Excuses...

One year before I began my undergraduate career the author Ray Bradbury spoke on the campus of Point Loma Nazarene University. Being the avid fan that I am I managed to find the videorecording of his talk. Among the multitude of nuggets of wisdom that the ol' boy dropped during his time rambling on the stage of the Crill Auditorium, one thing he said has stuck with me for better or worse. Concerning the writing process Bradbury said, "the moment you stop loving to write is the moment you should stop writing." I may be paraphrasing but I find this to be a poignant commentary on my perseverance in the world of writing and absolutely affects how I approach this blog. Rest assured I fully intend to continue writing it, but as I've suggested in the last few postings I get the feeling that a format change may be in order.

I would never allow my students the excuse that "they just weren't feeling it" when a writing assignment has not been completed (although I've heard this one before). Yet somehow I've justified hypocrisy when it comes to blogging. I get the sense that some of this might be a result of the general book-report feel that I think I've developed so far, as well as my own tendency to blog in long-form rather than short-form. But I've been giving a few other blogs a regular read and have to admit, the shorter form may be capable of engaging not only the writer but the audience a bit easier. I'm sure plenty of Luddite writers become restless in their graves at the thought of short-form, electronic composition overtaking more polished writing, and though even I cringe at the thought, I feel as if it may be an improvement to my commitment to the project.

Let's be clear on one thing; I DO still love to write. Yet sometimes the prospect of posting a picture, composing a discussion, and carving time away from other projects (or Dr. Who time, as has been the case lately) simply seems daunting. Although, here I go again with an extended discussion that I hadn't intended in the first place...

So, I propose the following: I think from this point on, I will make my book-ish postings only once a month and will reserve the rest of my time for shorter blog postings on any number of literary and artistic topics that pop into my mind (and I'm sure that my students will give me regular material. Woot.). Hopefully I'll even force myself to dust off and post some more stories. This is my plan. Blogging ho!

Christmas Stories - Charles Dickens

"...and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!"

Last year around this time I focused on one of my ironic choices for Christmas reading by discussion what I consider to be the antithesis to Dickens; James Joyce's The Dead, but in the charitable spirit of the season I think I will break my miserly tradition and embrace the tale which has come to define, in more ways than one, the Spirit of the Christmas season.

Whenever we think of Charles Dickens, especially around December, immediately images crop up of faces in door knockers and frail children making exclamations of blessing. I enjoy a hearty rendering of A Christmas Carol as well as the next bloke, but I get the sense that our preoccupation with Ebenezer Scrooge's humbugging often obscures Dickens' literary preoccupation with the meaning of Christmas. This is not to downplay one of the Victorian author's most iconic tales; in fact, I almost feel that many of Dickens' other Christmassy short stories are searching for some kind of meaning in the winter holidays; a search that reached its culmination in the message of generosity and kindness that has come to epitomize nearly every piece of Christmas entertainment since the composition of A Christmas Carol. Indeed, one can find Ebeneezer Scrooge in any number of cinematic and literary incarnations from Dr. Seuss' Grinch to National Lampoons' Clark Griswold. Some of these incarnations are more overt than others but all point to the profound effect that Dickens' Victorian holiday narrative has had upon the cultural discourse of the English speaking world.

What one must, of course, consider here is to what extent we are willing to accept this particular holiday message. Most people will agree that the progression of Scrooge's character from miserly grouch to generous chap is a positive message for anyone during the Christmas season but we have to wonder if this particular narrative coincides or muscles out the intended meaning of the Christmas Holiday. The term holiday of course is an old portmanteau of Holy Day; a day reserved for the catholic (and later Anglican) Christ's Mass which was a period of community celebration that fit nicely into the December church calendar.

The importance of this holy-day, of course, was the celebration of the incarnation of the Christian messiah; the moment at which God committed a part of himself to earthly existence in order to demonstrate to humankind the significance of his willingness for self-sacrifice on their behalf. While the life of Christ as we understand it in the gospels certainly demonstrated values that undoubtedly align themselves with Dickens' narrative, the holiday itself seems to represent a significantly different narrative. At what point does our appreciation for God's mercy become supplanted by a sense of social generosity? According to some sources (and admittedly I have not done much research beyond wikipedia. So sue me) it is with Dickens.

Of course it would be too much to blame the prolific Victorian author with the sad slide toward the commercialization of a formerly sacred holiday but the circumstances surrounding this shift must make one think. That said, I cannot in my right mind diminish the importance of a holiday that emphasizes a general sense of unselfishness. Perhaps this is the way in which we may justify the holy-day to the holiday. In either case, on a literary level I must admit that I'll never stop reveling in the lush spirit of Dickens' Christmases, past, present, and future and the ghosts, holy or otherwise, that descend upon us with the snow of late December.

The Familiar

I've always enjoyed the notion of good fiction beginning with a dream and in the case of this heretofore unpublished short story this is exactly what happened. Oddly enough, at this point I can't entirely distinguish the story from the dream that came out of it. Undoubtedly the dream lacked much of the detail and meaning that the story has but in the mysterious workings of the human mind the two have fused. Enjoy, and as always, critiques are welcome (since someday it might be fun to publish this for real).

The Familiar

by Schuyler Eastin

            In the cool, bright morning she woke me. Her black hair spiraled down over my face like a wind chime crowned with a pair of emeralds. "Open your eyes," she said, her voice a distant mission bell. I did, and saw golden rays sitting patiently on the balcony outside our room, politely requesting admission. She leapt nimbly from the bed and flung open the double doors, granting the sun's request.

            She flitted across the room, an epiphany framed in sunlight like the dream that fades when eyes open. Leaning on the balcony rail she turned her head over her left shoulder to the east, then to her right, examining both horizons. I sat up, silently observing a bohemian curiosity in her face that I knew foretold change.

            The little house slept in the bosom of the open plains near the heart of the continent. The cottage was simple, with a peaked roof, like the teepees from that land's past.  A single dirt road ran to us from daybreak in the east and only took a moment nod at the front porch before rambling west towards twilight. Behind the house ran a stream that returned the liquid memories of the road back to their origin. This balanced the house, in a way, making it a wheel that spun slowly between two tracks. The  house had been our home for almost a year, which, for as restless a woman as she surely felt an eternity. But we had been happy.

            By the time my feet touched the cold wood floor she had disappeared and there was no telling where she would materialize.  But I had the comfort of knowing that the whirling gyre of her fancy would eventually lead her to the backyard where I intended to absorb myself in a book.

            After dressing, I descended the stairs and opened the back door. I stepped out into a yellow day and sat down in the old Adirondack chair that faced the stream. A glass filled with ice and an opaque orange liquid  sat sweating on one of its arms. I sipped and could faintly hear her whispered voice echo from the quiet choirs of grass blades, giving away the drink-conjuring trick.

            It tasted of pineapple and coconut dirtied with Pacific trade winds and a twist of watery sunsets; a stark change from the comfortable country apple and abiding oak flavors of yesterday.

            She returned when the day had grown hot and the white  haze of the morning sun had transformed into the dense orange of afternoon. She entered her grassy stage prancing, every bit like a creature born in a fireside tale. Her nimble figure seemed to navigate air as deftly as it managed the ground. She jumped, seemed to pause, and then slid to the ground with the tiniest, catlike effort; always sure to land on her feet. I had tried to dance with her once, but was too slow and she had left me wobbling like a spent top.

            I enjoyed the drink and watched as she whirled away in a graceful imitation of dandelion seeds. Her hair swung loose and its long black fan folded around her arms and shoulders, making them pale islands of rock in a strong dark river.  Her voice wavered through the breeze as she danced, half humming, half singing:

“...falling all around, time I was on my way. Thanks to you I’m much obliged such a pleasant stay...”

            She tossed a mischievous glance at me, bold eyes acknowledging my suspicions and thanking me for my acceptance. I smiled and took a deep breath, archiving its taste for later remembrance before returning to my book.

            Before her reappearance I had been partway through some hypnogogic tale of mystery and imagination but my reentry into that world felt barred. I was unable to draw myself back into fiction, as if my environment had grown uncomfortable; some important element lacked. Listening, I soon found that silence had overtaken the yard. I looked up, half expecting her to be sneaking up behind me, impulsively diving for a kiss.

            Instead she stood at the far end of the yard, in the shady parts beneath the passive trees that stretched to the creek. She stood rigid and in her profile I read wild fear. It was a look I had never seen in her before and I rose startled, following the line of her eyes to the opposite end of the yard where a tattered gate opened onto the banks of the stream.

            In the opening prowled the monstrous black shape of a panther with an open mouth and vicious eyes pointed directly at her. Though its back ran parallel with the top of the short fence the cat seemed monstrous, as if the gravity of its dangerous darkness gathered the world around it and squeezed out drops of submission. The panther scrutinized her with calm, wise strength, but also with brutal intent companioned by a leaden rumble in its throat that seemed to make the house and the watery glade shimmer like a mirror in an earthquake.

            Not thinking, I threw my book to the ground and leapt to her side. Only after I stood between it and its prey did the reality of danger reach me. I had thought nothing of the mad fear in her eyes which had filled the sails of my courage. Only when the hands of my frightened gypsy sheltered on my shoulders did I glimpse the murderous power in each of the hunter’s obsidian claws. But I had stood and would stand though courage had grown damp.

            This was a shrewd animal. It would not pounce unless its quarry was assured, so when I jumped the huge black cat stepped back and began pacing a circle around us. As it turned so did we and soon our backs were facing the break in the fence. The cat paused. I urged her to run and turned her quickly towards the gate.

            Terrified she sprang toward the rusted gate, but to my horror the panther sprang too. I froze as the cat launched itself with locomotive strength. But at the same moment its paws left the ground, an exposed root from one of the trees caught the foot of the gypsy girl and threw her on the bank of the stream. Time slowed as the blurred black mass sailed over her head like a zeppelin. A paw lashed but grasping only air thrust forward to meet the opposite bank of the creek, an unnatural distance that revealed the strength beneath the panther’s oily fur.

            I lifted her from the soft ground as the huge cat had turned and was regarding us coldly, pacing and patiently planning a second assault. The panther's eyes never strayed from her, even as she regained her feet. Her hands sought mine and squeezed but her eyes had locked on the cat. There seemed to be some ethereal fear or distant recognition that I did not understand. But her grasp empowered me as I slowly led her downstream.

            The creek widened to the East but the more water that ran between us, the harder the panther's resolve seemed to become. I halted in a silent glen where the drooping trees created a shady cave, permitting only splattered bolts of sunshine to drop onto the water's surface. I glared across the water at the haunting mass of midnight, silently daring it to do its worst. The cat only stared, unblinking, amidst the babbling pulse of the stream.

            The panther's drooping head was defiant as it calmly mounted an old log that lay in the water like a natural wharf. It crouched, drawing its hind legs like a bowstring and was still.

            I grew tense and gently drew the girl behind me, ready to shield her as best I could. But her still, soft voice spoke; “No.”

            She squeezed my hand once and stepped out from behind me. Though I still glared at the cat I felt her slide away from me. I had been her protector, some strange, lanky, white knight, but when she parted from me I felt my fortitude deflate and all the fear that I had pushed away rushed back like sand into a lonely coastal grave. Still holding my hand she took one step, then two, and then stood. She demurely faced her hunter with a kind of phosphorescent mourning around the rims of her eyes and then let my hand drop from hers.

            In a frozen moment the yellow eyes of the feline flickered at me and I silently dared the hunter to spring while terror left me inert and froze my throat.

            Her hand was still falling to her side when the taut tendons of the cat released. I blinked. I heard a hollow crunch followed by a tremendous splash. The panther, gasping amid the floating remnants of the log that had collapsed beneath its strength, disappeared under the swift current that carried it forever away.

           

            By twilight the house stood empty and lifeless save for two sets of footprints on it's doorstep that turned left toward the setting sun.

----

Copyright 2010

On Writing

"Biting my trewand pen, beating myself for spite,
'Fool' said my muse to me 'look in thy heart and write!'"
-Sir Phillip Sidney

Now, I could apologize and make excuses for not having posted in nearly a month and a half but in defiance of sounding anything like my students I shall, instead, stoically make no excuse and merely plod on with a new post.

This posting may take this little blog in a bit of a different direction since, as I've been poring over these great many books that tower behind me as I type, I've been feeling a need for a little variety. This may shed some light upon my reluctance to post as of late (but again, I refuse to make excuses). What I've been thinking about is how it came to be that I chose my current profession; that of professing and specifically, professing English Literature (since such is what I profess to do). This little mental exploration requires a context which I will now set:

A number of years ago while I was studying abroad in London, I frequently found myself drawn to a particular room in the old house in which our group was lodged. The house itself was a converted block of those old Georgian semi-monoliths that line the streets of London from the central neighborhood of Kensington to the shady surburban outskirts of Islington (I know this because this house was on a particularly well-treed little avenue just a two-mile walk from the Highbury-Islington tube station in northeastern London). The architecture in these houses was designed to progressively diminish the ceiling height as well as the window area of each subsequent floor in order to present the illusion that they towered much higher than they actually did; thus my term 'semi-monolith.'

This house had a particular room that sat between the reception area and the path to the kitchen. This room was unlike any other in the house in that, rather than the drab taupe or yellowing, patterned wallpaper in the rest of the house, this room was bedecked with the colour blue from top to bottom. The carpet was a lush sapphire; the wallpaper, striped with azure and robin's-egg reached from the elegant white chair rail to the crown moulding far above my head. The small couch that I sat on had been upholstered many years ago with a royal blue that had since adopted subtle shades of grey that seemed to match the dining table's place-settings. And when it rained the room itself swam all the way from the backyard window, over my knees, past the room's little piano parlour and out toward the tree-lined street.

This was my writing-room and I had spent many an hour there attempting, to the best of my ability, to translate the feeling that I had when sitting there into some kind of a narrative. I had always been an avid reader. During High School I had devoured Tolkien and Bradbury, spent a summer following the cases of Sherlock Holmes, and in college, after a short and silly attempt at studying Psychology, decided that I was best suited for studying Literature, which would hopefully allow me to continue to read for the rest of my life. But at that point I looked on this field not with a sense for the academic pursuits in which I now find myself enmeshed, but rather with the increasingly universal desire (at least among English majors) to become canonized myself. Unfortunately it was with this inflated Ego that I hacked away with my then blunt creative instrument, attempting to conjure some sense of the fantastic; an affective experience of inspiration that might someday spur some reader to the same pursuit. I have since learned that writing creatively is significantly less self conscious, at least for me.

Oddly enough, what I discovered after a semester of sitting in this room and throwing inspiration at the page like so many Jackson Pollock paintings, hoping that a story would arise, is that, though some narratives DID indeed manifest themselves they all appeared to be about the same thing: inspiration. Some say that writing will always reflect the writer, and despite the fact that many modern literary critics would rail at such a notion, at least for me this is tragically true. There I was, sitting in a room seemingly full of inspiration, ready to conquer writer's block and produce a truly incredible work of fiction yet so much inspiration oddly enough only bred itself and the only characters I appeared capable of producing were ones who, through various fantastical or magical experiences, sought this same Holy Grail of 'Inspiration' as if it were a mythical item to be found and possessed.

Oddly enough, since turning my pursuits to the academic rather than the creative aspects of literature, I have discovered that, at the heart of Arthurian mythology, the Grail Quest is not one of possession but one of understanding; specifically, an understanding that shall forever alter the life of the worthy knight or, in my case, the unworthy writer. I still feel as if I am somewhat barred from the real experience of creative writing, perhaps as a factor of my initial hubris (much like Malory's Lancelot is barred from a true vision of the Grail. But I mustn't attribute quite so much nobility to myself), and consider myself, in a way, relegated to the position of talking about literature rather than producing literature. But then again I have quite a collection of manuscripts that have been sitting around for the past few years, waiting for a more patient, and perhaps more mature writer to re-approach, remould, and resubmit them for publishing.

Since I've been looking for a change of pace (at least temporarily) I have thus decided that The Eastin Collection would be a nice format to submit some snippets in-work to an "audience" (I place all of you in quotations simply because I'm not entirely sure that you, my audience, even exists. Apparently I'm not much of a blog-networker). So in the next few months expect to see something a little different and while this probably won't be a regular thing, since my primary goal is still to talk about books, I'll still hold on to the hope that at one point I'll be talking about a volume in my collection that I quite literally had a hand in...

The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

"What a godsend this would be for His Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit his Musketeers!"

Who doesn't love the swashbuckling tales of the four legendary friends of the French 16th Century? Funny how most people adopt a puzzled expression when one mentions the four main characters in Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers.  Despite our usual familiarity with the novels main character most forget that D'Artagnan was only the younger addition to the already seasoned brotherhood of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis; characters that have seeped out of the national identity of France and managed to make their way, in an odd fashion, into the idealistic anachronism of the U.S.

The book itself was a gift some Christmas long ago from my paternal grandmother. This was a particularly exciting gift since, for the previous eighteen or so years I had always had the impression that Grandma Pauline wasn't exactly sure what to get me for Christmas or Birthdays. Usually it was Grandma Jane that would pore over book after book and Lego set after Lego set to find the perfect gift. I don't hold it against Grandma Pauline, of course. Her number of grandchildren was quickly approaching the double digits even then while Grandma Jane had an even three, my sisters and I, and me the only one old enough to appreciate it. But around the same time that I asked Grandpa Harry for a copy of Dante's Divine Comedy I had asked Grandma Pauline for a copy of Dumas. I had no idea what to expect but I definitely did not expect a volume from the Franklin Collection.

In case you aren't in the know, the Franklin Collection is a hoity toity retailer of expensive collectors items; brass Monopoly sets, useless busts of eagles, and decorative shelf-versions of classic Harley Davidson's. Mostly junk...mostly. To my knowledge I had been completely unaware of a line of books and as a result I was astounded with this volume. You may not be able to tell from the photograph above but it is completely bound in sturdy green leather with gilded letters and finely gilded pages. It even contained a number of full color prints of a watercolor series inspired by the novel. Needless to say I was in awe and profoundly appreciative (I hope). But what was greater was that I feel that there was finally something that Grandma Pauline could be excited about getting me for Christmas. An avid reader herself she began committing quite a lot of time finding nice volumes of books I was interested in and in the few years she had left, managed to find fantastic versions of Swift's Gulliver's Travels and Shelley's Frankenstein (which I will surely blog about someday).

As for the story itself, I feel that my experience with The Three Musketeers may, in fact, have been plagued by uninspired translation. I have always had the impression that Dumas was quite a skilled writer and most readers of The Count of Monte Cristo agree but after reading this novel I felt like I had missed a great deal of the wit and excitement that I'm sure characterizes other translations from the French. That said, there is still a great deal to be said for the sense of heroism and camaraderie that characterizes the Musketeers' books (since the three appear in Twenty Years After and The Vicomte de Bragellone, the inspiration for the 1998 film The Man in the Iron Mask). In the end there is a great deal that the novel establishes that has been a staple of re-imaginings of the tale; aspects such as the villainy of Cardinal Richelieu, the youthful arrogance yet lovable heroism of D'Artagnan, and the Musketeers' unfailing loyalty to the king. Despite the fact that aesthetic turds such as The Musketeer still make it to film, many of these elements remain and somehow keep, even us Americans fascinated with visions (albeit altered ones) of French national identity. In many ways (and I may be overstepping, but so be it) these characters serve a similar function as the Round Table knights do for England.
----
Dumas, Alexandre. The Three Musketeers. Franklin Center, PA: The Franklin Library, 1978.

Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates - Mary Mapes Dodge

"On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad children were kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal in Holland."

It is rare that I find myself willing to write about a book that I haven't even finished. In fact it is one of the cardinal sins of English Departments around the world (despite the fact that it happens daily by students and faculty alike). But this book holds a bit of a different significance for me than a great many in my collection. In fact this is one of those instances where the story within the book is overshadowed by the story of how I acquired it.

A great deal of the story you can glean from the quote below. The book is about children in Holland and they are cold. The main character's story, the story of Hans Brinker, is a classic bildungsroman told in the mode of a children's story. Hans is a poor child who skates around the canals of Holland on a poor boy's wooden skates. But eventually he is able to prove his worth in a skating contest in which he wins a pair of silver skates. This is as far as I ever got in the book and may not even be that entirely accurate. I stopped reading it mostly because my second semester of college was looming and the tale itself didn't carry quite as much appeal for a lad of nineteen than it might for a boy of ten.

But as I said, it was the acquisition of this volume that makes it a valuable piece in The Eastin Collection. When I was young my grandfather had a close friend named Addee. To this day I can't quite recall how we managed to gain her acquaintance but she was an elderly woman with a bright spirit. If I recall right she didn't have a great deal of family of her own and may, in fact, have never married at all. As a result she would often join my family during events or holidays. Each Christmas my sisters and I would receive a gift certificate from Addee (she had no other title than her first name). And my mother would always emphasize the importance of Thank You cards. Each year after Christmas we would faithfully write our Thank Yous to Addee, an act which, at that point, we did not understand the significance.

One year, instead of a gift certificate, Addee brought over this book. It was an old and yellowed volume even then but she handed it to me with a little sparkle in the corner of her wrinkled eye saying that she thought I might enjoy this book and that she had searched for it specifically. Looking back I feel slightly guilty for filling my childhood brain with Goosebumps instead of moral tales like this one but, so it goes.

Some years later Addee passed away suddenly and while we were sad that she would no longer be joining us for Christmas we soon learned the importance of common courtesies. I don't know many of the details but it had apparently been stipulated in Addee's will that a certain amount of her estate would be split between my sisters and I. It was by no means a large estate but it was the gesture that impacted us much more than the gift. To this day this little book, faded and musty as it may be, is a reminder of the importance of a simple Thank You even for simple gifts.
----
Dodge, Mary Mapes. Hans Brinker or, The Silver Skates. Illus. Hilda Van Stockum. Cleveland, OH: The World Publishing Co., 1946.

New Digs

I know, I know. It has been far too long. Lesson plans for college courses do, in fact, take a great deal of time and energy, including the brainpower normally in reserve for the blog. I hope to re-regularize my postings and I expect to be held to this goal by you, my ambiguous cloud of readers. Next week I will talk about Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates by Mary Mapes Dodge but I have reserved today's posting to introduce you to the new home (physical, not electronic) of The Eastin Collection.

You may recall the howling mess of stacks depicted in my inagural blog. As you can see I had been horrendously taxed for space, what with a bookshelf full to the brim; a bibliophilic sin since, as you know, bookshelves should always have room for expansion. Not to mention the disarray with which my various anthologies and lesser-bound tomes were strewn about the floor. Well, back in March my wife and I bought a house and this meant that I got my own office space. I've since painted it blue (the rest of the house is beige. For some reason I feel like blue promotes a scholarly/artistic environment) and acquired a nice big wooden-slab-of-a-desk. But the bookshelves took some time.

Ever since our offer wen through I had been scouring craigslist, thrift stores, even Ikea and World Market for the perfect shelves. I was beginning to despair and became willing to simply grab a cheap particle-board set which is all too easy to find in the online classifieds when finally THE shelves appeared. Some may call me an old soul; I enjoy tweed, medieval books, old maps, and even have a quill pen sitting ready on my desk. So I was not about to fill my office with any of this modern Swedish junk, no. I was waiting for shelves of monolithic mahogany with beveled feet and crowns. This is precisely what appeared, and then some. Long story short, I picked them up and have only recently managed to organize the entirety of my book collection in the massive, tripartite book-castle (for it is hardly 'shelves') that looms behind me as I type.

 You may not be able to tell, but the center unit is nearly 7 feet tall! Also, the right side of the image may be a bit cut off because I had to stand in the closet in order to get the whole bookcase in the shot!

As you can see, I'm getting closer to that distant ideal. I, of course, have yet to have either the volume of books, the estate, or the time to construct the gigantic laddered affair that's been waiting in the attic of my imagination but this is good enough for now.