Sunday, March 10, 2013

Undeath in the Tween Years: Chaucer & Twilight


"They're gonna clean up your looks 
with all the lies in the books...
They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less as long as someone'll bleed
So darken your clothes or strike a violent pose.
Maybe they will leave you alone, but not me"

Teenagers, MCR

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Working in trans, queer, and disability theory in the field of medieval literature, I have found myself compulsively seeking what Eve Sedgwick calls "reparative readings" of rejected persons, narratives, cultures, and even time periods. I have come to firmly believe that a smart reader makes a book smarter. While Twilight has been a public success, it remains an abject or guilty pleasure for many serious academics. In many respects, however, the things that attract readers to Twilight queerly reflect much of the allure of medieval literature; including shared relations to time, conflicts and magical realisms. Pulling Twilight and Medieval-Early Modern Literature together becomes not only a queer project of appropriating from the mainline but a medieval project of messing with the archive. Enjoy!

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Tween & Middle Ages

The teen years are not so far behind me that habits that grew up in that time of my life have totally transformed into their young adult version. Conversely, the experience of being a teen is not so enveloping of my day to day experience that I cannot see forests for the trees.

That said, spending my spring break dipping into the popular fiction of Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight Saga (conveniently passed the time in which reading it would be significant and I will be able to be more charitable in my reading of the book) and the Prioress's Tale has brought up memories of a perspective that has lost a degree of intensity (although by no means relevancy) in my current circumstances: the experience of occupying a vulnerable position of power.

Living alongside Bella Swan as she began to be courted and dominated by Edward Cullen proved to be far less objectionable than I had anticipated. Asking myself why I am not more offended by the blatant chauvinism and stalker-like behavior of Edward, I came up with the answer, “well, isn’t that how any dom(inant), of any gender, would behave towards their sub(missive)?” Coming from a queer theoretical and subcultural perspective, the particularity of the Bella/Edward story resonated with the S(ub)/D(om) world I knew.

Indeed I'm not the first person to make the connection between the Twilight romance and Sub/Dom culuture, as evidenced by E.L. James, citing it as the inspiration for her book series 50 Shades of Grey.

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Resonance

Indeed, calling it a “resonance” rather than a representation, I feel does more justice to the literature as well as to the readership. Rather than pining down the book’s meaning or making it stand in for all male/female, all heterosexual, all human/non-human, all dom & sub, all x & y relationships allows the book to live and retreat into its own particularity which resists being instilled as an allegory or meta-story. It loses deific power as the universal love-story at the same time as it loses its demonic power as the universal story of patriarchal dominance. 

Instead, via resonance “something that is constituted here resonates with the shock wave emitted by something constituted over there. A body that resonates does so according to its own mode” (the I.C., the Coming Insurrection 12).

The Invisible Committee’s (the I.C.) concept of resonance as a revolutionary mode, functions well as a mode of literary scholarship, because it allows us to bracket the question of direct causal or representative story-telling; i.e. Bella does not submit to Edward because she is a woman and he is a man, or because she is a sub and he is a dom, because she is a human and he is a vampire, because she is a X-ist and he is a Y-ist --- rather, Bella’s submission exists in its own world and may resonate with the experience of a human, submissive woman elsewhere but was not written as a result, as a cause, or any other direct reaction to her experience. 

“[Resonance] is not like a plague or a forest fire --- a linear process which spreads from place to place after an initial spark. It rather takes the shape of a music, whose focal points, though dispersed in time and space, succeed in imposing the rhythm of their own vibrations, always taking on more density” (I.C. 12-13).

Bella (in Twilight), Sub/Dom Culture, the Coming Insurrection, and myself, all resonate together through this reading (as the very form of this reading), in part because we are all concerned about power. Each of us exist as submissive bodies that yearn for dominance or else to become dominant, but experience our position in relation to power as ever under threat, as unstable, inconstant, and contingent.

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Teen Vampires

The experience of the Sub, the Teenager, and the Human strike a common chord: here we are regarded as powerful, but always with the permission of something else, there we are outright dominated, and ever in both and between there is a sense that our power might be taken away.

The Dominants, Parents, the Vampire, may give us room to stand with them as equals but the moment that we move counter to their wishes for us, they might insist on their privilege over us to bring us back in line. We have power insofar as other powers abstain from exercising their power and desire over us. The Scholar, like the Doms, the 'Rents, the Vamps, desires the submissive body to be independent but fears that it might run too far away or get into danger, thus putting them beyond our power to feed off their life-blood and affection.

Edward’s hold on Bella, keeping her close and yet resistant to either devour her or make her into a thing equal to and like him (a vampire), evidences this tension. Bella calls Edward out on this treatment: i.e. giving her piggy-back rides (279), watching her while she sleeps (293), dancing with her feet standing on his, telling him that this behavior makes her "feel like I'm five years old" (488). Indeed, it is an extension of Bella’s contingent power with her father, and to the reader, which gives her a life of her own only insofar as they do not insist on pinning her down.

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Undead Choirboys

Such resonance moves between texts, harmonizing with the song of the Prioress’s boy in Geoffrey Chaucer's the Canterbury Tales. There, he is given a voice through song, but given only the form, not yet trusted with the meaning of the words (he could not understand Latin, "For he so yong and tendre was of age"). There, he walks through the Jewish quarter of the city to school, on the contingency that they allow him to pass (for a time) unhindered.

The Jewish population too exists in this city in a "Iewerye" (a ghetto), on the contingency that they are not expelled, pay additional taxes, function as the bankers for the city, and generally submit to the dominant Christian overlords (from which the child descends and with which his song resonates). At a moment when the boy passes through the Jewish Quarter, singing his song of the Mother Mary (the Ave Marie and Alma Redemptoris)  a few members of the Jewish population are convinced by an oppositional Satanic spirit to reject the sonic dominance of the child; silencing him with death. In this moment of rupture, the silencing violence against the Jewish people of the ghetto reaches a breaking point, resulting in an another act of violence that spurs on the murders being put to death and even heavier domination of the "Iewerye." Power breeds resistance which can be co-opted (by the city and the narrator) to justify further oppression. Even death is no escape.

Miraculously, the child is brought back to a kind of contingent unlife by the intervention of a parental (Mother Mary) figure, who with the help of an enchanted grain ("[which] she leyde... up-on [his] tonge"), his song continues despite his death. This child’s particularity continues to resonate and exercise power, as a sonic agent of the dominant religion and Mother Mary in particular, with the physically powerful Jewish men/adults, with parents, with other children, with the unliving, with vampires, with teen-agers, with Bella/Edward, and with us.

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Un/de(te)r-mined/ Lives

The power of the Prioress’s Tale and the boy’s song is contingent on the reader, but its vulnerable efficacy has persisted in a partially alive/autonomous state as well as in a partially dead, passé, pinned-down tradition of medieval literature. The Text and the boy are both undead vampires in a sense, sucking life-blood from the reader, just as we are drawn to it and bite into it for nourishment. This unlife has thus allowed the boy’s singing dead body to continue on for centuries until it can sit (literally and literar-ily) on the shelf next to Bella and Edward. 

The resonance of vulnerable power-positions and power-plays continues to connect them with my lived experience.

While the particularity of the Prioress’s song-boy and Stephenie Meyer’s teen-vampires are in a sense removed from my current circumstances, I continue to harmonize with their song of feeling uncertain about one’s position in a community, the feeling that one’s autonomy and life are contingent on dominant forces not exercising their power over me, shutting down my song and closing my book. And yet, this resonance reminds me also of all I will never know of the unlife of teens, boys, and vampires. What comes next for such Un/de(te)r-minded Lives?

To quote Twilight: Eclipse, "who the hell knows? This isn't the time to make hard and fast decisions, this is the time to make mistakes... to change your mind and change it again, because nothing is permanent." In other words, Things Transform, and that involves the demands for support in undeterred undetermined lives.


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Sunday, March 3, 2013

Metonymic Ethics of the Comma in Midnight Cowboy


"Just Close His Eyes, 
Nothing Else We Can Do. 
Just a Little Illness, 
We Will Be in Miami Soon"

Midnight Cowboy (1969)

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These are the last words we hear in Midnight Cowboy, repeated in neurotic rhythm by the bus-driver, to sooth the passengers, himself and perhaps the audience as we all take in Rico's death. It's rhythmic, repetitive, and near rhymes give it the semblance of a song, a funeral dirge. 

The insistent words and the paranoid drive forward marks what I feel are a limit for Marxism and psychoanalysis, for repetition and reification, so that we must face in the difference between metonym and metaphor why we are left only with the aspiration for totality and totality itself: 

The terminal case. The pause. The touch of difference. The form Rico's body takes in the picture above ( , ). The punctuation whose very shape suggests cripness: the comma.


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Metonym v Metaphor

Attempting to justify his use of Midnight Cowboy as an allegory for sexual, social, national conditions, Kevin Floyd in the Reification of Desire uses Frederic Jameson's argument on the intimacy of metonym and metaphor:


"Though Jameson does not explicitly frame allegory in relation to the category of metaphor, that figure typically opposed to metonymy, allegory does assume strongly metaphorical implications ... it serves to make connections, to assert unity, and, yes, identity in response to capitals radical differentiation of the social." (191-2). 

Floyd is most concerned here with asserting that sexuality functions along and a part of the logic of capital and history. That I will grant to Floyd, and indeed, for my own part, I hardly needed to be convinced. 

What strikes me about the conflation of metonym and metaphor to make this point, however, is that the difference between the two are exactly what seems to set the limit on the repetition and reification that plagues all three and which Floyd notes in places but passes on without dwelling on: the absolute character of failure.

Now, Floyd will admit that metonym and metaphor are not the same, indeed his argument depends on the fact that the act of repetition and reification depend on the fact that they will prove insufficient in sustaining what is lost in the failure of identity, capital, and history. 



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An Aspiration for Metaphor

There is always repetition with a difference, a reification that aspires to totality which always produces a lack and a surplus (aka. a heuristic failure), there is a split (a comma) that separates things metonymically over time, space and meaning that no amount of metaphoric implications will extend beyond its own limits.

Capital replaces bodies but loses the body in the process. Sexuality replaces bodies with the symbolic (for psychoanalysis), the speech/act (for Foucault & Butler), or other bodies (for the hustler), but something remains lost. History too loses the bodies of the past in marking them. 

All are aspirations for totality, but no matter how much "materialism" is insisted on within these systems, they are predicated on the loss of the material for the sake of a network, a language, a history, a drive. At best, like Floyd, we can note and insist on the loss, but move on.

Floyd as bus-driver, sings "Just Close His Eyes, Nothing Else We Can Do. Just a Little Illness, We Will Be in Miami Soon."

A Queer Marxism embraces history and horizons, but in its drive to keep on going, like the bodies in Midnight Cowboy, there is a loss insofar as they refuse to Stay and Dwell with the lost bodies. 


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Rico's Comma

We hear Rico tell this to Joe when he asks him to "Stay" with him, when Joe is so ready to keep on running (from Texas, to NY, from house to house, until at last we leave him en route to Miami). Rico asks him to Stay with him at the grave of his father, but Joe is insistently antsy. People all around Rico, at the club, in the bar, and Joe himself all want to touch him, fix him, and so leave him without further consequence. There is a desire to "learn a lesson" or "fix a problem" or to "keep things moving" (be them capital, language, history).

Rico, the metonymic body, crippled by the presence of a comma, however refuses to go on, to flow into the next thing. There is a pause which for those who read on, can be so slight that we blur the words together like a world seen through the windows of a bus, but for the word on the other side of the comma, it is a perhaps interminable silence, a cut, and edge that says "I go no further." The comma is an invitation to pause, to stay for a while. The comma is a breath -- a final breath.

Rico can only wonder what is on the other side of that comma, "some think that you up. others, you know, they think you go... somewhere else." Joe can ignore the comment, can refuse Rico's invitation with a lust for life, a refusal to be morbid, a rejection of limitation and cripness, "if I do come back, it better not be in your body." 


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Counter-Spells

There is a difference between a comma, and a period. What I called "the absolute character of failure" was meant to suggest that it also had other characteristics, including continuation. The pause and the loss is indeterminate, how much is lost and how much goes on is uncertain. 

The question becomes embodied. Death is a transformation, a continuance and loss. As a mode of speech, however, the length and breath of the comma is felt in mouth & chest. One body pronounces it quickly, another lingers over the pause.

Floyd too can keep on going, he has "aspirations" to follow. Really my main disagreement is a critical one about accent and pacing. Must we read with such distance and such speed? Can we not theorize like Rico, like Lady Gaga, whose song (about the death of a family member) came to me like a counter-verse, a counter-spell to the bus-driver's hymn:

"There aint no reason you and me should be alone tonight...
I'm going to run right to the edge with you.
I'm on the edge-of glory. I'm hanging on a moment of truth.
I'm on the edge-of glory. I'm hanging on a moment with you."



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Thursday, February 21, 2013

Social Allergies


"Stripes" Jessica Parker, 2011

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Allergies
According to the Mayo Clinic Staff

"Allergies occur when your immune system reacts to a foreign substance such as pollen, bee venom or pet dander.

Your immune system produces substances known as antibodies. Some of these antibodies protect you from unwanted invaders that could make you sick or cause an infection. When you have allergies, your immune system makes antibodies that identify a particular allergen as something harmful, even though it isn't. When you come into contact with the allergen, your immune system's reaction can inflame your skin, sinuses, airways or digestive system.

The severity of allergies varies from person to person and can range from minor irritation to... life-threatening emergency. While most allergies can't be cured, a number of treatments can help relieve your allergy symptoms."


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Twenty-Five.

"Night's more comforting to me than day. Quieter, cooler, seemin smaller & more intimate. What day rejects, night extends" I tweet from my phone on February 8th, 2013.

The signal from my phone relays to a server that posts it on Twitter, which relays to Facebook where it posts as a status. Later that morning I get a reply on Facebook:

"Must second that. More serene, more personal."

This relays into a text conversation about night. I admit how I like how much quieter & emptier it makes the world feel. This closing down allows for me to open up (literally, through my breathing passages, my eyes, ears and neurons).

"It's not that I don't like things or people, but during the day, when the streets are flooded with bodies and the sunlight makes mold, pollen, and other tiny things rise on hot air and invade my body; I become overwhelmed and undone. I like this in theory, but in practice it knocks me down and leaves me incapacitated with anxiety and sinus attacks so extreme I move between icing my face and vomiting."

I like a lot of things, I can even like people, but I can like them better in certain doses and certain numbers. You can call it anxiety, but that sounds so abstract --so mental -- this is physical, biological, a material limit that my body sets on how much I can engage with the world. I have a real social allergy.

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"Train Performance" Jessica Parker, 2011
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Six.

Laying sideways in the backseat of my mom's van, I close my eyes to try to make the world stop spinning. I am six.

For a minute the pounding under and behind my eyes lets up and I think that I can try sitting up again. I really want to read my book; or draw; anything to make time go quicker until my sister's little-league game go faster. Pulling myself up, however, sends a lurch through my stomach and I want to throw up.

Taking deep breaths I close my eyes tighter. I rub them with my mitt. I wish they'd pop out, they feel too big for my skull. I wish I could just unscrew my whole head and put it somewhere until I was able to handle it again.

The side door slides open. I am back on my back, my arm over my brow, another hand pinching my nose to try to stop the pain at its source. My mother peeks in.

"Sorry to bother you. Your allergies still hurt? Here is some Ibuprofen and some water, sit up, take them, and you'll feel better soon. Come out if you get lonely."

That was here answer for everything, I thought, as the door closes, causing the car to rock back and forth. Taking my medicine I look through the tinted windows at the baseball diamond. The girls vanish in clouds of dust made of sand, grass, and probably a zillion kinds of pollen.

My mom left me the car keys, so I turn the engine on and start the AC. The sound of the air blowing through the filters give me the calming impression of existing in a clean little bubble, but my face is still aching.

"I hate nature." I flop down on my stomach this time, holding my breath to try to stop the pain at the source.


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"Taped to Wall" Jessica Parker, 2011
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Fourteen.

From the rafters I can see every body, every thing going on down below. Tied onto the bars which run the stage lights some several stories above the auditorium seats, I lean up against a concrete structural support. All the noise and bustling around down below sounds like a clean murmur from where I sit.

We are putting in the gels tonight, to make the row of 30 odd some lights glow with different kinds of whiteness: warm, cool, and my favorite, "natural white" which is created when red, blue, and green are mixed perfectly. Right now though, they need the stage to finish up rehearsals for our high-school musical, the Wiz; so I am told over the inter-comm slung around my neck that I can just sit tight.

It's just me up in the rafters, but I can hear the murmur and the chatter over the inter-comm; I can see and hear it all, connected to it, but am separate from it, invulnerable, invisible. I make little doodles in the dust that lines the metal bars that support me.

"Okay, they are about ready to finish," I faintly hear over the head-phones, so I move them from my neck back to my ears. "Get ready to check the blues." Extending one leg out from the concrete, I find my footing on the cross-bar and with my arms pull the rest of my body over. Grabbing hold of the light on the far right (stage left), my fingers tingle as it turns on, brightly illuminating a square of the stage.

Moving sent up a cloud of dust into the air, causing me to sneeze and making the metal bars I am perching on sway slightly. I wait for the boat-like rocking to stop and then listening to instructions over the headphones, adjust the lights so the different colored squares match up on the front of the stage.

This will take many hours and I will be up in the rafters until around 11 PM, just me, the technology, the dust, my mentor on the radio, and a few friends building set pieces down-below. Down-below, where somewhere far away my dad is unpacking in his new house and my mom is trying to figure out what condos she can afford now. Down-bellow I feel like I'd be eaten alive, but from here, on my perch, I can be present but at my own distance and in my own time.


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"Fishing Line" Jessica Parker, 2010
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Twenty-Five.

Perching on a chair in a corner of the class-room, balancing on my 6-inch heels, I am listening to my colleagues in our Environ Body Object Veer seminar (eboveer.blogspot.com) talk about their physical engagement with the space and how it forms their world. We had been walking in circles and wandering for some time, before my feet started to hurt and I found my perch.

The room is dark (we turned off the lights) and it gets quiet. After a moment, my voice wanders out from my corner:

"I usually sit up front of class-rooms, when possible, because I feel more comfortable when I can see as little as possible. If what is in front of me is just a few people, a dry-erase board and a few books, I can relax better. It makes my world smaller. It's not that I don't know or like that the rest of you are there, but when I look at a crowd, I can't help by observe all of it, in minute detail and begin to analyse all of it. I get overwhelmed and will just shut down. Voices on the air or turning to look at the speaker I can deal with, but a whole room of people is just too much for me; too much."

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For more artwork on Anxiety & other topics visit
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Nine.

I shuffle a handful of lined papers in my hand, covered in hand-written letters, as I stand in front of my third-grade class. My teacher, one of my all-time favorites, was a regular reader of my short-stories (mostly mysteries with some fantasy mixed in; right now I was mostly reading the "Clue" books based on the best-selling board-game). An actress and an artist, she encouraged us to share our work. Her excitement became my excitement, and I kept on going.

This story, she said, was particularly good, and asked me if I wanted to share it with the rest of the class. I said okay. It was weird reading my writing out-loud, but once I got going I found it to be very easy. Something about the class being there, listening, and me being here, reading what I wrote, made them less frightening. Even afterwards, when they were there speaking, and I was here listening, I found this to nice too. There was a logic to this and roles to play. Far from being overwhelmed, I felt I could suddenly connect with my peers in a new way.

I liked my peers better after that day and I think they liked me too, because we could better understand and relate to each other. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by my social-allergies, this format of writing and public speaking opened up a world to me. In a sense, by being a kind of bubble that emphasized my smallness and particularity in a big daunting room, I no longer felt that I had to interact with everything all at once. I could just play my role, read my lines, perform my part, and in turn the end they would get more from me and I could get more from them.

There is a kind of magic to writing and performance, as a prosthesis. The paradox of engaging us as broken and particular, limited in some senses, allows us to open up, wander, share, relate and expand our lives in so many other ways. Social allergies blind me to certain ways of the world and in turn open up other ways of knowing and existing.