“Array Pott-air!”

Fan-fiction is a fairly new concept to me; I actually had no idea that this cult-genre had ever existed until last year when I realized I had mistakenly signed up for a group on Livejournal showcasing fan-fiction of They Might Be Giants. (And yes, oddly enough, people are creating their own character backgrounds and plotlines simply based on songs of a somewhat obscure band. Interesting.) I’ve personally never read any sort of fan-fiction, especially not any in relation to Harry Potter (since I have yet to read these seven popular compositions), but from what I’ve learned about it, I oppose none of it. In fact, chapter five of Jenkins’ Convergence Culture even furthered my knowledge and support of this genre, particularly the Harry Potter ones. They not only provide children with a chance to create in a world where most entertainments thrive on mere consumption (even reading), but they also allow for socialization, which includes establishing a great deal of new friendships and collaborating with these new peers in ways that call for the sharing of original thoughts and ideas. I do believe that children, especially those who would like to explore more in the field of creative writing, should eventually start to create characters in worlds of their own (or at least experiment with it once in a while), but fan-fiction most definitely appears to be a healthy creative outlet.

Naturally, there are those who disagree, as Jenkins points out, and the befuddlement begins. Apparently, Warner Brothers was not too kosher with these fan-fiction communities on the basis of copyright infringement, and, as expected, the cease-and-desist letters were sent across the globe like letters promoting lice control in elementary schools. Now, I could understand the rampant ceasing and desisting if Warner Brothers was facing financial losses, but, as one supporter of Warner Brothers, “Electronic Frontier Foundation chairman of the board Brad Templeton, writes, ‘Almost all fan fiction is arguably a copyright violation. If you want to write a story about Jim Kirk and Mr. Spock, you need Paramount’s permission, pure and simple.’” (188) This is what confuses me: if somebody simply writes a story based on an already published work and only posts it online and does not receive any revenue from it, how does this seriously affect the production company who has bought the rights for the movie version of the original author’s work? Shouldn’t the original author (or her publishing agency) be the one to take legal action in this case, if any legal action needs to be taken at all for fan-fiction? Maybe my befuddlement here is silly, but I’m still perplexed by the belief that prepubescent Harry Potter online fan-fiction writers are severely injuring large-budget Hollywood production companies.

What also confused me was the mention of a book burning by the Christ Community Church in Alamogordo, NM, where thirty Harry Potter books were burned, as well as DVDs of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. (192) Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs? Is there something I’m missing here? I realize that I haven’t since the movie since I was six years old, but what’s so Satanic about this Disney Classic (besides the fact that it’s a Disney Classic)? Doesn’t “good” overcome “evil?” Isn’t the woman with the “poisonous apple” vilified to the end? Isn’t Snow White redeemed as a “good guy,” even after she bites into the apple and is saved by Prince Whatever-The-Hell-His-Name-Is-This-Time? I was hoping for the “seven dwarfs representing seven deadly sins” route, but I’m afraid it doesn’t quite check out. I might also be forgetting something in the storyline, so please feel free to cyber-smack me if I am.

…and finally, this post’s accompanying Onion article, this time just a shortened brief: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/31389

Peel the Onion!

Has anyone ever heard of the humourous ”news source” known as The Onion? I consider it to be one of the best sources of contemporary satire in existence, and frankly (and a little sadly), it is my main media source for current events (hey, as long as each article isn’t taken literally, it all works out). Anywho, I discovered this “article” on The Onion’s online archive not too long ago, and I thought it might be relevant to our discussions of the obsolescence of traditional literature as we know it. Plus, you’ll get a few laughs out of it. Enjoy: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/30146

Oedipa Rex

So one thought regarding The Crying of Lot 49 has altered since the previous post: Oedipa’s name. I had stated that I did not believe it bore any sort of connection to Oedipus and because of this, I had been confused. After listening to Ryan’s comment in class yesterday, however, I consider myself a fool for not speculating into the idea deeper: Oedipa, like that Thebean mama’s boy we all know and love, spends a great deal of time searching for the truth, and, also like Oedipus, refuses to give up no matter the consequences, no matter the time and effort spent in acquiring this knowledge; this is a search that (at least to me) appears interminable. However, unlike Oedipus, we, the readers, never find out if Oedipa discovers this truth, and, if she does, what happens to her and her mental state. (I wonder if self-blinding and exile are the case here, too.)

That’s all I wanted to add for now. More to come later…perhaps.

You Must Be Out of Your Mind

Prior to The Crying of Lot 49, I had never read any of Pynchon’s works and, honestly, I had no idea what type of writer he was or the era from which he presided. (It may sound a bit foolish, but I had to look at the copyright date to figure out the latter.) I found his prose to be a little bit agonizing, and, had somebody heard my inner monologue, he/she would have declared me mad, since most of it consisted of: “WHERE’S THE END OF THE SENTENCE? WHERE IS IT?!” However, I adapted (somewhat) to it after the first few chapters and began to (somewhat) brush that concern aside. I found his naming of characters to be a bit eccentric, but their lack of commonality helped me enjoy these characters more; it helped to start individualizing them. However, I was expecting the odd names to liken either defining or ironic qualities to the characters, e.g. Mike Fallopian truly define his name with an extremely feminine character or completely oppose it with an extremely masculine one (I found him to be neither). Also, as soon as I spotted her name, I expected Oedipa to have an incestuous family background of some sort or have once blinded herself or at least have had problems with her feet (since the name Oedipus was originally Greek for “swollen foot”), but, alas, nothing. (Perhaps I’m looking too deeply into this? Who knows.)

Speaking of Oedipa, what a madwoman. Pynchon really gets inside her head, and even though we’re told this story in the third person, I felt as if she was the one narrating the story the entire time. I may sound a bit sadistic, but I truly did enjoy the gradual breakdown of her overall mental state; the transformation from her merely innocent curiosity at the beginning to her paranoid conspiracy theorizing and even her “vague idea about causing a scene violent enough to bring the cops into it” (151) at the end was absolutely fascinating. The deterioration of sanity here was a key factor to this story: this woman became so involved in a matter she originally had nothing to do with that it eventually consumed her every thought and action, stressing her to a boiling point and even beyond. Even thoughts of suicide crossed her mind (contemplating drowning herself after Driblette did), as well as actions beyond the organization of suicide (driving blindly into the night). I believe that Pynchon is truly trying to hit a point here about human curiosity: no matter how much we should care about certain information or chase after it, no matter what the facts may mean to us, we all have this inherent desire to seek out the ultimate truths of our lives, of our existence, for some unexplainable reason, and we will do just about anything to uncover these truths, even if it includes suffering through paranoia and the realization that we might not enjoy the revelations to come. We accept the unknown, upcoming consequences anyways and continue with the search. Maybe I’m off? This is just my opinion.

I did not really appreciate the way Pynchon chose to end the novel, with Oedipa at a high point of paranoia, seeking out her “enemy, perhaps her proof” (152) by herself from the back of the auction room, quietly awaiting the auction to begin. I do understand the intention of this: an open ending will leave I, the reader, guessing as to who is responsible for the purchase of the stamps. (Personally, I suspected Genghis Cohen, since he showed up by chance, but since so many of the other characters were just as mysterious, the possibilities could be endless. It could even be a character never introduced in the novel.) However, I found this to be too open of an ending, and right now I can picture Oedipa Maas hollering, “GET ON WITH IT ALREADY!” inside her head, envisioning the slaughter of everyone in the room as a process of elimination of suspects. I would have liked to have found out if the Tristero was all a conspiracy or just a figment of Oedipa’s imagination or some highly intricate prank created by the late Inverarity. I also would have liked to follow Oedipa through her mental state in discovering the bidder, and whether or not it was somebody she knew and hadn’t suspected. Would she finally lose it and actually commit some sort of brutal act? I realize that open endings are supposed to generate these sorts of questions in the reader’s mind; however, the story ended immediately before a climax point and just left me confused and expecting a sequel. There are far too many conclusions to draw here, enough to overwhelm my mental state as much as Oedipa Maas’s.

‘Tis all for now.

Read It Like You Mean It

As I stated in class, the genre of literature I prefer to read is poetry: no matter what period, no matter what meter, no matter what length. Indeed, I do have my cliches, (e.g. I am a sucker for Frost, I must admit; if you despise Frost, try reading “After Apple Picking”: your feelings will change), but I also do have my pet peeves (e.g. William Wordsworth, who is often beaten to death as the premiere English Romantic poet). Aside from these, I am pretty much open to any type of verse, whether it be Beowulf or Bukowski.

And Billy Collins. Oh, Billy Collins. Now THERE’S a man.

I suppose I read so much poetry because I am attempting to be a poet, and enjoy studying the poem as an artform overall, in order to sculpt a style of my own. I used to write humourless limericks back in middle school and now I’m attempting some nameless, less formal version of what we may call “Auldistic” poetry. Wish me luck.

And yes: poetry is meant to be recited. That’s where it got its roots. The next time you come across a poem, do yourself a favor and read it out loud.

I also love dramatic literature, particularly any theatre of the absurd. (Mmmm Beckett.) The entire process of theatre intrigues me: from script to rehearsal to performance. All of the work that’s involved in the production of one single play fascinates me, and I am still a bit depressed about the decline of quality theatre in the contemporary age. (Although Martin McDonagh has captured my heart.)

I am a bit cliche in adoring Shakespeare, too, but the Stratford Theatre Festival in Ontario may be responsible for that. (You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Brian Bedford’s Lear, trust me.) If you hate Shakespeare, you’ve probably only read him. He wasn’t meant to be read. Go to Stratford (or any other Shakespeare festival) if the opportunity ever arises.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore fiction, particularly any kind that showcases real, human characters in their most pathetic and lamentable states. Anyone I can draw some hopeless existentialism from, from Kafka to Vonnegut, I welcome with open arms. (If you do get the chance, read Rex Pickett’s Sideways, the book before the movie: it will leave you chuckling and make you want to drink yourself to death at the same time.)

Ah, yes: reading in the Information Age. I occasionally read the news online, particularly if anything but celebrity gossip comes up on a main search engine page. In fact, one day I discovered that my hometown was recently voted one of the Top Ten Coolest Small Towns in the U.S. by Budget.com, and all I had to do was click on a link on the main Yahoo! page. I still can’t explain why my hometown was voted for this, but I found it interesting nonetheless. Most of the time, though, I attempt to retrieve my news from The New York Times or some dumbed down version of what one may call a hometown newspaper.

I am a semi-active blogger and do have a Livejournal account, and, yes, I do read the blogs of my friends (especially those I don’t talk to everyday), but that’s about as far as I will take it with “blogging.” I have banished myself from Facebook entirely, mainly because it took up far too much of my time and ultimately took me nowhere. True, I could have fulfilled all of my online stalking desires, but those began to wear out quickly. I didn’t meet anybody new: friends made on Facebook only stay on Facebook. This is true for old acquaintances found on Facebook, too: they will always remain in cyberspace. What I found most interesting about leaving Facebook was that it asked for a “reason,” and this “reason” was required. I wasn’t aware at the time that Facebook needed a goddamned breakup talk, so I simply put, “Life is not just,” and we both went our seperate ways.