Hazelfaern Dallies"But bid life seize the present? The present is .. too present to imagine"
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Name: Jennifer Deanne
State: North Carolina
Metro: Greensboro
Birthday: 12/4/1976


Interests: I tend to spend an inordinate amount of time at the website Lit.org, where I post the majority of my poetry (if I deem it publicly consumable -- the rest goes into hibernation in a metaphorical drawer) but I also like to read a good deal and when I'm feeling verbally run-down, I feed my muse with painting and photography. And then there are days when it's simply pleasant to stare at something shiny for a while -- "Mmm. Pretty."
Industry: Manufacturing


Message: message meEmail: email me


Member Since: 4/8/2005

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Thursday, November 17, 2005

The Authentic Fables of Reason: Winter-ready Reading Suggestions for Suede1976

Suede ~ I hope you don't mind my responding to your last comment by putting up this list as a post. :)

For starters, I won't promise that this list is chock-full of new, cutting-edge authors. In reality, it's a bit more of an inverse on new -- these are some of my favorite tried-and-true writer's, whose voices I value most.

The title of this entry is drawn from the introduction to my copy of Voltaire's Candide and Other Stories. 

"Like the serpent's fable in The White Bull, all Voltaire's stories are an onslaught on taboo, and not least the taboo that theological, metaphysical, scientific, moral, political, and aesthetic debate must be conducted with earnest reverence in dry-as-dust language. For Voltaire, supper-party conversation was the epitome of civilized human intercourse, and the anecdote it's principal ingredient. He himself was a brilliant ranconteur, and narrative verve is to be found throughout his work, especially in his historical works but aslo in more supposedly abstract or analytical writitngs. {..}For Voltaire the conte philosophique, or philosophical story, was an invaluable and effective weapon in his long campaign against bigotry and intolerance and in favor of open-minded inquiry and debate. In his hands it is a kind of fallen fable: where the fable of old appealed to a childlike credulity and fostered the passive acceptance of incontrovertible moral truths, his modern fable is like an apple plucked from the Tree of Knowledge and handed to us by the Serpent himself that we should 'gorge' ourselves (as he advises Eve in the White Bull) and feel the nakedness of our predjudice. We should eat, question and consider. {...} Fiction, in this way, may sometimes be truer than logic. The story civilizes us, knocks us about, turns us from brutes into men: it affects a metamorphosis. And so, as the Ingenu says "Ah, if we must have fables, let them at least be the emblems of truth! I love philosopher's fables and laugh at children's. I hate those of charlatans." What Voltaire the serpent has given us are the authentic fables of reason." -- Roger Pearson

I feel this quote works well to sum up the theme running through this cobbled collection. The one consistent element I value most in my reading material is a certain ability on the part of the author to delve beneath the surface of the obvious, stir the dust-motes in the back corners of the psyche and finally leave me, as a reader, with a greater appetite for questions and engaged, critical thinking than I had when I sat down to read in the first place.

So it goes without saying that I'm a huge fan of Voltaire. You may have read Candide already -- it's one of those de riguer short stories that tend to crop up in high school AP English Classes. Whether you have or haven't, I'd suggest some of his lesser-known short stories -- in today's world of lit they'd be labeled as flash fiction, they're so brief and succint. You can find a handful of really good ones packaged with Candide: Zadig, Micromegas, The White Bull. Micromegas is my personal favorite of all of these. The heartfelt response of the little follower of Locke could double as a statement of my own beliefs and the ending is funny, thought-provoking and inarguably true.

I'd suggest anything by Margaret Atwood and that's a long list to pull from right there -- Margaret Atwood has written dozens of novels that cross multiple genres, numerous volumes of tightly written brilliant poetry, a handful of short story collections as well as a few non-fiction works to boot. I just finished reading one of her older novels The Blind Assasin (genius), her newest poetry collection Morning in The Burned House (gut-wrenching genius -- be prepared) and one of her short story collections Murder in the Dark (hauntingly poetic).

Also, anything by Phillip K Dick, who is a veritable god of serious sci-fi. You don't have to be an ardent fan of science fiction, however, to enjoy his work. In fact, you're probably already familiar with some of it -- three of his short stories have already been turned into movies: Blade Runner, Total Recall and most recently the Spielburg adaptation Minority Report. None of these films do his writing justice, although Blade Runner comes close (which is why it's a cult classic, eh?) One of my personal favorites from his pen is a short story collection titled I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon.

One of my all-time favorite authors is Anais Nin -- fittingly enough one of my boyfriend's favoritest authors is Henry Miller. You see, Nin and Miller had an intense, complex and highly productive relationship in Paris during the 1930s which sparked some of their most seminal work -- Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn and Anais Nin's House of Incest. Both of these are dense, explosive and deliberately provocative works which demand a great deal of open-mindedness and attentiveness from their readers. If you're not familiar with these writer's I'd suggest approaching Miller through some of his non-fiction work: Sunday After the War or Stand Still Like the Hummingbird; and Nin through her diary, keeing in mind that there are two versions of it -- an edited and an unexpurgated version. Switching from one version to another between volumes can be a bit mind-bending as well as jarring. In this one case, there is a wonderful writng-related movie I'd highly, highly suggest (most likely because it's not an adaptation at all, it's a tribute) -- Henry and June. It's a truly memorable film as well as one I've seen several times.

My all-time favorit volume of published poetry (so far, I'm still reading) is Autumn's Eros by Mary Kinzie. Her work is lush, complex, lyrical and expansive. My favorite poems in the collection are Stove Sickness and Strawberry Pipe, the last lines of which always make me cry whenever I read it aloud.

Finally, I'm including a shameless plug for a good friend of mine, although I have to say I think it's fitting because I'm absolutely addicted to his voice -- Andy Haven's currently has a blog at www.tinkerx.com where he posts his thoughts on the process of creativity in an age of flux. In the writing section you can find some of his recent poems -- one of my favorites is Pause -- as well as one of his long-short stories Fourth Wall (read this -- like Atwood's novels, it starts off slow then becomes almost unbearably addictive).

So there you have it  -- from Voltaire to new Havens, it's a good chunk to chew on, I think.

Now tell me -- what books make up your list of reading material you can't imagine having never discovered?


Friday, November 04, 2005

The Silent White Elephants of a Listless Friday Night

I'm in a rather relentless Emma Bovary mood -- petulant, unpleasable, flatly bored, and nearly asphyxiatingly invaded by a dire desire for something, anything engaging. How's that for a microcosm of melodrama? A prissy hissy fit in a tea cup?

No, I'm simply having trouble transitioning from a lengthy period of overwork into a stretch of what now feels like underwork (40 hours? That's all?). All my usual routines feel strange and I'm going through a bit of writer's block to boot -- everything I want to say comes out as blank paper. My unfilled hours dance ahead of me like silent white elephants pantomining an intricate modern ballet for which I have no interest. I am unplugged and distant. I would feel very zen if it weren't for this troubling sense of undeniable dissatisfaction. My dissatisfactions are languid yet garish butterflies I'd like to pin to the black velvet lining of a literary shadowbox with the long, refined needles of predatory phrasing.

Meh, I should stop now and go read some Rimbaud.


Wednesday, July 13, 2005

 

My Aloof One 

You are music without words;
you are a floodlight splashing
across an empty stage 

Why aren’t you ever home?
Why are your windows always closed? 

I get this sense you’ve been
shut down for so long you’ve
forgotten how the front door opens
or what daylight smells like
when it taunts your lunar skin

You tantalize me but I want
you inside out…

I want to pour into you with
the fury of a thousand falling stars
on a thousand silken busy bee wings
I want you to taste me as cheap
champagne and the silver sharps
of blinding phantom pain

I want to pluck your strings
stir your reverie, make you sigh
I want to open your eyes
and lead you to a wanting
more real than your
present haunting, more
real than indwelled, muted taunting

Taste me, love, taste this:
alive, a life ahead and wet yet and
free from doubt, opened
out, at last,  at  last,   at..  last…


Tuesday, July 12, 2005

 

Forgetmeknots

I fell in love with someone I
shouldn’t have, can’t have
won’t have me
Which is precisely why I
shouldn’t be here

But that’s insane, I’d swear
neither Love nor War have ever
apologized  (at least not to me
at least not directly) And
then, too, a word
such as “shouldn’t”
simply doesn’t  belong
beside words like
“be” or “here”

In either case, the same
rule applies, clearly:

either be or be not

Yet, yes
I love
I’m here

I fell in love with someone
I cannot have
I get up in the morning swearing
This can’t be love
I won’t let it be love
I’ll let less
I’ll forget more
(I shouldn’t be here)
I won’t apologize
or explain
I’ll exist as though “is”
could be enough
I’ll show up as though
this never began
I’ll show up as though I’m
wearing nothing -- not pain
not a name, not an expression
of doubt, not even a shadow
determined as history


Saturday, April 23, 2005

An interesting quote I ran across today by a M. Charles d'Hericault --

"... the cloud of glory playing round a classic is a mist as dangerous to the future of a literature as it is intolerable for the purposes of history. It hinders us from seeing more than one single point, the culminating and exceptional point; the summary, fictitious and arbitrary, of a thought and of a work. It substitutes a halo for a physiognomy, it puts a statue where there was once a man, and hiding from us all trace of the labor, the attempts, the weaknesses, the failures, it claims not study but veneration; it does not show us how the thing is done, it imposes upon us a model. Above all, for the historian, this creation of classic personages is inadmissable; for it withdraws the poet from his time, from his proper life, it breaks historical relationships, it blinds criticism by conventional admiration, and renders the investigation of literary origins unnacceptable. It gives us a human personage no longer but a God seated immovable amidst His perfect work, like Jupiter on Olympus and hardly will it be possible for the young student to whom such work is exhibited at such a distance from him, to believe that it did not issue ready made from that divine head."



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