Posted by Jonathan Bowley on May 2, 2010 in
France,
Grad School As many of you know, because of the volcanic eruption in Iceland that spewed ash into the atmosphere which resulted in the grounding of more planes than ever before, I’ve spent the last two weeks in Paris instead of back home on the East Coast where I was planning to be. I can’t say that I was overly impressed by the idea of spending two weeks of vacation with my books and mountains of esoteric articles on the intricacies of the cyclical nature of Lol V. Stein’s journey to reconstitute her past in Marguerite Duras’s take on the modern novel about nothing (no really, that was the goal of the book, to be about NOTHING). You know what’s important in life? Not that. I can’t think of many things I care about less than Marguerite Duras’s take on nothingness at the moment. Actually, perhaps my generally apathy for this whole program exceeds my general indifference to Duras. Last summer, after two years off from academia spent in hospital administration, I was kind of psyched to speak only French for a few months and genuinely excited about learning again, but ever since I came back from Christmas break, the novelty has most definitively warn off.
I think it’s time that I confess something: when I applied to Middlebury’s M.A. French program, it was more to escape the dull workaday world of lab specs and staff meetings than out of a burning passion for French literature. My friends actually had to goad me into actually sending in the deposit to finalize my acceptance. Don’t get me wrong, I love the French language and some francophone literature, but I actually mildly dislike a lot of “serious” contemporary French lit. It’s too depressing and too often art for art’s sake which is fun to analyze for awhile, but picking apart metaphors and explaining synecdoches (where a part of something represents the whole for all of you who don’t actually talk about this crap everyday) basically equates to intellectual masturbation and after months and months and months of it, I’ve lost my drive. Now, instead of being a fun game or an intellectual quest that reveals some fraction of universal truth like it used to, my work here just feels like a colossal waste of time.
If my goal was to escape the drudgery of life and live in a dream world for a little while, mission accomplished, but as a means to achieving that end, this master’s program has lost its utility. The point of getting good grades this semester is to get the degree, but as I’m fairly certain I’m never going into a Ph.D. program nor do I really have any desire to teach at a private school, I find myself asking the question “à quoi ça sert?” (what’s the use?) The part of this education that I’m going to use, the part that will make me a better writer and a better French speaker, I’ve already got; the rest of this process is just tying up loose ends to get a piece of paper. Even if I stopped now, I’d have gotten my money’s worth out of the program. So why not just quit worrying about all this research and academic mumbo jumbo and enjoy my 44 remaining days in the City of Lights?
OK, you’re right. I am SO CLOSE to the end and having the degree can only help my future so I might as well finish it. After all, I’m here until the middle of June and need something to give my days structure until then, right? The only problem is that when I get like this, when I have decided something is pointless, I have a much harder time coming up with clever ideas to write about for, oh say a 10-12 page mini-mémoire (research paper). Does anyone out there have a muse they’d like to lend me until Thursday? Maybe I’ll just take a deliberate break from pounding my head against the desk trying to find a way to finish these papers and just watch a movie or something. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find my muse after I stop looking for her.
Tags: academia, French, Literature, Marguerite Duras, Middlebury, Paris, research, writing
Posted by Jonathan Bowley on Jan 18, 2009 in
Stories,
Writing Exercises,
story ideas President Molly Bear trotted down the dark path, the many hairs of his silver coat electric with anticipation. The full moon glowed brightly overhead, but tangled pine, oak, and maple arches blotted out the sky and cast heavy shadows ahead. This was Atropa’s domain. The animals called this the “Black Wood” because of the cold and lurking presence of death and the many horrific stories about it passed down through generations. Something moved in the dark with the hint of a whisper and then there was nothing. The president could feel the forest’s awareness of his presence; a slow, slithering consciousness twisting around and through him. It was an unfriendly consciousness. He knew he was not among friends.
He pushed ahead. The dry leaves crackled beneath his hooves, the whisper of death. All around came the moaning and creaking of the trees from some impalpable breeze. Some said these trees could howl like the wolves and that they lured many of the pure creatures here to be devoured with such tricks. Ordinarily, The President wouldn’t have given such ridiculous notions a second thought, but there was something sinister hanging on the air, something thin and bitter that set him on edge. With a flash of pain in his head, The President was on the ground. The darkness was so thick, he had missed a branch and had run into hard enough to raise a welt on his brow. With a great “hmmph” he planted his spindly legs beneath him, and with a searing pain in his left knee, he was back on his feet. He would have to proceed slowly now, because even with his above average sight, his great brown eyes were powerless here. Step, step, branch. Step, step, step, branch. Step, branch. Even ducking his head as low to the ground as he could, nearly dragging his chin on the Earth, he would not be able to penetrate much deeper. His next step crushed something smooth with a delicate pop. Picking up his hoof to his nose, he identified the sweet viscous juice as that of the nightshade berry. Atropa was playing with him, leaving him wicked breadcrumbs straight into the witch’s oven.
“I tire of this game, Atropa: reveal yourself!” he bellowed, shattering the silence into a million tiny echos. There was nothing. “Atropa, this is not a game! You and I both know you have lost your battle, and your petty torments cannot change that now.” He stood there, indignant puffs of breath freezing in the ever cooler night air. This deep in the forest the air had taken on a damp chill which penetrated to The President’s old bones, sending pains all through his rheumatic frame. He jumped as the invisible trees nearest him creaked like a laughing crone, and the oppressive air around him seemed to thin. One tentative step revealed the branches had moved out of his way and that the path before him was clear of obstruction. Two steps later, a faint sweet aroma mixed with the cool air. She was close now. If he got his chance, though such a high dose might kill him, he would snatch Atropa up by her deadly blossoms and grind her to bits between his teeth. He would rid the world of this this wicked witch, even if it was his very last act.
“Why President Molly Bear, how kind of you to come on such short notice.” The cold insincerity of that statement was blanketed by the luscious velvet of her voice. “I was rather expecting you to refuse me at such a late hour, but you are braver than I thought.”
“What is this about?” he barked with unmasked harshness. “I don’t like you hiding where I can’t see you, Atropa. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but this is no way for a queen to comport herself.”
A deep throaty laugh hit the president from all sides. “Is that all that’s got you upset, dear President?” A terrible snapping of wood wrenching and breaking burst forth like thunder, accompanied by the sound of a million leaves shriveling and dropping at the same moment. A moment later, Atropa stood a few yards before him bathed in moonlight. “You know my associates, Thorn Apple and Foxglove.” she said, gesturing to the plants on either side of her. “I have brought you here, dear sir, to appeal to your reason one last time. We have our differences of opinion, that is true, but I dare say that our case has not been given a fair hearing.” The President grunted. “You know as well as I that there is no reason in your law books why your motion should pass, in fact, it seems nearly criminal. Your trick rallying the sheep was cheap and beneath you.” She floated closer without a sound, an imploring expression drawn across the warm inviting canvas of her face. “You are a politician, and you played your hand well. But this is no game; the rights of my people are being trod on like so many of our grassy brethren. I ask you as a good horse, a horse of character and integrity, to repeal the motion. You are a wise horse, you may explain that decision as you will and I will never contradict you. All I ask is that you do what is good and just.” Her blooms glowed a deep crimson; her beauty magnified in the moonlight was perfectly entrancing.
She glided up to his muzzle, and caressed his cheek, gazing deeply into his eyes. His mind was blank. So close, her beauty was ravishing. Hot molten streams of desire welled up in his consciousness and spilled down his back into his loins. His stomach gurgled, his heart beat out a gay march. The moonlight became a sparkling crown on Atropa’s head, giving her the air of an angel. Her gown of leaves split, and her plump black berries, so swollen with juice they bent their stalks deeply. A red mist of nectar issued from her, through his nose and into his soul.
The President shook his head violently. “No! No tricks, witch!” Atropa’s gown snapped shut like the gates of a castle against invasion and her halo fizzled out. “I have done what is right for the people, and your sorcery will not change my mind! If you have only brought me here to charm me, I shall take my leave and see you at the barn tomorrow!” He may not be able to get close enough to rip her from the Earth as he had planned, but he would be damned if her cheap magic was going to get the best of him.
“I’m sorry to hear that, President.” Her charm had dried up and fallen off. She stood before him, not the temptress she had been a few moments ago, but an Amazonian of imposing stature and brutal strength. Her blossoms twisted shut tightly and fell to her sides. Her leaves shot up behind her. She was ready for war. “While I am not surprised I am rather disappointed. I was hoping time would dispatch you from this Earth, but I sometimes find that he cannot be trusted to do things quickly enough, don’t you Thorn Apple?” Thorn Apple stepped forward, brandishing her spiked seed pods, perfectly ghoulish in the cold light. The President started to turn about, only to find the huge trees lining the road had blocked it off in a coarse web of branches and roots. Turning back toward Atropa, his eyes bulging in terror, he muttered, “you wouldn’t, Atropa; you’re not a murderer.”
“Come, President, you must have been expecting this. I find my reputation precedes me.” With one final haunting look, she pitched two berries into his eyes, their juices bursting out and filling them full. Instantly, the world went awash, out of focus, and blazing from the moonlight. A terrible shot of pain came as the spikes of Thorn Berry’s seed pod tore into his flesh and ripped it to shreds. His blood spilled out over his muzzle and onto the forest floor in a steady stream of punctuated plops. There was mad, swirling color of all types as Atropa’s form expanded into the sky, ten times higher than the barn. She towered over him and burst into flame, her wicked laugh exploding in balls of hire. His heart began to slow and a terrible weakness dropped him to his knees. The stream of blood on his face slowed and the forest began to spin. The President felt the cold creeping inside him, stealing his life. Atropa’s cackled took on the aspect of broken glass, hitting him in jagged, piercing waves of pain. “Good night my dear President.” And then there was nothing.
Tags: femme fatales, Stories, writing
Posted by Jonathan Bowley on Jan 18, 2009 in
Opinion & Editorial It’s only been 5 days since I decided to give up video altogether, and it has been more trying than I had anticipated. I think that has more to do with the fact that I’ve been sick in bed and can only read so much Harriet Beecher Stowe before I start going loopy than anything else. Besides, when do you want more to be in a vegetative state than when you’re recovering from a nasty bug? Congratulate me friends, for I stayed strong, but it wasn’t easy. I’m going to make it to my birthday without any video, but I make no guarantees I won’t overindulge when that day arrives.
It has also been difficult to write during the past few days. I don’t know how all those sickly authors (i.e. Marcel Proust) did it. When I don’t feel well, especially when I’m running a fever, I don’t want to use my brain at all, much less create great works of art with it! Bully for Proust, for he was a much more driven artist than I. I’m hoping to jump back into my writing exercises tomorrow, so stay tuned for more weird, disjointed posts.
The real reason I wanted to throw up a quick post is that, through the magic of Facebook (which I have been perusing far more than usual thanks to the seemingly infinite gobs of extra time I have from not watching video), I’ve realized the world is an incredibly vast place, overflowing with opportunities. I have recently befriended a few of my acquaintances from my elementary school and high school days, and it amazes me what lives they are leading in such far off places. To them, I’m sure it seems like their lives are just a series of events that came as a natural consequence from their decisions, but for me it is thought-provoking. Who knew M would be living in Miami, blogging about fashion and movie stars (I would have never guessed)? Who knew K would be happily dating a guy in Philly and going into human resources? How did J end up in NYC and how do I get there? Wow! R decided to move to SF? I’m so jealous! Reading about where everyone has ended up and what they are doing now inspires me to 1) pursue my dreams as some of these people are doing things just as ambitious as I would be doing and 2) realize that life is unpredictable to the fullest extent imaginable and embrace that fact, and finally 3) get my Master’s and get the Hell out of Vermont! There’s so much more out there to see and I needn’t wait until I’m old to do it!
Enough philosophizing at 1:30AM, I’m off to bed. Still, isn’t it an amazing world we live in when we have the tools that can provoke these thoughts? What an age we live in…
Tags: Facebook, friends, life, media fast, video, writing
Posted by Jonathan Bowley on Jan 8, 2009 in
story ideas You may have noticed that my writing exercises have all been revolving around Sister Marie and an exaggerated version of a parochial school. Well, these are all elements in the new story I am working on called “No God Before Me” which I hope to actually complete someday soon (and by complete, I mean, compile from writing exercises and make whole). While scouring the internet and watching Perfect Strangers, I came across yet another reference to the mythical “nightshade” or “belladonna” plant. I’ve always head a sort of dread fascination with this wicked little plant, so I’ve decided to make her a character in my story. I mean, listen to this juicy extract from botanical.com:
According to old legends, the plant belongs to the devil who goes about trimming and tending it in his leisure, and can only be diverted from its care on one night in the year, that is on Walpurgis, when he is preparing for the witches’ sabbath. The apples of Sodom are held to be related to this plant, and the name Belladonna is said to record an old superstition that at certain times it takes the form of an enchantress of exceeding loveliness, whom it is dangerous to look upon , though a more generally accepted view is that the name was bestowed on it because its juice was used by the Italian ladies to give their eyes greater brilliancy, the smallest quantity having the effect of dilating the pupils of the eye.
In combination with my love of terrible beauty and the femme fatales, I think Atropa Belladonna (the Latin name for the plant) will be a deliciously wicked addition to my story, don’t you?
ETA: Anyone for a group of baddies named after poisonous plants? Ooh yes,
