What're They Teaching Us: ENGL 307, Cultural Studies

It is now officially the third day of the new quarter, and I'm beginning to get better acquainted with the specific brand of academic variety that I've chosen for myself for the next ten weeks. I've got a normal lecture class, with Pscyhology, and a super-crazy experimental class, with Informatics, and I thought I'd go ahead and round out the quarter with just a nice, solid English class. Books, as you may have noticed, happen to be my favorite, and I was looking forward to reading some new ones. 

Imagine my everlasting surprise when I checked the Amazon listings for the titles in my textbooks section for English 307. 

The class, Cultural Studies, has taken many forms over the past couple of years, covering everything from the highbrow - GeoPolitical Theory in Literature, or some mumbo jumbo like that - to the more easily accessible - How Tolkien Changed the Fantasy Game, anyone? - but all retaining the singular focus of Cultural Studies, in seeing how ideas presented in novels can affect and reflect the world around them. Then again, remember that cultural studies counts anything and everything as text, from governmentally-regulated street signs to the graffiti that covers them.   

As you might easily be able to tell with a glimpse at the images below, my English 307 Cultural Studies course is organized around a similar mix between the artistically elevated and the typically lowbrow, with our studies being specifically emphasized in graphic novels and literature's ties to imagery and the object world... whatever that means. I'll probably be much better at articulating the objectives of the class by the time I'm done with it, so check back in with me later. 

Anyways, here's my booklist for English 307 for Winter 2014 (I added in some of the different covers and excerpts, just so you can see how much of a time I'm going to have with this quarter...): 

Palestine (Joe Sacco)

Fun House (Alison Bechdel) - pictured at top of post

Black Hole (Charles Burns)

Epileptic (David B)

Jimmy Corrigan (Chris Ware)

So, hopefully this quarter will be an interesting one, one that expands my knowledge of literature, cultural studies, and graphic novel styles... but even if none of those things happen, I sure wouldn't be getting this kind of an education anywhere else. What's up, Winter Quarter 2014! 

Trapped Under Glass

Now, we're stuck in Dead Week again.

Last quarter, this was one of my favorite weeks out of the whole year. Christmas, and its related delights, hung its sugarplums almost within reach, and the whole house was quiet, as people with much more stressful schedules than mine buried their heads in their books, like ostriches bury their heads in sand. I was left to my own devices - specifically, my laptop and cell phone - to Pinterest away to my little naive heart's content. I had no cares for Finals, as I already knew I had them in the bag. All Dead Week was, for me, was a waiting game.

And now, it's morphed into something completely different.

Frantically jotting notes, tearing through past papers, trying to figure out exactly what was going on in that one tricky book section, and moreover, trying to avoid thinking about what kind of detrimental effect failing would have on my steadily-climbing GPA, are all I know now. Sleep is a luxury I too often abuse; food, the same.

However, instead of freaking out over it like I am wont to do, I wrapped myself in the pages of one of my favorite novels: The Bell Jar. I had known for a while that I wanted to profile it for a College Fashion article, and I thought this would be a great way to take out multiple birds with one stone, instead of taking out multiple UW peers with one angry toss of my increasingly non-supportive laptop.

For those who have not yet been sucked into the wild and chaotic mind of nineteen-year-old Esther Greenwood, The Bell Jar is the tumultuous tale of a prize-winning self-loather, whose disbelief in her own beauty and talent give way to a crippling depression, suicide attempt, and internment in a psychiatric facility in the 1950s. The novel holds a tragic legacy all its own, by way of the history of its author, Sylvia Plath, who wrote the book semi-autobiographically, and successfully committed suicide about a month after it was published for the first time.

The quintessentially mid-century feminist masterpiece tore open a new space for the discussion of the taboo topic of mental health issues in modern communication, and it is thanks to her expert descriptions of  the ultimate bleakness of the human mind,  that allow for more current, frank discussion of public issues like depression and suicide, as well as female sexuality and career and life opportunities for women.

The Bell Jar is one of my favorites for several reasons:
1. The narrative style is unique and engaging - being told in a surprisingly-organized narrative format, portraying what is a tragedy with uncharacteristic sarcasm, humor, and irony,
2. Which additionally enthralls the reader by way of riveting, fast-paced turns of events that simultaneously enrapture you in the plot further, while also proving to be as equally disorienting as engaging,
3. The topic is one not often discussed in modern literature - and definitely never communicated with such vividly excruciating detail,
4. And the novel simply fell into my lap (courtesy of my mother) at a time in my life when I really, really needed to feel like I had an ally. I did in Esther.

In adapting it for College Fashion, I had naively assumed that my own passion for the literature would be transcribed easily into an article. I forgot completely about how, despite the novel's success, issues like female empowerment by way of sexuality, and the precarious mental states of depression and anxiety, could reduce any competent person's conversation to a smoldering pile of wreckage like the twin taboo time bombs they are.

The first comment - quickly deleted by the swaddling comfort of my Editor-in-Chief - was received, and unfortunately, internalized just as quickly as it was removed. From someone named Stephanie, whose network address betrayed a link to Penn State's campus:

Thanks for your input, Stephanie. And while plenty of people chimed in after her now-invisible, malicious comment, talking about how great the article was, and how much they loved The Bell Jar, there were still plenty more commentators - much more proficient in the use of common grammar, punctuation, and capitalization than Stephanie - who were just as willing to claim that my actions were a mark against the iconic novel, accusing me of trivializing mental illness, and "dragging" fashion of the piece. One also tried to do my job for me, telling me why the outfits I had adapted out of themes for the novel were better off elsewhere, or simply made for the sake of chasing trends (then again, I am on a FASHION WEBSITE, so I don't see how they could fault me for that last piece of criticism).

Of course, it was gratifying when one of my detractors later admitted to never having actually read the novel (then WHY were you even involved in the discussion in the FIRST place?), those mild feelings of triumph were negated immediately when I received a second comment from our old friend, Stephanie: "WOW i like how you deleted my comment. Once again, THIS WAS TERRIBLE. and you clearly didnt understand the bell jar"

Wow, indeed. Out of the nineteen comments on the article, five were posted (as in, were deemed inoffensive enough to actually be posted) by those who disagreed with my work, three were posted by me defending my work, and nine were posted by those who loved my work. (If you can tell that the math doesn't add up, another posted about how she would read the book for the issues presented, regardless of my adaptation, and another was simply a rather impassioned plea for me to profile S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders).

SO, what was initially a method for me to achieve a happier attitude as well as strike out a deadline for CF, ended up opening a much larger and more impressive can of snakes than I had ever intended to belabor myself with during one of the most stressful times of Winter Quarter. I can't truly say that I'm happy with what I did, because I depend entirely too much on the good opinion of my peers. Maybe it's just because I know that this year's crop of Daffodil Princesses trooped to libraries across Pierce County today - one of my favorite Princess appearances! - but I feel like I'm missing out on a little lovin'.

Well, I'm certainly not finding it in any of these study notes.

Read my College Fashion article on the Bell Jar, and weigh the issues for yourself, here:
http://www.collegefashion.net/inspiration/looks-from-books-fashion-inspired-by-the-bell-jar/

Shadows and Rain

As I am currently living in Seattle, you cannot imagine my immense gratitude and relief when it finally started to rain two days ago.

The city has been clouded over with the distinct lack of clouds since school has started. The unnatural sunshine and prolonged summer temperatures have been keeping me awake at night in an unseasonably warm sweat. Each time I dropped another ice cube in my tea, another little part of my soul flaked off, like the dry skin that came with the unwelcome heat, the heat that kept me in tee shirts, instead of in my prized, oft-worn sweaters. The brightness blinded me to all books - school-related or otherwise - and I was suspended in time, just like my favorite season, who was still anxiously waiting for its leaves to change, and its carved pumpkins to appear on doorsteps. Now that the weather has finally caught up with the calendar, I am released from the stupor of the clashing seasons, and I can actually focus.

To a point. It may be argued that what emerged from the new-found morning fog was a misdirected focus; instead of an actual attentiveness to the tasks at hand (namely, managing to pay attention to Appreciation of Architecture lectures...), instead of applying myself to the textbook and keyboard, as I should have... I was desperate for more gloom. Suffering under this odd ailment - desiring the murky and cold, and despairing of all that was clear and warm - I turned to the book that mentioned both darkness and seasonal weather changes in its title (it's allure only magnified by the fact that Stephen King's quote was on the cover): The Shadow of the Wind: A Novel, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.

Largely taking place in the heavily political post-war decade of 1945 to 1955 in Barcelona, Spain, the story follows the trial and travails of the love life of young Daniel Sempere, a teen trying to avoid the pitfalls of friendships and relationships, while keeping hidden the secret he has sworn to protect: a mysterious book, the Shadow of the Wind, of which only one manuscript exists. The rest - as well as the rest of the collective works of it's secretive author, Julian Carax - have been meticulously burned, by a man scarred by fire, operating under the name of one of Carax's villians, representative of the devil. What follows is a tangled web of many characters, their lies, and the timelines in which they operate, and the great question, of whether they can unravel the mystery before their time runs out.

I'm not entirely familiar with any European literature - especially recent literature - that doesn't come from England. I'm used to the Gothic, and the Romantic, and everything that has to do with the prude and privileged ladies of Austen and the Brontes. I was unprepared for this book - which was a bestseller in Spain and France, among other places, before being translated into English - and its... well... differing sensibilities. What I'm talking about are lines like these:

"You're a dish fit for a pope, Rocito. This egregious ass of yours is the Revelation According to Botticelli." 

You see what I mean? Not to say that this line didn't leave me laughing uproariously... it's just that the book displays an abundance of that sort of mindset. And if anyone has heard me complain about the Game of Thrones before, it's like this: I just have a minor problem with major intrigue being upstaged by the inability to keep certain things to yourself. But that's just my point of view.

The rest was great, though. Instead of existing on some limited scope and scale, it existed - to me - in some supernatural soap opera, populated with nefarious characters of dubious origins, liars and double crossers, those who looked like angels and those who acted like angels, those whose religious piety concealed a broken soul. The grandiose nature of the entire novel, the infinite supply of source material, was interesting, as most of what I've been reading recently seems kind of limiting in comparison. The strange, almost postmodernist view of the politics at the time, especially in reference to the corruption in government, which is a hefty topic in itself, took a backseat, when it came to the paranormal and the mystical. The result was a hodgepodge of the religious and the secular, the magical and the evil and the real. This novel contained a lot of varying elements, all moving and acting of their own accord, with their own connotations and purpose.

The problem is that the result of that grew a little too hectic. Towards the ending, I got the vague impression of sending sand through a sieve - throwing a million little particles your way a mile a minute - in the hopes that something is going to fill all the holes. Simply by reading it, I was finding suspense not only in the story itself, but as an outsider thinking, "come on, it's been a great one so far, don't let it all fly out of hand now...don't stuff the ending so full of surprises you'll blow your own story to bits." Thankfully, the acceleration finally stopped, and the story came together at the end. Unfortunately, in a double blow to my heart, it was a predictable outcome. So I had endured such stress at the hands of frenetic plot movement, then frustration through the stagnation as the exact same ending I had predicted came to fruition?

Believe it or not, the masterful imagery and inventive storytelling made it all worth it, and I'm not joking. Normally I'm a stickler about the "moral values" and "plot consistency and regularity" things, but this one was probably the exception. The length was pretty fantastic, too, as it was small enough for me to finish within the span of a week, and yet, it was long enough to let me get familiar with the texture of its binding and the font on its pages. A large-portioned meal, but a tasty one. Maybe I'm just feel so much gratitude for the man who mentally sent me to Barcelona for the past week, but it was a nicely worded vacation, and I appreciated the gloom.

Now, back to my rain. :)

Bump in the Night

I'm here, in one of the most beautiful places found across the entirety of Earth (according to me, at least), with the sun shining brightly, and the day passing as lazily as only the greatest of vacation days can. However, in a vacation home I've come to know almost as well as my own house, and surrounded by my very happy -and finally relaxed - family, you could swear that the world had grown a little colder. Maybe the sunshine shifted a little, causing the warmth to turn into a glinting shine that blinded your eyes, just for a moment. Maybe - once again, just for a moment - the breeze shifted, and you would have sworn that the rustling of the pines was, instead, the quiet hissing whispers of some unseen observers.

Maybe a curious girl - terrified into nightmares at the age of three by Ernest Scared Stupid, the same girl who went on "The Haunted Mansion" for the first time at the age of four, and the second, at fourteen - has decided to take a peek at one of her father's favorite Stephen King's collections, Night Shift. I'd thought that I'd grown out of my past poultry-flavored tendencies, and could successfully sleep through the night without fears of being attacked by vicious, spade-clawed Boogeymen, or sneaking, sloppy zombies. The only time I've become afraid of breaking that insomnia-free streak, was in reading this collection of short stories, from the master of horror himself.

This grouping of some of King's most famous short stories was published in 1978, with the majority of the stories first having been ran in publications as varied as Penthouse and Cosmopolitan, to Cavalier (who,  in running nine of them, was the real heavyweight). While the book itself was dug out of the dust cluttering some of my Dad's old college gear, the tales held within have lost little of their original appeal... or terror. With well known stories like "Jerusalem's Lot," "The Ledge," and "Quitters, Inc." as well as lesser known, but nonetheless thrilling tales, like "I Am the Doorway," "Gray Matter," and "I Know What You Need," this collection of all the aspects of horror, fantasy, suspense, and even sci-fi, found in King's best works are put on display, at their very most chilling.

While anyone who knows me would readily attest that I usually choose to abstain from partaking in the very scariest of movies, television shows, etc., I was never solely afraid of them. As a kid, I really did enjoy books from R. L. Stine's Goosebumps franchise, and I watched Are You Afraid of the Dark? so often, that even now, so many years later, I can recount some of my favorite episodes. The problem was, my imagination was just never great at delineating where fiction met fact, and no matter how I loved shivering to the tune of a haunted castle or a possessed doll during the daytime, I could never seem to sleep at night without both legs firmly tucked inside the covers (later, an encounter with Bram Stoker's Dracula, from the local library, led to a still-ongoing nightly necessity, of locking all windows and closing the blinds. But that was Dracula).

Regardless, reading King's stories led me back to those good ol' days, back when there were some Nancy Drew novels that still scared me. The horror - the kind that draws you in and makes you wait in dreadful anticipation, fully absorbed in the terrifying monster before you, unable to recognize any others that may be sneaking around the corner to catch you from behind - felt good to meet again. It keeps you on your toes.

(The best part is, age -and further fantastical reading - has given me a weapon: where I once quaked beneath covers at the slightest bump in the night, I find I am now able to OUT-THINK any demons my own mind may invent. I can use reality to my advantage, and prove my own monsters to be false, thereby slaying them with a sword crafted from the foundation of their existence. And poof! No more nightmares.)

 Besides, there are plenty of other things to better be afraid of... for instance, in this climate, a repeat of the red-hot sunburn of late July. Now that's scary to think about. :)