Understanding Literature in light of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales and Lu Xun's A Diary of a Madman

I would like to cite the ideas of literature as they were employed in these two literary texts: Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales and Lu Xun’s A Diary of a Madman.

Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales is a canonized literary work in the 1300’s that tells twenty-four individual tales of pilgrims. Its richness in literary devices (i.e. the use of fabliau, allegory, romance fable among many others), having delivered by different voices, also brings a kind of isolation to Chaucer himself as the writer and as the narrator.  It also presents varying thematic concerns that associates this classical work to be also value-laden in characteristic, although, arguably, some of the tales discord values and present other human tendencies. Hence, how we also classify literature as an imitation of life is represented in Chaucer’s work, too.  

 A Diary of a Madman is rich in cultural and historical context as Lu Xun’s daunting imageries in his story delineates feudal values that were present in China (the main character having felt that the people in his community were conspiring to eat him is a representation of corruption of the community adopting the said values). Although he used the Chinese vernacular language as his medium in writing, it does not entirely suffice the connotations in the story. Lu Xun’s short story gave a timely release in the middle of uprisings against oppression and foreign imperialism, thus, we also see literature as reflection of the writer’s life magnifying his view of the struggles occurring in his time.

The inherent characteristics imposed by the ideas that I learned about literature gave more room to understanding its variedness and receptiveness to conditions: as an imitation of our perception of what is real and unreal, as the product of the writer, as an embodying element of form, and also as a conduit that transcends into others far from its creator.

Dead Stars in light of psyche and mores LITT 503 entry

Paz Marquez Benitez has exemplified the presence of psyche in her brilliant short story, Dead Stars. It presents a prevalent struggle of love in the time that it is certain and still as it exists in two worlds; a world in the commune of conventions and expectations and a world that is unimpeded by the first.  Psyche as ‘faculty of human thought, judgment, and emotion’ (Saunders, 2007) could be elaborately described in the persona of Alfredo Salazar who was to be wedded with Esperanza. His untimely meeting with Julia Salas had provoked a seemingly temporary liking towards her at first, posed subliminal and fleeting emotions that caused him to be caught in a stir. Bound by a devoir that he felt not just to Esperanza but to his family and to people who knew them, he married his fiancé, but remained far and deep in his unwavering thoughts of Julia Salas. How his decision was made could not be ostracized in the presence of customs and conventions of his time (mores). His engagement with Esperanza funnelled into crowding bourgeois opinions and imperatives from people who knew them, thus, kept their relationship narrow and mindful of what others might think of them. This is evident in Alfredo’s argument with Esperanza about her sister, Calixta. The pressure of the news about her sister living with someone when the two were not married evinced on their status as an engaged couple that was slowly turning into a dysfunctional one.

Dead Stars reflects a socio cultural factor that does not alter but organically contributes to our being, and as it gradually changes over time, we inextricably adapt to it. In the end, the staggering feeling of Alfredo in realizing that his love towards Julia Salas was lost when they met years after they parted ways, divulges his unconscious fitting in time as he was consciously thinking about his love for her; it was a non-progressing feeling as what was left to him was just a memory of his passion and his youth shared with Julia Salas. 

Stupid Blahs

Over the past few weeks, I have been completely drawn in my little world of frustrations that I was pretty much in pain-figuratively. I was tired and definitely scattering myself to some options that are not pleasant and deliberately chaotic. But they were predictable responses. Knowing these tendencies on the occurrence of "fate-up-against-my-will" whirl thing, I don't think anyone would expect me to turn things around so quick. My experiences might be different from others but the impact- it's actually generic. This isn't the first time I've written something to air out (though some of it not posted) shitty days, cluttered with typhoons of cliched self-provocations.

Things were rather getting stupider every time and I was becoming inattentive to better things.

I might write something like this again and serve you with my another distasteful fancies about pain, sadness, frustrations, etc. and probably some of them might appear close to giving in, but while I'm still trying, I'll try not to write "something" with a conjecture that I give up. I always like the idea that the purpose of how we were designed is to continue finding ways to become better even if days, weeks, months, years are a shitload of misfortunes and disappointments.

Martians aren't green. They're mauve.

Earlier this afternoon, I felt the urge to draw in some inspirations for writing. So I decided to read few essays from my favorite writers and came across with this one written by Kurt Vonnegut. 


Yes, I got what I wanted. 

Knowing What’s Nice

by Kurt Vonnegut

November 6, 2003

Author’s note: I’m working on a novel, If God Were Alive Today, about a fictitious man, Gil Berman, 36 years my junior, who cracks jokes or whatever in front of college audiences from time to time, something I myself have done. Here are excerpts from some of what I myself said onstage at the University of Wisconsin in Madison on the evening of September 22, 2003, as we touch off the last chunks and drops and whiffs of fossil fuels.

K.V.
September 24, 2003
Sagaponack, New York

It must be kind of spooky to be a student or teacher in a university as great as this one, with its libraries and laboratories and lecture halls, while knowing it is within the borders of a nation where wisdom, reason, knowledge and truth no longer apply.

I realize that some of you may have come in hopes of hearing tips on how to become a professional writer. I say to you, ''If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be a homosexual, the least you can do is go into the arts. But do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college.''

But actually, to practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it. Dance on your way out of here. Sing on your way out of here. Write a love poem when you get home. Draw a picture of your bed or roommate.

And hey, listen: A sappy woman sent me a letter a few years back. She knew I was sappy, too, which is to say a lifelong northern Democrat in the Franklin Delano Roosevelt mode, a friend of the working stiffs. She was about to have a baby, not mine, and wished to know if it was a bad thing to bring such a sweet and innocent creature into a world as bad as this one is. I replied that what made being alive almost worthwhile for me, besides music, was all the saints I met, who could be anywhere. By saints I meant people who behaved decently in a strikingly indecent society. Perhaps some of you are or will become saints for her child to meet.

And now I want to tell you about my late Uncle Alex. He was my father’s kid brother, a childless graduate of Harvard who was an honest life insurance salesman in Indianapolis. He was well-read and wise. And his principal complaint about other human beings was that they so seldom noticed it when they were happy. So when we were drinking lemonade under an apple tree in the summer, say, and talking lazily about this and that, almost buzzing like honeybees, Uncle Alex would suddenly interrupt the agreeable blather to exclaim, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

So I do the same now, and so do my kids and grandkids. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

That’s one favor I’ve asked of you.

Now I’ve got another one, a show of hands. How many of you have had a teacher at any point in your entire education who made you happier to be alive, prouder to be alive than you had previously believed possible? Now please say the name of that teacher out loud to someone sitting or standing near you.

OK? All done? ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

I’ll be 81 on November 11. What’s it like to be this old? I can’t parallel park worth a damn anymore. Please don’t watch when I try to do it. But no matter how bad things may get for me, the music will still be wonderful. My epitaph, should I ever need one, God forbid: ''The only proof he ever needed of the existence of God was music.''

You and the police are entitled to know, since I am going to spend the night near you, that I am both a Humanist and a Luddite. I may hold a Black Mass in the parking garage of the Best Western Hotel, if I can find a neo-conservative baby to sacrifice.

Do you know what a Humanist is? I am honorary president of the American Humanist Association, having succeeded the late, great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov in that functionless capacity. We Humanists try to behave well without any expectation of rewards or punishments in an afterlife. We serve as best we can the only abstraction with which we have any real familiarity, which is our community.

We had a memorial services for Isaac a few years back, and at one point I said, ''Isaac is up in Heaven now.'' It was the funniest thing I could have said to a group of Humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, ''Kurt is up in Heaven now.'' That’s my favorite joke.

Do you know what a Luddite is? That’s a person who doesn’t like newfangled contraptions. Contraptions like nuclear submarines armed with Poseidon missiles that have H-bombs in their warheads, and like computers that cheat you out of becoming. Bill Gates says, ''Wait till you can see what your computer can become.'' But it’s you who should be doing the becoming. What you can become is the miracle you were born to work—not the damn fool computer.

Now you know what a Humanist and a Luddite are. Do you know what a Twerp is? When I was in high school in Indianapolis 65 years ago, a Twerp was a guy who stuck a set of false teeth up his rear end and bit the buttons off the back seats of taxicabs. (And a Snarf was a guy who sniffed the seats of girls’ bicycles.)

And I consider anybody a Twerp who hasn’t read the greatest American short story, which is ''Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,'' by Ambrose Bierce. It isn’t remotely political. It is a flawless example of American genius, like ''Sophisticated Lady'' by Duke Ellington or the Franklin stove. ''Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,'' by Ambrose Bierce.

I consider anybody a Twerp who hasn’t read Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville. There can never be a better book than that one on the strengths and vulnerabilities inherent in our form of government.

Want a taste of that great book? He says, and he said it 168 years ago, that in no country other than ours has love of money taken stronger hold on the affections of men. OK?

And many of you, if not most, have surely at least dipped into that great book. But I can hardly call you Twerps, or even Snarfs, if you have never even heard of the next book I want to celebrate. Practically nobody has, since it is basically a medical text: The Mask of Sanity, first published in 1941 and written by the late Dr. Hervey Cleckley, a clinical professor of psychiatry at the Medical College of Georgia.

Some people are born deaf, some are born blind or whatever, and this book is about congenitally defective human beings of a sort who are making this whole country and many other parts of the planet go completely haywire nowadays. These are people born without consciences. They know full well the pain their actions may cause others to feel but do not care. They cannot care. They came into this world with a screw loose, and now they’re taking charge of everything. They appear to be great leaders because they are so decisive. Do this! Do that! What makes them so decisive is that they do not care and cannot care what happens next.

Now then, there’s a good news and there’s a bad news tonight. The bad news is that the Martians have landed in New York City, and are staying at the Waldorf. The good news is that they only eat homeless man, women and children of all colors, and they pee gasoline.

But seriously, if you read the supermarket tabloids you know that for the past 10 years a team of Martian anthropologists has been studying our country, the only country worth a damn on the whole planet—forget Brazil and Argentina. Well, they went back home last week because they knew how really awful global warming is about to be. Their space ship wasn’t a flying saucer. It was more of a flying soup tureen. And they’re little, only six inches high, but they aren’t green. They’re mauve.

By way of farewell, their little mauve leader said there were two things about American culture no Martian could ever understand. ''What is it,'' she said in that teeny-weeny, tanny-wanny, toney-woney little voice of hers, ''what can it possibly be about blow jobs and golf?''

That is stuff from a novel I’ve been working on for the past five years, about a standup comedian at the end of the world. It is about making jokes while we are killing all the fish in the ocean, and touching off the last chunks or drops or whiffs of fossil fuel. But it will not let itself be finished.

Its working title—or actually non-working title—is If God Were Alive Today. And hey, listen: It is time we thanked God that we are in a country where even the poor people are overweight. But the Bush diet could change that.

And about the novel I can never finish, If God Were Alive Today: The hero, the standup comedian on Doomsday, not only denounces our addiction to fossil fuels, with the pushers in the White House. Because of overpopulation, he is also against sexual intercourse. His name is Gil Berman, and he says to audiences like this one, ''I am a flaming neuter. I am as celibate as at least 50 percent of the heterosexual Roman Catholic clergy. Celibacy is not a root canal, and it is so cheap and convenient. Talk about safe sex! You don’t have to do or say anything afterwards, because there is no afterwards.''

Gil Berman goes on: ''When my tantrum, which is what I call my TV set, waves boobs in my face, and tells me that everybody but me is going to get laid tonight, and this is a national emergency, so I’ve got to rush out and buy pills or a car or a folding gymnasium I can hide under my bed, I laugh like a hyena. I know and you know there are millions upon millions of good Americans, present company not excepted, who aren’t going to get laid tonight.

''And we neuter vote! And I look forward to a day when the President of the United States, no less, who probably isn’t going to get laid that night either, decrees a National Neuter Pride Day. And out of our closets we’ll come. And we will go marching up main streets all over this great land of ours, shoulders squared, chins held high, and laughing like hyenas.''

What about God, if He were alive today? Gil Berman says, ''God would have to be an Athiest, because the excrement has hit the air-conditioning big time, big time.'

Dejado

Dejado was formed in 2005-a Manila-based rock group with members: Nojo Gamara (vocals) Domeng Dalisay (guitar) Migs Gamara (bass) with line-up changes on drums, finally came Marlon Caacbay. Their strong and progressive song writing style has a feel from local rock artists such as The Jerks, The Brew and other 90's Pinoy rock icons along with foreign acts such as Incubus, Redhot Chili Peppers and other known blues and jazz players as their influences. They started out with heavy inclination for funk melodic style which in the latter years had been remarkably fused with soulful rhythm of blues and jazz.

Each member then gave new distinct approaches on their recent songs like "From Within", "Falling Pieces" and "Away We Go,"  adding their  growing appreciation for rawness as well- with Domeng's gritty texture on overdrive defined by lingering delays, Marlon's creative drum patterns and Migs's steady funk bass lines shaped by Nojo's powerful lyrics and  vocal character. The band has been featured on several musical events including scenes from Northern and Southern regions and has also entered internet radio guesting at UR Faceradio. With an increasing interest from various listeners, we expect to see and hear more of this band giving us a new taste of blues, jazz, funk and rock fused and continuously evolving as they are now preparing to record their songs.....soon!

Photos taken at Ayuyang Resto Bar, Baguio City

24

At this point, I can't really say I'm living life to the fullest. 'Cause if I do, I wouldn't be coming home to my parents every weekend and they wouldn't let me either. But most of the days in the past years that I come to recognize the joy of doing things that I like and doing some of those with some people completely in shadows was indeed a hell of an amazing adventure. I realized that I can't make everyone understand some of the ideals I carry with me, but I can't put myself to stop just because they don't like a thing or two of those ideals- otherwise, I'm just fooling myself. Now that I'm 24 and still playing a fair trade of the game, I'm glad to have learned new ways in life and somehow gradually making people understand what I do. 

My first portraits as a 24 year old woman. 

Anne Sexton

Oh yes, she fell in love with depression. 'Cause it's the only pill life has ever given her. And in the remote workings of the mind of a normal person, she devised something that would make her passion more evident.


Her Kind
by Anne Sexton

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Resist. Progress.

A couple of weeks ago, I have met with an academic official and she and the institution she was part of apathetically blew my whole composure. I was measured and through their means, I was evaluated to be scholarly incompetent. Doubt came in like a Greek God, signaling perils and misfortunes that are yet to come. I started to become doubtful of my investments that made me come this far. Far enough to realize that I have reached the margins of what I can only do- and yes for a time, they were able to put walls on it. But concretes also go old and feeble...I cried for an uplift. 

A good friend told me that as long as I am confident in my work around in life, there's nothing to worry. I didn't think of that. Ulysses had already proven likewise and I didn't consider it. I was dragging myself to a free dive on a sink hole. Something's wrong...there is something to notice on what's happening; I was provoking myself to become miserable, to shift the rudder of my ship and to head towards a starless horizon. I simply wanted to become their casualty and succumb to my defeat.

But the battle has no ending yet. Much as I was provoking destruction and stupidity, I still managed not to succumb to the toil of this quasi Quixotic experience. Because I wanted to see more of what I do and what I will become in my resistance against the abysmal refusal of scholar absolutists. 

Funny, now I just thought of a line from one X-Ray Spex song that's not entirely relative, "Oh bondage, up yours!"

Introducing... Mister Cameraman!

If there's another thing to be prepared for a photo-walk...that would be you being ready if one from the team goes unexpectedly crazy about taking terminologies- literally. Meet our guy here, Mister Cameraman as the Creative Director/Photographer himself.  (Thanks for cracking us up) :))))

Pao: Alright, that's enough.

Silhouette Love. Skies of Ember's Album Launch: Last Train of Thought

I always like taking photos using external flash. I can play with the bounce of lights it gives my photo, not until I attended the album launch of Skies of Ember's Last Train of Thought @ B-Side Makati with an incomplete gear. The venue's lighting was very low key.I didn't want to use my built in flash and I knew I was gonna have problems with my ISO but it was worth a try. Dim lights are special :)

Stealing someone else's flash. :)

Kudos to Skies of Ember for a successful album launch. I left the venue with striking guitar riffs and melodic vocals playing in my ears. :)

Kaputt.

we are all broken...to hundreds of shreds..to thousands of pieces..some of us don't know it yet..but we all are.
and while we try to breathe and sift through life...we equally summon death and his chariot.
the fear grows...

• and the mirage we see among the mist becomes a moist almost felt. and as 

  he comes...bringing gripping terrors...an eerie dirge til we go deaf...
• the velvet swamps, muddied faces, coarse and ripped hands...desperately trying to huddle us for hunger, they become real-faint but surfacing the soils of the ancient ..
  
  
  until no betrothed shall ever sing the song of love...

  no mother shall ever lull an infant... no father shall make a skillful woodwork...no priest shall ever sing worship of god. 

Shhhick.

I lay flat
wearing thin clothes
protecting my thin skin.

Chills through my bones they ring
rickety rickety
like the old telephone dials.

The sound amuses me
a perfect conjunction
to the paint on my walls,

cream...

The sun made them luscious
like melted caramels.

I took three pills today.
one for flu,
one for the head,
and the other for that rickety sound.

My body felt airy
Characterless.
My eyebags were gone.


I didn't do anything,
just lay in bed,
ate when hungry,
drank when thirsty,


got advice from old people
who are more fit than I ought to be
"Don't eat bananas, if you have flu."

Why?

"'Cause it's a cold fruit."

Oh, they love me.
What an arduous day.
Really.

Homage (for Yna de Leon)

Slowly
She dressed herself with that
Floral top.

Softly
The navy ruffles embraced her
Fragile self while she thought of another she.

Then I turned off the telly.

Sea

Speak.

Go on.

I need to hear you say something

Your voice is a wave
Approaching the shores
I move forth.

Shoosh...

Shoosh...

That's how it gets to me. 

Cold at my feet.

I usually  wait...

'Til my toes go bare, shaky,

White and crumpled 

Like paper.

Then i look at you

In crimson

And in scarlet.

You change... 

The way a baby sleeps,

Slowly closing his eyes.

Shoosh...

Still nothing.

Say something.

The breeze

No matter how gentle

Is not enough.

So if you please,

I'm not delicate.

You should not worry.

Be harsh

Like the world as it is.

Food. Nada.

my fridge

is a ramshackle

piece of furniture.

amoeba parties

for decaying goodness.

-rather sophomoric

There's a folly on the curved street in one 

Of your famous villages

It stands...never becoming more archaic

I sauntered and it saw 

I was more obsolete

It saw that I was no longer valid

Its own lifelessness rose above my eyes

Mocking my hackneyed existence

That folly could never be insecure...

Existence not of virtue

Nor of compassion

Not of greatness

But of an indelible stain from a rotting 

And moving flesh of the most undesirable

Word my tongue has ever tasted

//The folly stands still, old and proud.//

Its gaze is riveting

I could not look away

The old fashioned warm lamps from its windows 

Flicker showing off the spectre 

Claiming its transcedental emergence 

To my very soul

Passing in a light exposing my incompleteness

And I remain immovable in the pivot

Of the unsatisfying happenings of my days.

I see now

It feeds...

We Heart Baguio!

I don't know any person in my network who doesn't like/love Baguio. Personally, it's one of the cities that makes me feel I am nowhere near the grid of chaos. I am somewhere else (or that's just me). Anyway, we're here again in Baguio. Yes, we are here again and we're not just here to devour ourselves with overwhelming amount of food and alcohol from our good friends, we're here to share a part of our craft which is our music and to listen and dance and get wild with their music as well. :) 

Shot from our stroll/hiking at Tam-awan Village. Dunno who these guys were looking for. Probably their gypsies. 

The vines and the curls of Domeng's hair blended well with the village's earthly feel. :)

I can't put any words about this photo. All I can say is this suits very well to the music that's playing right now on Sep's computer- Country Disappeared by Wilco.

Hooray! we reached the top! But we didn't plan on how we're going to get back to the village. 

One of Session Road's old buildings. I love the bricks. 

So, this is a photo from our college tour. Haha. Nah, none of the people in this photo are still in college. We are now working class heroes and we needed a breather. Session Road was indeed a good help. 

So much for being a tourist. It's raining and I can't get my ass off to shower. Taking a warm bath is not my style. Party later! It's our Prom Night! (this will probably be a salvation for people who had their worst nightmares of prom when they were in high school).

Bookkeeping without figures

Press withdraw. Choose savings. Take everything (but you can let go of tenths and cents).
Secure the hundreds, the thousands deep into your pocket. Where to now?
A chicken fillet meal and a regular fries and soda won't hurt, eh?


Reward yourself. Pay your rent and your debts. Pay your taxes and get caught in the traffic.
Be imaginative and comely with your fashion. Shop to the nearest thrift stores in your area.
How much is left?
How much is left for the next fifteen days?


Do not forget to buy your groceries. You live communally,
but your smell is  YOU.
And then there are beers to drink. One bottle is useless and so is two.


A day could be a thousand worth of what you have taken from that machine
and you have fourteen days to count. To live. To earn.
To retell this is to relive the cliched cycle of your fifteen days as a worker who works
for (noun here).

The Tunnel

"Where are we going?"


"To the tunnel."


"Where will it lead us?"


Impatience heaved from his chest


"Are you coming with me or not?"


"Of course I'll go with you. I have no one in this place. Just you. I was just asking."


They reached the entry point of the tunnel. Dark. Cold air passes through them. Their insides were shivering.


"We should be safe in here. After all the end of the tunnel will be our new world."


"But you never tell me anything about that world! Not even a bit!"




"You can go back if you please...I see you have not completely withdrawn yourself from the mess
that made this place forsaken by the gods...I see you are not ready to elope with me."


Lips pursed, she wanted to know what the new world was all about. She had not taken any doubts about the man who was standing in front of her. But between the two of them, only he knew what the world they were about to leave was like before. She grew up in the malnourished remains of the soils they were walking on. She was brought up and was divulged from history.


"So if we reach this new world you're mentioning, will you tell me stories about it? About its old creatures. Are there any mermaids in its seas singing songs of farewell?"


She asked as she sat her bony self lousily on the smooth stone laid before the tunnel.


"If you want to live and die old, mermaids will have no use."




"But would it still matter now? Living? ...dying old? My background of the world we're leaving and the new world we're about to enter are parched even before the day I began to breathe the dry air. I'm useless in this useless world."


"That's why I'm taking you with me but I could not do so since you are not offering me your willingness. We have found the tunnel and a new life is waiting for us."


"It is dark inside. Do you carry with you some lights?"


"I don't have any lights with me."


"So we'll just disappear once we get inside the tunnel?"


"Hold my hand tight and we'll never lose our way."


She fixed her scarf and made sure her head and neck were covered. The cool wind inside the tunnel sent her a foreboding sense of danger. A sense of danger she would always feel when she was young. She held her lover's hand and disappeared through the dark sharing the heavy breathing of breeze from the narrow tunnel. She finally became one with the shadows where she had always belonged.

What lies within the polarity of love and fear

There are feelings that I've been trying to decipher from myself recently because I feel like I'm on a verge of crossing a thin line between the tangible and the unknown. I just think...I need to know what those feelings are because the more I let things happen the way they are happening right now, the more nonplussed I become towards the things I consider firm. I might end up with great feelings of remorse and self-loathing. And now I am writing these lines keeping some shadows to suppress details I am not ready to admit yet.

Well hello there, Frank.