could pick a specific instrument and pay exclusive attention to it each time one listened and glean new musical connections. During the third verse, an electric guitar with distortion and a way hammers on harmonics, again providing texture and variability in what is, for most of the guitar part at least, a one-chord song. In fact, the majority of "Don't Drink the Water" is a D5 - G5 - B minor affair, with the verse running through the D5 until the pre-chorus begins ("So you will lay your arms down" is the first one) by playing the G5. The droning effect of this song makes the shift from D5 to G5 striking and refreshing--as if the brooding groove of the verse can only pound on the listener for so long before relief needs to come in. However, it's only two measures before it's back the D5--this is repeated throughout the pre-chorus--and then the verse returns. It isn't until the chorus (finally dragging in at 2:08) that a new chord is added to the vocabulary, the B minor. Though the guitar brings this in for a couple of measures to change that drone, it's only for two measures before it returns to the G5 to D5 progression. The point of all of this is to say that the guitar is painfully simple throughout almost all of the song, yet it remains captivating despite all of that. The album version of the song (used above; the music video is an interesting, abbreviated version that's worth looking at) goes at a slower, more inexorable pace than the live versions (also worth hearing). This slower pace turns the thudding of the rhythmic triad into a pounding wall of inevitability, one that underscores and enhances the theme of the track. That leads me to the lyrics of "Don't Drink the Water": Come out come out At the beginning, I pointed out that it's clear that the song is anti-imperialist. Phrases like "All I can say to you my new neighbor / Is you must move on or I will bury you" make it pretty clear what's going on. But the way these lyrics are constructed is what fascinates me: Matthews has taken on a persona of a colonizer, of a greedy conquistador. Rather than speaking about imperialism, he's speaking from it. Though I can't be certain, I feel like growing up in apartheid Africa surely gave Matthews a different lens through which this song is being cast. The Dave Matthews Band, at the time of this album's creation, was a five-man band--two white guys (Dave Matthews, guitar; and Stefan Lessard, bass) and three Black (Boyd Tinsley, violin; Leroi Moore, saxophone and others; Carter Beauford, drums). Racially and musically diverse, the Dave Matthews Band is, in many ways, a repudiation of the world that Matthews knew growing up. I don't know when I started to view imperialism with skepticism, though I'm certain songs like this were instrumental** in changing my assumption that the course of history was blameless. The music video of "Don't Drink the Water" puts us in an Amazonian flavor, but the song applies to Manifest Destiny--the way I used to take it, when I was younger and bothered to think about anything--as well as any other example of greed-as-motive-for-atrocities. I feel like the Manifest Destiny interpretation is one that I, as an American living in the West, am most responsible for and benefit the most from. As I've driven around my state, looking at the scrub oak and the variability of the Wasatch, the acres of farmland and the quiet cold of snow-swept mountains, I have thought back to the earlier inhabitants. As urban sprawl swallows up more miles of "empty" land, I can't help but think of the lines "And here I will spread my wings / Yes, I will call this home." The chilling dismissal of concerns ("What's this you say? You feel a right to remain? / Then stay and I will bury you" and "I have no time to justify to you / Fool, you're blind. Fool, move aside for me" are two quick examples) exemplifies what I hear in the rhetoric about imperial Europe. Progress, of course, is the banner under which these behaviors and beliefs live, and anyone who's blind to progress must be moved aside…or so the story goes. Which pushes me to the outro--the part where, particularly live, Matthews' anger at the injustice which he has been satirizing boils over--and the complete dropping of pretense. (I should say that, on occasion, Matthews will play the chorus one extra time, substituting his words for some of the lyrics of "This Land Is My Land", the effect of which is a haunting condemnation because of the context that surrounds it.) As the last chorus ends, Matthews sings, "I can breathe my own air / And I can sleep more soundly / Upon these poor souls / I'll build heaven and call it home / 'Cause you're all dead now." Atrocities like the Trail of Tears and recent injustices like Standing Rock are, in my mind, sudden snapshots of would-be ghosts, a people that has gone nowhere but here and were moved aside for the expansion of the imperialists. For a second time, here are the lyrics of the outro: I live with my justice The rank honesty--the mask of satire has slipped into outright scorn--is shocking. The musical effect here is striking as well: Alanis Morissette sings the melody with Matthews, though an octave higher, to provide an eerie doubling effect. More than that, however, a new chord is introduced, one which jabs at what Matthews is singing here. Instead of a D5 chord (with that 6th string still thumping away), he modulates the 5th note (usually an A) and slides it up a half-step (to a B flat). This discordant chord (try it out on an instrument and see how grating it is) is the crime of imperialism. It doesn't look like anything is too wrong; it's really close to a resolved chord. But it's completely jarring. It grinds away, creating an antagonistic clash to go along with the naked error that pushed so many millions into forgotten graves. Whose justice reigns? My justice. What's the motive? My frenzied feeding and greedy need. Why are they doing this? Hatred. Jealousy. These dark emotions are spat out, as if we could perhaps excise them if we were only to try hard enough.
The penultimate couplet--"I live with the notion / That I don't need anyone but me"--is such a withering indictment of the "rugged individualism" by which "the West was won" that I have a hard time really saying anything more than what's already there. Our founding as a nation is done because of our founding fathers; our country has been defended by our men and women in uniform--the notion that the individual I has created this world is clearly a false one, yet it is one of our more beloved lies. "Self-made man" is, actually, not a thing--John Donne was right: No man is an island. But there's another possibility--faint and unpleasant--that what Matthews' persona is pointing at, is the "me"…the "me" is the only one that even matters. "Me, yeah…" is how he drives toward the end of the song (after the ominous warning "Don't drink the water / There's blood in the water"), turning again to this monstrous concept of personal exceptionalism and Machiavellianism qua truth and justice--that the might of historical pressures and sundry conditions has made the right of the status quo. The cacophony with which the song ends--much like with "The Last Stop"--is a clash of cymbals, drum beats, screams, and warnings. Live, the song will pulse on for another couple of measures, ending where it begins but with the B flat/D chord jangling everything else. In the album version, the song winds down and slides into an interlude. However, the deep marks--the menacing history--that the song points us towards shouldn't do anything other than carve a new empathy for others, for what they've lost, for what we've gained. Interlude Almost as if we need something to cleanse our palate, we get a sixteen measure interlude. Different key, different time signature (the always-peculiar 5/8 time, until the last four measures, which are in 3/4 time). It's reminiscent of "#34" from Under the Table and Dreaming, with arpeggio chords and the entire band weaving their unique brand of music into the shifting chord progression. Of all the interludes of the album, this one is the most necessary (with "The Last Stop" being a close second), if only because its simplicity helps alleviate the weight of the previous song. Indeed, I think the interludes are one of the most crucial aspects of Before These Crowded Streets, giving a logical flow to the order of the songs, as well as emotional breaks from the intensity the music can create. So far as I know, the band never performs these snippets of music--and that's a real loss. Pieces of the songs are audible in other--sometimes earlier, sometimes later--works, but I'm not aware of any other Dave Matthews Band song that relies on the interlude for "Don't Drink the Water". --- * Tuning a guitar to a drop-D is simple: The sixth string--the low E--is detuned a full step so that its an open-D instead of an open-E. Because of how a guitar is tuned, this allows power chords (three note chords: an octave with a fifth in between) to be played more easily and aggressively. ** Pun most definitely intended. Another goodie from Mark Edmundson, Why Teach? is a collection of thoughts about what it means to be a teacher in the twenty-first century. More than that, however, it's about what it means to teach the humanities in the twenty-first century. More than that, though, it's about what it means to teach the humanities at a college level in the twenty-first century. In other words, it has a more limited audience than the first book of his I read, Why Write?
That doesn't mean, however, that the book isn't worth pursuing. In part, it might help those who didn't spend time in college studying the liberal arts, as he lays out a case for the humanities as being integral, even if it isn't necessarily lucrative. In case you're only interested in whether or not I recommend the book, and you'd rather not have to sit through a few hundred words of filler, let me just say that, yes, this book is worth reading. No, it isn't as profound or life-changing to me as Why Write? was. I really enjoyed it; your mileage may vary. What works for me about Why Teach? is that it's a book that's after a particular way of living. Edmundson's fond of the Romantics and transcendentalists--an acquired taste, and one for which I never cared much--but he tempers their exultations with wisdom and practicality. One of his professors was Harold Bloom (the first Shakespearean critic I ever read, and one whose Shakespeare: Invention of the Human continues to be an enjoyable resource to me), a man whose declarations have made him, even against his intentions, into a polemicist; Edmundson smooths those rough edges with strong stances that recognize the value others' ideas have in a way that his own professor struggles (or doesn't care) to do. This ability of blunting the more extreme strains of a poetic view of the world is one that makes Edmundson's arguments feel more grounded. He's not actually asking if we should live at Walden's Pond when he asks if we can "live" what a writer has to say. He asks us if we can find the truth in writing and see ourselves living up to it. That is what the humanities can do for someone who's willing to try. I'm reminded of a poem by Taylor Mali, "What Teachers Make", when he says, "I make them write, write, write, and then I make them read". There is so much more to life than the dollar bill, we all want to say, but few people will live that. We'll agree with Matt Embree when he sings, "We're finding out/That we know better/No number will ever replace me," but we also cluck our tongues and skip our eyes over to the envelope containing the overdue bills. We may know that the system wants to treat us like a replaceable cog, but we also feel that we're individuals from the tips of our too-familiar fingers to the backs of our heads (which we've never seen with our own eyes). Studying the humanities is about studying humans, and since we're all human, we can gain great benefit from knowing ourselves more thoroughly. That isn't to say that engineering and physics, political science and MBAs, medical journals and paleontological conferences aren't also part of being human. Edmundson, I think, would argue that the skills and tools that can only be found in the humanities are what help to imbue the "hard sciences" and non-humanities sections of human living with a greater value, a broader sense of self and purpose. If anything, I feel that Why Teach? really does apply to every teacher if only because teaching is about being passionate about living, being alive, being. It's why Hamlet's right to say that "To be or not to be" is the question. Where do we find the answer to that question? In the scribbles of others, the pulped up remnants of trees scarred with ink. In the flicker of pixels in white and black. In reading, in studying, in becoming. Of course, this book resonates with me for the simple reason that I teach humanities, in my own, idiosyncratic way. This book is saying, "Yes, Steven, you do have a purpose. Your work is important, even if you don't think you've made much of a difference today, yesterday, last week, or even this last year. You're molding them because you know the techniques, because you've read some of the greatest things that a human can read, and you're sharing them." That is the kind of thing that's nice to hear. I don't know quite what to say about Tara Westover's popular memoir, Educated. On one hand, I can see why so many people have picked it up. It's a fascinating look at the complicated knot that family ties, religion, tradition, and education can create. A memoir about a woman's life growing up in an isolated part of rural Idaho, Educated has a bit of a sensationalist vibe to it in that the family from which she came is a Mormon survivalist clan--and the picture Westover paints isn't particularly flattering of them.
On the other hand, because of its roots in my own religion, I couldn't help but feel a connection to what was going on in the book and feeling uncomfortably close to what was happening there. Westover's experience is not a particularly pleasant one. She recounts much of her childhood, sharing snippets of what it was like to be homeschooled (because the schools will brainwash her into being a socialist, according to her dad, so she never went to public school) only to, at the age of about 17 or so, manage to get into BYU. From there, Westover got incredible opportunity after incredible opportunity, eventually earning a doctorate from Cambridge. All the while, as she talked about her life trying to learn more about the world, she describes the ways her family's hooks remained in her, always pulling her back to Idaho, always putting her back "in her place" as a woman. (Up to and including a brief moment when she walked into her parents' kitchen one morning only to see her father trying to make pancakes. When he saw her, he told her that she was now in "her place" (meaning the kitchen) and he should make him some food. She didn't.) I'm not interested in reiterating what else happens in the book--frankly, I think you should read it. It's not a happy experience, but it is an important one. Instead, I want to focus on how I responded to it. It made me really uncomfortable. There are many different instances in Westover's life where she explains how she was physically abused by her older brother. The moments of his violence and death threats are shocking and discomfiting, with only the understanding that, as this is a memoir, it means that Tara would, eventually, survive whichever trauma she was experiencing. I write fiction--mostly fantasy--and violence is part of the toolkit for the kinds of stories I write. But one thing that always makes me uncomfortable in fiction is torture. In Metal Gear Solid 3, which is a video game, my least favorite part is when Naked Snake gets captured and tortured. It's gruesome and I really don't like it. Would I put some of Westover's experiences into that category? Yup. But those uncomfortable scenes of domestic abuse (abuse that she tries, later in the novel, to get her parents to acknowledge, only--and frustratingly--to be rebuffed by her parents' staunch defense of their son at the expense of their daughter) are only one aspect of frustration. Tara Westover's dad wasn't (though, since he's (somehow) still alive, I guess isn't would be more correct) a believer in a lot of things: School, government, credit, vaccinations, the "medical establishment", or even seatbelts. So when those last two collide--literally; twice--I felt immense frustration. Because of how the Westovers earned money, accidents happened a lot. Whenever someone would be hurt--whether it be a small thing like a scrape or something more severe, like being lit on fire--they would turn to their mother and her herbalist tinctures. Then the victim of the injury would suffer through weeks of agonizing, disfiguring pain while the salves and essential oils were utilized in lieu of actual medical treatment. Every time Westover brought up another episode of injuries, I knew what would happen: Dad would rely on "your mother's herbs and the power of the Lord" to get the person through the difficulty. Mental damage happened to at least two of the Westovers because of this, and possibly more of them suffered in ways that Tara didn't know and, therefore, didn't relate. This attitude of anti-medical belief is hard for me to stomach. My oldest son, Puck, was born with half a heart. He's alive today, instead of being buried at two weeks of age, exclusively because of the incredible medical treatments available. Vaccines have helped keep him safe and alive. More than that (and this is getting into something I haven't really discussed before, so bear with me as I work it out), homeopathic solutions cause an almost visceral disgust in me. I realize that could upset some people who have anecdotal evidence of something being alleviated by essential oils. As there's precious little research done in the efficacy of essential oils and the like, I'm inclined to think most of them are placebos (at best) and hoaxes (at worst). My grandmother, for many years, relied on similar types of homeopathic "remedies" (her flavor of choice was Brain Gym and herbs), while some of my uncles and aunts swore by Noni Juice. While I don't doubt that there can be some positive benefits to healthful food (isn't that the typical panacea even from doctor's offices? Good diet and exercise?), it was only when my grandmother insisted that my wife's miscarriage happened because we didn't "eat food closer to the earth" and that my son's heart defect could be healed via praying that I started to align "homeopathic" with "quackery". Reading an entire book in which the family was dangerously attached to herbal solutions--and, by the end, profiting nicely on them--struck just a little too close to home.* The paranoia in Westover's father was particularly grinding: Illuminati, socialist, End Times, and more came through his fractured mind, with everything happening in his life being part of God's plan for him. Easily prevented difficulties (like stopping a headache with ibuprofen) were anathema to him, as it would frustrate the Lord's work--which he, especially, had been called to perform. An explosion that nearly killed him was later called a "tender mercy of the Lord" because he not only pulled through, but it was because of "mother's tinctures" that he was saved. And that boils down to the crux of the difficulty I had with the book. Ostensibly, the Westovers and I share the same religion. Tara went to BYU because it was a "Church school". She discussed her problems with her LDS bishop. She was taught about modesty--albeit a more extreme, puritanical form of it--that I was. And that's the thing: Papa Westover has incredible faith. Immense faith. Willing to do stupid things faith. And I don't. At least, not to that same degree. Whereas I see God answering my prayers for my son's life through the expertise and knowledge of doctors, he sees God answering his prayers by having his daughter gain a scholarship without the benefit of "socialist public schools". What I see as dangerous, almost deadly abuse and treatment, he sees as the "way things have to be to get the work of the Lord done". We're both--again, ostensibly--involved in trying to further God's work; but we can't both be right. This is the great conundrum within Mormonism, as well as membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: For all the talk (and there is a lot of talk, much of it accurate) about uniformity, conformity, and quashing of dissent, there is still a panoply of beliefs and cultures that thrive within the Church. My time on my mission made it clear to me that there are other ways of worshipping that don't look like what I grew up with in Utah Valley. But there's a parallax gap there, a fissure that makes things murky. If I'm willing to go along with the "Mormons versus gentiles" (and both the word versus and gentiles are used reluctantly here), then I have the camp of those who can be saved**…and Brother Westover is in it. How? Setting aside the immaterial concept of bias and the distraction of "what if she's lying?", there are clear examples in Westover's account about abuse--emotional, physical, and spiritual--that make me feel like heaven can't be expansive enough to fit people like me ("mainstream Mormons", he would probably say) and people like him ("fundamentalist nutjob Mormons", I most definitely say). And maybe the thing that really gets stuck in my craw is the possibility that he is the right one. When God sits me down for that great postmortal interview, is He going to lean across His desk (because of my upbringing, I assume that talking to God will be essentially the same as talking to my bishop) and say, with a sad, regretful expression, "You tried your best, Steve, but…you just didn't really see what I was trying to get you to do. All that stuff you read--all those books you adored and filled your soul up? They were from the devil. You drew close to Me with your lips but your heart was far from Me. You didn't put faith in My prophets. You used medicine. You educated yourself through the public schools--and, what's worse, sent your own children to them. You should have been more like Brother Westover"? How will God be able to let the more fanatical know that they went too far, that the more lackadaisical didn't go far enough? What lines can/ought to be drawn? This kind of thinking preoccupies me a lot, and no amount of "We have to leave it in the Lord's hands" answers really satisfies me. Perhaps it's the educator in me, who wants to see the rubric and have the expectations clearly laid out, with the percentages clearly indicated. The Church is big into checklists, with everything short of literal maps for how a person's life is supposed to go. Almost no one's life actually does, of course, but we have these guidelines anyway…or are they rules? How simple is salvation, really? There are a lot of things that I not only have to have done, but continue to do for salvation to be rendered. Is my Mormonism sufficient? Would I be better off having grown up with Tara Westover's level of education? Am I better off knowing the paltry scraps of knowledge that I've gleaned? Is my drinking a caffeinated beverage drinking sin? Or my herbal tea? Or my violent, dark books? Or my writings? Do I condemn myself when I write thoughts that I've had? It's times like these when I really feel for Martin Luther, a man who was incapable of not wondering about the status of his soul. The ignorance is maddening. Of course, I only know about him because of the time I've spent in trying to gain an education. --- * Hypocrisy of hypocrisies, when one of Papa Westover's grandchildren was born at 26 weeks and had massive heart- and lung problems, they sent the child to a hospital so that he could get treatment there. ** I recognize the delineations between salvation in my church's eschatology. I'm not interested in plumbing those depths just now. |
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