Author Topic: ideas  (Read 1469 times)

Offline molark

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ideas
« on: March 25, 2013, 05:28:29 PM »
i came upon an interesting site on slave books. I wish to write an easy romance tale between a young Confederate picket and an escaped young slave girl and her brother. But here are elements for a flash story based on historical W.E.B. Dubois going into an Altanta grocery store one day and seeing displayed a pickle jar with the knuckles of lynched black.  /////

Why do you forsake me? I have never forsaken you.
He moved closer to her.
I have done everything I could have done. Why don't you answer me.
She turned away from him.
He sat and the chair by the wood stove. There was a kettle of greens boiling on it. In the back room, their two kid, seven and eight, a girl and a boy, were playing slap a hand games.

I done asked them to pay me what it was worth. I know what it was worth, we all do. A bail of cotton fletchs eight cents to the pound today. It's happened like that every time. Why won't you look at me. The anger boiled within him in him like the greens in the pot it began to spread throughout his limbs until it hit his mind.

Why won't you talk to me he asked her. He stood up. Okay, he said. He left and she got the big suitcase out and packed all their things in it along with the money she had saved in the mason jar. She took the kids down to xxx who she knew was leaving that morning for Chicago.

He walk a mile and a half down xxx road and he got to the town where he saw the men lining up with bags of cotton before the mill. He walked on up pass the line of black and white farmers and young boy xxx standing the weight.

"I figure you all own me two dollars more." That was all he needed to say when they took him into the garage and caused him to stop all that foolish talk. Young boy xxx and xxx caused him to stop worrying about anything. When they came back out the line of farmers had been shunk down.

His brother was buying flour in the store when he saw the knuckles in the jar.

« Last Edit: March 25, 2013, 05:36:31 PM by Alice, a Country Gal »

Offline molark

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Re: ideas
« Reply #1 on: March 26, 2013, 05:23:33 PM »
03/26/13

What is it that ticks in him that ticks in me? I doubt people would have the patience for Robert Bresson today, his films are slow labored affairs in black and white and the expressions are set and frank so that you will not be able to escape them. There is a dire quality about his work that drags you in, laboring with the pain of his characters. I have seen a hadfull of his films. I like the one of the priest in Journal d'un curé de campagne - Diary of A Country Priest. He was trying to tell me something about this young priest new in the village and apparently dying and I don't know what it was. I have just reread the plot and feel I must give it another view, but it was the total atmosphere that had caught me, the way Bresson sought to frame the simplicities of life.

And so it was with the film on the pickpocket, which I didn't finish and must, and the powerful "A Man Escaped," about a French prisoner escaping a German prison. The trills and excitement were in that film, but they were measured and predicated in a slow, water-dripping way. It's why I like French films. They take their time shooting out effects guaranteed to pleasure. They try to be about something else.

The something else is thoroughly appreciated in Mouchette (1967), the tale of the young girl victimized. I saw it because I am working on a similar character though perhaps not as much victimized as Mouchette. The latter did live in poverty and there were distinct touches of Bresson that threw her out her misery in a nonchalant manner. I had thought she was reaching accord with the poacher of small animals in the forest. She had comforted him through a livid, stylised epilepsy scene. But instead, he raped her. That was probably part of the original story, the novel upon which it was based. But again, Bresson has a way that I cannot satisfactory identify or describe, of setting the pacing of his story and making sure that, slowly, all the vignettes paid with quiet truth and energy. Reading about his work, the Catholicism figures prominently in such scenes as when Mouchette drudges the dress, the shroud, contributed to her for he ma's death, by wrapping the white linen around herself and rolling in the dirt down toward the river in it a symbolic three times until she finally falls in the river and drowns.

I like the contrasts in Mouchette between poverty and the lifestyles of those living in regular, approved ways. The girl's shoes, clogs, are two large for her. There are holes and stains on her long stockings. Hers was an internalized deep anger as she threw, hidden from behind the depression of a hill, turfs of dirt and rocks upon the other school girls collecting together and laughing with the gaiety of all their young lives outside after school. Her face appears strikingly stoic, but her anger was unremitting. One reviewer remarks that Bresson sucks away all the possible joy from the flim and this may have to do with Catholic themes. I don't understand this but do appreciate it and Bresson has produced a marvelous, sufferable piece of art.

Mouchette reflects the anger and chisms of her society. Bresson related her bitterness to the aftermath of the World War, its cruelty and death. My figure remarks the cruelty of today's much improved world. Something is wrong, I want Lindsey to say. People never change and little girls take the stultifying roots with them in real ways.

Offline bri h

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Re: ideas
« Reply #2 on: March 26, 2013, 07:21:12 PM »
Two of the best foreign films I ever saw were Jean de Florette, with Gerard Depiardu. The other was the follow-up to the same film, Manon du sourcé. Truly excellent films. Give them a look if you ever get the chance. B
Fare thee well Skip. We're all 'Keening' now. xbx

Offline molark

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Re: ideas
« Reply #3 on: March 29, 2013, 04:38:49 AM »
I am amazed at how much opportunity I had as a young man with an excellent education in the humanities but who yet, nevertherless, failed to take that education seriously at that time as today I go back over the lives and work of the people I've studied.

I can't believe what I missed as a young man by failing to concentrate or actually failing to have that maturity that would have allowed me to slow down and try to understand in better ways what I was studying.

How could I miss the depth and meaning of Coleridge's poem "Dejection: an Ode" and what meaning could it have brought me during my early years of maturity? If I had taken my time, I would have seen that he, too, was concerned with creativity and what was fusing inside of him and what was coming outside to affect that fusing.

Apparently Coleridge had much disappointment in himself as he aspired to be as much accomplished as his friend Wordsworth. But he was just as accomplished but lacked the confidence. Yet his concern with his inner muse is identical with what many poets and artists are concerned with today, continuously comparing it to the beauty and accord of nature and the beauty and accord of others, their peers.

I had, for example, in-depth studies of Yeats and Milton, but not Shakespeare - that I will soon correct, if anything I do. My school disciplines were in other liberal arts areas, but still I seem to miss, as a young man, the ability to find and relate meaning with what I was actually studying - absorbing.

Importantly my own concerns were with trying to avoid the bracketing of a dominant society upon my breast and, indeed, that took lots of energy that I barely escape. Today I look at my responses to certain things to make sure I am not overdoing it and not being easily manipulated into tract responses typically of black vs white. This is difficult to do.

And so it was difficult for Coleridge to find  and trust in that inner sense away from the impurities of outside, let me say, evils. He never seem to really trust in himself as Wordsworth was able to do, yet Coleridge had the finest of minds. I know that sometimes in the past the race issue has resulted in some great literature, my triumvirate - Wright, Ellison, Baldwin - for one and even throughout American literature, Melville's Benito Cereno, lots of Mark Twain, Stowe, Faulkner, so on. But what if a black writer were not responding to racism, would they respond to Coleridge's pure difficulties with the creative spirit?

I think so. But I could not as a young man. But let me move this argument to women. Do women needlessly or have to respond always to the hegemony of men? I read now how women, white and middle-class, were treated horrendously during Coleridge's time - and children, as well. Women were burdened with ceaseless childbirths and, of course, had to depend on the male for income. An interesting blog reviewed (a recent book on) the difficulties of women in the creative circles of the British Romance poet, depression, disease, too many kids and one killed her mother. Today, I can easily note women's tract poetry or creativity and swiftly categorize it just as easily as, I imagine, people view my race stuff - categorize it and put it aside.

But certainly these are necessary issues facing us today. I could write on how aspiring African engineering students cannot freely walk down Moscow streets, amazingly view YouTube videos on the phenomenon (the ceaseless miracle of the Internet). But is it actually meaningful to me as a human? This underlines the point of my recent study of Coleridge (again). His plight was that of the artist trying to negotiate, I believe inner human beauty with the natural beauty of the world, the flower.

 "I am human and there is nothing that is human that is not my concern" says Terence, the Roman slave who was a creative bastion of poetry and plays. And black. His view has always been my mantra and remains to this day.

I see young people today creatively engrossed with wizards, vampires, tattoos, the walking dead zombie idiocy, weird stuff (to me) of the imagination not really have to do with facing reality. But, in a way, this okay. It could serve as a better way of reaching that "joy" quotient that Coleridge wrote about in his poem -- it eluded him because he couldn't sleep with Wordsworth sister-in-law Mary Hutchinson -- in a world that you don't want to make a stand in for justice. But that statement is certainly not right, is it? Of course it isn't. If only I had the time to read and become infatuated with that wizard stuff (sorry, but I hated "The Hunger Games"). I am glad in a way, the youth can absorb it rather than tract stuff. And, just as I was in my youth, I cannot push them to be more serious, but merely expect them to enjoy as much at they can at their time - as I did. It takes time to mature and one can only do it by themselves. But read, for example Norman Mailer's first novel, the war story. I guess bullets and danger matured him at 25 and poured on the genius within.

http://ellenandjim.wordpress.com/2009/05/25/a-passionate-sisterhood-women-of-the-wordsworth-circle_-by-kathleen-jones/
« Last Edit: March 29, 2013, 04:48:10 AM by molark »

Offline molark

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Re: ideas
« Reply #4 on: March 29, 2013, 08:37:53 PM »
Two of the best foreign films I ever saw were Jean de Florette, with Gerard Depiardu. The other was the follow-up to the same film, Manon du sourcé. Truly excellent films. Give them a look if you ever get the chance. B

Thanks B, will check those out. I have just seen him in My Afternoons with Margueritte (La tête en friche), excellent. An old lady teaches an illiterate restaurant owner how to read and the movie ends with him locating her in an retirment home.

Another good one is (2009) Queen to Play - Joueuse. It has retired expatriate doctor Kevin Kline teaching his French cleaning lady Caroline Bottaro the game of chess and she becomes a champion.

I also saw something recent noticed film called 'The Boy', I think; another one about an Arab grade school teacher in French Montreal; last year one about an author meeting a woman French aficionado in Italy; Amour; one on the French police pursuing child predators and so on and recently acquired Last Year at Marienbad, having found out script was written by Alain Robbe-Grillet whose novel Jealousy was once a tortuous chore. Lastly I mention the excellent Turkish, I believe, Anatolia where two police drive the criminal, a murderer, through the mountainous small town landscape to locate the victim he buried. Oh! The Turin Horse is great...