i have no idea why i picked the book up. it's been on my shelf for well over a decade since i've read it. perhaps it was a feeling of identification with hester prynne, but after reading it i feel a lot more like roger chillingsworth.
egocentric reading seeps in, no matter how disinterested and almost scientific a reader attempts to be--it is an impossible task to divorce oneself from. a fact that would have been a much more difficult subject matter for hawthorne's readers in the mid-nineteenth century, when so many of them loved the first part of the book, the custom-house, and were made clearly uncomfortable by the part of the text dealing with the actual dealings with the scarlet letter.
this was intentional on the part of hawthorne, who delighted upon his wife wife reading the concluding chapter of the work when: "it broke her heart and sent her to bed with a grievous headache--which i look upon as a triumphant success."
with that as an albatross it might be difficult to interpret the intentions for this writing, namely that hawthrone did not set out to write a feminist book, but to kick around the punchline of his time, puritanism, and perhaps more to write a book about what it is like to be alone. it's only through an anachronistic reading, and even then it seems thin, that a reader is able to pull a feminist track out of this.
perhaps this is best placed into context in the quote from the first quarter of the book: "but there is a fatality a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost invariable compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the color to their lifetime; and still the more irresistibly, the darker the tine that saddens it."
ms. prynne is a strong feminine character, one that held to her beliefs with both pride and convictions. and it could be argued she triumphed in this adversity. but these triumphs were less for the female, and more so for the the individual. yes, it is given that she was a female, that dimmsdale, the other half of the sin, experienced a completely different reaction from the same population over the seven year course of the novella, and that this burden was laid upon hester on the sole account that she was a female and carried first the physical presence of a child out of wedlock, then the scarlet letter personified in pearl.
however, based on the context of the overall work, it is far more accessible to place the entire context of the work into the meaning of what the meaning of being alone is about, and how the human experience grows and adapts to it. no matter who the individual is within the text they are always alone, and the actions that they carry are crosses to bear on their own.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Book Review: 'Burgundy Stars' by William Echikson
the third of july was once a special time for chicago. a time when a massive amount of fireworks would be launched at the twilight sky, and the whole herd of the city would deposit themselves down on the lake front to watch the spectacle play itself out. but due to budgetary cuts this year the annual event was canceled.
thus, i found myself hanging out with my friend, meg, over at cafe fresco, a couple doors down from my apartment. we huddled on the back patio listening to the sound of the neighborhood firing off their fireworks all around us, confessing a mutual fear to one another of an errant firework blasting us in the head or the more unrealistic scenario of some punk kid with a gun taking the opportunity to disguise the noise of his gun to shoot us.
after that night, i had no real wish to drink, and whats more no real plans for the actual fourth. i locked myself in my white and black tiled sepulchre, only exiting to my fire escape for a much needed accoutrement when the fireworks began to pick up in rhythm. it was then that the curious artist living in the garden level of my building asked me to bomb down. not wanting to be blasted in the head by firework or bullet, i agreed.
over the course of cocktails, i told him of my interest in wine, especially french wine. he produced the wonderful book burgundy stars by william echikson which covers a year in the life of the french chef bernard loiseau and his quest for three michelin stars.
in the hands of a lesser writer, the personality of bernard loiseau would have taken over. but echilkson deftly takes this on, not pulling any punches towards loiseau's considerable ego. he takes time within the narrative to weave in the rich evolution of french haute cuisine, and brings further depth to the book by fleshing out the different surrounding staff of the restaurant, la cote d'or, and how much it means to the entire restaurant--the considerable expense each staff member undergoes to achieve the three star level.
living in america, home of such gastronomical entities as champp's, tgi fridays and applebees, where more care is taken to piling up a plate with enough to feed a family of three, it is easy to take food as art for granted. loiseau's love and care of food, the craftsmanship that went into both the design and application is handled by echikson with descriptions allowing each dish to fall off the page. the considerable insight he uses to describe the world of food reviewers is no less daunting to somebody that enjoys cooking and flavors.
i prize used books (well, read books) most of all. reading a book annotated by the previous reader makes reading seem more of a communal activity than carefully holding the spine of a freshly cracked work. and this tomb did not disappoint. included in it was the bookmark from a store in amsterdam where it was originally purchased, and also a follow-up story written by echikson for the new yorker on what became of loiseau.
there has been talk of whales here lately and perhaps the final coda that came as the last word on loiseau adds poignancy to it. the book concludes in 1991, by 2003 loiseau was dead. at the age of 52, after having maintained his three stars for twelve years there were rumors michelin was going to lower his ranking back down to two. they didn't, but by that point the fire was gone. loiseau had achieved what he had always wanted, but he discontinued to push himself for new excellence. he fell into depression, and in that depression he took his own life.
thus, i found myself hanging out with my friend, meg, over at cafe fresco, a couple doors down from my apartment. we huddled on the back patio listening to the sound of the neighborhood firing off their fireworks all around us, confessing a mutual fear to one another of an errant firework blasting us in the head or the more unrealistic scenario of some punk kid with a gun taking the opportunity to disguise the noise of his gun to shoot us.
after that night, i had no real wish to drink, and whats more no real plans for the actual fourth. i locked myself in my white and black tiled sepulchre, only exiting to my fire escape for a much needed accoutrement when the fireworks began to pick up in rhythm. it was then that the curious artist living in the garden level of my building asked me to bomb down. not wanting to be blasted in the head by firework or bullet, i agreed.
over the course of cocktails, i told him of my interest in wine, especially french wine. he produced the wonderful book burgundy stars by william echikson which covers a year in the life of the french chef bernard loiseau and his quest for three michelin stars.
in the hands of a lesser writer, the personality of bernard loiseau would have taken over. but echilkson deftly takes this on, not pulling any punches towards loiseau's considerable ego. he takes time within the narrative to weave in the rich evolution of french haute cuisine, and brings further depth to the book by fleshing out the different surrounding staff of the restaurant, la cote d'or, and how much it means to the entire restaurant--the considerable expense each staff member undergoes to achieve the three star level.
living in america, home of such gastronomical entities as champp's, tgi fridays and applebees, where more care is taken to piling up a plate with enough to feed a family of three, it is easy to take food as art for granted. loiseau's love and care of food, the craftsmanship that went into both the design and application is handled by echikson with descriptions allowing each dish to fall off the page. the considerable insight he uses to describe the world of food reviewers is no less daunting to somebody that enjoys cooking and flavors.
i prize used books (well, read books) most of all. reading a book annotated by the previous reader makes reading seem more of a communal activity than carefully holding the spine of a freshly cracked work. and this tomb did not disappoint. included in it was the bookmark from a store in amsterdam where it was originally purchased, and also a follow-up story written by echikson for the new yorker on what became of loiseau.
there has been talk of whales here lately and perhaps the final coda that came as the last word on loiseau adds poignancy to it. the book concludes in 1991, by 2003 loiseau was dead. at the age of 52, after having maintained his three stars for twelve years there were rumors michelin was going to lower his ranking back down to two. they didn't, but by that point the fire was gone. loiseau had achieved what he had always wanted, but he discontinued to push himself for new excellence. he fell into depression, and in that depression he took his own life.
Friday, July 16, 2010
thorntown kids
there were these two kids from back in high school--forever ago. one, ziggy, was the classic underachiever with a lot of potential being held back by the people he hung-out with. the other, jones, was a "jerk"--not quite a "jock" not quite a "nerd" but somewhere in the gray areas of both.
one of them had the locker down by the gymnasium, the old gymnasium, that is, not the new one, and that's where they would congregate after second period. there they would discuss the myriad of subjects that scratched the superficial surface of their everyday lives (topics covered: the legendary adventures of hercules, star trek: the next generation and an ongoing drama of how to talk their chemistry teacher, mr. zuphyr, into letting them stay after class to ditch their next period).
they made an odd pairing despite this common ground they had constructed their friendship upon. it was after their junior year they found a new dynamic, where jones met people, leaving it up to ziggy to maintain these friendships. this was highlighted on an idle sunday afternoon when a friend of jones called him for ziggy's phone number. jones relayed the phone number, then called ziggy to find out what he was up to, only to find out that ziggy was going over to the other kid's house.
perhaps the strangest story follows the pair on new years eve where they had been slated to attend party ushering in 1996. they met a group of people at their friend kirsten's house, where it was immediately decided the ensemble should go downtown and try to get into first avenue. on paper this looked to be a good idea until a series of mishaps occurred, or at least for ziggy and jones. first was the transportation where the size of the group dictated three cars would be a legal necessity. secondly, was the amount of snow both falling and accumulating. last was jones' knowledge, or lack thereof, of the geographical locations within, and whereabouts of, the city of minneapolis.
as was documented by charles darwin in 1859's origin of species there is a hierarchy within all species. this would be expanded upon after darwin had ceased the mortal coil but could be constructed into a matrix that describes high school. and so while the majority of the group piled into two cars it was jones' car left most bare, containing only jones, jones' sophomore valet: bachmann, and ziggy, who joined them in an odd sense of loyalty despite the fact he had a girlfriend in one of the other cars that he had every intention, nay right, to make-out with at midnight.
the caravan started off well until the first two cars made a stoplight going across the grain belt bridge, leaving jones' car separated. despite the fact the location of first avenue, based exclusively on the name of the establishment, should have been an easy enough locale to find, jones quickly became lost and headed the wrong way on 35W into an area he would later discover to be the small suburb of richfield.
these were the savage days before cellular technology had become an economically feasible means to the masses. thus the three of them devolved into a game ziggy and jones had discovered the year prior, when neither of them had gone to prom. in it, they would take the same turns indicated by the car behind them until the driver of the vehicle became wise to their ruse and would lose them with a fake directional signal at the first available stop sign. these were the limitations of entertainment they had at their disposal.
in a ditch effort, they returned to thorntown, stumbling through the different abodes of their acquaintance in an attempt to locate their separated friends. they even went so far as to stop at the home of the girl jones was sweet on, which her mother had recently vacated the family from after she was re-married. at this, the lowest point of the trip, they managed to beach jones' car in the snow strewn driveway and had to push it out--ziggy took the liberty of writing 'shovel me' in the fresh powder.
with midnight approaching, they gave up hope, or at least ziggy gave up the hope of making out at midnight; for the other two their wasn't much hope to begin with. the three repaired back to jones' house to suffer the new year in, in a similar fashion replayed on many of the nights before.
and that is when the final breath of kindness from 1995 occurred. in one of jones' more understated comments he had confided in ziggy how he supposed most folk really only entertained him as a friend due to the liberal nature his parents subscribed to. this truth was complimented by the fact that every child in thorntown knew the location of the key to jones' house. thus, it should not have surprised them as much when they discovered the lost attachment of their group mingling in the basement.
in the end, ziggy got to make-out with his girlfriend at midnight, and they were able to usher in the new year surrounded by friends.
there is an interesting coda to the story. apparently the girls had secured several bottles of champagne upon the knowledge the girl jones was sweet on would have an empty house. they most likely would have gotten away with it, too, should there not have been tire marks gouged in her driveway, and so all the girls were suspended from the cross-country ski team. this did not earn jones any points.
where ziggy and jones are now is anybody's guess. ziggy, it was said, made something of himself and may be a mad scientist who plots at unleashing a biological creature of his own design upon the known world from his secret lair. jones fell further off the radar, and was last seen wandering the midwest; this is only speculation, however, based on the rise of disturbed and angry people residing there who most likely are living in his wake.
one of them had the locker down by the gymnasium, the old gymnasium, that is, not the new one, and that's where they would congregate after second period. there they would discuss the myriad of subjects that scratched the superficial surface of their everyday lives (topics covered: the legendary adventures of hercules, star trek: the next generation and an ongoing drama of how to talk their chemistry teacher, mr. zuphyr, into letting them stay after class to ditch their next period).
they made an odd pairing despite this common ground they had constructed their friendship upon. it was after their junior year they found a new dynamic, where jones met people, leaving it up to ziggy to maintain these friendships. this was highlighted on an idle sunday afternoon when a friend of jones called him for ziggy's phone number. jones relayed the phone number, then called ziggy to find out what he was up to, only to find out that ziggy was going over to the other kid's house.
perhaps the strangest story follows the pair on new years eve where they had been slated to attend party ushering in 1996. they met a group of people at their friend kirsten's house, where it was immediately decided the ensemble should go downtown and try to get into first avenue. on paper this looked to be a good idea until a series of mishaps occurred, or at least for ziggy and jones. first was the transportation where the size of the group dictated three cars would be a legal necessity. secondly, was the amount of snow both falling and accumulating. last was jones' knowledge, or lack thereof, of the geographical locations within, and whereabouts of, the city of minneapolis.
as was documented by charles darwin in 1859's origin of species there is a hierarchy within all species. this would be expanded upon after darwin had ceased the mortal coil but could be constructed into a matrix that describes high school. and so while the majority of the group piled into two cars it was jones' car left most bare, containing only jones, jones' sophomore valet: bachmann, and ziggy, who joined them in an odd sense of loyalty despite the fact he had a girlfriend in one of the other cars that he had every intention, nay right, to make-out with at midnight.
the caravan started off well until the first two cars made a stoplight going across the grain belt bridge, leaving jones' car separated. despite the fact the location of first avenue, based exclusively on the name of the establishment, should have been an easy enough locale to find, jones quickly became lost and headed the wrong way on 35W into an area he would later discover to be the small suburb of richfield.
these were the savage days before cellular technology had become an economically feasible means to the masses. thus the three of them devolved into a game ziggy and jones had discovered the year prior, when neither of them had gone to prom. in it, they would take the same turns indicated by the car behind them until the driver of the vehicle became wise to their ruse and would lose them with a fake directional signal at the first available stop sign. these were the limitations of entertainment they had at their disposal.
in a ditch effort, they returned to thorntown, stumbling through the different abodes of their acquaintance in an attempt to locate their separated friends. they even went so far as to stop at the home of the girl jones was sweet on, which her mother had recently vacated the family from after she was re-married. at this, the lowest point of the trip, they managed to beach jones' car in the snow strewn driveway and had to push it out--ziggy took the liberty of writing 'shovel me' in the fresh powder.
with midnight approaching, they gave up hope, or at least ziggy gave up the hope of making out at midnight; for the other two their wasn't much hope to begin with. the three repaired back to jones' house to suffer the new year in, in a similar fashion replayed on many of the nights before.
and that is when the final breath of kindness from 1995 occurred. in one of jones' more understated comments he had confided in ziggy how he supposed most folk really only entertained him as a friend due to the liberal nature his parents subscribed to. this truth was complimented by the fact that every child in thorntown knew the location of the key to jones' house. thus, it should not have surprised them as much when they discovered the lost attachment of their group mingling in the basement.
in the end, ziggy got to make-out with his girlfriend at midnight, and they were able to usher in the new year surrounded by friends.
there is an interesting coda to the story. apparently the girls had secured several bottles of champagne upon the knowledge the girl jones was sweet on would have an empty house. they most likely would have gotten away with it, too, should there not have been tire marks gouged in her driveway, and so all the girls were suspended from the cross-country ski team. this did not earn jones any points.
where ziggy and jones are now is anybody's guess. ziggy, it was said, made something of himself and may be a mad scientist who plots at unleashing a biological creature of his own design upon the known world from his secret lair. jones fell further off the radar, and was last seen wandering the midwest; this is only speculation, however, based on the rise of disturbed and angry people residing there who most likely are living in his wake.
Friday, July 09, 2010
re: c-jack...
dear starbuck,
well, if you know j. then i'm truly sorry about everything. i thought i was doing the right thing, or what i believed in. i really did believe in it. i think she's forgiven me for it. i liked hanging out with all of you; you guys were great. j. seems likes she's in a good spot with s. and the times i've hung out with her she seems happy. i'm mature enough to be happy for her and do miss you guys.
answers are easy. realistically, there are only answers. i'm trying to make a point of being honest with everybody and expecting honesty out of everybody else. i removed myself from the 'Sota not to be independent, but not to be dependent. i've wanted this city for two years cos i've missed it. i want to be a better person.
if by "her" you mean m., my ex-wife, then yes i do love her even if it is what it is. i told j. i don't regret what i did, and she respects it. and look on the bright side, she's got s. so... yay!
oh! as for books, i'm reading Burgundy Stars which, thank you, you just ruined the end for me by having me look it up on wikipedia.... shit, that totally bums me out. anyway, nice way to go into depression...
yes, i think i am depressed. i've taken this honesty to extreme which has hurt and cost friends. i am alone. i don't regret it, i don't regret moving here, nor do i regret this depression. i would a thousand times over rather stand by what i want, what i believe in then the lies i used to make people feel comfortable.
and that's it. comfortable. i don't want to feel comfortable. i'm so sick of being comfortable with what i'm doing, who my friends are, what's going on. i don't want people with their pulses on the next big thing, or what everybody says is fantastic. i just want stupid satisfaction.
i want somebody to watch juvenile tv with, listen to a cranked up radio, cook with, pull the cork on a bottle of wine for the taste of it, somebody i can go to a movie theater with and realize there isn't a movie we want to watch and pick up a bag of movie popcorn to go home and watch something on our own.
i know... i'm stupid. i hope "refriended" isn't... honest to fucking God i hope "refriended" isn't.
well, if you know j. then i'm truly sorry about everything. i thought i was doing the right thing, or what i believed in. i really did believe in it. i think she's forgiven me for it. i liked hanging out with all of you; you guys were great. j. seems likes she's in a good spot with s. and the times i've hung out with her she seems happy. i'm mature enough to be happy for her and do miss you guys.
answers are easy. realistically, there are only answers. i'm trying to make a point of being honest with everybody and expecting honesty out of everybody else. i removed myself from the 'Sota not to be independent, but not to be dependent. i've wanted this city for two years cos i've missed it. i want to be a better person.
if by "her" you mean m., my ex-wife, then yes i do love her even if it is what it is. i told j. i don't regret what i did, and she respects it. and look on the bright side, she's got s. so... yay!
oh! as for books, i'm reading Burgundy Stars which, thank you, you just ruined the end for me by having me look it up on wikipedia.... shit, that totally bums me out. anyway, nice way to go into depression...
yes, i think i am depressed. i've taken this honesty to extreme which has hurt and cost friends. i am alone. i don't regret it, i don't regret moving here, nor do i regret this depression. i would a thousand times over rather stand by what i want, what i believe in then the lies i used to make people feel comfortable.
and that's it. comfortable. i don't want to feel comfortable. i'm so sick of being comfortable with what i'm doing, who my friends are, what's going on. i don't want people with their pulses on the next big thing, or what everybody says is fantastic. i just want stupid satisfaction.
i want somebody to watch juvenile tv with, listen to a cranked up radio, cook with, pull the cork on a bottle of wine for the taste of it, somebody i can go to a movie theater with and realize there isn't a movie we want to watch and pick up a bag of movie popcorn to go home and watch something on our own.
i know... i'm stupid. i hope "refriended" isn't... honest to fucking God i hope "refriended" isn't.
Friday, July 02, 2010
alison
the slats in the fire escape look all the way down. technically, this measures only two stories cos it's at the very top of the second story, but at this point, all the stories have been told. there is only here and now.
the word "unfriended" doesn't exist in a spellcheck... well, yet.
there is a phone call. it's not as drunk as you would think it would be, but confirms a lousy week or maybe years. chicago is a city consisting of 2.8 million people, and yet a person might be ostracized from the community quickly.
the phone offers options in bars, as though it has thought this quagmire over previously: the first is 'the otter' on ashland, which isn't the right scene. the second is a bar on hoyne and charleston which the phone, ironically, cannot remember the name of, but is not a possibility for a myriad of reasons.
the phone hangs up with promises of calling the next day, which will never happen. it's another closed chapter.
a car makes a u-turn down ogden. people cross the street loudly, they seem happy as a cabby honks at them to get out of the way. to the east the loop has shut down. the hancock building has silenced the lights. the city sleeps. the song alison off of elvis costello's debut album plays at random. my aim is true came out on the day i was born. i am alone.
a memory fades in. i had gone into a record store to buy a new album, and when i come out the keys are locked in my truck--this happens to me on an alarming basis. my folks are in madison and everybody else i try calling either doesn't pick up or are in dispose. it's a 3 mile round trip to walk, pick up a spare set of keys and then come back, but there is the horrible feeling of being alone; on my own.
chicago is the city i want to be in--an irony as i only leave the apartment once a day to go jogging. i don't know if i made the right decision; i do not know how i will come out of this. i'm searching for a positive or uplifting way of ending this, but it doesn't exist. i'm here now. i'm listening to alison by elvis costello. i've never thought i suck at life more.
the word "unfriended" doesn't exist in a spellcheck... well, yet.
there is a phone call. it's not as drunk as you would think it would be, but confirms a lousy week or maybe years. chicago is a city consisting of 2.8 million people, and yet a person might be ostracized from the community quickly.
the phone offers options in bars, as though it has thought this quagmire over previously: the first is 'the otter' on ashland, which isn't the right scene. the second is a bar on hoyne and charleston which the phone, ironically, cannot remember the name of, but is not a possibility for a myriad of reasons.
the phone hangs up with promises of calling the next day, which will never happen. it's another closed chapter.
a car makes a u-turn down ogden. people cross the street loudly, they seem happy as a cabby honks at them to get out of the way. to the east the loop has shut down. the hancock building has silenced the lights. the city sleeps. the song alison off of elvis costello's debut album plays at random. my aim is true came out on the day i was born. i am alone.
a memory fades in. i had gone into a record store to buy a new album, and when i come out the keys are locked in my truck--this happens to me on an alarming basis. my folks are in madison and everybody else i try calling either doesn't pick up or are in dispose. it's a 3 mile round trip to walk, pick up a spare set of keys and then come back, but there is the horrible feeling of being alone; on my own.
chicago is the city i want to be in--an irony as i only leave the apartment once a day to go jogging. i don't know if i made the right decision; i do not know how i will come out of this. i'm searching for a positive or uplifting way of ending this, but it doesn't exist. i'm here now. i'm listening to alison by elvis costello. i've never thought i suck at life more.
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