To Cry or Not to Cry

THE ANGEL OF GRIEF
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

The Angel of Grief Weeping Over the Dismantled Altar of Life ~ 1901

Photos (above & below) taken ~ April 2014
Artistic blog post ~ February 2015
Angel vandalized ~ August 2015

For those of you watching The Chair, I thought I would follow the lead of David Duchovny and recycle one of my old Samuel Beckett papers. For several semesters, back in the mid 1980s, I immersed myself in Beckett's drama and fiction, looking particularly at the theme of weeping. Two weeks ago, even before watching The Chair -- how prescient of me! -- I pulled out my ancient tears and crying manuscript in order to share a few paragraphs on my blog about the physical and mental need for crying, as illustrated by the dilemma of Beckett's characters (Seen Through Tears).

A Look at Tears & Crying
in the Work of Samuel Beckett (1906 - 1989)
~ Part II ~
Here's a further installment, in which the sound of murmured cries becomes a distinct motif. As Sandra Oh / Professor Ji-Yoon Kim observes, "this Beckett scholarship must be over thirty years old; it reads like something from the 1980s." One thing remains true no matter when you read Beckett: tears are a constant. Crying need not be reserved for death or birth; rather, tears bind the birth to death continuum and accentuate the circular progression of the human condition. There are numerous other times during the course of life when crying provides the appropriate form of communication. For some people and some Beckett characters, crying seems to be the appropriate response to just about everything.

In The Unnamable for example, the main character cries, as he himself says, "unceasingly." He can move barely at all, but talks -- and cries -- continually. The murmured cries which the narrator hears in the distance when he concludes that he "must go on" are not easily forgotten by the reader. The sound of crying, sometimes distanct and unidentified, sometimes the narrator's own, is heard throughout the novel. Early in the story, before the narrator's physical deterioration is too far advanced, he uses the physical impact of his tears to locate himself spatially and kinaesthetically. He understands crying as a physiological phenomenon that enables him to "know" something concrete about himself:

"I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from the umceasingly. . . . Then there is the way of flowing of my tears which flow all over my face, and even down along the neck, in a way it seems to me they could not do if the face were bowed, or lifted up. . . . I feel my tears coursing over my chest, my sides, and all down my back. Ah yes, I am truly bathed in tears."(The Unnamable, 304 - 05)

From Time to Time
Human beings, in order to maintain their human sensibility, should be moved to tears -- if not at regular intervals -- at least from time to time:

"The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? From time to time. There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain." (292)

"After so long a silence a little cry, stifled outright. What kind of creature uttered it and, if it is the same, still does, from time to time? Impossible to say. Not a human one in any case, there are no human creatures here, or if there are they have done with crying." (296)

"And from my sleeping mouth the lies would pour, about me. No, not sleeping, listening, in tears." (310)

"But the eye . . . it's to see with . . . it's to weep with. . . . Tears gush from it practically without ceasing, why is not known . . . perhaps it's . . . at having to see, from time to time, some sight of other . . . perhaps he weeps in order not to see, though it seems difficult to credit him with an initiative or this complexity. The rascal he's getting humanized." (359 - 60)

". . . talking without ceasing, thirstier than ever, seeking as usual, blathering away, wondering what it's all about, seeking what it can be you are seeking, exclaiming, Ah yes, sighing. No no, crying." (385)

~ all passages from The Unnamable, emphasis added

The Unnamable narrator strives to be honest with himself and with the reader about the connection between crying and humanness. He does not attempt to disguise his need to cry nor the actual tears that he sheds. He says that he is given to crying for the sake of his health if nothing else. And he aptly illustrates that he needs such an outlet for the sorrow and frustration he experiences. Tears keep him -- and Mrs. Rooney -- in touch with their own humanity, in whatever condition they may find it, and with the thriving and faltering human activity around them.

Even though Becket subjects his protagonists to excruciatingly inhuman extremes, they, in their ability -- indeed their willingness -- to embrace the extremes of human emotional communication, lift themselves above despair. Their tears also facilitate perception of, and regulate interaction with, a state of humanity outside the intensely suffering personal Self. Weeping is for them a healing, fulfilling necessary experience which, despite the sadness it inherently connotes, is ultimately postitive and affirmative.

Previously ~ Advancing & Receding

Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, September 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
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my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Seen Through Tears

LIFE IS LIKE AN ONION,
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

“Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, 
and sometimes you weep.” ― Carl Sandburg 

❤️

Section 5:
"The facts of this world seen clearly
are seen through tears;
why tell me then
there is something wrong with my eyes?"

from "Notes Towards a Poem that Can Never Be Written"
a poem in 6 sections, for Carolyn Forché
by Margaret Atwood

❤️

hidden ocean
"She held her grief behind her eyes like an ocean
& when she leaned forward into the day
it spilled onto the floor
& she wiped at it quickly with her foot
& pretended no one had seen."

from StoryPeople by Brian Andreas

❤️

“Crying does not indicate that you are weak.
Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive.”

from Charlotte Brontë by Jane Eyre

❤️

“Tears are the medium of our most primal language in moments as unrelenting as death, as basic as hunger, and as complex as rites of passage. They are the evidence of our inner life overflowing its boundaries, spilling over into consciousness. Tears spontaneously release us to the possibility of realignment, reunion, catharsis, intractable resistance short-circuited… It’s as though each one of our tears carries a microcosm of the collective human experience, like one drop of an ocean.”

from "The Topography of Tears: A Stunning Aerial Tour of the Landscape of Human Emotion Through an Optical Microscope"

by Maria Popova

❤️

"If you don't cry sometimes,
you'll end up crying all the time."

from The Thursday Murder Club
by Richard Osman

❤️

"Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
'She must weep or she will die.'"

from "The Princess" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

❤️

A Look at Tears & Crying
in the Work of Samuel Beckett (1906 - 1989)
~ Part I ~

"What kind of a country is this
where a woman can't weep her heart out
on the highways and byways
without being tormented by retired billbrokers!"

~ by Samuel Beckett from "All That Fall" ~
In the work of Samuel Backett, ranging from his earliest fiction to drama and later fiction, we find a world in which people can indeed weep their hearts out, a world in which the ability to cry is a quality that keeps human beings in touch with their own humanity and aware of the humanity of others. In Beckett's world, crying is a means of communication. Sometimes it is a necessary addition to words; other times it replaces them. In the next couple of blog posts, I will take a look at the theme of crying that runs consistently through Beckett's art.

Tears and crying offer an alternative to linguistic expression and a supplement to a language which is, by its very nature, insufficiently expressive. To allow characters to cry and to describe their tearful experiences in painstaking detail is a stylistic choice made by Beckett, not only out of an obligation to express the inexpressible, but also in at attempt to provide a mimetic realization of a world in which people actually do weep in reaction to the disorientation, the rage, the suffering, and the disconcerting frustrations they experience.

For those who cry, for Beckett's characters, crying is neither a linguistic act nor a stylistic choice. Rather it is an involuntary expression of emotion. Of course, one can choose to cry for the production of an effect, but such is not usually the case -- in life or in the modern fiction of Beckett, where crying is a sincere, uncontrived emotional and physiological reaction to distress.

In "All That Fall," a character named Mrs. Rooney argues for the right to publicly display emotion. Why must we be denied -- or deny ourselves -- the option of a good cry? Mrs. Rooney seeks to defy the human tendency to deny that we are or have been crying. Typically, we would rather claim "it's the onions," or "it's my allergies" or "I have been sleeping." We would rather wear dark glasses than let others see our puffy eyes. But not Mrs. Rooney. She says that crying is a natural and necessary activity that should not be denied to any individual because tears are a "vent" which promotes "good health."

In the play, Mrs. Rooney is suddenly overcome with sadness as she walks to the station to meet her husband. She thinks of her daughter, Minnie, who died in infancy, and imagines that, had she lived, she would now be in her forties, nearly beyond child-bearing, approaching menopause. Mrs. Rooney grieves not only her deceased child, but also the imagined aging of her adult daughter, and the lost opportunity for grandchildren. She desires only to vent her emotions rather than suppressing them at the expense of her health, but she is annoyed by the solicitous Mr. Tyler, who wants to take her arm and comfort her. Sobbing, she asks him, "Have you no respect for misery? . . . What kind of a country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired billbrokers!" No sooner has Mr. Tyler taken himself off than Mr. Slocum comes along asking, "Is anything wrong, Mrs. Rooney? You are all bent double. Have you pain in the stomach?" Following his remark is Beckett's stage direction: "[Silence. Mrs. Rooney laughs wildly. Finally.]"

This final wild laugh signifies her despair that she will ever be allowed to vent her grief properly, considering all the artificial restraints placed on her and all the well - meaning but ill - directed attempts to solace her. The solace that Mrs. Rooney needs can be achieved only through weeping, not through stifling her cries or having them stifled. She prefers to express her emotions unabashedly, on the highways and byways or wherever sadness overtakes her. She laughs wildly in realization that she must relegate her emotional responses to privacy and solitude if she is not to be repeatedly misunderstood.

Next Fortnightly Post: ~ To Cry or Not to Cry ~
Saturday, August 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Red Colander Harvest
Green Tomatoes ~ Fall 2019

Multi-Colored Veggies ~ Fall 2017

Apples ~ August 2013

Onions (at top) ~ Summer 2020

Going to the Lake

LAKE LAS VEGAS
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Dinghy to the Rescue
Miss the boat? We meant to do that!

What happened? Looks like someone got the time wrong for boarding the dinner cruise! Gerry should not have listened to me. Oops, too late! Luckily, a kindly stranger has come to our rescue and is ferrying us out to the recently departed lake cruise so that we catch up with our friends and relatives. My Cousin Brent couldn't resist the photo op, and I couldn't stop laughing.

It was the perfect occasion for one of my favorite summer songs, these lyrics especially:
"Going to the lake . . .
me n' my mistakes,
yeah but that's okay . . .
going to the lake . . . "
Thanks to Andrew Robert Palmer for this upbeat sing - along - in - the car, sing - along - in - the - boat sort of song. It brings on an endless summer Beach Boys sense of nostalgia, except it's not the ocean -- it's the lake, which is definitely a better fit for some of us!

Beyond the narrator's carefree charm and good cheer, the lyrics include a thoughtful message of optimism in the face of change and transition. Even more existential is the takeaway of self - forgiveness. Hey, my mistakes are a part of me; they've made me who I am; they're going with me to the lake. Yeah, but that's okay, right?

Lake Las Vegas

To the Lake!

Going to the lake
going to the lake
going to the lake
going to the lake
going to the lake
going to the lake
no matter what you say
you might just need a break

Going through a change
going through a change
going through a change
going through a change
seems like I'm always
going through a change
and I ain't actin' strange
there's not a lot to say

Woo-ooo uh-huh
[a few times]

End of the day
man the sky is grey
jump on the highway
me n' my mistakes
yeah but that's ok
in fact I'm feeling great

Going to the lake
going thru a phase
and I just can't wait
going thru a change
and I'm on my way
me n' my mistakes
speeding by landscapes
flowers on the hill about I-88

Music & lyrics by Andrew Robert Palmer
from the album Andrew Robert Palmer, released May 1, 2019
posted with author's permission
all rights reserved

Note from Andrew: "Sometimes you just need a break from it all, but you are way way far away from the lake coming home from work and the weather sucks; so, you just sit in traffic and write a little tune in your head."

From the same album:
"American Souls" ~ featured previously on this blog.
See / listen to more ARP albums: Parlour Punk & Big Whoop
When it comes to summer nostalgia, no mention of any visit to any lake is complete without E.B. White's trip down memory lane:

"Summertime, oh summertime, pattern of life indelible, the fade proof lake, the woods unshatterable, the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever, summer without end; this was the background, and the life along the shore was the design, the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design, their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky, the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp and the paths leading back to the outhouses and the can of lime for sprinkling, and at the souvenir counters at the store the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards that showed things looking a little better than they looked. This was the American family at play, escaping the city heat, wondering [about] the newcomers at the camp . . . It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness. . . . Peace and goodness and jollity." from "Once More to the Lake" (1941)
by E. B. White (1899 – 1985)

A Night to Remember
"Peace and goodness and jollity."

P.S.

"But the great fact in life, the always possible escape from dullness, was the lake. The sun rose out of it, the day began there; it was like an open door that nobody could shut. The land and all its dreariness could never close in on you. You had only to look at the lake, and you knew you would soon be free."

from The Professor's House (1925)
Willa Cather (1873 – 1947)
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, August 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ Red Tank Top
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Viva la Revolution

VINTAGE CROCHET
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Vest made back in the 70s by my Grandmother Adeline Carriker;
scarf by my mother Mary Carriker
Bonus: Red, White & Blue for the July Holidays!

Earlier this month, Gerry and I needed costumes for a 70th Birthday Party with a 1970s theme, to be held over the 4th of July. Luckily, I still have an assortment of these crocheted vests that were all the rage during my junior high through college years. Just in case anyone suspects that only nerds wore crochet back then, take a look at all these groovy options -- even for guys! Crazy times! My mom and grandma must have worked overtime, crocheting nonstop to keep us girls in style. I'm pretty sure that my sisters and girl cousins and I had some version of practically everything on this page! (Not my brothers, however! They weren't that hip! Haha!)

The nice thing about the all - American 4th of July color scheme is that it means you're all set for Bastille Day as well -- the crocheted vest, the red, white, and blue twinkle lights, the miniature Eiffel Tower. Apparently, even George Washington observed the occasion of French Independence as well as our own, being the proud possessor -- thanks to the Marquis de Lafayette -- of the confiscated Key to the Bastille! Who knew?!

The sad thing about July 14th this year, after seeing the White House stormed on January 6th, is that somehow Bastille Day just doesn't feel as fun as it used to. There has to be a better way than storming!

Still, it's only right, on this blog of literary connections, to observe the day with a poem in honor of Paris, by one of my favorite poets and lifelong friends, who has written so beautifully of Paris:

Proust's Way: July 1991

Across the street from our hotel
and down a block or two, a door
opens onto a courtyard where Marcel
may have stepped upon a rough flag-
stone that triggered a host of things
he never knew he would recall.

Walking by the door, we recall
Guermantes's way and the count's hotel,
Swann's folly and all sorts of things
still existing beyond the door.
On evenings as we pass, the flag
of France is taken down. Marcel

is resting in his room. Marcel
remembers us while we recall
exactly what he said the flag-
stone summoned forth. At our hotel
we don't exactly close the door
on the chance he may be right: things

past have a way of making
now seem a bit more real. Marcel
seldom ventured beyond his door
in later years. Total recall
was obsession and love. The hotel,
on the 14th, displays its flags

for the troops of Desert Storm, flags
that have seen stranger things
than Bush at Mitterand's hotel.
At night not far from here, Marcel
sat in Square Louis to recall
better days. The mind is a door

that opens to many bells, a door
that swings on memory. A flag-
stone once caused Marcel to recall
involuntarily the things
that were his world and ours. Marcel,
we owe you more than a hotel

door labeled where he wrote. The things
that flag our minds are mute. Marcel,
no total recall in our hotel.

by American Poet Jim Barnes (b 1933)
in Paris: Poems by Jim Barnes

******************

Click to read more Bastille Day poems

Additional Bastille & Independence Day Posts
from previous years:

Bastille Day: Is There A World You Long To See?
Two Poems for Bastille Day
Eagles is Freedom
Carriker Barrel
Viva la Revolution

No More Forever
Andrea Dworkin
Liberté, égalité, fraternité!
If I Had a Hammer
Happy Bat - stille Day!
At Pere Lachaise
[with Victoria Amador & Steven LaVigne]

Independence Day 2009
Resident Alien
Red, White & Blue Pie
Who Needs Fireworks?!
May God Bless and Keep the Upstart Americans
Loving America the Al Franken Way
American Tune
Practice Pysanky, Practice Resurrection, Practice Revolution
I Pledge Allegiance

We managed the 70s and the 4th all in one outfit!

Accessorizing

Arriving in Style!
By land or by sea!

Thanks to Magan's Crochet Corner for giving expert advice when I inquired about the possibility of somehow turning all my old vests into an afghan. Magan advised to leave them as they are: "Crochet is having a comeback!" She was right! Thank goodness I resisted the temptation to unravel what turned out to be the perfect partywear! If you save something long enough . . . it might become cool once again!

In addition to vests, my mom specialized in large crocheted afghans, several still in use today by various members of the family; and Grandma Carriker made the best crocheted wagon wheel pillows, sadly all worn out.

Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, July 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Uncle William Birkinbine Miller

A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR
~ BORN 160 YEARS AGO TODAY ~
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

William Birkinbine Miller
June 28, 1859 - November 8, 1893

Uncle Will's Funeral Flowers
Cause of death: colon cancer at age 34

Uncle Will was the eldest brother of my Great - Grandmother Anna Mary Miller Heidemann (1862 - 1923). Anna Mary's little daughter -- my Grandmother Rovilla (1891 - 1966) -- was only 2 years old at the time of Will's death, yet, through the decades, she became the keeper of his memory, passing on to my mother and me the remaining souvenirs of his short life and literary temperment. Though Will had long "gone from all touch," Rovilla kept his "unseen presence within the borders of day" (William Soutar).

First among the tokens
is this small New Testament,
a present from Will to Anna in 1879:

1879

On the back page, he has written:

"Wm B. Miller is my name
Kleinfeltersville is my dwelling place
Richland is my station
Remember me if this you see
When I am far away and gone
My bones laid low in the grave
With a tombstone o'er my head and feet.
Sandville
March 14th 1879
To My Sister Annie M. Miller"
Fans of James Joyce surely remember when Stephen attends Clongowes Wood Boarding School, and a classmate named Fleming writes in Stephen's geography notebook:
“Stephen Dedalus is my name,
Ireland is my nation.
Clongowes is my dwellingplace
And heaven my expectation.”

~from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
It never occurred to me, when first studying Joyce, that Stephen's little book rhyme had a been in use for decades by generations of previous school - children, including my own ancestors!

Additional Souvenirs:

Above and below, Rovilla has noted
-- in her own beautiful cursive script --
these samples of Will's signature and handwriting

Fragments of Poetry

In her sorrowful poem of resignation, "Dirge Without Music," American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950) describes the extent of loss we have no choice but to endure when a loved one dies:
"A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. . . ."

Contemporary comedian Bill Maher
puts it this way:

"Earth is a time share;
we can't all be here at the same time;
That's just the way it works."
So true. The fact is, even if William Birkinbine Miller had lived a long life, his path and mine on this planet would have been very unlikely to cross, considering that we were born 98 years apart. Yet, here's the thing, "a formula, a phrase, a fragment" does indeed remain. Thanks to Will's handwritten inscription, I see a quirky sense of humor, a brother who loved his sister, and a handful of place names whose significance I can pursue further if I wish.

Thanks to a page torn from his English literature notebook over a century ago, I'm lucky enough not only to see Uncle Will's very own handwriting but also to know a few of his favorite romantic poems, though not necessarily his intention: studying for a test, memorizing for a recitation, creating a Valentine, proposing marriage to Aunt Emma? Or maybe just like me, he loved making connections!

1. from Tamerlane ~ Nicholas Rowe (1674 - 1718)

Selima, Daughter of the Emperor:
So when some skilful Artist strikes the Strings,
The magick Numbers rouze our sleeping Passions,
And force us to confess our Grief, and Pleasure.
Alas! Axalla, say—dost thou not pity
My artless Innocence, and easie Fondness?
Oh! turn thee from me, or I die with blushing.

Axalla, an Italian Prince:
No—let me rather gaze, for ever gaze,
And bless the new-born Glories that adorn thee;
"From every Blush, that kindles in thy Cheeks,
Ten thousand little Loves, and Graces spring,
To revel in the Roses" . . .

2. To His Mistress, Objecting to Him ~ Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674)

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;
"By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it."
Shall griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now, since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.

3. The Lady's Yes ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

"Yes!" I answered you last night;
"No!" this morning, Sir, I say!
Colours, seen by candle-light,
Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below —
Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for Yes or fit for No!

Call me false, or call me free —
Vow, whatever light may shine,
No man on your face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both —
Time to dance is not to woo —
Wooer light makes fickle troth —
Scorn of me recoils on you!

"Learn to win a lady's faith
Nobly, as the thing is high;
Bravely, as for life and death —
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries."

By your truth she shall be true —
Ever true, as wives of yore —
And her Yes, once said to you,
SHALL be Yes for evermore.

[4.] The final stanza, as written out by Uncle Will is actually the opening stanza of another poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

"A Man's Requirements": "Love me Sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing;
Love me in the lightest part,
Love me in full being."

****************

Happy 160th Birthday Uncle Will!
What a privilege it is to honor your request from so long ago:

"Remember me if this you see
When I am far away and gone . . . "

The Miller Family

My Great - great Grandparents
Henry Wise Miller
(May 27, 1834 ~ October 29, 1915)
&
Elizabeth Birkinbine Miller
(February 28, 1938 ~ March 28, 1925)

& their children, standing back row L to R:

Alice Elizabeth (1866 - 1946), Henry Kitzmiller (1860 - 1933),
William Birkinbine (1859 - 1893), Anna Mary (1862 - 1923),
between his parents is the youngest, Jacob George (1870 - 1936)
& not pictured is eldest sister Celestial Rebecca (1858 - 1936)

Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, July 14

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Signs, Symbols, Souvenirs

BUNTING ON THE FRONT DOOR
WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Happy Flag Day!
~ As seen on Amazon ~

"Within the operation of the souvenir, the sign functions not so much as object to object, but beyond this relation, metonymically, as object to event / experience. The ribbon may be metonymic to the corsage, but the corsage is in turn metonymic to an increasingly abstract, and hence increasingly 'lost,' set of referents: the gown, the dance, the particular occasion, the particular spring, all springs, romance, etc.

" . . . the souvenir . . . will still exist as a sample of the now - distanced experience, an experience which the object can only evoke and resonate to and can never entirely recoup" (136).

from On Longing:
Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic,
the Souvenir, the Collection
by Susan Stewart [previously]

Sorting through my grandparents' belongings, I felt the truth of Stewart's words when I came across dozens of funeral ribbons. Many of them are inscribed, in my grandfather's handwriting, with names, dates, and other small notations pertaining to the deceased. In the case of these memorial ribbons, the "lost referent" is so much more than the particular event. Every ribbon evokes not only a long - ago funeral, wake, or graveside service but also the entire life span of each and every loved one represented. Truly, as Stewart observes, the souvenir in this case can evoke but never recoup the distant experience of a completed human life.

In her essay "Language and Thought," American philosopher Susanne K. Langer (1895 – 1985) provides this insightful distinction: "The difference between a sign and a symbol is, in brief, that a sign causes us to think or act in face of the thing signified, whereas a symbol causes us to think about the thing symbolized':

"To us who are human, it -- i.e., 'purely sign using' -- does not sound very glorious. We want to go places and do things, own all sorts of gadgets that we do not absolutely need, and when we sit down to take it easy we want to talk. Rights and property, social position, special talents and virtues, and above all our ideas, are what we live for. . . . because we can use not only signs but symbols.

"A symbol differs from a sign in that it does not announce the presence of the object, the being, condition, or whatnot, which is its meaning, but merely brings this thing to mind. . .symbols . . . call up . . . a conception of the thing they 'mean.'

" . . . Because we have not only the ability but the constant need of conceiving what has happened to us, what surrounds us, what is demanded of us . . . our hopes and fears . . . Our whole reaction depends on how we manage to conceive the situation . . . we must construe the events of life." [emphasis in original]

This is what the dried flowers and ribbons do; they "bring to mind" the deceased, and the loss, and the passage of time. Beyond reminding us of the day of mourning, they help us conceive what has happened to us and those around us. They represent our hopes and, particularly in the face of death, our fears. Langer says that "what we cannot conceive is chaos, and fills us with terror." To restore order, we construe a narrative of death and remembrance. In addition to what we can remember (or not), every souvenir ccontributes to that narrative. All the funeral mementoes, prayer cards, program leaflets and newspaper clippings are samples, symbols of the dearly departed.

In Jennifer Saint's recent novel Ariadne, the character Dionysus beautifully conveys his understanding of human mortality. Despite his power and immortality, he wonders, just as we do:

"Why mortals bloomed like flowers and crumbled to nothing. Why their absence left a gnawing ache, a hollow void that could never be filled. And how everything they once were, that spark within them, could be extinguished so completely yet the world did not collapse under the weight of so much pain and grief. . . . I have felt the gaping wound and the bruised, ragged edges of grief. I know that human life shines more brightly because it is but a shimmering candle against an eternity of darkness, and it can be extinguished with the faintest breeze" (176 - 79).

I fanned the collection of funeral ribbons into a colorful arc and perceived them not as signs, referring "to actual situations, in which things have obvious relations to each other that require only to be noted" but as symbols, referring "to ideas, which are not physically there for inspection, so their connections and features have to be represented" (Langer, emphasis added). Thanks to the writing of Susan Stewart, Susanne K. Langer, and Jennifer Saint, I was able to see each preserved ribbon as the souvenir of a shimmering candle, a shining spark of human life that had been dear to those before me, whether I knew them or not.

[For more from Langer, see Safe Home & Dreamscape]

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Monday, June 28

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