A Season in Delphi

In Memorium

2009-09-11T21:53:00.010-05:00

A couple weeks ago, my Great-Uncle, Art, died of a heart attack due to complications of emphysema. Art became like a grandfather to myself and my little brother after our Grandpa (his brother) died almost twenty years ago. I wasn't able to attend the funeral due to work obligations, so I wrote something for the funeral for my Dad to read. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to read it there, so I decided to post it here so that everyone can know what an amazing person was lost to the world earlier this month.

When I first came to South Dakota, not too many years after Grandpa Ole’s death, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit like Captain Kirk beaming onto an alien planet as we drove across the plains toward Art and Eunice’s farmhouse. I’d never been to a place quite like this, where the heat waved the grass, drying to golden in the late August sunshine, bending it toward the ground under a dizzying blue sky. Where stands exploded with the most marvelously sweet watermelon in the world, where people stapled multicolored corn to the sides of auditoriums and where even the gold could be rose and green. I’d never even really been to a farm, just passed by them on my way through southern Minnesota and Iowa to our relatives in Waterloo, so the entire experience was just about as alien to me as Kirk’s encounters with green ladies in skimpy silver dresses.

Rather than encountering a bevy of alien beauties, however, I was introduced to farm life by some alien bovines in the wee hours of my first night when I met a herd of confused cow eyes staring through the darkness toward my window. They stood clustered in the glow of the light on the front lawn, waking me up in the middle of the night with a smattering of misguided moos. This “city girl” had never experienced a surprise quite like that one, a South Dakota welcome delivered by the strays from the neighbor’s escaped herd (though, as I recall, Eunice wasn’t quite as tickled about the trampled grass and fresh fertilizer she found on her lawn the next day). That night, I knew I was in for something better than alien babes are for a virile captain—I was in for an adventure in a new frontier.

Over the next week or so, we followed Art and the rest of the South Dakota Olsons over acres of land, inspecting cows out in the pasture, elbow-deep in various farm engines, trudging through a half-dozen different crops, and even baling hay. By the end of our first trip, Matthew swore up and down he was going to grow up and become a saxophone-playing farmer. I wasn’t quite as interested in getting down and dirty—while I went out on a number of excursions, I was just as content to walk around the property as all the cows charged in the opposite direction, watching as much as possible, playing with Dale’s panting golden lab in the shop and watching as they dismembered various machines, or riding with Art as he drove out to check a fence line, taking notes all the time about what I was experiencing.

Art picked up quickly on exactly what got me interested. One Sunday, after church, he took all of us on a tour of an empty town not far from the property, explaining what had once been there, pointing out everything from the post office to the mercantile. I was transfixed by the stories of the place and the people that had lived there, swept into the tales of a town whose boards were now gray and rotting, overgrown with lush green saplings. When we got home, I wrote pages and pages about the place as quickly as the thoughts could spill out of my brain.

Art and Eunice welcomed our family with such graciousness that Matthew and I quickly became like two more of the grandchildren, and even though we were only in town a couple times a year at most, we joined the brood, tromping through Art and Eunice’s house (being sure to leave our shoes in the entry!) and carrying on with our cousins with each visit as if we had barely been absent. We’d all crowd around the table at lunch time, with chairs being pulled from every corner of the house to accommodate as many bodies as the table could fit (sometimes even spilling over into the living room on really tight days), around a meal so big I thought every day we were there must be some sort of a holiday. But no, I was assured by my cousins, this is what happened pretty much every day at Grandma and Grandpa’s… the family would pile in, shoulder to shoulder, for hamburgers and baked beans, salads and sweet corn, watermelon and fruit salads, topped off with a big glass of milk, and NO COOKIES UNTIL AFTER LUNCH! Then, like a stampede tromping over the horizon, the rush would end as suddenly as it had come, and the house would be thrust into quiet again, at least until four o’clock or so.

I found out quickly that South Dakota wouldn’t remain an alien landscape. The farm became an extension of home, just as Grandma and Grandpa’s place becomes an extension of home for every child lucky enough to have the experience of that kind of love.

Norwegians have a proud history of storytelling, with histories and lineages passed down through epic verse, keeping the family and memory alive. Our ancestors were explorers, conquerors, and settlers, but above all, they were storytellers. Of course now we call our storytelling “bullshitting” (and Olsons are some of the best!), but the essence remains the same. We bring back the dead through our remembrance, giving color to their characters by adding new details to our own memories from stories we may not have known as they’re told to us by others sitting around the fire (or around a living room, or the pieces of a tractor’s starter) about those who’ve passed long ago to more sacred country.

When Art told his stories, people stopped to listen, because he was able to make people that were gone come back to life and laugh around the table all over again. Art brought my Grandpa back to me, telling stories of him that I’d never heard, coaxing additional details out of my Dad as we sat around the table, digesting our meal. These moments and memories are some of my favorites of Art—I don’t remember all the stories, but I’ll never forget about the color and humor with which he illustrated even the most mundane events.

I’d always hoped that Art would be around long enough to see what he’d inadvertently inspired in me. I hoped that I’d be able to lay a completed book, or at least a manuscript, in his hands and show him how his storytelling helped to stoke the fires in me that created the unquenchable desire to get a story onto the page, to pass on my own stories in the same way that I remember adoring his. While he wasn’t able to see the physical result, I hope he knows how much I value the legacy he passed on to me by passing on the love of a good story and in the stories themselves.

Penelope: An Exercise in Re-Imagining an Icon

2007-09-18T01:26:00.004-05:00

It has been almost twenty years since I last saw your ship on the shore. Almost two decades since I last heard the tumbling melody of your voice reverberating among these halls, since your arms encircled my waist and your kiss blessed my lips. I have slept alone in the bed you built for us, raised our child without his father, and fended off the exploitation of your neighbors. I am so tired. My eyes and heart hurt from watching the waters for you.

Those first weeks after the men began coming home from the war were wrenching. It was horrendous to watch men who had been gone for so long return to the arms of wives and children while my son and I remained alien, as did all the wives on your ship. People talked. Whispers floated on smoky vapors at parties, plays, and other social functions about your fate. Everyone was, and is, convinced that you have met your mortal end.

But I refuse to accept their belief. Your soul is mine, my Love, and I would know if that part of me were lost to Hades. I know I would feel the loss, just as I felt the loss when our first daughter, our only other child, died as a baby in the middle of the night. I will never forget the chasm that her death left in me when I awoke from my dreams in the darkness, knowing she was gone before I ever held her lifeless infant form in my arms.

So I can at least hold to that. I have a clue, an inkling deep within me, that you are not irretrievable… that your soul still dwells somewhere across the waters.

But, my Love, the days without you here are arduous.

I spend them now, not watching for you to come over the hill to meet me for our evening meal, but concentrating on the waves beyond the walls, hoping to find the dark speck of your ship on the blue plane, heading back to the port in which it belongs. Men carouse in our home, day and night, eating away my son’s inheritance; uninvited interlopers trying to convince me that you are gone and they should be the next wife of Penelope and king of this land. I refuse to entertain such asinine rudeness… men who have not even offered to court me, but instead drain the resources of my home and try to corrupt the blood of my womb. I know that you made me promise to remarry if you did not return, but even if I had confirmation that you were gone, I would never dishonor your memory as a ruler and a husband or debase myself to the point that I would offer my hand to any member of this squalor. But nor can I leverage any authority in this city to keep their corrupt presence from our walls, so I am left only with the option of refusing their advances and refusing to honor their deplorable show at courtship.

I look for you, as twilight falls, in the stars, knowing that your deeds would have earned a place among Orion and Ursa if your end had come. Though I have my instinct, I cannot accept only the warmth in my chest as confirmation that you yet live, and I search for the evidence, anywhere I can find it, to confirm that you still breathe the air of this land, even if you are far from your home.

Each night, I shed my skin in sleep and wander the earth, like the Egyptian Isis, looking for pieces of you… a hint of your presence on this globe. I journey to Styx, to Acheron, and cross what few souls see until they have left their flesh for the final time. The Ferryman watches from his bark as my feet glide over the eddies, leaving concentric rings of black water in my wake. No authority constrains my path, for I share the darkness of the Underworld with the ghosts of its shadows… I live in its gloom every waking hour my husband’s ship fails to break the horizon, and I therefore belong to its obscurity as truly as every spirit living in misery there.

I search for my Love each night in this darkness of death, sifting through souls consigned to eternal rest or anguish, pleading to Persephone to point out my husband’s shade if he has come to dwell in this dank crevice. But every night, my wanderings are in vain. The Immortal Gods keep my eyes from laying upon the one visage I ache most to see. Their wrath for him, for he must have done something to incite such a long separation from his home, becomes my anguish as well.

I have heard legends, murmured in awe, of your exploits in the war on the lips of those who have returned. They say you fought valiantly in the war. They say that your ingenuity ended the conflict decisively, with a simple, deceptive gift to the Trojans. The warriors that return say that you would speak of nothing else on that day but your breathtaking wife and precious son, and how anxious you were to finish things on that distant shore so you could return to her adoring embrace and experience for the first time the shining eyes and musical laughter of your little boy, at that time almost a decade older than when you’d left him, cradled as an infant in his mother’s arms.

Another decade has passed since that day, and that boy is now a man. I have tried to keep you alive for him; I have told him daily of his father and how he had gone to a great war to honor his vow. When he was very young, I made up stories of your exploits and told them to our little boy as he drifted to sleep each night. I have tried to raise him as we would have together, encouraging him to be both strong and wise, urging him to foster the quick wit and cleverness which lives so vibrantly in you. There is so much of you in him… I hear you in the melody of his laugh, see your intensity in his eyes… the citizens and servants commonly proclaim how easy it is to divine the identity of his father from just a simple glance.

My body and soul burn with the vendetta owed my dishonored being as I watch the vipers feed viciously upon my husband’s livelihood and hear their whispered plots to take his image from me as well in his progeny’s form, to remove from me the last vestiges of my Beloved’s presence by slaying our only son and removing the competition to the throne. How my flesh aches to feel the satisfying slick of their blood between my fingers as my blade slices through the flesh of each one, to the last man… to rip the perfect ebony locks from the scalps of these sniveling snakes and cut the pretentious smiles from their lips. How I yearn to have the invincibility of the Goddess, that I could take my vengeance at the tip of a sword on each villain vying for a chance to violate my being.

I have spent the past two decades dying by inches. By seconds, clicking by in depraved regularity as the heart beats in my chest. My body betrays me, marking the passing days as it hungers and thirsts, the months in red lines as the moon cycles through the sky.

I embrace our bedpost, my Love, in the darkness where I used to rest in the sturdy timber of your arms, the living tree betraying the passage of years as it grows wider and I grow more gaunt. If only I could feel the love from the branches and leaves that you fashioned into our marriage bed which I once felt from the solace of your embrace. If only, in fashioning the bed in which we slept for a decade before your fateful trip across the waters, you had left a piece of your soul in the living wood, to offer me comfort and solace in these hours of abandonment.

I hold the little golden effigy of Athena you gave me for the harvest festival the year before your ship left port and gaze into the flames as my fingers trail along the folds in her little robe, the curls falling in glittering waves across her shoulders. I stare into the eyes of the tiny statue and beg her to intervene. I leverage the only power I have left, the power of a faithful supplicant to kneel before her Goddess, and implore her intervention. I remind her, in whispered reverence, of our faithfulness, how we have spent our lives as her servants, following her every direction with faith, giving gratefully and generously to her honor. I beg her to remember her servant, Odysseus, even if our ability to give to her has waned. I plead with her to hold me close, to offer me her guidance, until you can be at my side again to share in the decisions for our lives, our son, our home, and our community. I ask Athena for wisdom, hope and patience.

I pray to you as well… as my Husband, my Guardian, and my Love, straining for the only communication left to me; the communication of one soul directly to another. I pray that you keep yourself safe, that you will heed the counsel of the Gods, and that you will follow the voice of your wife to your home. I am sure that the Gods forgive this small heresy, for I know their eyes cannot have been averted from my plight.

All feels lost, my darling. As I watch your house fall to ruin, your son grow up without you, my body slowly, certainly, losing the luster of youth, I wonder how much longer the Gods will see fit to rend my soul like this.

I can’t lose hope. Hope is all I have left. I can’t lose hope.

Copyright 2007 S.L. Olson

Learning to Love "Lucretia"

2007-01-05T19:27:00.000-06:00

Rembrandt Van Rijn was a well-known artist from the Baroque period who is known for his paintings of human subjects with deep contrast between dark and light. At first glance, Rembrandt’s portrayal of “Lucretia” may appear to be a morbid, grotesque and disturbing representation of suicide and the last moments of life. But, upon a further inspection of the piece, there is much more that can be learned about the history of the artist and the painting that makes “Lucretia” much more than a portrait of death. Painted late in his life when splendor and outward details no longer mattered to him, Rembrandt chose to focus on the psychological drama rather than the excitement of the story taking place. He uses sharp contrasts between light and dark to give a focal point to the piece and create intense emotion. “Lucretia” is not only the portrait of the pain of a legendary character, but the pain expressed in the painting also expresses the pain of both the painter and the viewer. Learning to appreciate the story behind the painting and the technique used to elicit emotion from the viewer gives a whole new dimension to the piece.

According to legend, Lucretia was a noblewoman in ancient Rome who was married to a general. She was known and loved across the entire Roman Empire for both her surpassing beauty and her virtue. Her husband was called to war and Lucretia was left behind to take care of the affairs at home. While Lucretia’s husband was gone, the son of the king of Rome came to see her. While he was at Lucretia’s house, the prince threatened and raped Lucretia. In Roman tradition, Lucretia’s rape brought dishonor and shame not only to her, but also to her family. Rather than allow her family to have to deal with the humiliation caused by the crime performed against her, Lucretia chose to commit suicide and spare the dishonor that Roman society would have inflicted on her family.

Lucretia has been portrayed numerous times in art and literature throughout history. Judith Akehurst, an expert on feminist history and Baroque painting observed the impact of Lucretia on art and culture; “The combination of death, sex and vindication made Lucretia an attractive symbol of feminine virtue and liberty for theologians and writers from St. Augustine to Chaucer and Shakespeare.” She was a very popular subject of art in the Renaissance, and was most commonly characterized as a nude woman plunging a dagger into her voluptuous breasts and staring helplessly into the sky.

Rembrandt draws Lucretia as a totally different character. She is fully dressed in clothing reminiscent of the wealthy women in the Baroque period. Instead of being interpreted by Rembrandt as a helpless (and somewhat brainless) woman, Lucretia is portrayed as strong and collected. Her dark, mournful eyes contrast the pale face that seems to already carry the raiment of death. The look on Lucretia’s face represents the epitome of sadness. Her eyes are filled with tears, and her white dress is stained with the blood from her mortal wound. Lucretia’s white dress symbolizes the purity that has been destroyed forever by the prince’s attack on her. Lucretia’s hand grips a chord that has been theorized to represent many things. One possible theory is that the chord is a call to the servants for help. Possibly Lucretia has changed her mind an instant too late, or she has chosen to die in the company of those that she loves. Another theory is that Lucretia is holding a chord connected to a curtain that closes on her life as it ends.

Rembrandt’s use of color in contrasts of light and dark creates a stunning focus for the piece. Lucretia is bathed in a light that seems to touch only her and creates deep shadows on her face betraying the sorrow and exhaustion that she is feeling. Her hair seems to blend into the dark background, with her intricately beaded hairpiece reflecting the light falling on her. Her dress is composed of gold and white cloth, and the red stain from her self-inflicted wound contrasts the pure white robe. The blade of the knife glistens in her hand as she awaits her death.

Rembrandt painted this version of “Lucretia” at a very low point in his life. The woman he had loved for more than 15 years had died after being branded as a whore and excommunicated from the church and the business of art they had created together had fallen apart. His health was declining, and he found himself having to face his financial problems alone. To express his feelings of agony over the loss of so many things that were so special to him, Rembrandt created “Lucretia” as both an outlet and a vessel for his pain. Lucretia’s expression of pain is so universal and so deeply moving that even without knowing the background of the painting, the viewer is drawn in to Lucretia’s suffering and forced to face her pain.

“The glory of the [Minneapolis] Institute’s [Lucretia] painting is that it’s so incredibly personal. She is a real person and you are given a very personal view of someone at a very important moment in her life.” (Judith Akehurst) The idea of facing pain is what makes “Lucretia” such a disturbing painting. The image of someone so close to death and in such agony makes the viewer of the piece incredibly uncomfortable. The intense emotion in “Lucretia” is what makes her portrait so incredibly stunning. Rembrandt’s portrayal of human emotion crosses the boundaries of culture and time, and can touch someone looking at the piece more than 330 years after it was created. Even though the content of “Lucretia” is disturbing because of its stark color contrasts and morose subject matter, the fact that it can move people to such deep reactions hundreds of years later makes the work a masterpiece of expressionism and human emotion.

Copyright (C) 2007 S.L. Olson

True Dominance

2005-11-18T21:35:00.000-06:00

The term “dominance” incites a plethora of connotations in the average person’s mind, most of these images being of a sexual or animal nature. However, dominance is not simply a title employed in sexual play… the secret of true dominance extends far beyond the bedroom, and is not limited only to one who chooses to employ that particular distinction in a perceptible manner.

“Dominance games” are shallow tactics employed by those who beat their chests like primates at a zoo, vying for the illusion of obligatory dominance over another party. These petty ploys for power are commonplace among the populace, as the majority of human beings care more for the recognition of their dominance than they do about actually leveraging true power over a situation. These gaudy attempts at grandstanding forced power are overt and invariably cause strife among those with the misfortune of being a part of the experience, and those who try to leverage influence in this manner incur invariable and explicit resistance from those the person is trying to dominate.

It seems the stereotypical interpretation of a dominant person is based primarily upon those who succumb to these tasteless contests. To many, the dominant person is someone who is almost brutish in applying force, obliging compliance from those around him by sheer power of will. But this is a grossly limiting assumption. A truly dominant person is actually unbound by conventional interpretation, as he can assume a role based not upon which role has the appearance of carrying more weight, but instead based upon which role is more useful for his purposes. A person skilled in employing dominance understands that power is employed in variations of hues and can leverage the advantages of control from any position they may be in at the time. In spite of the fact that this form of true dominance is a much more profitable path in the long run, most people do not want to go to the concerted effort that is required in order to exert true and lasting influence over a situation, because it takes calculation, insight and forethought.

To exert true power over a situation, person, or group of people requires that the person wishing to leverage that power evaluate the specific climate among those involved in the circumstances in question, reading the people involved and knowing not what they say they want, but instead what they truly want to gain from the exchange. The goal of the truly dominant person, then, is to give the person the impression they have received that which they desire and gain the confidence and trust of those people. This will earn the respect of the others involved, and they will then look to that person again for insight and guidance, building this truly dominant person’s influence, regardless of the position that person holds on paper.

Once this base of trust is established from the parties involved, this person will likely have the option of taking a level of overt power if he so chooses, as the transition from a less visible position to one of more visible power will be viewed by the other party or parties as a “natural” one. At the proper stage, this transition will be accepted smoothly and with very little (if any) resistance.

Like the contrived and careful movements of a cat stalking its prey, one with real control knows when and which buttons to push from nearly any situation he lands in to exert true authority. The truly dominant person is a wise predator, knowing who to influence and how to exert that influence in order to create a result in his ultimate favor, avoiding garish games in favor of subtle, more binding influence. True power lies in this skill of leverage, and the truly powerful will employ it regularly and to their continual advantage.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

Transcending "The Wall"

2005-09-09T21:35:00.000-05:00

The film, The Wall, written and produced by the members of the band Pink Floyd in conjunction with their concept album of the same name, is a product of its time, expressing a variety of frustrations with the world which would, on first glance, seem to be anchored in simply an anti-war message fueled by the tension of the Cold War and the trauma many experienced in the wake of World War II. However, the film’s reach extends into a much more timeless statement, as one can easily interpret this film as a two-hour tirade against herd mentality. Interestingly, it also speaks to the personal dangers and problems that an individual can encounter when they choose to take the position of someone who “rebels” against assimilation into an unthinking popular culture. Of course, there are also very obvious anti-war overtones weaved throughout the piece, but The Wall appears to emphasize issues more personal and more complex than simply a statement of “war is bad.”

This movie speaks explicitly to the struggles and questions presented by Modernist and Postmodernist poets like William Butler Yeats, Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot and Hilda Doolittle. However, the perspective seems to not offer the hope of Hilda Doolittle’s work, but instead speaks to the doomed mass of “Hollow Men,” whom T.S. Eliot speaks of in his poem of the same title. The movie appears to speak explicitly to and about the hollow men who recognize their hollowness and can’t grasp how to go about filling themselves. The Wall points out the pressure toward conformity placed upon members of modern society and the dangers and destructive power which can be existent within a mass of people moving mindlessly forward, following a leader or ideal blindly with no will of their own. To repeatedly drive this point home, the creators of this film utilize disturbing and violent images, such as the faceless mass of children moving toward the meat grinder on a conveyor belt, the marching hammers, and the rampaging bulls. These images and others like them emerge at various stages throughout the film to reiterate the imminent danger intrinsic in a mass of people mindlessly ascribing to “groupthink” rather than thinking for themselves.

While I was relatively impressed with many of the statements made and thoughts initiated throughout the film, I must take issue with the stipulation that I think was being presented that claimed that if an individual were to manage to break down the Wall, it would likely lead to what society en masse would see as insanity. I do not see this as being a necessary result of such an act. Madness does not reside in destruction of the Wall. Madness results from banging one’s head against the Wall like a dumb animal.

Of course, the Wall has many possible symbolic interpretations, but if one wants to view it as a construct of facades created by the individual, then I would also protest the belief as presented that the Wall needs to be destroyed at all, because masks can be useful commodities, as long as the person utilizing them does not identify themselves by their guises. The guises one employs in daily life do not need to be disposed of if one can simply use logic and understand that they can easily know themselves without having to eliminate the tools they utilize in order to survive. I am not the witch or the Cookie Monster I dressed up as when I was a child for Halloween just as I am not simply the artist, the writer, or the customer service professional roles that I utilize as an adult today.

The danger in utilizing guises lies then in identifying oneself by the guises utilized, not in actually utilizing those roles in order to achieve one’s desire. In order to achieve understanding of oneself, it is necessary to cease identifying with the roles played rather than trying to conform to all of them at once, for that schizophrenic need to “be” everything at once is really what can cause identity problems and incite madness. Wallace Stevens grasped this to some degree in his poem, “The Idea of Order at Key West,” when he struggled with the many pieces of experience he saw in the “Sargasso Sea” of a woman walking along the beach singing. The woman is not the pieces of experience, nor is she the roles that she has gathered in her lifetime… like every person who honestly examines themselves and looks for the substance beyond their cells, she is more than the sum of her parts.

Pink, the main character in The Wall, sees the forms he had utilized throughout his life as impediments to self-knowledge rather than tools to be employed, and this is his most grievous error. He spends his time focusing upon the bricks he believes are holding him in rather understanding that he is separate from the tools he has created to survive, and this is what drives him mad. Were Pink to realize he is more than the masks he has accumulated over time, his decent into madness would not even take place.

Freedom does not come from breaking through the Wall; freedom comes when one comes to the realization that they are not the Wall. One can employ the Wall as a method for obtaining protection against the ferocities of the world without being bound within its limits.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

Wrestling With Giants: Sylvia Plath and Memory

2005-07-02T18:15:00.000-05:00

Remaining in the vein of my current literary musings, I decided to post here the majority of a short paper I wrote for my poetry course last year. The paper is about the poem, "The Colossus," written by Sylvia Plath, a relatively well-known poet who lived in the middle of the twentieth century. Since this is a paper rather than an article written specifically for this journal, it is a bit longer than my other works here, but it will hopefully still be of interest to most of you. I have removed the pagination references from this work since they came from a book most people are not likely to have; if you wish to reference the original poem, you're more than welcome to follow the link I've provided here. Of course, reading the original work first will more than likely help you understand the context of this paper.

I like this poem in particular because I think that in spite of a plethora of what seem to be aspects of "personal mythology" (meaning references that are probably only significant to Plath herself), she manages to encapsulate in this work the struggle that many people endure as they try to retain a hold on the memory of someone who was lost to them, whether through death or simply separation, especially when the loss took place a number of years in the past. In this case, the person lost and referenced is most likely her father, who died when Plath was eight years old, as he is the central subject of much of her poetry. The work also shows very eloquently the inner workings of a depressive mind, where events may perhaps be blown significantly out of proportion due to various psychological issues that continually hack at the writer's psyche.

The introspective and highly personal nature of Sylvia Plath’s work results in a body of images that can sometimes be very hard to interpret and understand. However, she often manages to utilize symbolic image and dualistic language to speak to personal issues that nearly everyone can understand and relate to from their own personal experience. Plath’s poem, “The Colossus,” appears to adhere to the confessional theme of the rest of her body of work, in spite of the fact that it may initially seem to simply carry the storyline of an event.

On the surface, the story of “Colossus” is the story of a person charged with the task of tending the Colossus, a Greek sculpture said to be of staggering size that once straddled the shores of a Greek harbor and was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. The character in this poem takes note of the fact that their task may be an exercise in futility, but continues to care for the megalith, even taking shelter in its ear to rest rather than descending from its height. Because of the size of the task, the character in the poem has no respite from her work. The job of caring for this statue has consumed her life, but she cannot escape, as she obviously feels that it needs her attention.

Interestingly, like the Colossus, Plath’s father is no longer around to be evidence to her memory. Therefore, it is very likely that both the Colossus and her father have become somehow “larger” in the retelling of their tales and the maintenance of their memories. Considering Plath’s consistent focus upon her father throughout her work (and her reference of “O father” in line 18) it is likely fair to assume that this poem’s secondary, deeper subject is her father and, more specifically, her maintenance of her memories regarding him. Since her work is often confessional in nature, it is also plausible to interpret Plath as the central character, speaking in metaphor regarding her memory.

This poem is replete with the echoes of loneliness. The character in this work is alone in her task of caring for the Colossus, indicating that it is possible Plath feels alone in her responsibility of caring for her father’s memory. This loneliness covers the poem like a shroud, particularly late in the work when she admits, "My hours are married to shadow." This offers the poem an even deeper ring of tragedy, as the character is completely alone with an edifice she knows is only an idealized reconstruction of the true person.

The poem starts with an admission of the somewhat futile nature of her task as Plath admits, I shall not get you put together entirely, /Pieced, glued, and properly jointed." She realizes that the task of understanding her father and sorting out her memories of him is so monumental that it is not a task that will likely ever be complete. However, it is important to note that although she realizes this, she does feel that the task of sorting him out and acting as a caretaker to his memory is important enough to demand her attention.

The character wonders what the real person idealized by the statue thought of himself as she works, musing that, "Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle, /Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other." She longs for some echo of his voice so she can know the true person, as indicated when the character notes, "Thirty years now I have labored /To dredge the silt from your throat. /I am none the wiser." She has no way of allowing her father to speak, so she can not gain insight about his perspective regarding who he was or how he would like to be remembered. In fact, as noted in an earlier strophe, what little she receives from the megalith is nonsensical and disjointed. "Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles /Proceed from your great lips. /It’s worse than a barnyard."

Since her father is only held alive in her memory, and since this has been the case for a number of years at this point, he has become like the ancient Greek Colossus. His image has grown beyond the man he was into a monument much larger and more idealistic than the man himself could have ever been. His image has grown so immense, in fact, that his features are beyond recognition and meaning. Plath refers to his tongue, for example, as a pillar, his eyebrows as weedy acres, and his ears as cornucopias. Later in the poem, she also notes, "You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum." This reference further accentuates the idea that she feels very separate from her father as an actual person. He is a piece of her history that feels distant and disconnected from her own personal experience, because he disappeared from her life’s story so long ago.

Consequently, Plath reflects through this work also feels belittled as caretaker of her father’s memory. She depicts herself as an "ant in mourning" as she scales the massive sculpture to care for it. Since, in death, he has become so much larger, she has no way to compete with the enormity of his memory as a still-living person with flaws and problems that are still very evident within her memory and to those around her.

It is tragic to note that in spite of her efforts, it is likely that Plath feels that the remnants of her memory that remain are a massive ruin. The character in the poem notes the power necessary to create such massive destruction when she says, "It would take more than a lightning-stroke /To create such a ruin." In spite of the fact that, as was mentioned previously, she has labored for thirty years to maintain and retain the integrity of the Colossus, there are greater forces that have repeatedly or regularly come into play and resulted in its deterioration.

The end of this work carries the weight of dejected acquiescence as the character resignedly admits, "No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel/On the blank stones of the landing." The character realizes that she is alone in her maintenance of the Colossus, and that not only is she no longer anticipating any help from outside in her immense task of maintaining this monolith, but she is likely also no longer holding out the hollow hope that she will receive any answers about the Colossus, either. She is eternally wedded to the task of taking care of the Colossus by herself, and she believes she will receive no aid or respite until she is a Colossus in the mind of another.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

H.P. Lovecraft

2005-06-26T04:35:00.000-05:00

A friend and professor at school suggested after reading my work that I should invest some time into reading a few H.P. Lovecraft stories, not because they were necessarily "good" from a technical standpoint, but because they were the root of atmospheric horror and a primary influence for almost everyone currently working in that genre. This is a statement that I have come to understand from experience to be a rather consistent, overriding fact... it's hard to get through much in the horror genre without knowing anything about Cthulhu, Dagon and Nyarlathotep.

Since I am by no means a Lovecraft expert, having read only perhaps a half-dozen of his works thusfar, I am simply going to start at this point by writing my initial reactions as I recall them to particular aspects of a few individual stories first, and then I shall try to widen my scope and explain what I see on a larger scale developing in my reactions to this writer.

I first read a tale entitled, "The Hound." This is easily a favorite of the stories I have read of Lovecraft thusfar, primarily because he managed to create a work that made my stomach turn on a number of levels. An atmosphere of terror permeates this little tale, from the gruesome and rather diabolical nocturnal activities of the main character and his friend to the ultimate consequences resultant in the character's disregard for the power of what they had disturbed. The general structure of the story is sound, as the main character takes us through the actions of himself and his friend which led to his current pitiful and mortally terrified state. I enjoyed the simplicity and sparseness of description in this particular work, and found that these elements combined to illustrate the character's unnamed horror. Lovecraft managed to hit on the right balance in this work of the wide emptiness of mortified horror coupled with just the right descriptive terminology and narrative structure to leave the reader understanding and fearful of the ultimate moral: be careful, kiddies, of the power with which you play!

I found myself rolling my eyes during "The Statement of Randolph Carter" as I began to realize the evidence of what my friend had implied when he had warned me about some of the "technical shortfalls" of Lovecraft's work. The author's complete refusal to describe what the main characters were pursuing or why supported only by the rather shoddy excuse from the confessor of not being able to remember (a sort of post-traumatic amnesia) was exceptionally irksome to read. As a writer myself, I can usually recognize a cop-out employed due to writer's block when I see it, and this had all the symptoms of being such. However, I had partially forgiven him by the end of the work as the ominous, unknown creature the pair had awakened spoke through the telephone box out of the darkness. I must admit I chuckled with a bit of wicked glee as the creature spoke the tale's final words through the receiver with what I perceived as a tone of absolute disgust with the silly monkeys that had interrupted its solace. I can certainly understand that perspective, and found myself rather amused that I ended the story liking and understanding the creature much more than the spineless title character.

In the interest of space and my own time at this early hour, I am going to only reference one more work at this time: "Nyarlathotep." As I look back at this work, I must admit to a bit of a bias toward it, as the character himself is so marvelously and mysteriously constructed that the rest of the tale could easily be complete tripe and I would still find this a worthy read. My religious affiliation has no small degree of effect upon my perception of this character as well, as he rather eloquently personifies my experience (something which I will not elaborate upon here), so I feel I can identify with this character, probably in a manner in which others will not. However, the story essentially is the description of the mystery and power of this particular character over those who experienced him and the story is therefore shrouded in similar power and mystery. I found some of his adjectives a little bit lacking and prosaic, but this is yet again a technical complaint that I tended to forgive by the end of the work when I saw the character developed in all his awe-full glory.

"Nyarlathotep" is yet another story that does not suffer for sparseness; the mystery of Nyarlathotep is what gives him some further degree of power, as does the mystery of how what appears to be a resurrected Pharaoh can have such extensive knowledge and understanding of modern science and psychology. The story rather cleverly alludes to the success of ancient wisdom and magic which would have flown directly in the face of the pompous materialist perspective existent among the "educated populous" at the time (and which, of course, still exists today). The rather backhanded rumination that lurks behind this narrative most certainly gives the work much more depth as the reader contemplates the possibilities of this very specific ancient power rising up from among the Egyptian sands.

Overall, I'd have to say that I do find many aspects of H.P. Lovecraft's work worth attention, not because of the prowess of his writing skill (which can be, at times, somewhat hit-and-miss), but because of what his work ultimately became. While I think sometimes he is subject to a bit of overblown hype (much like Edgar Allan Poe), that is not his issue and is really not his fault. I think I can also forgive Lovecraft to some degree because the openness of some of his narratives leaves the reader free to explore the darkness and manifest their own horror. Though sometimes it seems this technique falls through for him, the times it does work in his writing, he creates an atmosphere that is an immersive abyss of darkness.

Lovecraft's ability to ignite the dark imagination of so many people (and sometimes even create a genuine belief in the reality of his characters) is not an impact that can be easily ignored. While his "good guy" characters are often rather forgettable, the creatures that climb out from the Underworld in his tales inspire a mortified awe as the reader is shoved headfirst into the darkness with no discernible escape from its presence. Lovecraft launches his readers into the arms of a Darkness which is all-encompassing and all powerful and challenges his reader to confront and, perhaps, ultimately submit to its overwhelming presence. He has brought the face of the Abyss to life in the minds and the lives of the masses, so he is certainly due no small degree of credit for that success.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

Feminism?

2005-06-17T12:15:00.000-05:00

I find the twisted perspective of some women who currently call themselves feminists to be absolutely disgusting.

Although I have met some genuinely interesting feminists who are truly in favor of equality between men and women, many women who currently call themselves feminists are some of the most sexist people I have ever met. Most "feminists" of this variety consider women superior to men and waste no time telling you at every opportunity about the inferiority of the opposite sex. They work actively toward a culture of division and stereotype and work for greater stratification between genders rather than less. These "psuedo-feminists" actively strive to put men on the bottom of the totem pole, apparently for the purpose of "getting back" at the male gender for their "oppression" of the past (none of which was often actually experienced by them).

I cannot conceptualize strong enough language to express how grossly sick this brand of sexism makes me feel.

There are places in the world where feminism is still exceptionally relevant. There are many areas in which cultures have been groomed to exclude and demean women where women need to organize and be strong together in resisting tyranny to create a more equal playing field. There are places where religion is used as an excuse to reduce women to a slave class. And yes, some of these places do still exist in the United States and Europe. However, for the most part, women who are fortunate to exist in the United States are outside of the need to even bother with feminism in this form anymore, as, in most cases, women are actually given false advantage over men based solely upon their gender (as any man who has ever attempted to get a small business loan could likely express). Women have been given the Constitutional right to equal protection under the law, and those women who act in such a sexist manner toward men and still insist upon trying to push for feminine superiority rather than equality are totally blind and dumb to the damage they are doing to the image of the feminist on both a cultural and international level.

As an example of this, women in America currently have amazing power over the marketplace. Advertising from the past decade or so reflects this fact, as even manufacturers known for catering to formerly "male dominated" venues, such as Nike, began redirecting their advertising dollars toward catching the female eye. Women now are the center of the American universe, and are portrayed as Goddesses and "Super Moms" while men are often portrayed in television and other media as unintelligent, lazy, and single-minded (unless they happen to be gay). These stereotypes feed belief and preconceived notions that foster division, rather than unity, among the sexes. This exploitation of stereotypes wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't see so much evidence that so many people hold so firmly to the belief that these unfair perspectives were ultimately true.

Feminism is not a weapon to be used to take out one's aggression for being "damaged" by some heartless creature who happened to be male. It is not some ridiculous primate dominance game used to lord one's perceived superiority over another of their species. Feminism was, and should always be, about creating a society of equality and achievement based upon merit rather than an accident of X and Y chromosomes.

I would be grateful if every single female reading these words would take a long, hard look at herself and ask whether she was being unfair and sexist to the other half of the species. Sexism goes both ways, and it's well beyond time for women to recognize when they are being hypocritical and dividing, rather than uniting, the human species.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

Aesthetic Terrorism

2005-06-16T20:28:00.000-05:00

I have been away from this journal for a little while, due primarily to the fact that I have had a great deal of success in writing for my book, so I haven't had much need for the writing exercise of this journal. But I've hit a little bit of a dry spot, so I think it's time to write a little more here and see if I can get my brain working a little bit before I return to the exploits of Zeus, Apollo, Paris and Cassandra.

My thoughts today have been centered around a phrase coined by Rex Church regarding his art in particular: "Aesthetic Terrorism." I was recently introduced to this term when I visited his website for the first time, and have rather enjoyed rolling the two words in conjunction around in my head in relationship to not only Mr. Church's art, but also certain forms of art in general. I can only begin to scratch the surface of my thoughts here in this short article, so this train of thought is very likely to re-emerge at a later date somewhere in my journal, but I felt it was better to try to give at least an introduction to what I have recently found to be an intriguing perspective than to leave these thoughts rattling around in my brain unwritten.

I looked up the term "terrorism" for greater clarification and found this:

Terrorism: ter-ror-ism
Pronunciation: 'ter-&r-"i-z&m
Function: noun:
the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion.

Coercion is hopefully a familiar word to all reading this, but if not, know that it is essentially synonomous with the imposition of force.

In the wake particularly of the events of a few years ago on 11 September, the current connotation of this particular word has likely made this phrase relatively controversial. However, this is partially why I find this phrase intriguing, because it brings to mind a forced confrontation... an imposition of presence upon those who may not necessarily be ready or able to deal with the disturbing nature of what they are seeing. While many people like the thrill of scary movies, skydiving, or roller coasters, most people shrink from the induction of true terror that shakes the foundations of their psyche.

While they have not used this particular term, artists have been employing this practice for quite some time to reveal the darkness that humanity has endeavored to run from even as that darkness bears its face to the world. Probably Picasso's most disturbing work, Guernica, would be the most prominent example of this. Guernica is a gigantic painting which portrays the horror of the destruction of the Spanish city of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War. This massive piece is disturbing in its disjointedness, and to stand in its presence is to be exposed to the horror of death and wanton destruction. There is no romanticism of "heroic loss" here. Instead, the viewer standing in the presence of this incredible depiction of terror is inspired to feel as broken as the people and creatures the painting portrays. In all its mortifying honesty, this is an early example of aesthetic terrorism, a work that forces the viewer to stand at the mouth of death see the inherent terror of its result.

Of course, the world of visual art is not the only venue which can express this type of experience. Within this perspective, the concept of "Aural Terrorism" has also been popular for some time, as there have been a number of composers, particularly in the past half-century or so, who have pushed humanity toward the darkness of its nature in the construction of their work. Composers such as Alban Berg and Arnold Schoenberg used dissonance and a lack of tonal resolution to create the same result in the listener that Church and Picasso utilize in the visual world. Writers such as T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, and Peter Shaffer do not shrink from the imposition of "Literate Terrorism" in their work, either, imposing images upon the mind in their work that can keep the thinking mind up for days contemplating the horror that their writing reveals.

The most terrifying aspect of this entire perspective is probably that, unlike the scary movies and thrill rides, these artists do not typically express these horrifying images "for fun," so that people can have a thrilling little scream and then walk away from their faux fear into their lives and forget what they witnessed. The terror these works instill sticks with the person who experiences it, because it reveals a darkness that is much more present and more real than a possessed doll with a carving knife. These dreams step out into the daylight... They walk among the mass of humanity, and they force people to confront the darkness in their psyche. This terror is real and it is awe-full. In forcing this perspective into the open, the artist reveals the darkness and forces those with eyes to see and ears to hear to confront and move through it.

While terrorism in its most common connontation is viewed as a cowardly, heinous act, the act of "aesthetic terrorism" is an act which can force enrichment and growth. The encounter may be, at the very least, an uncomfortable confrontation for the experiencer, but the person who stares into its terror with open eyes will find himself wiser and enriched on the other side of his fear.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

H.D. and the Divine

2005-05-24T13:05:00.000-05:00

In this era of gross illiteracy and a complete lack of knowledge of even the most significant literary figures, I might be able to do a small service in my time writing in this "blog" by informing those who read these words of some of those figures I feel worth at least a passing level of acquaintance.

Hilda Doolittle is an example of just such an under-regarded figure in literary history. For those that know of her, the title of this entry will feel ridiculously redundant, as nearly all of Hilda Doolittle's work touched on the divine. She melded beautifully the religious tradition of cultures across the world into one masterful tapestry of connection to a greater divinity which each religion attempts to touch. By weaving together those universal symbols connected to what Jung referred to as the archetypes linked in the human "collective unconscious," H.D. unified eras, experiences and beliefs into one great timeless experience of "Now."

H.D. wrote her Opus, a trilogy of collected poems entitled The Walls Do Not Fall, Tribute to the Angels, and The Flowering of the Rod while residing in London among the devastation of German attacks in 1944. The first poem of her first collection is an example of this powerful conglomeration as she seamlessly melds the images of destruction with powerful religious symbolism. This pattern continues throughout her work as she flows seamlessly from the past to the present and from the mundane to the exceptional.

An excerpt of this work can be found online at:
http://www.legacy-project.org/lit/display.html?ID=97

H.D. sees the divine dwelling amongst the everyday. She sees ancient power shining through ruin and the exceptional peeking through the ordinary, and though the result isn't always hopeful or beautiful, the revelations are always profuse with awe. I find Hilda Doolittle worth reading because for me, she inspires fear, amazement, wonder and, most importantly, personal introspection and revelation. Though sometimes hard to follow due to her often non-linear narrative and her use of symbols that can be obscure, her work is most certainly worth the effort.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

Dark Places

2005-05-20T04:14:00.000-05:00

I have always been fascinated by the darkness.

There is something completely engrossing and simultaneously terrifying about being in the dark. As you stand at the edge of the unknown, looking out into the nothingness in front of you and wondering where your next step will lead or what will emerge, there is a shiver of electric anticipation that convulses through the body, even in places innately familiar in the daylight.

Within the darkness lurks the Alien, that deepest fear that gazes out through unfamiliar eyes (or, maybe more terrifying, through your own eyes) and watches, waiting for a chance to strike and take you from all that you know into a mortifying, whirling psychosis of change.

What little light is existent in the darkness is always enchanting. The moonlight that casts the world in a luminescent silver transforms the mundane into the magical. The candle's light flickers wildly, resisting with stubborn tenacity the embrace of the darkness that surrounds it. Even the trembling beam of a flashlight slicing through the blackness implies an impending menace gazing out just beyond the light's reach.

The darkness, to Jung, was often a symbol of the the unconscious and primal mind; the Shadow. It is that amorphous creature that speaks out of the obscurity. In Schaffer's book, Equus, it is that most terrifying beast of primal, guttural worship that modern man shrinks from and, in doing so, shrinks into an empty shell.

Moving through this darkness rather than shrinking from it results in an illumination and depth of personality that can only come from the other side of this type of experience. The ancient Greeks found transformation could result from seclusion into the suspended silence of the darkness underground, where they prepared for weeks for the moment of illumination that would come when they emerged into the presence of the gods at the Oracle, and countless tales from various mythologies from areas such as ancient Greece, Egypt and Sumer speak of Gods and men who take horrifying journeys into the darkness of the unknown to confront terrifying obstacles only to come around at the end a wiser and richer person.

My experiences with the darkness have been similarly transformative. While in the sacrosanct suspension of the blackness, whether it be alone in the darkness outside, confronting fears of what watches me from behind the nearest tree or bush, or confronting the vast mysteries and fear existant within the "inner space" of my own psyche, the darkness has transformed me. And I am better for it.

Worthy books about confronting the darkness:
In the Dark Places of Wisdom by Peter Kingsley
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski
Equus by Peter Shaffer

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

"Publishability"

2005-05-12T22:42:00.000-05:00

I have spent the last six months or so getting myself buried in writing a book. My excuse for jumping into this maddening mess is that writing a full work is required for graduation with honors from the college I attend, but I am also planning on having the book successfully published and marketed, which is why I opted to work on a novel rather than a book of criticism or poetry.

Also, to be honest, a part of me wants to know if I can actually do it.

My novel is centered around the Trojan War, specifically around some of the main characters and Gods most involved in that drama. Since I didn't simply want to rewrite The Iliad, I have "rewritten history" a little bit in a couple of places and refocused some of the main conflict not upon the humans entrenched in the war, but I instead chose to focus upon why the Gods would allow such a thing to happen, ignoring the fact that much criticism and myth emphasizes the childishness and pettiness of the Gods. I just can't accept the supposition that such squabbling, sniveling creatures could be believable as creators and caretakers of humanity. I don't want them to be perfect, but I certainly don't want them to be so childish, either.

While my story is actually coming along relatively nicely (I am almost 100 pages in, writing roughly part-time), I have been continually plagued by concern about my book as a product. I am worried I'll write five hundred pages and submit the work to an agent or publisher who will read the first twenty pages (if that) and say, "No one gives a damn anymore about what happened to some stupid people three thousand years ago. Write something about an angsty teenager on prozac with a psychotic mother who is addicted to the written word and killed her boyfriend in a fit of jealousy and maybe we'll talk to you."

However, I do find some consolation in that history seems to be experiencing a resurgence in public interest... and not just in World War II documentaries, either. The success of reccent films based on more distant historical dates such as Troy and Kingdom of Heaven offer me a bit of solace that history isn't dead in the hearts of all people. I have contemplated a European release as well, as I have been informed by some friends "Across the Pond" that ancient history (and especially ancient Greece) is still very much alive in the interest of much of the European public.

When I look at the book, I am writing about that which appeals to people on the most visceral level... the intracacies and complexities of relationships, love, the burden of responsibility for a people or race, and the danger of a gluttonous greed for power. As I read ancient texts, I am always struck by how very little has changed over such a great span of time, and I am hoping that my work is eloquent enough to make these characters come alive and be identifiable to a modern audience.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

"Sanctity" Update

2005-04-13T20:28:00.000-05:00

As I suspected, the ban on gay marriage passed overwhelmingly, in spite of the fact that it is grossly unconstitutional. I thought I'd seen the height of disgusting where rape of the constitution was concerned. I guess I need to raise my standards a little.

Do you think that I'm maybe just a little tired of hearing about narrow-minded people trying to tell other people how to live their life based upon a belief system that other person may not care about? Nah. I probably just got up on the wrong side of the bed today or something.

Sadder still, however, is the fact that those displeased with the results (which very obviously infringe upon the civil rights of a significant portion of the population, albeit a minority) have been rather uniformly restrained from voicing their opinions. A significant example of this was recently publicized on our local news station. This station reported that a webmaster of a small city's website was fired after he posted an editorial voicing his opposition to the ban. His editorial was, of course, removed from the site as well.

I can understand that the editorial would have to be moved if he had put it someplace inappropriate, such as plastering it across the site's main page, but the whole idea that his opposition was completely stifled just sat badly with me and left a sour taste in my mouth. I certainly hope that this isn't indicative of a resurging trend towards strangling dissenting opinion. I realize people in this area of the country are particularly inclined to fear that which they do not understand, but I am constantly amazed that they continually wave the flag and tout their "patriotism" while simultaneously denying people rights they are entitled to under the Constitution of the country they love. It seems so ludicrously hypocritical to me.

Incidentally, I think this will be the last "tirade entry" for a while. While I do enjoy encouraging critical thought in others and challenging people to think "outside the box," I don't want to offer you all the impression that I am "down" on society or overly cynical. It just happens that there have been a number of issues in the past few weeks that caught my attention and issues which I felt were worth commenting on. You will likely see more commentaries such as these at a later time, but I don't want my entire online journal to sound like an angsty teenager constantly harping on the injustice of "the system." That is so not my style!! ^_^

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

The "Sanctity" of Marriage

2005-04-03T05:11:00.000-05:00

This is beyond amazing to me.

In two days, this state is going to be voting on whether or not an amendment will be passed prohibiting gay marriage here. Of course it will pass, because this state is rife with people frightened of anything that exists outside of their dogmatic sphere. I know that, and I have come to terms with this fact.

But I was struck with the incredible irony of the entire situation as I watched a piece of the conservative propaganda on television this evening aired under the guise of a "public service message." Their big catch phrase around here and across the country has been, "protect the sanctity of marriage."

Uhm... Excuse me... What!?

I'm sorry, but "sanctity" and "marriage" have been oxymorons for a number of decades now. You cannot call marriage sacrosanct when your country already has a divorce rate greater than 60%. The sanctity of the rite is pretty much shot to hell when you have more people getting divorced than getting married, and anyone who is hypocritical enough to believe that marriage is still perfectly sacred with that fact staring them in the face but believes that it will be destroyed because Jennifer and Joan want to get married are completely blind.

If you want to return sanctity to marriage, I suggest that instead of pushing a particular social group out of eligibility, you push to make it harder to get a divorce or require more effort to become married in the first place. Attempting to restrict two people who love one another from making a formal commitment based upon that love while ignoring the fact that marriage is already treated like a Las Vegas indulgence to be shaken off like a hangover on Monday blatantly spits in the face of the sanctity of the rite. Two people of the same gender who want to get married can do no more damage to marriage than has already been done by a plethora of irresponsible heterosexual couples.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

McCarthyism

2005-03-17T10:20:00.000-06:00

My fiancee and I watched about two hours' worth of the recent inquisition of major league baseball players. I listened as parents and experts spoke of the pressure put on young players not by major league players, but by other players, recruiters and coaches to "bulk up" in order to achieve more and have hope of achieving professional success.

And yet, rather than blaming those who appear to be really at fault, I have a deja vu moment when it becomes the major league players' turn to testify. The congressional panel pressures the players present to "name names" of those who have committed the sin of steroid abuse, and the players ardently refuse to throw friends and respected peers into the limelight. Some even face charges for using chemicals in the past that are illegal now, but were not against the rules at the time they were consumed (Mark McGuire faces the possibility of disciplinary penalties for using Andro to "bulk up," in spite of the fact he quit using the substance in 1999, citing the fact that he didn't want to become a spokesman for the product, five years before it became against the rules to use the substance).

All of this song and dance just to get a couple more names to add to the list. Does this sound hauntingly familiar to anyone else?

Now, I am not saying these people are altruistic, shining examples of love and charity. I think baseball players as a whole are grossly overpaid and many are prima donnas in realms that would put the vainest of actresses to shame. But I bristle whenever I see a misappropriation of blame on such a massive scale, just because the name "Mark McGuire" or "Sammy Sosa" is more recognizable than "Coach Joe Brown" and will sell about a million more papers or get people to turn on their TVs with much greater frequency. A witch hunt fixes absolutely nothing, and only causes a proliferation of suspicion and hysteria. If no one is willing to place blame where blame is actually due, then the problem will only grow.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

Decisions, Decisions...

2005-03-04T18:38:00.000-06:00

I've spent the past week or so contemplating what I want to do with this little corner of the web, and haven't made much progress thus far deciding anything yet (which should not be a huge surprise to those who know me well). I've started and then walked away from a number of posts that just turned out feeling rather trite and not worth anyone's time (they were barely worth my own).

But good grief, I finally realized, why worry so much about a bloody theme? If the late twentieth century taught us anything, it pointed out that sometimes art can exist just fine and dandy when in existence for its own sake rather than always being so damned concerned about actually "saying something." Sometimes, beauty, meaning, and power can even lie hiding within things that don't initially appear to mean too much. After all, sometimes even a comic book super hero can be poignant.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson

Beginnings

2005-02-27T19:05:00.000-06:00

Well, I figured I may as well jump on the bandwagon and get myself an online journal, too. I've always had a hard time with journaling, but maybe if I have something that people have to look at, I'll actually get my butt in gear and do something with it. It'll also keep me up to par with my writing skills, even in the off time between English classes. And an English professor at Concordia once told me that the writing we do for ourselves is almost always better than the writing we do for others. So maybe I'll actually write something stellar here that will be worth using somewhere else. Who knows? May as well give it a shot and see where it goes.

Copyright 2005 S.L. Olson