Sexism

In my practical criticism class, sexism and the perception of women in "our" culture is the topic of debate as of recently. This image, which I found on the internet via google image search sexism, sums up my feelings towards the subject perfectly. If a woman is constantly aware of how she is being perceived and how she perceives herself, then why is there a problem? And yes, men and women are being treated differently. Should they be allowed the same opportunities at the same rate of pay and completion time? Absolutely! However, there are some things one sex does better than the other. It's not sexism, it's evolution. If women and men were identical in problem solving, stature, over all intellect really (NOT to say one is better, just different), than the human race would die off. Men and women wouldn't need each other. I, as a woman, personally feel that the only problem with "sexism," is that sometimes women still don't realize they are being objectified. An even bigger problem arises when they do not wish to be viewed in that fashion, but they allow others to gaze regardless. To conclude, I wish to state another problem I feel gaining momentum. Society tells women (girls too, but until one reaches a certain level of maturity, I'm not sure one should make this particular decision) that if you don't want to be seen as "this," you need to dress like "that." Pardon me, but I feel as though that intrudes on personal freedom. Why not tell women, "demand to be treated with respect regardless of what you're wearing, and regardless of you're body type. Don't ever do, or say, or wear anything that makes you feel uncomfortable"?

Opinion on "Drinking Song"

The first line of the first stanza initially put me off to this poem because it feels so cliche. For some readers, the line "I want to die in the saddle" creates a point of familiarity because it is a common theme for songs and movies. When I read it, I heard someone who gave up on his existence because of the poor personal choices he made. Of course he wants to die...nothing is more painful than navigating a horse while nursing a nasty hangover. The next stanza, "I'm going to be a child about it and I can't help it, I was/born this way" frustrates me because, again, he's making excuses for his circumstances. I wasn't born to do math, but I found a tutor and pulled through, so don't give me that crap. And, if he's going to act like a child, then it may be in his best interest to stop drinking and get a job instead of fishing. Oh...but he had a job. However, he quit because his wife left. Well, let's see here, losing a spouse probably means you're losing half your income, so it might not be a good time to quit. Besides that, she left because he's a childish alcoholic. Maybe he should be evaluating his actions. "whiskey is good for the brain." If you're trying to pickle it! "What else am I supposed to do in these last days but fish and drink?" How about apologize to your boss, find a job, and beg your wife for forgiveness?
I am fully aware that this poem is a token to creative license, and it captures images and utilizes the words perfectly. Also, this is the best example of the form I have been exposed to, but with my inexperience, I need to explain why I respond negatively to certain pieces.

Poetry and Culture

Poetry seems to reflect a predominate trend in culture. We know from our readings that forms evolve to accentuate a language. Upon establishing a suitable pattern, who ultimately decides what the content should consist of and why? The most acceptable answer I found is the way a poem is organized. The organization of stanzas and syllables seems to dictate whether a confession, season, or argument will emerge. This seems to be where the issue of translation enters. An infinite amount of words may exist to replace one of a separate language. Under that circumstance, who decides if that content and poem form should be removed from its original "context"? I wonder this because it seems as though the combination of words in their precise order directly reflects a need, issue, and/or common concern within the culture that establishes the new or improved "form". If a form is removed from its culture, is the purpose and meaning, to an extent, lost? Do you think that altering a form or content within a form distracts from the deliberation it was created with? Sometimes I feel that by making these said changes I am in a way disrespecting another culture and creator.

Writers' Block

The more often I engage with the art of literature, the more I find writers' block to be equally inconvenient to a bad case of the sniffles. Most people grow up being told "write what you know," and this is something that pops up at least once a week for me. Actually, I'm having a problem with it right now. Sometimes it helps to sip a cup of hot tea with cream. Others find inspiration during a hot shower. One time I was told by a charming young writer "my best ideas come to me naked." I very much would like to know what you do. Sometime sketching relieves that appropriately named "block" from my brain, as does jogging and stretching. Every now and then a stubborn entity feels the need to block my creative flow and all focus dissipates. It seems like the little flashing icon that the letters sprout from upon the screen (I'm over tired, please don't mind me) is telling me to hur-ry hur-ry. First of all, that is simply rude. Second of all, I find I preform at my best the second an assignment is assigned. I am also curious to know, those of you who preform under pressure, what specifically makes that your preferred method? And does it always work?

My Favorite Collins Stanza

Quatrain out of "Lines Composed Over Three Thousand Miles from Tintern Abbey"

Nothing will be as it was
a few hours ago, back in the glorious past
before our naps, Back in that Golden Age
that drew to a close sometime shortly after lunch.

This stanza painfully reminds me of the moments I have, that we all have, when in a single instant we fudge up. It takes less than a millisecond to alter the course of a relationship, life, and ideal. Of course, that same second possesses the ability to illuminate a truth, moment of compassion, or secure a friendship, but I find discussing the element and meaning of chaos to be more fun.
That moment of change is the one before you realize your breaks have no intention of working during rush hour traffic. It is the moment you acquire a case of word vomit and fall victim to passion, rage, etc. Once those precious collections of characters and syllables fall from one's lips, circumstances change. Worlds dissolve. All other arrangements of characters are rendered useless. You might be left lifeless, a victim, a criminal, and there is no physical possible way to return to the second before the incident occurred. This stanza references the realizations one has to how perfect the imperfections of their lives were, and will never, ever be again.

Form is Everywhere!

Lost Cause
Beck

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave you alone
Leave you here wearing your wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy; nobody cares

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

There's a place where you are going
You ain't never been before
No one left to watch your back now
No one standing at your door
That's what you thought love was for

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

While trying to enjoy some mindless entertainment, which seems impossible now that I'm being trained to see patterns, signs, and symbols, I noticed a familiar pattern. Aabb. Then I heard the abcbb. It presented me with an urge to turn this melancholy song into a consistent poem of the aabb ccdd etc. rhyme. For the purpose of this exercise I removed the chorus, or refrain; I'm not sure which is the correct term. Also, note that I limited myself to about eight syllables per line.

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave alone
Leave you here wearing awful wounds
Waving your guns at someone new

So few people already know
They see you come they see you go
They know your tears and you know theirs
This town is crazy; no one cares

There's a place where you seem to go
No one left to watch your back now
Never again you'll be before
The power of your big oak door

Pulling my dreams out of your wings
But what could all of these tears mean?
The war is over; we both lost
While fighting for a useless cause

Any suggestions on how to alleviate the awkwardness of the last line while excluding the extra syllable?

Even Metal Heads are Well Read

She seems dressed in all the rings
Of past fatalities
So fragile yet so devious
She continues to see it
Climatic hands that press
Her temples and my chest
Enter the night that she came home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

She is everything and more
The solemn hypnotic
My Dahlia bathed in possession
She is home to me

I get nervous, perverse, when I see her it's worse
But the stress is astounding
It's now or never she's coming home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

Hard to say what caught my attention
Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction
Carve my name in my face, to recognize
Such a pheromone cult to terrorize

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

(Yeah!)

(oh-oh)
I'm a slave, and I am a master
No restraints and, unchecked collectors
I exist through my need, to self oblige
She is something in me, that I despise

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!
SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!

She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)
She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)

This is a song, Vermilion, by the metal band Slipknot. Even in the counterculture of the "metal heads," literary references are rampant and force alternative meaning and depth into the songs and the over all style. "Rings of past fatalities" seem to me a reference to Dante's Inferno. "The night she came home forever" can easily be interpreted as a reference to Browning's poem "Porphyria's Lover," and the final stanza can be interpreted as evidence to support this claim. "Dahlia" clearly refers to Black Dahlia, the Massachusetts murder victim who inspired a vast amount of literature and film. The Dahlia is also a flower, and the phrase "Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction" is a poetic notion that compares her to the flower, and him, to a bug, an aphid, that cannot help but ravish her. Think on the phrase "Such a pheromone cult to terrorize." It's stunning and odd, but is open to interpretation. Since pheromones are what aids attraction, and a cult is a collection of people who partake in nonstandard thinking or practice, often times harmful ones, then how do these words offer different meanings depending to the reader? "I'm a slave, and I am a master" is a clear Biblical reference. The list goes on infinitely; it is far longer than the word requirement allows. My point is, even the most obscure of cultures look to classical poetry and literature to influence their work. Also, signs are everywhere waiting to be analyzed. Before you write a song off as noise, observe and question the content. It's shocking.