Hi Friends,
So tonight I hope to offer some comments on a couple of the pieces, but not so much all of them. Maybe all of them. Let's see how this goes.
Joyas Volardores, Brian Doyle
I LOVE this piece so much. It just joined the ranks of "loryn's favorite pieces of all time, to be read over and over again forever." It is so beautiful--looking back at it, I'm a little surprised at myself for liking it before I even got to the last bit, the aching, haunting, human part. But I loved it from the first section, and my admiration grew with each paragraph. Truly less narrative, this essay works with fact, found material, and image to convey a thing that, like poetry, often cannot be said straight. From the very beginning, a heart the size of a pencil eraser, to the middle, where the heart has chambers a child could walk around in, to the end--so much heart held in one day--Doyle has captured the essence of life--the beauty of being alive, the painful notion that we can't hold it all no matter the size of our hearts. How perfect it is. And this essay is, to me, a really clear-cut example of our genre. It is not without connective tissue, not without a place to stand and from there, fly--but it does not rely on narrative, story, or explanation at all. It is easy, accessible--which is not a small thing, either, sometimes--and yet huge.
I cried real tears thinking about the hummingbirds who ceased to exist today, too. I really did.
First, …Theresa Barnett
I didn't love this one, which is sort of surprising. I love cooking; I love food; I love the sensual pleasures to be harvested from ingredients. I love the word ingredients. I love soup. I love food writing, meditative cooking blogs, books, novels, biographies (Tamar Adler's The Everlasting Meal is on my list of favorites, as is Alice Waters and Chez Panisse, by Thomas McNamee). I wanted this essay to feel like a meditation, but it did not. Not to me, anyway. I liked it through the section where she discusses the simple soup--the hot, the nourishing, the spoon to mouth. But after that, she lost me. I also did not like the reference to "amniotic bliss," because when one is imagining soup, that is gross. Again, just to me, probably.
Formally, too, though--this one felt less like a lyric to me, not for its lack of narrative--sure, it's not terribly narrative. But it wasn't taking from far and making close, either. It was kind of stream of consciousness. I wanted something more from the last line. I don't know. I'm not doing a good job or analysis here. I just didn't like it.
Why Some Hybrids…Lia Purpua
Now this one--shout from the rooftops--yes yes yes! I think that this piece had a particular purpose, which is sort of elucidated at the bottom of the piece, though it could also be felt earlier on when Purpua references the lyric essay and the prose poem (if ONLY there was an MFA program for prose poemers!! Just kidding, I see her point). At the same time, this essay is funny and its intelligence captured me immediately. I like that the items she discusses are a) not separated in a way that asks us to look for reason and b) not ordered by way of depth or largess. From the hot-cold foods to the ugly houses to the crazy pet breeds to the indoor/lighting to the FIG TREE. Some hybrids simply take some time to root--she's funny, Lia, but she is not kidding. I like that I cannot be eruditely searching for when to feel a certain way. The writing is so tightly woven that it just hits you from time to time, and defies any labels or descriptions you might want to give it. Purpua hits us again with the zebras, and again when she pulls the camera all the way out, pulling far away from meaning, and turning instead to language--the names that work when they create a beautiful sound. These are also her moments of purpose in the essay, where we can sort of get that she's talking about a genre-bending piece within her genre-bending piece. So meta :) I appreciate it because it's a) true, all of it, and feels real, like a terrific description and b) beautiful. A gorgeous thinker of an essay on its own, regardless of context or purpose.
I Couldn't Stop Watching…Sasha Steenson
I couldn't stop--I couldn't keep reading. I actually really liked the first section or two-- I am too interested in the amniotic story-lives of twins (I can't believe I just used that word. It is now a very gross word to me). I could write a lot on the subject myself, and probably will (isn't it crazy that we have two twins in this small class, and one twin teacher?). But as much as I wish I could, I just can't abide the drawings and pictures and charts that come later on. Or maybe it's just this week, and I don't want to be challenged that much. But really, I think I just want to read-feel, not read-figure. My bad on this one.
Seven Fathoms Down, Steven Church
WOW. It's a shame that I've saved this one for last, and I may have to come back to it again another time, because I'm not sure I'll be able to do it justice. This one is different from the others this week in that it is maybe less conceptual, though not all narrative, either. It's more of an instinct. It's classic to me, in some senses of the essay, because all of the parts make sense. It is so perfectly formed, with the section titles, the different content items--it all comes so perfectly together that by the end, the stunning, stunning end, I am reading about the incident, but I am thinking about all the different meanings of the word cockle, and the way that sound travels, and noodling, what it's like to be a boy, and what it's like to love a boy, and thump.
I like the way this publication solicits writer's blurbs for each piece, too (like the Purpua piece). Here I love the "Akkk…" the humanity of this writer's perceived inability to deal with the material in a way that feels finished. But I would disagree--I'd love to read his other pieces, but this one maybe found its way there a little more perfectly. Echolocation.
Again, I want to come back to this one. I want to read it a couple more times, and sit with it. I want to write essays like this one.
So tonight I hope to offer some comments on a couple of the pieces, but not so much all of them. Maybe all of them. Let's see how this goes.
Joyas Volardores, Brian Doyle
I LOVE this piece so much. It just joined the ranks of "loryn's favorite pieces of all time, to be read over and over again forever." It is so beautiful--looking back at it, I'm a little surprised at myself for liking it before I even got to the last bit, the aching, haunting, human part. But I loved it from the first section, and my admiration grew with each paragraph. Truly less narrative, this essay works with fact, found material, and image to convey a thing that, like poetry, often cannot be said straight. From the very beginning, a heart the size of a pencil eraser, to the middle, where the heart has chambers a child could walk around in, to the end--so much heart held in one day--Doyle has captured the essence of life--the beauty of being alive, the painful notion that we can't hold it all no matter the size of our hearts. How perfect it is. And this essay is, to me, a really clear-cut example of our genre. It is not without connective tissue, not without a place to stand and from there, fly--but it does not rely on narrative, story, or explanation at all. It is easy, accessible--which is not a small thing, either, sometimes--and yet huge.
I cried real tears thinking about the hummingbirds who ceased to exist today, too. I really did.
First, …Theresa Barnett
I didn't love this one, which is sort of surprising. I love cooking; I love food; I love the sensual pleasures to be harvested from ingredients. I love the word ingredients. I love soup. I love food writing, meditative cooking blogs, books, novels, biographies (Tamar Adler's The Everlasting Meal is on my list of favorites, as is Alice Waters and Chez Panisse, by Thomas McNamee). I wanted this essay to feel like a meditation, but it did not. Not to me, anyway. I liked it through the section where she discusses the simple soup--the hot, the nourishing, the spoon to mouth. But after that, she lost me. I also did not like the reference to "amniotic bliss," because when one is imagining soup, that is gross. Again, just to me, probably.
Formally, too, though--this one felt less like a lyric to me, not for its lack of narrative--sure, it's not terribly narrative. But it wasn't taking from far and making close, either. It was kind of stream of consciousness. I wanted something more from the last line. I don't know. I'm not doing a good job or analysis here. I just didn't like it.
Why Some Hybrids…Lia Purpua
Now this one--shout from the rooftops--yes yes yes! I think that this piece had a particular purpose, which is sort of elucidated at the bottom of the piece, though it could also be felt earlier on when Purpua references the lyric essay and the prose poem (if ONLY there was an MFA program for prose poemers!! Just kidding, I see her point). At the same time, this essay is funny and its intelligence captured me immediately. I like that the items she discusses are a) not separated in a way that asks us to look for reason and b) not ordered by way of depth or largess. From the hot-cold foods to the ugly houses to the crazy pet breeds to the indoor/lighting to the FIG TREE. Some hybrids simply take some time to root--she's funny, Lia, but she is not kidding. I like that I cannot be eruditely searching for when to feel a certain way. The writing is so tightly woven that it just hits you from time to time, and defies any labels or descriptions you might want to give it. Purpua hits us again with the zebras, and again when she pulls the camera all the way out, pulling far away from meaning, and turning instead to language--the names that work when they create a beautiful sound. These are also her moments of purpose in the essay, where we can sort of get that she's talking about a genre-bending piece within her genre-bending piece. So meta :) I appreciate it because it's a) true, all of it, and feels real, like a terrific description and b) beautiful. A gorgeous thinker of an essay on its own, regardless of context or purpose.
I Couldn't Stop Watching…Sasha Steenson
I couldn't stop--I couldn't keep reading. I actually really liked the first section or two-- I am too interested in the amniotic story-lives of twins (I can't believe I just used that word. It is now a very gross word to me). I could write a lot on the subject myself, and probably will (isn't it crazy that we have two twins in this small class, and one twin teacher?). But as much as I wish I could, I just can't abide the drawings and pictures and charts that come later on. Or maybe it's just this week, and I don't want to be challenged that much. But really, I think I just want to read-feel, not read-figure. My bad on this one.
Seven Fathoms Down, Steven Church
WOW. It's a shame that I've saved this one for last, and I may have to come back to it again another time, because I'm not sure I'll be able to do it justice. This one is different from the others this week in that it is maybe less conceptual, though not all narrative, either. It's more of an instinct. It's classic to me, in some senses of the essay, because all of the parts make sense. It is so perfectly formed, with the section titles, the different content items--it all comes so perfectly together that by the end, the stunning, stunning end, I am reading about the incident, but I am thinking about all the different meanings of the word cockle, and the way that sound travels, and noodling, what it's like to be a boy, and what it's like to love a boy, and thump.
I like the way this publication solicits writer's blurbs for each piece, too (like the Purpua piece). Here I love the "Akkk…" the humanity of this writer's perceived inability to deal with the material in a way that feels finished. But I would disagree--I'd love to read his other pieces, but this one maybe found its way there a little more perfectly. Echolocation.
Again, I want to come back to this one. I want to read it a couple more times, and sit with it. I want to write essays like this one.
Not just "your bad!" I could not, no matter how hard I tried, make myself read all the way through the Steensen piece. I found it annoyingly precious and opaque and--worse, boring.
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