A blog is about commitment...

Ok, so I realized where I'm going wrong here. I seem to think I need to post something great of overwhelmingly amazing quality, but what I end up doing is not posting anything at all. I think what I should do is just get used to making small posts, if only to get me to write a little something every day.

I like to overshare, but I don't necessarily like that I like to overshare, plus I'm trying to get away from being that person who is obsessed about their personal lives and their events, people and situations. Plus, it's the interwebz, you never know who is going to read your blog (read: co-workers, bosses, potential employers) so I'm going to challenge myself to muse on things unrelated to my personal life or if so, in a very broad and abstract way.

Let's see if I can keep this about writing, folks!

Free Writing for the day

So why am I stressed. A number of reasons. Writing is supposed to be therapeutic, right? Hell, I can even work at dialogue or practicing my show not tell. I’m busy. What’s a better way to say I’m busy is that I’ve been working late every night, juggling an online writing class with reading and writing assignments, occasionally taking on contract work, and overall dealing with the fact that by nature I’m a very lazy person. I enjoy days where I have nothing scheduled, where nothing is expected of me, where for long stretches of time I can lie on the floor of my bedroom and stare at the ceiling, should I feel like it, or take long walk with the dog and not worry about what I need to be doing next.

Part of the problem I chalk up to my inability to live in the moment and take it for what it is. A friend of mine who recently returned from a trip to the south of Italy remarked to me how she was glad to return home because of a chance remark someone had made to her while she was there. Apparently there’s not much industry in the south of Italy; the majority of their business is involved in the tourism trade. She had asked this Italian if he had ever considered moving somewhere else, where more was going on, and he had said no, he was happy where he was. She, in turn, was disgusted and asked me, “If you were him, wouldn’t you want to live a more meaningful life?”

But the thing is, I don’t think my life is any more meaningful than that man’s. In fact, I envy this man the ability to be content with his lot in life. I think anybody can be happy with the proper attitude and strength of inner conviction. Look at kids running through the filthy streets of any poverty-ridden community. They don’t know they are dirty. They don’t know that they are poor. They’ve just found a soccer ball lying in the street and all they can think about is how much fun they are going to have with the other street urchins, kicking around a wilting soccer ball, with part of the stitching coming loose.

I read recently about a famous Holocaust survivor, I don’t remember his name and for the purposes of this free-write, I don’t feel like looking him up, but he talked about how he was imprisoned in a concentration camp, forced to deal with death and worse than death every single day, he realized he didn’t have to be there. That the Nazis could only control so much and that though the Nazis could do what they wanted to his physical body, he could control his mind and what was inside. I think the 7 Habits of Highly Effective People author also mentions this story. Then I started thinking about all the East Asian mystics, the dudes with long white beards sitting in their mountain retreat with absolutely nothing, spring water and roots, giving up everything and achieving everything. Perhaps it’s just a romantic notion, but part of me really digs the idea that everything you need, you can find within yourself. (Besides sex, ice cream, and Korean dramas).

I get so worked up about things. Past incidents that have no bearing on the present. Irritating people who really, in the scheme of things, are completely irrelevant to my life or anything I do. I also have a really hard time letting go of things. I keep looping events, incidents, conversations and the like over and over in my head sometime. The worse my anxiety gets, the more I do it.

So I sit there and I meditate. The first 10 minutes are always the hardest. Trying to calm my mind, trying to calm my body. I notice that I jerk around a great deal, twitching around the shoulders and the neck. I try and fight the feeling of numbness as my legs and feet fall asleep under me and think of...nothing.

My point is, wanting things, desire, dissatisfaction, worry, fear, anger, and all these sorts of negative emotions make me twitchy, restless. They drive me forward. They make me feel like I need to do all these things, things being taking on more than I can chew, fighting my naturally indolent nature to strive, to achieve, to be somebody, to accomplish something, to be meaningful, significant, impressive to my partner, to my friends, to the world.

What I really crave is the strength of character and mind to derive validation and meaning from myself. To push myself to succeed from somewhere inside, to do things for the sake of doing and not for the sake of fulfilling desire or garnering approval from others. I know that’s how most of the world is, but I envy the samurai that can achieve satori, the Italian man who is perfectly content to live somewhere and enjoy things for what they are, not how they could be, not how they should be, not how they want it to be, but simply to exist and be happy with that.

Is there anything so wrong in that?

On Furniture, Memories, and Sadness

I drove up to Silicon Valley to see my old house on a whimsy, several years back. I hadn’t been back since my family moved away when I was in the sixth grade and I was curious to see the place. I didn’t remember how to get to my old house, since I had moved away too young, but my friend had brought a mobile GPS system with him and I still remembered the address.

I was fond of my old house. My parents, or at least my mother, now live in a small two bedroom condo housed in a building that looks like a retirement home. All the tenants’ doors face into a hallway that smells of baby powder and someone’s cooking. In my mother’s condo, some of our old furniture has survived--an old floral still-life that I remembered, a side table in a rich warm wood, a framed Degas print. But many of these relics from the past are crowded out by the newer, cheaper furniture my parents bought as the years passed by.

I remember so many little details about our house, silly things like the hanging plants my parents kept around the house or our carpet. Ours was a dove color, or at least I think it was to begin with, but I only remembered it dirty, so that at some spots it looked more grey-green, with textures shaped like rose cabbages woven into them. When we had professionals come to clean and restore our carpets, to get the house ready to put on the market, I remember running my hands in awe over the newly cleaned carpet. I didn’t know it would feel so thick and woolly. I remember lying on the carpet outside my bedroom door while listening to my parents argue, usually early in the morning. Sometimes I would hear my mom weeping and I would pad softly across the dirty rose cabbage carpet hallway and slip into my parent’s room to comfort her. I said my first bad word, fuck, when I hurt my finger trying to turn on a lamp in their room. A little part of me died when God did not strike me down for saying a bad word.

I can say nothing with certainty about my house because I think I lived there before I learned to make judgments about houses and furniture and amenities. In retrospect, I think it must have been a very nice house. Now that I know the costs of things, the cost of decks and slate paving, of carpets and hardwood floors, of sunken living rooms, recreation rooms, and swimming pools, I realized what a nice house I must have lived in. But I don’t remember that it was nice, I only remember things like the octagonal window seat with ivory striped cushions where I sat and read books upon books, crunching on half a red delicious apple that I would rub with lemons from our backyard, because I hated how the pale flesh of the apple would turn brown.

I remember how the door always seemed to stick and the glittery slate rocks that made up the porch and the paved path that led up to the front door. The overhang provided a perfect garden house. My best friend and I used to play in the bushes that framed the paved path. Her father was an engineer, like mine, and our elementary school sat right behind Apple headquarters. This was before the iPod and the iPhone had revived Apple’s stock and won back Silicon Valley’s approval. This was when Intel and IBM were still gods, when Microsoft was still flapping its fledgling wings.

We played in the garden and played house in the bushes, with the berries and vines that grew all over the place. I live in semi-desert country now and I miss the smell of green, growing things. Next to our driveway, across from our lawn, there was a bare patch of rock and dirt. My best friend and I would ride our bikes to the local nursery, Bonsai Nursery I think it was called, and spend our weekly allowance to buy marigolds, snapdragons, and petunias to terraform that little patch of land. We charged neighbors ten cents to tour the garden. I didn’t like petunias because fat caterpillars would eat them, oozing pink or purple ichor when squished, depending on what color blossom they had been eating.

I remember our living room where we slept after the big earthquake hit. My parents spread out blankets and comforters and we all snuggled down together on the living room floor. We had a beautiful, richly colored Oriental rug in the living room with sofas and loveseats upholstered in cream silk with pale pink and green irises embroidered on them. My piano sat in the corner, by the fireplace, where the oil painting of some famous artist hung. I sometimes see other paintings by this artist floating around but I’ve never found out his/her name. The living room was the nicest room in the house. The sofas and loveseats must have been very expensive; I wonder if my mother misses them. Now that I have a house of my own, I wouldn’t mind furniture like that.

I spent a great deal of time in the living room, practicing piano, reading, playing under the dining room table. I liked to sit near the fireplace. When my father was in one of his moods, I would sit slumped down in one of the blue silk armchairs and hold very still and hope he wouldn’t catch me, because I hated it when he hit me. I sat there when he told me we were moving, that we were selling this house, that he had lost his job and all our money and that we were moving to start a new life somewhere near Los Angeles. I didn’t know anything about Los Angeles except that was where a black man named Rodney King had been beaten and had caused riots all through the city. When the news about the LA riots broke, we were on vacation at Disneyland and I didn’t know that Los Angeles was an hour away from Anaheim.

After my father told me we were moving, I sat in the blue armchair for a long time. I don’t think I’ve ever sat that still for so long. My father had been looking for me but I didn’t say anything when he called my name, I just sat and thought about leaving behind my garden, my sun-bleached window seat, the golden specks embedded in the bathroom counter, the kitchen that overlooked the sunken living room with its fancy karaoke systems and blue furniture, the rec room with its cold tan, yellow, and brown linoleum where I built forts and stared at our jade plants with tiny pink blossoms, the kumquat trees that overlooked our backyard fence into Mike Estrada’s house, a kid who was in my third-grade class. He works for Microsoft now. When my dad finally found me, still sitting in the blue armchair, he was angry but he didn’t hit me like I thought he would.

I miss my old house but I realized what I miss is mostly in my head. When I walked up that path, several years ago, all I saw was a house that looked like it was shrinking in on itself in its old age. The subsequent owners had torn up the glittery rock path and had installed a new garage door. Our old garage door wasn’t even a garage, it was four stable doors lined up together with blurry yellow glass windows that were popular in the 60’s. The plum tree out front was gone. My best friend’s family, who still lived across the street, had remodeled their home so much that I didn’t even recognize it when I was invited in later.

I don’t know what happened to all the nice things my parents must have once owned. I remember a beautiful round side table that I would have loved to own today. The wood was so dense yet smooth, like soap, that it must have cost a fortune. I own nicer furniture than my parents now. I don’t know what happened to that side table. My father lives in Shanghai now. I don’t speak to him unless I have to. When he comes back to visit I’m always too busy working. I wonder if our lives would have been different if we had stayed in that house, if I could have grown up there. I wonder if my parents mourn what they left behind in that house, too.

Ye Gods, I Promise to Start Posting Regularly

I started an online writing class. It's been great for motivating me to write, but may be too early to tell. Work has been punching me in the face for the past two months, but really, who am I kidding, I wasn't writing regularly before that anyway.

Either way, since I have to do homework assignments for this writing class, I might as well post the stuff and get in the habit of regularly updating this blog.

Random Dialogue

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Long in the Tooth

Today while changing in the gym, I took advantage of the spotless full-length wall mirror to take a good long look at myself. Normally, I'd be grimacing at my love handles or flexing my biceps to see if all that working out has made me any more visibly buff, but today was different. Today, I was fixated on my teeth.

At first, it was sheer narcissistic curiosity that had me staring at my own teeth under the bright fluorescent lights. But it was while I was appraising the color of my teeth and evaluating the landmarks of past dental work, I noticed that something was odd about a spot on my front right tooth. This spot of matte whiteness, which several dentists have hemmed and hawed over before declaring it a calcium deposit stain, had once been flush along my gumline. It had also been the source of self-conscious pre-pubescent angst, because the whiteness of the spot cast a dingy, yellow tinge on the rest of my front teeth by contrast. Though my subsequent discovery of teeth whiteners helped some, in the end, I gave up and resigned myself to my funny calcium spot. Who cares? After all, it was only noticeable when I yawned. Or laughed. Or smiled. Or any normal activity that involved me opening my mouth.

But on this particular occasion, that is to say, self-absorbed half naked examinations of self in the women’s locker room, I realized that my spot was no longer flush with my gum line. In fact, it would be more accurate to say the spot had somehow migrated one-third of the way down my front tooth. And then I noticed that the rest of my teeth, though whiter and better cared for than in earlier years, seemed to have a lengthier quality to them. I smiled experimentally. Yes, that grin was quite a bit toothier than I remembered. Years of negligent dental care, a smoking habit I had only managed to kick a few years ago, and a general fear of dentists (and their bills) had taken its toll on my teeth. There was no way around it; I was getting long in the tooth.

GASP.

Long in the tooth? Who uses that phrase any more? My penchant for Agatha Christie (reference Aimee Griffith in The Moving Finger) was starting to bleed over into my every day speech patterns.

I don't flatter myself that I possess any secret fund of knowledge when it comes to language, idioms and what-not. But I'm reasonably assured that that phrase is outdated and become more so. To prove it, I tested the phrase on my boyfriend to see his reaction.

"Wait, what? What does that even mean?" was the predictable response.

Before we jump to conclusions about my possibly questionable taste in men, the boyfriend is a brilliant artist, but also one of those guys whose eyes glaze over when required to read anything not an instruction manual. So it may be that my population sampling is a bit skewed, but hey, he was close by and I needed an immediate test subject.

But my lesser half's question raises some crucial issues: what does it mean? What does tooth length have to do with age? And is there a reason beyond blatant sexism that explains why that phrase is applied to women, and not to men? In my stream-of-consciousness loopy fashion I always thought of the saber tooth tiger when the phrase came up. Considering the prehistoric era in which that long-dead kitty roamed the earth, was it a reference to age? Or perhaps I’m overthinking the science-history part and the phrase is just a reference to the modern day cougar of the two-legged variety? But then again, I don't think Dame Christie was around when they came up with that one, so that washes that idea right out.

Undaunted, I opened my mouth to take another look. Yes, the signs were unmistakable. I could trace the original, smaller shape of my tooth by the white stain, as if someone had spray painted a patina of dingy and removed the stencil, leaving several millimeters of clean, virgin tooth untouched right below the gumline. To me, the contrast was like looking at the marks of waves on a beach, where the tide has left behind waterlogged driftwood and wet stretches of sand. Only in this case, my gums had receded, leaving me with gleaming lengths of tooth.

I stared at myself in the mirror again, but this time with my mouth closed so I could study my face in the glass. As silly as it sounds, I’m one of those women who can’t help but feel a little bit smug every time I’m mistaken for a high schooler. I always titter with embarrassed self-satisfaction when servers make a fuss about how I don’t look like I could possibly be old enough to drink alcohol. (Note, I am also far from what anybody would consider old.) What can I say, we all have our pathetic vanities, and mine is that last little bit of smug youth. But I couldn't help feeling just a tiny bit sad as I stared at my face. Somewhere, at some point, while I was completely unaware, the first flush of youth had slipped out from underneath me. Sure, my friends jokingly called me Grandma, mocked my early-to-bed habits and my tendency to pass out first at parties. But nobody could actually call me an older woman.

But now, there, unmistakably etched in my TEETH of all places, was proof positive; I should probably pay more attention to taking care of my gums and yes, I was getting long in the tooth.

Note: I actually went back and edited the post!

A la Noir? I think so.

Jerry had always been a big name in the industry. He'd headed up a lot of big projects, wrangled some big game, and talked the talk with the best of 'em. Really driven the bottom line if you know what I mean. I had a lot of respect for Jerry. He was always a man who walked too close to the line, but he watched out for his guys. I know he generally tried to do the right thing, but in this crazy world, sometimes you got to watch out for yourself first. If his nose wasn't as clean as it should have been, we were all willing to look the other way. After all, business is business and a man's gotta feed his family.

Nobody was surprised when he left to do his own thing. Jerry was a man with big ideas and sometimes you could see him getting impatient-like trying to squeeze things past the big cheeses upstairs. So when he walked, we all wished him good luck. So it was business as usual and from time to time we would hear from little Jimmy that he was doing ok with his new gig. Funny business, poor Jimmy. That kid was pretty cut up when Jerry walked. I think he really depended on him and it broke his heart when Jerry left. Jimmy wasn't really a bad sort, reminded me of a scared little rabbit, but with a good head on his shoulders. He'd been here a long time but I think he was real happy just dishing out stuff. He never wanted to be a big mover and shaker. So when Boss called him into his office and told him to start taking on some of Jerry's old duties, that poor kid turned three shades of pale and came out shaking like an autumn leaf.

That kid didn't want to be Jerry. Hell, I think he would have given anything to have Jerry back. He didn't want to have to get up and tell every Tom, Dick and Harry on the floor what to do. The thought terrified him, all of us could see that. None of us could figure what the Boss was aiming at, pulling a stunt like that with Jimmy. Yeah, so what if the kid had been here a long time. But anyone with half a bean upstairs could see the kid was scared shitless. But if there's one thing you learn at the Company, you don't question the boss.

Now me, I just keep my head down and my eyes open. I've been around the block, so to speak, and I'd done all sorts of crazy shit in my time. Coming to the Company was like coming back home to say howdy-doody to the folks. I knew I had a sweet deal and I wasn't going to sour the pot by jawing in, so to speak.

Dirge of an Unhappy Troll

Nasty, nasty, gnashing of teeth! Bits of bone and crumbs of stone, and so I hide, a loathsome, loathsome troll.

An angry, angry thing I am, and sure to eat whatever I can. Rue the friend or foe that dares, to cross me, and my loathsome stare!

I know not when I started here, always cold and hungry, an ugly smear, on this fresh and verdant 'scape, I am ugly, full of sins, with nothing to put on the plate.

The church it spits on me, but more because I mock it for what it stands, for what god in pitiless sky, could love a troll like me.

So under bridge, under stone, I make my home, and mash these bones.

I suck the marrow bits dry and pick my teeth, and look for something more to eat.

For feed my soul I must, a shriveled, dessicated husk, unspoilt by the warmth of friendly touch.

I hate and hate but don't know what I hate. Bitterness, dull and cold, lies heavy, blank and unrepentant on my head.

But hate cannot endure, it's the emptiness more that I fear.

And fear it is that keeps me alive, for what happens to me if I were to die?

Or perhaps death doesn't bother here, where it's cold, wet, and to me, no one ever speaks.

Random Daily Writing 02/17/10

[I've been watching a lot of film noir and reading a shit ton of Agatha Christie novels on my iKindle. Love it. Agatha Christie was a master of character development and dialogue. If I could write a fraction as well as she did, I could die happy.]

I think I'm one of those people who doesn't know how to let things go.

I swiveled in my chair and nodded to Harry as he walked in.

"What's up?" I asked, casual-like, as Harry slid into an armchair near me.

"Same old rum bullshit," Harry grinned, as he reached for a cigarette. I offered him a light, but he waved me away. He pulled out his battered old Zippo instead and set himself up.

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," I replied, taking a deep drag of my own. I motioned to the cocktail waitress to set Harry up with something, along with round two for myself.

It was a rough few days for me and I just wanted to sit back and relax. Some days I wasn't sure what I was so jumped up about, but I could feel the muscles in my neck taut like piano wire. I reached back and rubbed the back of my neck with one hand. I winced at how tight it was. They say that stress can be a habit. They say stress can kill. Whoever "they" are. Jesus fucking Christ I just needed to get some decent rest. Things were going good as long as nothing fucked up. Well, I guess that's always the catch, isn't it.

It was at that moment, that she walked in. I felt every muscle in my body tense up, a fight-or-flight response all the way. I felt Harry's hand involuntarily on my shoulder, but I shoved it away gently.

"I'm cool," I said, without taking my eyes off of her, "I'm cool."

Harry looked at me doubtfully, but he knew better than to interfere.

I watched her slither across the open floor like the poisonous snake I knew her to be. But goddamn did she look gorgeous tonight. I wasn't the only one looking and she knew it. I could see her take it all in appreciatively as her rightful due. Fucking bitch. Harry was getting nervous, poor guy, he never knew what to do around her and she knew it. Made that poor man as uncomfortable as she could, smiling sweet as sugar the whole while. I had a theory as to why Harry jumped like a rabbit every time she showed up and an even better idea why he couldn't look me in the eye when she was around. I didn't blame him. She had that effect and he was just a poor dumb bastard. Like me.

She stood poised at the door, surveying her kingdom so to speak, until her gaze rested on me. She stared at me with those sultry green eyes and I stared right back at the bitch. I wanted her to know just how much I hated her. Her eyes widened at the intensity of my glare, and she smiled. How predictable. She started coming toward us. Somewhere outside my field of vision, I vaguely heard Harry's muttering voice.

"Don't do it, man, it's not worth it. Just let it go. "

Fuck that bitch. She ruined my life and I couldn't forget it. Here I was, trying to catch a little R&R in my favorite joint with my best bud, and that witch spawn somehow knew exactly where to find me. It wouldn't have surprised me one bit if she had called around to find out exactly where I was. As far as I knew, none of my friends would give her the time of day. But that isn't to say there's not a crack here and there. Nobody's perfect.

My next research project: Adaptation

Move Over Fidelity, Reception is Here!

Any artist, from the fiction writer to the chamber music composer, from the Hollywood filmmaker to the manga-ka shut up in his/her cramped workspace, may ask him/herself why it is he/she persists in the continuation of their art. Makers of literary and historical adaptations most likely face a similar question in asking themselves why they should want to take the work of someone else and in some way reproduce, re-represent, or re-create it in some shape or another. Certainly, many people attempt to do so out of motives for commercial gain. Others may attempt to do so out of creative or intellectual homage. Perhaps, as Robert Stam posits, there is no original that is being reproduced, re-represented, or re-created, but simply the "[cannibalizing of] antecedent genres and media" (Stam, Robert. 6). However, a growing number of theorists have attempted to describe not just the issue of fidelity in the mechanisms of transformation in moving a source text to a target medium (thus the issue of fidelity that was addressed in the last instance), but to describe the effects of transformation and mechanisms of these effects on an audience/reader. Thus reception becomes the answer to the imagined questionings of hundreds of artists, in the dazzle, delight, and genuine bewilderment that readers and audience members experience when they witness a beloved classic in a wholly new and different form. In this paper, the theories of play, wandering viewpoint, re-enactment, and allusive space will be used to discuss reception of the migration of the East Asian classic Journey to the West to the anime Saiyuki, and the ways in which the historical past of the Meiji era in Japan crystallize in the popular anime series Rurouni Kenshin.

The theories of play, wandering viewpoint, re-enactment, and allusive space all relate to one another in their shared reliance on reception of a particular medium. Gadamer sees play as a natural existence of being, but one that is not validated except by the presence of a spectator. He describes the relationship between player and spectator writing:

the presentation of a god in a religious rite, the presentation of a myth in a play, are not only in the sense that the participating players are wholly absorbed in the presentational play and find in it their heightened representation, but also in that the players represent a meaningful whole for an audience. Thus it is not really the absence of a fourth wall that turns the play into a show. Rather, openness toward the spectator is part of the closedness of the play. The audience only completes what the play as such is. (Gadamer, Hans-Georg. 109).

Play is not possible without the necessary inclusion of the spectator, as well as the player, so that the audience becomes a crucial component of free play. Wolfgang Iser picks up on Gadamer's emphasis on the importance of the audience member, or in his case, the reader, in his theory of the wandering viewpoint in which the activation of sentences, of background and foreground, are done so by the reader and no one else. Iser claims that "[semantic] fulfillment, however, takes place not in the text, but in the reader, who must 'activate' the interplay of the correlates prestructured by the sequence of events" (Iser, Wolfgang. 110). The twists and turns of the text, or the wandering viewpoint, colored by expectations based on past sections of the text, serve as background to future text, so that the moments of dissonance, in which the reader must adjust past conceptions, and in which past conceptions also modify new text, produces the specific position of the reader. Iser describes "[t]he new moment is not isolated, but stands out against the old, and so the past will remain as background to the present. This two-way influence is a basic structure in the time-flow of the reading process, for this is what brings about the reader's position within the text" (Iser, 114). Only then, according to Iser, does "what may at first sight have seemed like a disadvantage, in comparison with our normal modes of perception, may now be seen to offer distinct advantages, in so far as it permits a process through which the aesthetic object is constantly being structured and restructured" (Iser, 112). The reader is absolutely necessary to this process, for without the discerning consciousness of the reader to produce the dissonance of conflicting expectations and text the aesthetic mode of the text itself cannot be achieved.

Joseph Pucci takes the dissonant space of Iser's conflicting background and foreground in text to develop his allusive space which is:

a unique space in literary reading because it exists apart from the referential and significative control of the language that gives rise to it. So, too, are the meanings that arise in it are unique, because they result in an interpretive free-play on the part of the reader, as the dissonances of two discrete works are mediated in the give and take of a mental, interpretive dialogue. (Pucci, Joseph. 43).

According to Pucci, the allusive space is important in that the very differences between two texts (or in this case, text-anime, history-anime) is significant in that it produces meaning through the dissonance of two works that share the same referential framework. Where Iser saw the continual restructuring of the aesthetic object, Pucci saw a hermeutical restructuring in which the reader comes to a unique and meaningful resolution between two conflicting elements. Returning to Gadamer's concept of play, for Pucci play is what allows the reader to derive significance within this allusive space so that the meaningfulness of the whole can be obtained. As Pucci states, "[p]lay is an old idea, an antique habitat of human activity, but it is of the moment for allusion, for it represents the essential activity pursued by the full-knowing reader" (Pucci, 46). Thus, all three theorists not only factor in the audience in a very important way, something which is only touched upon by Erica Sheen in her notion of fidelity being regulated by audience reception, but see reception as absolutely critical to the formation and understanding of a given piece of art.

Not only is reception critical to the theories of play, allusive space, and wandering viewpoint that have been raised in the previous paragraph, but the notion of reenactment is also crucial to reception. Jenny Thompson describes in her essay War Games the ways in which authenticity is often based on reception of others, primarily reception based on sight. Thompson, quoting another soldier reenactor, says "[t]he best description I've ever heard of reenactment…it's like you can't see yourself. So basically what you strive for is to make yourself look good, because when you look out into a crowd…somebody who's just atrociously a farb…just kills the whole thing" (Thompson, Jenny. 206). Thompson also mentions that in the ferociously debated issue of authenticity, even proximity becomes a site of conflict. As one unit leader stated of his unit's minimum requirement for authenticity, "At a close up and personal distance, the reenactor should not be distinguishable from a World War II soldier" (Thompson, 209). Others disagree, advocating "'the ten foot rule' (meaning an impression looks authentic from ten feet away)" (Thompson, 213), indicating that the degree of reception is also critical to giving meaning to the whole activity of reenacting. As the previous quote stated, "it just kills the whole thing", when reception of a reenactor's appearance is unfavorable, whether it be due to age, obesity, ethnicity, or historical inaccuracy in costume. Thus the significance of a World War II reenactment is based, not on actual fidelity to the event, meaning no actual deaths, no actual battle, and sometimes not even actual replication of historical events, but on the way that the reenactors themselves perceive his/her own, and others, authenticity.

Thus, taking these various theories based on reception, one can apply these to the literary classic Journey to the West and its anime form Saiyuki. The literary text Journey to the West presents a certain plot, character, time, and setting framework in which the anime Saiyuki takes in a different direction. Using Gadamer and Iser's theories on play and wandering viewpoint, we can see how Saiyuki plays with the characterization and plot structures, so that the deviations from the original are considerable. The somewhat cowardly and pacifist Tripitaka becomes a rather different Genzo, who is not only a cool, hardened character, but one that is certainly not afraid to kill others. For example, in the original text, after Monkey kills several bandits that waylay Tripitaka, the monk exclaims "You've done a terrible thing…[h]owever wicked those men might be, they never would have been sentenced to death in a court of law. You should have chased them away, not killed them. How can you think of yourself as a monk when you take another's life, and in this case not one, but six lives. You haven't a trace of mercy in you" (Editor: Kherdian, David. 114). Yet how different is this Tripitaka to the Genzo who calmly remarks to the little monk boy that if he loves Buddha so much, he should kill himself and be close to him. Two elements from different theorists play into this instance of dissonance: on one hand, the expectations that viewers have of certain characterizations of Tripitaka as a peaceful, gentle man who abhors bloodshed is overturned. Viewers must revise and readjust their conceptions of characterization in the manner Iser described, even to the point of reconsidering Tripitaka's stance against violence in the original. On the other hand, the second element of Pucci's allusive space comes into play, with both Tripitaka and Genzo occupying the same referential point in the narrative framework.

A possible way of reconciling these differences is for a potential reader to turn to Buddhism and consider that Tripitaka's non-violent stance is one aspect of Buddhism which originally came from China, while Genzo's stance is much closer to Zen Buddhism, practiced mostly in Japan, which advocates nothingness as the state closest to nirvana. Thus the reader can potentially assume that the movement of Buddhism from China to Japan, just as Journey to the West drifted from China to Japan , explains the two different monk figures in the literary text and in the anime. Thus the original literary text provides the referential framework which provides both expectations and comparative space, in which dissonance, difference, and incongruity offer moments of interpretation and signification on the part of the reader. Questions like, "Why was Genzo's character changed?" or "Why is the white horse a small white dragon-that-turns-into-a-car," and others of that kind become points of signification; the reader will often wonder and consider why these changes have occurred and come to a conclusion such as the one posited above regarding the changing nature of Buddhism from China to Japan. (Though quite possibly, no such intellectual understanding is available for the white dragon-that-turns-into-a-car.)

History, like literature, can often be read as a narrative and as such provides a similar referential framework to literature. Individuals who became prominent in their roles in the Meiji Restoration, such as Saito Hajime or Okubo Toshimichi, or even the legendary and somewhat mythical figure of the hitokiri battousai become the characters of historical narrative. The overthrow of the bakufu government and the re-establishment of imperial authority under Western influences becomes the romantic setting of a nation caught between two eras. Finally, the problems of dealing with relics of a previous governmental system, the daimyo and the samurai, become tragic conflicts of old values pitted against the winds of change. In short, history becomes something like Rurouni Kenshin.

Like the movement from Journey to the West to Saiyuki, the transformation of the history of the Meiji Restoration can be described in the terms of play, wandering viewpoint, allusive space, and especially reenactment. In many ways, the anime is attempting to reproduce the authenticity of the Meiji period within its colored cells, but with a few discrepancies. Like the reenactors in War Games, Kenshin attempts to respect the basic tenets of claim to authenticity in representing and reenacting the Meiji period, in their efforts to respect appearance, limitations of the time period, and existing problems. To elaborate, regarding appearance (though Kenshin appears to be following what was termed the "ten foot rule" in War Games), most characters are not shown wearing modern clothing, though they occasionally display clothing that was probably not worn at all except in the fantasy of the author. As for limitations of the time period, cell phones, CD players, and computers are some of the anachronistic discrepancies that are barred from depiction. As for existing problems, Kenshin captures to some degree issues like the outmoded lifestyle of the samurai and the difficulties they had in adjusting to a new "peaceful" age in which swords were not allowed. Other issues, like the corrupt merchant class or the ever-present threat of rebellion of supporters of the shogunate also lurk in the background of Kenshin and sometimes manifest themselves in the plot. The anime even attempts to represent real historical figures, as shown in the presence of Saito Hajime turned into Fujita Goro, or Okubo Toshimichi, also a genuine historical figure. In many ways, Kenshinresembles reenactments of World War II in which participants attempt to reenact characters, figures, setting, costume, and various problems during the War, but choose to allow the elements to play out within the framework rather than following it. The audience then enjoys a fictionalized historical reenactment that can be said to be generally accurate, aside from some embellishment and deviation.

In focusing on the embellishment and deviations of Kenshin from historical reality, Gadamer, Iser, and Pucci's theories come more into play in understanding how differences become points of signification. One major example would be that Kenshin is a much more romanticized version of the Meiji Restoration. Characters like Okubo Toshimichi, who were ruthless proponents of the Go-Ishin are seen instead to be making poignant comments such as "It is much easier to tear down a nation than to build one". Many of the concerns at the bakumatsu, such as the stagnant shogunate government and increasingly repressive social legislation passed by the bakufu are entirely downplayed in the romanticization inKenshin of a noble old way of life struggling to accept a modern, progressive new era. More often than not, the reformers of the Meiji era (like Okubo) are shown to be noble men struggling towards progress, entirely forgetting many of the repressive political and ideological aspects of the Meiji period (See Carol Gluck's Japan's Modern Myths or Takashi Fujitani's Splendid Monarchy). Individuals familiar with Meiji history may very well expect a more critical depiction of the Meiji era, rather than a focus on corrupt individuals within the Meiji regime as is typical of Kenshin, so that again, a dissonance occurs between the original historical framework and the romanticized anime. Kenshin plays, in the Gadamer sense of the word, with themes like the passing of the samurai to produce entertainment in the form of a touching, dramatic narrative.

From the raw material of actual history the anime can assemble characters that can incur sympathy, a story that holds a great deal of entertainment value, and much less historical objectivity. The audience members enjoy Kenshinbecause of its historical value, or its authenticity, but at the same time may also compare animated history with actual history to reach their own conclusions. One conclusion that could be reached, especially regarding the romanticizing of the Meiji era's otherwise totalitarian and somewhat repressive regime, is to see Kenshin as a nationalistic bid on the part of the modern Japanese author and production company to portray the government in a positive light. Sheen's theory of adaptation enters slight here to account for the way in which a source text is altered to cater to a different audience, which in this case would be post-World War II Japan. In the allusive space located between actual historical Okubo Toshimichi and the anime Okubo Toshimichi, the reader can consider the different between the ruthless warlord and the world weary one. Perhaps the anime is attempting to say that even the greatest of men have a human side, thus influencing previously understood notions of historical Okubo in the two-way influence described by Iser. Ultimately, regardless of what kind of dissonances occur in Kenshin, with the historical framework of actual history the reader can act as he/she does with a literary text and attempt to reach a conciliatory interpretation of differences, recognizing that the anime Kenshin is a play that is predicated on the spectator recognizing it as such.

History provides a much broader framework than literature in many ways, allowing for greater "play" and in some cases, fabrication of details that may have happened but probably did not. Literature is often much more specific in terms of characters, storyline, setting, and so forth, while history can be an amorphous area in which the lack of the explicit permits much more freedom to manufacture such. For this reason, reenactment is often more useful than theories of wandering viewpoint and allusive space, though these two theories are still very much applicable. The idea of play is also important in dealing with historical narratives because, as stated before, a historical anime like Kenshin is playing with elements that existed, often creating ones that were possible (or impossible) but did not actually happen. However, in both instances of literary and historical transformations into anime, the issue of reception becomes important in understanding how an anime functions differently from its source text/history. Furthermore, analysis using theories of wandering viewpoint, play, allusive space, and reenactment are useful in understanding the total meaning of a transformation. That is to say, the meaning of an adaptation, which is a new depiction layered on a source text/history, is greater than its collective parts, as reception also factors in the importance of reader activation, comprehension, and interpretation. An example is an understanding of the evolution of Buddhism as it moved from China to Japan , as demonstrated by Genzo's much more Zen Buddhist attitude towards death. To simply recognize that Saiyuki is not faithful in its characterization of the Tripitaka figure is not enough; one must also understand in what way these differences register and how meaning can be derived from them.

A random morning thought...

I realize half the time when I'm feeling bad or upset about something, it's not something I actually should feel bad or upset about. It's me beating myself up because I've been socially programmed to react a certain way, even though the intellectual, rational side of me doesn't really see the point.

Must learn to be more callous and less humanitarian. Could be so much more effective of a person that way.

Freewriting: Language and Goddess

Free Writing Assignment: Write whatever for 10 minutes on the words "language" and "goddess".



The proverbial Muse is a haggard bitch. She sits in the corner, spitting at me with crooked yellowing teeth, a far cry from the graceful goddess of epic lore. I wrinkle my noise at her stench, a sour odor of piss and sweat, mixed with the uncomfortable smell of a stale living room. It's the smell of my own imagined failure. No goddess of light and love, of poetry and music, of words and art, blesses me today. Today, she is a fucking bitch and won't let me write.

(Image is courtesy of //Big Bang Art)

500 Words on a Photo

Writing Assignment: Write 500 words or so, based on looking at a photograph of your choice. The writing must be about what cannot be seen in the photo, about an inner story suggested by the photo, based on the photo, etc.

It was a beautiful autumn morning, full of soft, warm light with a fresh breeze filling the air with just a taste of the ocean. Most mornings, I barely noticed such things, rushing as I did to get to work, run my errands, and keep up my life. It was the busiest time of year for me and I had much to do.

Every morning as I rushed to work, I passed by the man who sat in the courtyard. Sometimes, I saw him being assisted down the stairs by a younger woman, perhaps his granddaughter. On especially fine mornings, like this one, the young woman (a girl still, really) always made sure to find the warmest spot in the yard. She spoke to me once, as I passed them in the courtyard, smiling in greeting.

However this morning the man was alone. He sat in a patch of sunshine, the rays slanting as they do at this time of year, with the late-blooming foliage of fall delicately shaded about him. There was something about him, the way his face was thrust out to greet the sun.

I realized with some shock that the man must be blind. His eyes gazed out into the morning sun without faltering, but his ears were attentive, twitching at the sound of a truck rumbling by, the sound of a woman’s laughter coming through an open window. He just sat in the sunlight, listening to the passing traffic, rubbing his hand over the rough stone texture of the bench he sat on.

Emboldened by his blindness, I studied his face. He sat forward, leaning slightly into the sunshine, neither smiling nor frowning, with eyes wide open, staring, seeing nothing. With some surprise, I noticed his face had relatively few lines and that the skin was still quite smooth in some places, at odds with the age I had mentally assigned him. His habitual stillness and the helpful girl had misled me.

As if we had been chatting together this whole time, the man spoke to me across the courtyard. His voice was a deep, rich bass with a musical lilt to his accent. He spoke so naturally to me I found myself moving towards him and sitting beside him on the rough stone bench without a second thought. He did not turn towards me and together we sat in the sunshine, framed by delicate autumn foliage.

And then he began to sing. What a glorious voice this man had. Like him, it was neither old nor young, but replete with something I had lost and had forgotten. In the warm sunshine of a beautiful autumn morning, a blind man sang to me.

Oh take me back to the days when I was young

When the light was warm and soft and not yet done

Oh take me back to the days when I was young

Take me forward to the day

When my hair is old and grey

Take me forward to the day

When the jewels of youth I may exchange

For pearls of wisdom, a crown of age

Take me forward to that day

It was a beautiful morning that I have never forgotten.

Free Writing: Exercise 1

Write at random for 10-15 minutes using these words:

Produce

Storm

As I walked past the street corner, I suddenly realized it was a grocery store. The realization startled me, freezing the moment and warping my perception of it. In that moment, the inside of the store gave off an unreal bluish glow. The bright bits of orange and yellow, arranged in cunningly charming ordered piles, were strangely seen, as if through a piece of tinted blue glass.

As I continued on past the street corner, I saw how small it was, with non-industrial standard shelves (quite homey, really) displaying available goods, mostly expensive boutique food. Huh. Who would have thunk? Your very own grocery store, on the bottom floor, just like it was New York. Not that I'd ever lived there. Nor did I think we were in New York at the moment. Irvine is probably as opposite to Manhattan as you could get.

I'm going nowhere with these very pointless speculations.

So I sat down and smoothed down my skirt, waiting for him. Oh, there was a very big and noisy fountain. All lit up. Figures.

The Color Pink

Girls who say they don't like the color pink are the female counterparts of men who say they don't watch porn. I'm just saying.

Welcome, sucker!

If you’re reading this, it’s because I probably told you to shut the fuck up and read my blog, commenting copiously, or I would be whiny and annoying.

I’m aware that to many people this is an extremely hollow threat, so I appeal to your inherent human GOODNESS in helping a poor, struggling writer out. Otherwise, I will be doomed to secretarial obsolescence and live a horribly unfulfilling life constantly bitching about money. If I can actually prove that my writing is entertaining, well…at least I’ll bypass the horribly unfulfilling part.

Either way, I’m starting a writing class and thought it would be a good idea to start a blog, post what I’ve written, do a lil’ extra writing here and there, extremely witty and charming observations all exalting in the greatness that is me, and get somewhere with this.

Anyways, dog just inhaled his dinner and is demanding to be walked, so I will post Day 1 of writing class later.

I love you all devotedly, despite the insouciant tone of this blog, so please, love me back <3