Sunday, March 31, 2013

Western Society, the city of Omelas, and the Grotesque

So, this essay was written for my Intro to the Short Story class.  And, as usual, do not steal it! Cheers!
 
 
 
“In the grotesque and the freak, we see ourselves and our hungers.  Discuss with reference to one or two stories.”

            The element of grotesque in the case of this essay is the awful relationship in Ursula K. Le Guin’s short story “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” in which a seemingly perfect society, a single child bears horrific torture.  This story raises a compelling ethical dilemma, so powerful to readers because in the mirror of such a sick relationship, we see our own situation.

            It would take no great stretch of the imagination to see the city of Omelas as a representation of the United States, or even, the overwhelming majority of Western Civilization.  The suffering child would then represent everything that the West steps on in the pursuit of happiness.  It’s common knowledge that there is an undue amount of suffering in the world.  There are peace groups and activists working against these problems, of course, but how much work is actually being done?  Is it not true that most of us don’t make an effort to help the unfortunate in other countries—in our own country?  Don’t we all flip to another channel when we see images of starving children, and a voice asking us to donate an amount of money that is insignificant to us?

            It is the same in the city of Omelas;

“They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas.  Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there.  They all know that it has to be there.  Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weather of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.” (827)

            This sounds very much like the predicament of the Western civilian with a conscience.  In simpler terms, would you sacrifice all your things, your money, your house, in order to benefit someone in need?  The continued presence of human suffering has shown that the most common answer to that question is no.  The substantial list that Le Guin writes in the above quote gives a sense of the large sacrifice that the people of Omelas would have to make in order to save the child.  The fact is that we the people of the West and of Omelas chose our own happiness over the happiness of the miserable child. 

            Le Guin makes her point so compelling because of how graphically she describes the enormous disparity between the joy of the people of Omelas and the squalor of the chosen child.  The whole first half of the story is a detailed picture of the celebrations taking place in the city.  In the opening lines, the picture of Omelas is extraordinarily idyllic;

“With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city.  Omelas, bright-towered by the sea.  The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags.  In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of tree, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved.” (824)

The opening features alliteration that seems to suggest a lyrical and fantastical fairy-tale element to Omelas.  It is not a city that any of us readers will ever encounter, and seems to perfect to actually exist.  This surreal state of the city gives the reader some detachment, and it is therefore easier to accept the sick secret that makes possible such a paradise.

            By speaking directly to the readers in the second person, and instructing us to create our own version of the city, Le Guin underscores that Omelas is more of an idea than an actual place, which also makes it much easier to apply allegorical meaning to the story.  It removes the accusations inevitable when one writes about problems within the society the reader belongs to, allowing readers to be properly critical of the situation presented.

“…they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure of the common cold.  Or they could have none of that: it doesn’t matter.  As you like it.” (825)

Clearly, if we are allowed to modify according to our whims, Omelas is not a real city.  Even in the reality of the story, the city—the physical setting itself—does not matter.  It is the ideas expressed within it that are important.  “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” is a lens with which to look at ourselves and our global society.

            Not only has Le Guin successfully created a disturbing image of our own reality, but she has also created, within that scenario, an entirely believable reaction to it;

“Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox.  They may brood over it for weeks or years.  But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good in its freedom” (827).

Upon our first experience with the terrible price of our happiness, it can be deeply upsetting.  But over time, we learn to ignore or begin to justify and rationalize the problem away.  The child’s misery is a sacrifice necessary for the preservation of their lifestyle. 

            This then, begs the question of whether or not the people of Omelas are in the right to let the child’s suffering continue.  Le Guin chooses not to define what is right and what is wrong in her story, thereby forcing the judgment onto the reader.  Of course, it is the reader as well, who must decide right and wrong in the world which Omelas represents. 

            At the close of the story, Le Guin describes a bizarre phenomenon—people who, without giving their fellow citizens a reason, simply leave the city.

“These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone.  They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates.  Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman….The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness.  I cannot describe it at all.  It is possible that it does not exist.” (828)

In the same way that she suggested that Omelas is not a place, but an idea, she describes the destination of the travelers.  Away is their destination—the actual place in which they settle doesn’t matter, only that it is not part of Omelas. 

            Le Guin makes no mention of why these people are leaving, but it seems to be that they are disenchanted with the system under which Omelas operates.  They leave, they do not free the child, and they allow their fellow citizens to continue their joyous life.  Passively, ineffectively, the disenchanted leave.  Is this Le Guin’s suggested remedy to the misery caused by the West?  That we leave?  Are the travelers doing what is right?  Abandoning not only the hard won joy of their home, but also abandoning the child to its fate—is that the answer?

            The answer to that question, I don’t think exists.  This story isn’t trying to instruct its readers, but to provoke emotion.  By showing us a freakish (and accurate) portrait of ourselves in the objective guise of fiction, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” forces us to confront the problems our society.

Cecilia's Fate

This is the first draft of a short story written for my Intro to Creative Writing.  I'll be posting the revisions I make to it up here as well.  As I intend to make a living off of this type of writing, it is therefore the closest to my heart, so do not try to pass this piece off as your own. 



Cecilia’s Fate
 
 

            It was cold, and the sidewalks were coated with a layer of slush so that she had to step in the footprints left behind by others to keep her canvas shoes dry.  No one had expected it to snow that day, it was too far into spring.

            The snow had only recently fallen—during the last few hours of the school day.  She had spent all of her Arithmetic’s class craning her neck to watch the flakes come down and then melt on the street below.

            There was only one set of footprints in the slush, and she hoped that whoever came before her was going was going the same way she was. 

            Her walk home to her family’s apartment was only a few blocks, but the wind and the weight of the books under her arm made it much longer.

            Across the street from the apartment building was a dumpy old fairground.  She’d heard that the city was going to tear it down and build more apartment buildings.  Today, there was something new to the fairground, a kind of light and sparkle that she’d never seen before.  Just inside the rotted wooden gate was a horse-drawn wagon.  It was colored a bright and obscene green.  The paint was old and discolored such that it appeared in different shades as she approached the wagon.

            It wasn’t like the wagons that sold vegetables at the markets—this was like the wagons in the photographs of the pioneers who first ventured out to the west.  It wasn’t roofed however, by canvas, but rather with wood—it even had its own tiny chimney jutting out from the side.  It was more common for vendors to use automobiles, but not unheard of for horse-drawn wagons to still exist.

            The lurid green color was so out of place in the endless gray of the city that she was drawn to it like a moth to an open flame, heedless of the cold soaking into her shoes.  She had left the safety of the footprints.

            As she crossed from the road onto the opposite sidewalk, a young man appeared from out of the wagon.  He clambered down a set of rickety stairs extending from the rear of the wagon to the ground.

            The man came around to the front of the wagon and stopped short when he saw the little girl.  He was a funny looking man—his eyes seemed too big for his face, and he wore boots that would rival a mink coat—

            “What?” the man said, looking down at his feet, “They’re better in snow than those ridiculous cloth things you’re wearing!”

            She blinked.  “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to be rude.”

            He waved her apology off, “I’m not really offended.”  He turned and took a few steps back towards the wagon, then stopped.  “Aren’t you coming?”  The man turned again to look at her.

            She shook her head.

            He sighed.  “What’s the difference between over there,” he indicated the sidewalk, “and over here?”

            She shook her head again.

            The young man looked exasperated.  “But I’ve got something for you!  It’s very special and I don’t think anyone else should have it.”

            The girl crossed her arms.  “What is it?” she asked with the voice her mother reserved for haggling with shopkeepers.

            “I won’t show you if you don’t come over here.”

 

            It was a key.  It was old and had mother-of-pearl laid into the handle.  It had her name on it—Cecilia.  The letters looped and curled into themselves.  If she had tried to trace the path of a single line she would’ve gotten lost and stared at it forever.  The lines of her name would being to dance and shift if she starred at them for long enough.

            The inside of the man’s wagon was the strangest thing she’d ever seen.  There were two workbenches running opposite each other on either side.  The young man sat on a wheeled stool and flew from one bench to the other with an air of much practice.  The spaced was cramped, and the man hunched over—with his over large eyes, this made him look bird-like.

            Above the workbenches were shelves, cluttered with strange and obscure books with symbols on the spines that she would never see again in her life.  In between the books were haphazardly placed gadgets.  They were mechanical in nature, and defied all the young girl’s attempts to guess their function.

            There was a small fire towards the front of the wagon—no doubt attached to that odd little chimney.  The light from the flames lit the small space with a strong orange glow.

            The man didn’t want any money in exchange for the key.  He said it had been hers for quite some time and she pretended to believe him.

           

            When she passed the fairground again on her way to school, she saw that the wagon was gone and the wooden gate was closed.

            The snow had melted away and so she was free to walk wherever she chose.  None of her friends had noticed the young man or his bright green wagon.  It wasn’t there when she went home in the evening either.  She suspected it was gone forever.

 

            “This key will fit into any lock, but the doors it opens…they will not take you to any place you know.  Listen to me because this is important,” he leaned in close to her and she realized that she could not name the color of his large glassy eyes.  “Are you listening?”

            “Yes,” the girl squirmed uncomfortably.

            “Good.  Once you use this key, and enter—you’re not paying attention!”

            Her eyes snapped back up to his.  She had been watching the letters on the key writhe around.  “Sorry,” she set the key down on the workbench.

            “Nothing that you see will ever be the same way again.  What you choose to do with this key is the most important decision of your life.”

            She didn’t want to be around him anymore—he was now no longer simply intriguing.  Now, he was talking nonsense, as her father would say.  He was probably one of those people that belong in a sanitarium.  “What are you talking about?  You’re not making any sense.” said her mother’s haggling voice. 

            The man became impatient.  “It’s a place, another place.  Don’t you read adventure books?”

            “They’re not real,” she insisted, petulantly, like an adult.

            “This place is real.”

            “Oh yeah?  Well show me a map of it then,” this was a child’s voice.

            “Only madmen make maps of the other world.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it is impossible to know.  It has many different…layers—levels.  It doesn’t function the way is world does.”

            She decided then that he did belong in a sanitarium, and the young man could sense that he had lost her.  His thin angular shoulders drooped, he sighed.  “I’m sorry,” he said “but that key isn’t yours anymore.  You should go now.”

            The girl went, and stepped back into the footprints on the other sidewalk, and felt relieved that she never saw the man or his wagon again.  It wasn’t until years later that she wished she had taken the key.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Midterm Grades, Round Two

 

Okay, here's my midterm grades for this semester.  I want to get rid of the B's and turn them into A's.  But I'd still say that this is pretty good.  I don't think that Cultural Anthropology grade is going to change though, that professor is not a good teacher.  He is so scatter brained and then tests us on weird things.  Anyways, I am waiting impatiently for spring and for the warm weather.  Cheers.
   
Episodes in Western ArtA
   
Introduction to the Short StoryB
   
Ithaca College SinfoniettaA
   
Introduction to the EssayB+
   
Cultural Anthropology                B
Introduction to Creative Writing
 
A-

Sunday, March 17, 2013

The Earworm

Okay, so I hope no one will get mad at me for puttig this article up here before it's officially published in Kitsch Magazine....not sure if this is illegal or not...but then again no one really reads this blog, so it can't be that bad.

Anyways, I switched my topic from the more serious subject on music therapy and what goes on in your brain when you hear music, to the topic of songs that get stuck in your head.  I did some research and came up with this:


Everyone knows what it’s like to have a song stuck in their heads.  It’s a fact of life that certain tunes stick with us.  I have never questioned it much, until one morning, on my way to my 9:25 class, I realized that I was looping part of the LMFAO song “Shots” in my head.  It would stay there all day.

            I discovered that there is a name for this phenomenon.  A song stuck in your head has the unsavory title of “earworm”.  The only harm this parasite can cause you is annoyance, unless your midterms have already driven you insane…

            …or you’re a Nazi soldier in Henry Kuttner’s 1943 short story.  “Nothing But Gingerbread Left” is about a song designed to have a “perfect semantic formula” so that it would be unforgettable.  Written by a University professor, the song is in German, and is about a starving family whose only food is gingerbread. When the song is broadcast across occupied Europe it has a devastating effect on the German forces.  Through a series of stream-of-consciousness vignettes, Kuttner shows how the song works its way into the thoughts of the soldiers and takes control. 

            Fourteen years later, another sci-fi short story centered on the earworm phenomenon.  Arthur C. Clarke wrote about a scientist who created “The Ultimate Melody” that was in sync with the brain’s electrical rhythms.  After listening to his own piece, the scientist became catatonic and never recovered.

            Earworms, however, are not exclusively the realm of science fiction, Mark Twain even wrote about happening across a jingle (which, before the advent of television, was apparently printed like a little poem in the newspapers) that completely consumed him for a few days until he showed it to a friend and was freed from its influence.  His friend then, became obsessed, and had to ‘transfer’ it to another.

            Not even SpongeBob SquarePants is safe—in the seventh season, incidentally titled “Ear Worm” our porous hero gets the song “Musical Doodle” stuck in his head.

            It would seem like mind controlling songs only exist in fiction, but in fact, we hear them all the time.  They’re specially designed to crawl into our brains and never crawl out, living in there forever repeating “Don’t you want a, want a Fanta?” until we crack and go buy the damn thing.  Companies are just dying to get their brand names and products into your head—what could be better than having a world full of consumers whose own brains incessantly pester them with your product?  Nothing—that is, if you like having money.

            For a jingle to be effective, and take a hold in your mind, it has to have several simple features.  It must be short so you can actually remember it, and also repetitive.  And a good earworm also has to have a pleasant yet simple melody.  If the tune is written well, it will create the “Shots” effect, where you start humming it on a Thursday morning and it never stops.

            So, in order to spare your wallet, and also possibly your sanity, I asked the internet how to eliminate the auditory parasites.  Some of the less ridiculous answers I found include:

-         Sing or play (on an instrument) another song

-         Listen to the earworm song

-         Listen to music other than the earworm song

If none of those tips work, feel free to try some of the weirder ones such as

            -    Try to ‘infect’ a friend

            -    Imagine the earworm as a real creature, have it crawl out of your head, and then step                            on it

And if that doesn’t work, you can always go try to find what Henry Kuttner’s anti-Nazi gingerbread song sounded like.