Call Me Clarissa (a prose poem)

(in memory of my sixteenth year & in memory of Sally)

I.

It was almost June in London--What she loved; life; London; this 

moment.  Beauty was everywhere; beneath and within; all around

the air; one could breathe it in (as she would do, again and again--

as she always had--remembering the way breath felt that summer

as never again it would; it would be rich; it would be stimulating;

but it would never again wake the heart from its sleeping depths).

II.

What a lark! What a plunge! had it been at sixteen to come alive

to the summer around her; to hear music as if for the first time; 

to lavish summer air and heat against her own skin; to be afraid

of the rush, the radical, racing ride of feelings she had never felt;

to wonder if they would vanish just as quickly, like a dream: such

was her darkness. There was an emptiness about the heart of life; 

an attic room: literally an attic room, with her great-grandmother's

day bed tucked against the low window, the moon peering in; 

pooling against the splintery floor; washing her skin in silver

light. She would light up a cigarette, stashed between cushions

and drag deeply on the filter: it might be possible that the world 

itself is without meaning, she thought. She would hug her knees. 

It is the privilege of loneliness; this late hour when everyone else

is sleeping; in privacy one may do as one chooses. The light has

a kind of caress (and wasn't she craving being touched?); freedom

in silence and stillness and the low hum of insects--this summer,

the summer she learned to drive; the whole world pouring over

her forehead and through her hair on those winding roads; music

all her own (the first bands she'd adored) and how possible every-

thing seemed. (Blues Traveler would sing, "The sun is warm

as the day is long, and I just got the feeling I could do no wrong.")

Everything was heat and pressure and waves and waves of feeling;

all was feeling; was there anything else? How unbelievable death 

was!--that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know 

how she had loved it all; how, every instant... She tucked her toes

into the crevices of the day bed, fiddled with the half-empty lighter, 

looked into the open arms of the trees, their heavy silhouettes against

the sky's unearthly blue (like the light in those El Greco paintings

in Art History class; what did Dr. Myers say?--"technicolored

clouds"); What is it? she wondered aloud, softly.  Where am I? 

And why, after all, does one do it? Are we not all prisoners? She

drank of the cigarette, wanting to savor the smoke, remembering

how from that first weekend they'd all tried it at Christy's she hadn't

--couldn't enjoy what she'd hoped would be sublime but seemed

instead to burn in her throat. She rubbed out the burning tip against

the edge of the sill--discrete ash to blend in with the insect carcasses 

and bits of screen. That was it; all of it: What she liked was simply life. 

III.

Nearly June in London, and she thought only of the unseen part of us;

the great unfathomable space inside each person--all that we feel; all

that we love; all that we do and think about every day; things we do

not say. But--but--why did she suddenly feel, for no reason that she 

could discover, desperately unhappy? It washed back over her; Sally

was gone forever, the Kiwi girl with freckles from lower school she 

had so enjoyed whenever they were out with Carrie and the others--

gone with so much lost; so much unfinished; so much unsaid, undone,

left behind. That's it: absorbing, mysterious, of infinite richness, this life.

So what is this terror? what is this ecstasy? How immense it all is, how

gone in an instant--the whole colossal weight of it undone, vanished

to dust. How it is certain we must die and how valuable, then, how

gorgeous this precious, tiny, whole, extraordinary, ordinary moment. 

IV.

So on a summer's day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect 

and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying 'that is all' more 

and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies 

in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says 

the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden 

to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows and renews, 

begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing 

bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking.

*everything in italics is directly borrowed from Mrs. Dalloway

Call Me Clarissa

--> I'm gathering lines of text I love for my final double-post. My plan is to write a prose poem of my own, incorporating many of these borrowed lines from Mrs. Dalloway. In the poem, I will explore some of the big ideas in our course. 

"What a lark! What a plunge!" (1)

"What she loved; life; London; this moment of June" (2).

"such was her darkness" (20)

"There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room" (26)

"So on a summer's day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying 'that is all' more and more ponderously, until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking" (33-34).

"What is it? Where am I? And why, after all, does one do it?" (45)

"Beauty was everywhere" (61).

"that extraordinary gift, that woman's gift, of making a world of her own wherever she happened to be" (66)

"it might be possible that the world itself is without meaning" (77)

"But--but--why did she suddenly feel, for no reason that she could discover, desperately unhappy?" (106)

"What she liked was simply life" (107).

"... how unbelievable death was! --that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how, every instant..." (108)

"it is the privilege of loneliness; in privacy one may do as one chooses" (134)

"...to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places" (135)

"the unseen part of us" (35)

"Absorbing, mysterious, of infinite richness, this life" (144).

"...every one was unreal in one way; much more real in another" (151)

"how it is certain we must die" (155)

"Are we not all prisoners?" (170)

"What is this terror? what is this ecstasy?" (171)

Dear Ms. Wollstonecraft

Dear Ms. Wollstonecraft,

I am so moved by what you had to say about and for women in 1792 (in your Vindication of the Rights of Woman). Your call for women who tend towards frivolity "to obtain a character as a human being" is profound, especially for a time when I'm picturing corsets and pantaloons and swooning (5). Maybe you intended a cry to all women, actually. I can only imagine how infuriating it must be to look around you and see women without real or rigorous educations calling them to "a nobler ambition" (2).

I am writing to share a few key points from Vindication that resonate profoundly with me in 2012. First and foremost, I love your notion that "the women who have distinguished themselves have neither been the most beautiful nor the most gentle of their sex" and have certainly found this to be true (25). I often admire feisty, daring women, whose priorities and strengths have more to do with ideas and action than looks and passivity. You ask, "How then can the great art of pleasing be such a necessary study?" noting that "it is only useful to a mistress" (22). The great art of pleasing, it seems to me, continues to play a significant role in the world today--mostly in negative ways (for women and men). Your Vindication calls us to be authentic, thoughtful, and deeply rooted in a solid sense of self. Indeed, "Liberty is the mother of virtue" (37). What a powerful message for all readers--thank you!

Furthermore, Ms. Wollstonecraft, I appreciate your writing, "I love man as my fellow" (36). All waves of the Women's Movement have taken such a lashing for being (ostensibly) man-hating. (And sure, some feminists have been and are man-hating, but most aren't!) Also, the word "fellow" is so lovely. As I enter into marriage this summer, I love thinking of my partner and husband as my "fellow."

And, as you say, "Every individual is [...] a world in itself," inviting us to "cherish such a habitual respect for [human]kind as may prevent us from disgusting a fellow-creature for the sake of a present indulgence" (58,85). On the whole, Ms. Wollstonecraft, your profound message is about mutual respect and human rights--WAY before your time.

After re-reading Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth recently, juxtaposed with a re-reading of your Vindication, I am so glad you've included all the emphasis on a woman's mind, and not her looks or her age. You write about "the more important years of life, when reflection takes place of sensation" (21). Imagine that--reflection being more prominent than sensation! This, it seems to me, is a higher calling and ambition for us all. I DO value reflection over sensation, but I'm struck by the beauty of your language and the context of this particular part of this message.

Without any further ado for now, Ms. Wollstonecraft, I will say that I am moved by your prose and most of all by your innovative, striking, and deeply influential ideas.

With great admiration & gratitude,
From (& for) many years into the future,
Meghan S. Tally
London, 2012

The Vagina Monologues: Laugh, Weep, Change the World

Every time I read "The Vagina Monologues," I am moved by its plurality. Ensler doesn't take on one story but many stories. She doesn't speak with one voice but many voices. She doesn't speak to one of us but all of us. I think monologues, facts, notes, and dedications fragmented and juxtaposed make it possible to begin "to say the unsayable" and to demystify the language around women's bodies.

I am haunted by the end of Ensler's Introduction: "In order for the human race to continue, women must be safe and empowered" (xxxvi). Isn't that just it?

When I first read this play (before I'd seen it), I wasn't expecting violence. Sure, I was expecting raucous humor, shock value, words like "cunt" maybe, but I wasn't expecting violence. I hadn't yet made the connection between the fact that we don't talk about our "down-theres" and the shame and anguish and guilt that accompany the collective experience of women and girls around the world.

I love how, in spite of horrific violence and extraordinary pain, anything is possible in this play... even healing... even changing the world. Maybe it's because of the chalice--a vaginal symbol, so it's appropriate in more ways than one.

162px-Pagan_symbol_female_chalice.svg.png

The chalice is open, collaborative, communicative, and plural (as opposed to its opposite and counterpart, the closed, individual, and linear blade). These are pagan symbols, representative of long-held notions of femininity and masculinity, yet I'm struck by how relevant they are to Ensler's piece.

TO BE CONTINUED...

On Megan & Bella (III)

Alright, so I admit it. I like Megan now. (I can't really say about Bella so will wait for the next "Twilight.")

http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.1066177.1335212378!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/landscape_635/image.jpg

She is a bit of a child, but she's in her twenties in the Sixties, so maybe that's understandable. She is, in other ways, definitely an adult. In recent episodes, we learn that she cares about her job, her colleagues, her work itself, friendship, and real love in marriage. If she is pouty or silly at times, maybe my annoyance is more about me than about "Mad Men."

I feel a lot of compassion for Megan in the recent Howard Johnson's scene, especially knowing that when Don drives off and leaves her there, she is hugely at risk. When he comes back to find her but can't, as he panics, we panic. And when they reunite later in the apartment, his relief is our relief. It is also undeniably clear (for me, for the first time), when he says, "I thought I lost you," grasping her around the waist, that these two people deeply love each other and want to protect and honor one another.

TO BE CONTINUED...

How Do We Get There? (II)

In her concluding chapter of The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf offers some ideas for a way forward. First, she says, "we must now ask the questions about our place in our bodies that women a generation ago asked about their place in society" (270). I am in awe of the list of questions she suggests, among them: "Is 'beauty' really sex?" and "Does a woman's identity count?" She goes on to encourage us to "separate from the myth what it has surrounded and held hostage" and tells us what some of those things are (271).

I'm relieve to hear Wolf say that she is "not attacking anything that makes women feel good; only what makes us feel bad in the first place. We all like to be desirable and feel beautiful," she says (271). On the next page, she develops this idea: "we must see that it does not matter in the least what women look like as long as we feel beautiful" (272). Wolf isn't tell us to give up everything that makes us feel beautiful; in fact, she wants us to reclaim a range of ways to be beautiful, to make it possible for more women and girls to love ourselves and our bodies, and doesn't that, in turn, mean that we'll have more love to give, which is better for everyone on earth?

After all these pages of research, theory, and detailed experience, Wolf distills her message into a punchy, truth-talking conclusion with lines like: "The real problem is our lack of choice" and "The actual struggle is between pain and pleasure, freedom and compulsion" (272, 273). We should not have to choose between being "sexual" and being "serious."

I've noticed more recently while watching the BBC London News and Channel 4 News that I tend to note the women's appearances in much more detail than the men's. Although I love his flashy ties and socks, I don't really care what Jon Snow looks like, just about what he has to say. I'm much more distracted, I'm sorry to admit, however, by Cathy Newman's tiny arms, facial features, or stilettos. Maybe noticing that I do this is the first step towards breaking it apart. As Wolf notes, "the choices we make about our appearance [are] no big deal," but I have clearly been trained to see them as though they matter a lot (273). What if I could learn not only to diminish the significance of Cathy's appearance in my own mind but also to celebrate what she has to say to others (men and women)? Wouldn't that be a small kind of progress?

Re-reading Wolf's book has reminded me all over how strongly I don't want anyone in this culture (or on this earth, truly) to be hungry, to be violated, to be judged unreasonably, or to be imprisoned inside his or her own body. If we really want a world in which everyone can be free to live, to love, and to be "fully human," we have to first deconstruct the pernicious and pervasive beauty myth that keeps us all down. King said, "A threat to justice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." The same goes for freedom.

How Do We Get There?

We were talking today in class about some voices in various waves of the Women's Movement that have been and are critical of a range of institutions, like religion and capitalism, and we began discuss some of the challenges involved in changing our world.

During the Civil Rights movement in America, Dr. King articulated what for many of us was and is the dream, but people disagreed (and continue to disagree) about how we get there. I have always been sympathetic towards some of the ideas in Black Power literature, articulated by the likes of Malcolm X. And certainly Anti-Apartheid leaders like Oliver Tambo and Nelson Mandela fall into this category for me. It is inspiring to listen to voices representing an oppressed people, calling us to find a way forward, and in some cases, showing us that way. The violence of both of these race-based movements was and is highly political and controversial. I do not have the answer, but I understand why our questions are so fraught.

For me much of the same is true of the Women's Movement. Various leaders, from Mary Wollstonecraft to Gertrude Stein, have inspired me with their articulations of women's collective experiences and have rallied women and men alike in their cries for a different world. This does not mean--I'm sorry to report, in some ways--that I have burned my bra or absolutely stopped wearing high heels. It does mean that I am more tuned in to gender issues, for better and worse. Perhaps I am more troubled by what I see because I have learned to notice and interpret it. Yet, I hope at least, perhaps I am also, in some small way, empowered to be a part of the solution as we take small steps towards a better and more equitable future...

TO BE CONTINUED...