Holy Goofs Part 1

Happy Thanksgiving to all you navel gazers out there, American and non-American alike.  I’ve been thinking about a vague promise I made sometime ago to post something on roads and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t really have anything terribly interesting to say on that subject at this point in time.  I have come up with a somewhat experimental and, I hope, satisfactory alternative.  Earlier this year I gave a conference paper on the characters Dean Moriarty and Raoul Duke as American versions of the divine idiot.  Both were characters who spent lots of time on the road and the product of real-life minds who themselves were rather well-travelled.  Over the next few days I’m going to post the text that I spoke from.  Questions, rants and objections in response to my thoughts are welcome.  Do keep in mind that this represents me just beginning to flesh out an idea that could potentially be much larger.  It could also be nonsense.  Enjoy.  (n.b. I’ve done my best to include my footnotes in this posting in a way that will enable readers to navigate from the text to the citation if they wish to do so.  My works cited and works consulted lists will make up part of the final posting)

Holy Goofs: Dean Moriarty and Raoul Duke, Two Holy American Idiots

Jack Kerouac’s depiction of Neal Cassady as Dean Moriarty and Hunter S. Thompson’s autobiographical alter ego, Raoul Duke have aroused interest and debate since they first greeted readers from the pages of On the Road (1957) and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971). While part of their continuing popularity lies, at least among undergraduates and adolescents, in their rebellious indulgence of excessive appetites and extreme exercise of personal freedom, Moriarty and Duke are more than drug- and drink-fuelled iconoclasts driving at high speed across the American landscape. Instead, closer consideration of Duke and Moriarty on their own and as a pair reveals that they are in fact two American examples of the holy fool, divine idiot or, as Dean is branded in Kerouac’s book, “the HOLY GOOF.”¹

In an insightful 2003 article entitled “Holy Fools, Secular Saints, and Illiterate Saviours in American Literature and Popular Culture” Dana Heller argues “that the divine idiot in American cultural history is an overlooked site of contestation and meaning production in our myths of nation, a chiasmatic figure who occupies the in-between spaces where U.S. cultural authority is fought over, negotiated, and renegotiated.”² By offering an examination of the pair as holy fools whose actions and behaviour question core American values and myths my comments seek to redress a small portion of the oversight Heller identifies. Though both Dean and Duke have a strong basis in the biographical realities of the men on which they were modelled they remain the fictionalised creations of their authors. As a result, their alignment with defining American myths and assumption of the fool’s role begins to emerges as a potentially powerful a means of exploring and critiquing the United States through which they move.

That Dean Moriarty and Raoul Duke are consciously aligned with totemic American figures and myths is, perhaps, more rapidly apparent, than their status as holy fools of an American stripe. Recounting his first impressions of Dean, Sal Paradise the narrator of On the Road, reveals “My first impression of Dean was of a young Gene Autry – trim, thin-hipped, blue-eyed, with a real Oklahoma accent – a sideburned hero of the snowy west.”³ Though readers may rightly question how much of a hero this former “jailkid” may actually be, the comparison with Gene Autry and his description as a western hero firmly aligns Dean with that archetypal hero of the American west and rugged individual freedom, the cowboy.⁴ Not only does the fact that Dean has actually spent time working as a cowhand further cement his position at a crossroads between American myths and realities, but a brief look at this same description in the infamous scroll version of the novel which omits the phrase “a sideburned hero of the west” suggests that in addition to substituting the name Dean Moriarty for Neal Cassady Kerouac sought a greater emphasis of Dean’s mythical standing.⁵ While later events and Dean’s propensity to what might be considered stunning selfishness may reveal the character as an ambivalent hero at best, his alignment with mythical American figures remains uncontested during his peregrinations with Sal Paradise. In fact, it is only by recognising Dean’s status as a holy fool that the continuing valorisation of Dean can be reconciled with Sal’s candid admission that Dean “was a con-man. . . .”⁶

Like Dean, Hunter S. Thompson’s Raoul Duke quickly emerges as a figure aligned in some way with defining American myths. Not only is the subtitle of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to Heart of the American Dream heavily suggestive of the possibility that in Duke readers encounter a figure standing at a point of intersection between American myths and realities but, like Dean, he is quickly connected to a particular figure or trope in the form of the rags-to-riches individual of the Alger mythos. As Duke tries to explain to readers and himself why, at the book’s outset, he is speeding toward Las Vegas with a car full of drugs he asks: “But what was the story? Nobody had bothered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own. Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Horatio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas.”⁷ Where Moriarty’s status as an ambivalent American hero emerges alongside the insistence that he embodies the cowboy archetype, Duke’s association with the nation’s defining myths in the form of the American Dream and Horatio Alger are destabilised from the outset. That being said, though Duke does confound reader expectations of what it means to be a Horatio Alger in search of the American Dream achieving massive inebriation rather than impressive wealth and social achievement, at the narrative’s close Duke can still insist “I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger . . . A Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.”⁸ As with Dean Moriarty, in order to reconcile Duke’s status as what Heller describes as a “chiasmatic figure,” one standing between more conventional American myths and values with his extreme, even criminal behaviour it is necessary to consider his role as an American type of the holy fool.

While it is not possible in an argument of such brevity to adequately survey the historical, social and literary evolutions of fools, divine or otherwise, it is worth mentioning that the tradition of such figures is both widespread and of significant longevity. Though Dean and Duke are not divine madmen seeking to reconcile the temporal world with a spiritual Christian order there is good reason to view them as American outgrowths of a tradition that stretches at least as far back as Paul’s commentary on divine foolishness in 1 Corinthians 1:25 where it is written “Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men.” John Saward helps to sum up nicely the long story of divine foolishness that includes this verse with his assessment that “The holy fool is a commonly encountered figure in the folklore of many cultures and religions. In Jewish-Christian tradition perhaps the earliest example of a religious form of folly is the ‘symbolic action’ of the prophet, the strange, sometimes quite outrageous form of behaviour imposed upon him by the Lord to shock the people into perceiving the truth of their situation.”⁹ Moriarty and Duke may not be called upon to behave as they do by the Lord, but I would like to suggest that just as their more devout forebears they do have the capability to startle others into new channels of perception.

Significantly it is possible to view both of these characters as clownish versions of the fool rather than simple madmen; agents who pursue their desires and adhere to certain values with such intensity that, in the final estimation, their apparent recklessness and idiocy undermines the assumed good-sense of more conventional behaviours. Not only does “holy lightning” flash from Dean who is elsewhere described as “having the energy of a new kind of American Saint” but, at one point we are informed that in its most mature form Dean’s role of as a fool assumes the form of a “W.C. Fields saintliness.”¹⁰ Descriptions such as these emphasise the inseparability of Dean’s Beat saintliness from his role as a ragged clown. As a holy goof he may play a serious role, but it is not one of measured restraint or even careful argument being characterised instead by an intense spiritual energy and clownish kineticism. Nor does Dean achieve the status he does because he rejects the values of the nation and generation he plays jester to. Stephen Llano aptly describes what motivates Moriarty and what kind of figure he becomes with the words “Dean, through his desire to fully enact American values, tries to push them beyond their own logical extreme. Dean is trying to be too American and in doing so he becomes a clown and presents a powerful critique of capitalist society.”¹¹

1Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Penguin Modern Classics, intro. Ann Charters (London: Penguin Books, 2000) 176.

2 Dana Heller, “Holy Fools, Secular Saints, and Illiterate Saviours in American Literature and Popular Culture,” CLCWeb: Comparitive Literature and Culture, ed. Benton Jay Komin 5.3 (2003), 24 Nov. 2008 , <http://docs.lib.purdue.edu/clcweb/vol5/iss3> .

3 Kerouac, 2000, 4.

4 Kerouac, 2000, 3.

5 Jack Kerouac, On the Road:The Original Scroll, Penguin Modern Classics, ed. Howard Cunnell (London: Penguin Books, 2008) 110.

6Kerouac, 2000, 6.

7 Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, Flamingo Modern Classics (London: Flamingon, 1993) 12.

8 Thompson, 204.

9 John Saward, Perfect Fools: Folly for Christ’s Sake in Catholic and Orthodox Spirituality (Oxford: OUP, 1980) 1.

10 Kerouac, 2000, 6, 35, 109.

11 Stephen Llano, “The Clown as Social Critic: Kerouac’s Vision,” Clowns, Fools and Picaros: Popular Forms in Theatre, Fiction and Film, ed David Robb (Amsterdam-New York, 2007) 202.

 

Soul Food

If you know me or  you’ve been more than the most occasional visitor to my blog you’ll know that I take food pretty seriously.  I don’t just love to eat (and yes, I am working on that, thank you very much) but I love to be in the kitchen cooking.  Unlike some people I know I enjoy shopping for food and choosing ingredients whether I’m doing so at an independent/speciality retailer or the nearest supermarket.  When I go to a restaurant I love it if I can see the pass or, better yet, through the pass into the kitchen.  Conversations about food thrill me; I often start mentally planning my evening meal when I’m having my first cup of tea or coffee in the morning.  I have a small notebook where I can record the steps of successful gastronomical experiments and new recipes  (they have to prove more than just edible and sufficiently complex to make it into the book) and I’ll soon be enrolling for my second stint at a nearby culinary school.  Once I even spent the afternoon with a two-man camera crew in my house filming me cook and talk about food as part of an audition process for a TV cooking competition.   More examples of just how food-focussed I am could be added to the list, but I think you get the picture; I’d have a hard time proving anyone who called me food obsessed wrong.

While I’m not denying that I enjoy food for its own sake I don’t spend the time thinking about and preparing food that I do just because I’m some kind of glutton.  At this point, I know some of my readers will be raising their eyebrows with incredulity.  Surely my love of all things cookery is just the outgrowth of a tasty, belt-busting hobby, right?  I don’t think the answer is that simple.

When I was growing up in the United States there was always plenty to eat as the familiar stereotype suggests.  At holidays and other gatherings of friends and families the amounts of food on offer were even more ludicrous.  In this respect my experiences were fairly typical of most middle-class Americans of my age.  What wasn’t so typical was the fact that there were actually some very good cooks preparing that food and that some of the people eating it had rather discerning palettes.  While this meant that I did learn to indulge my propensity to pile more food on my plate than I needed, eat it all and go back for more, I also absorbed some unarticulated sense that nice food and good ingredients were special things to be respected and shared.  Calorie content and the possibility of processed cheese being melted over a dish weren’t, in other words, my only criteria for evaluating the worth of a meal.

Out of all the amateur chefs in my family my father and my maternal grandmother who had the most influence on my own culinary aspirations as wells as my attitudes toward cooking for and feeding myself and others.  In certain respects my grandmother was a very different kind of chef from my father.  She was from West Virginia and some of my earlier memories involve her making what would have been a fantastic roast beef and telling an entirely credulous 5 year old Omphaloskeptic that it was old hound dog.  At about the same time I can remember standing on a stool next her stove while she made pancakes on her aged cast iron skillet, teaching me how to recognise a frequency and pattern of bubbles on the uncooked face of the cakes that meant they were perfectly cooked on the other and ready for flipping.  Another time she mistook an electrical lead she’d left in a slow cooker for a snake that had somehow invaded her soup but that, I think, is a story for a different post.

From my father, most obviously, I inherited a love of grilling and barbecuing.  He also taught me to go ahead and be adventurous in the kitchen, to combine ingredients in unexpected ways because the results could be special.  As a necessary caveat to that he also helped me realise that a certain amount of common sense and basic knowledge of flavour combinations should always be exercised when experimenting with a new recipe.  When I was 7, possibly 8, I fancied myself something of an amateur cocktail maker.  This meant I used to add things to tomato juice.  With a dash of lemon juice, an olive or two, perhaps some Worcester sauce I was, essentially, making myself virgin marys.

One weekend afternoon there was some series of ingredients I had lined up on the counter when my father walked into the kitchen as I happily added a pinch of this and dash of that to my tumbler of tomato juice.  He watched me for a while and when I picked up the Tabasco sauce and shook it once, twice, three times he grabbed my hand before I did it again.  “That’s hot,” he warned.  I was indignant and added more anyway.  He just looked at me.   Then I went to fridge for the crown jewel in my achievement, or so I thought, a nice sweet gherkin.  The jar was empty.  I was distraught. Then I realized there was still plenty of sweet gherkin juice left in the jar.

I had an idea.

Taking the jar back to the counter I began to unscrew the lid.  My father saw what was transpiring and suggested something along the lines of “pickle juice in tomato juice with lots of Tabasco will taste very bad.  It might make you feel sick.”  Looking him square in the eye I added a healthy dash any way.  For good measure I then dribbled just a bit more into my glass.  Then I picked up a spoon, stirred my drink, raised my glass to my lips, took a very large mouthful and swallowed.

At first nothing happened.  Then my throat began to burn.  My tongue and lips burst into flame.  The sheer saltiness of the drink made my stomach hurt.  Then, as the more immediate effects of the hot sauce began to fade the sweet pickle juice made an appearance.  Combined with the all the other flavours in my mouth and the fact that some of my taste-buds had just suffered a death by fire it tasted like nothing other than the flavour left in your mouth after a particularly productive bout of vomiting.  I stood there, eyeing my glass and what was left of my drink in what I hoped was a nonchalant way and heard my father observe “some ingredients don’t go with others even if you like them.  Make sure you clean up.”  He left and I was able to pour the rest of my drink down the sink but not before trying to get my younger sister to imbibe.

Such memories aside I learned something even more important about food from both by grandmother and father.  It’s a lesson that others helped teach me and that has been reinforced many times over.  At it’s best food is about more than good flavours and nice ingredients.  The best meals I’ve ever had have all involved great dishes, but those same dishes haven’t been the stars of the show.  Instead they were a vital accompaniment to the main attraction like the orchestra at an opera, or the soundtrack to a film.

As humans we all have to eat.  There’s no getting around it.  What isn’t always the case is that the necessary occasion of eating becomes  an opportunity for social interaction and sharing.  Think about this the next time you walk past a McDonald’s or a Burger King and see people seated on the stools facing out the window to the the street chewing forlornly on their meal deals and I think you’ll get an idea of what I mean.  When we eat we are engaged in an unavoidable act that we all have to practice from time to time, an act that can be accomplished in utilitarian isolation or, if we’re lucky, in the company of friends or family providing a sense of respite and refuge.

I’ve thought about this a good deal and I’m not sure that I can explain why I believe that in the right circumstances a good meal can provide the space for a kind of conversation and mutual recognition that doesn’t happen say, over a few drinks, or a game of bridge.  It’s something I can sense more than something I can see or know.  Partly I think it has to do with pace.   To a greater degree, I think that it stems from the fact that we’re engaging in a basic, fundamental action that neither we, nor the other animals on our planet, can avoid.  When we eat some ancient part of us recognises that we are vulnerable, that we are lucky to have food in front of us.  Though it isn’t something that occurs to us at a conscious level, when we have good food, when we have enough of it and when we have someone or some group of people we care about to share it with, that same part of us fully relaxes.  It tells us that life is good, that we are lucky and that we should make the most of the meal and bonds we share in the time we have to share them.

I think that’s why I like to have good meals with the people I care about whether at home or out.  I’ve found that if I’m cooking for myself alone I have a hard time getting motivated to do much more than make a sandwich or bake a potato with some carrots.  I also think that it’s part of the reason I like to cook so much.  Sure the alchemy of turning a pile of unwashed, unprepared ingredients into an attractive meal is great.  At the same time, cooking also gives me the opportunity to spend just a little bit more time in that realm of subconscious reflection I’ve posited.  If I’m really lucky I might be able to help the people I’m feeding join me there when we all sit down together at the table.

The Rise of the Machines and How I Crushed Them

Over the past few days I haven’t had much luck with certain bits of technology that I rely on rather heavily.  For reasons that may become clear my eyes currently feel as if they have the texture of sandpaper meaning this may be a short post indeed.  We’ll see.

It all started on Saturday when my mobile phone received a good soaking after I’d been out in the torrential rain.  It switched itself off and stayed that way.  Having experienced this problem before, however, I was not worried.  I removed the phone’s battery and SIM card, placed them in a warm place and, along with the phone, gave them some time to dry out.  My attempts at telephonic dessication seemed to have worked as by Sunday the phone could be switched off and on again.  Rather than allowing me to make calls or send texts, however, all that the phone would do while switched on was display the demand “Insert SIM.”  I had inserted the SIM and I have to say that I found my cheap, dated mobile’s lack of courtesy offensive and infuriating.

If you’re thinking something along the lines of “this doesn’t sound like such a big deal,” you’re probably right.  The prospect of having to go through the hassle of getting a new SIM and a new number or having the old number transferred was just frustrating me.  My previous phone and card inexplicably self-destructed back in July and despite diligent backups to various devices and numerous e-mails I’m still having occassional trouble getting in touch with people and people continue, or so they tell me, to phone the old number.  Also, because I have a pay-as-you-go phone (I don’t need and can’t really justify the expense of a contract phone as well as having been burned savagely by my last contract) it’s not that straight forward to get a new SIM and transfer my old number.  I don’t get paid until tomorrow so I was putting off making any calls or ordering a new card.

About an hour ago I decided to have one last go at reassembling my phone and, much to my surprise, it now works absolutely fine.  I’m not sure how or why it happened.  Perhaps it has something to do with the threats of graphic violence I’ve been muttering shouting at my laptop since about 5pm yesterday evening as I attempted to bring an end to the worst act of rebellion any one of my machines has ever subjected me to.  I’ve had to devote just over 16 of my last 18 waking hours to this and for most of today I thought I was fighting a losing battle.  I even got out of bed at 1am this morning to spend two bleary-eyed and fizzy-headed hours pushing buttons and cursing softly while listening to the soothing strains of a snoring spaniel.  “So,” you might interject “what precisely was the problem?”

Somehow my computer was infected with a Trojan Horse that pretends to be an anti-viral programme, flashes all sorts of false warnings up about non-existent infections and constantly directs the user to a website purporting to sell the updates necessary to fix this problem.  The longer you try to ignore these messages the more frequent and numerous they become.  It stops you from opening any other files of any type on your computer and renders any anti-virus or anti-spyware software already present about as much use as tits  on a boar.  As if that’s not enough if you continue to refuse to provide whoever is behind this programme with credit card details it then begins to open up windows displaying websites offering viagra and other prescription drugs.  Then it starts to get really nasty by directing you to pornography and bombarding you with so many warnings, adverts and promises of unspeakable filth that you can’t even check your e-mail.  I’d name this particular Trojan code but, like some characters in a book I once read who were afraid to pronounce the name of an evil wizard, I fear that doing so will somehow allow its wrath to be revisited upon me.

My encounter with this virus was frustrating and frightening for a few main reasons.  First, I am incredibly careful about what you might consider my computer’s hygiene.  I keep all my malware and firewall protection updated, conduct frequent scans and I am scrupulous about what I will view or download via the internet as well as my inbox.  I’m pretty sure I worked out where I picked this infection up, but I can’t prove it.  I won’t be visiting that site again.  Second, I need my computer on a daily basis to do my job.  I don’t have an office at the university where I teach and I live over an hour away.  Lesson plans and notes can be made with pen and paper.  When I read I use a physical text about 75% of the time.  Those aspects of my job wouldn’t be affected disastrously if my laptop suddenly turned into a piece of junk.  That being said, I tend to get between 20 and 30 e-mail a day that need some sort of response.  I often need to send files to people, or download files they’ve sent to me.  Electronic journals from the library play a big part in what I do as does the expediency of being able to search through the catalogue before visiting the place.  With a computer that wouldn’t allow me to open my own files, check my e-mail, download files or safely send them to others my days would grind to a halt.  That prospect was freaking me out.

On top of these two legitimate reasons for anger over my computing present and despair regarding my computing future I also noticed a third aspect of the the situation that was bothering me.  This Trojan Horse virus I’d picked up was, in terms of its presentation, dumb and unspectacular.  From what I gather plenty of people have been taken in by this scam, but when I started to get warnings from an anti-virus suite I knew I’d never downloaded I new something was up.  This led me to discover that my actual software had been disabled and allowed me to start addressing the problem before it reached its worst thereby saving myself some time in the end.  The fact that this piece of malicious programming was so blatant in its arrival but so powerful once on my machine really pissed me off.

What pissed me off even more was its complete lack of what I’d call the Hollywood factor.  Given the amount of time I spend on my computer and the things I do with it it’s probably surprising I’d gone as long as I did without getting a serious virus.  Part of me always knew it was very likely that yesterday was inevitable.  Without realising it I’d always imagined that if and when my computer was infected I’d wind up with some sort of stunning visual confirmation of the fact as the hacker or hackers behind the virus taunted me with their power and presence.  So throughout my cursing at my computer for the better part of the last 24 hours I kept expecting to see a skull and crossbones like the one that accompanies Jeff Goldblum’s viral hack of the extraterrestrials’ computer system in Independence Day.  Instead I kept getting poorly spelled warnings about non-existent threats, offers of viagra and pornographic pictures that, while offensive, weren’t threatening.

Don’t misunderstand me.  I’m glad that I was able to recognise and solve this problem.  I’m happy that I’m not going to have to come up with a way of replacing my laptop.  I just think it might have been a bit more fun had there been some sort of coded apparition that I could have banished with a final keystroke as I quelled the destructive rebellion that almost rendered my computer entirely useless.  Then I could have felt more like some sort of conquering warlord of the technological realm.  Instead I feel like an anal retentive button pusher. . .

. . . I’m also worried that a new washer-dryer will be delivered to my house tomorrow.  It will be too big for me to beat into submission.

I Am Susan Boyle

Earlier this month I mentioned my sceptical thoughts on dream interpretation as part of post inspired by a dream I’d had the night before.  At the time I considered mentioning one of the most vivid, and by far the strangest dream I’ve ever had.  I refrained from doing so because it seemed a bit beside the point, but I think the time has now come for me to share the story.  It all happened in June of this year. . .

My wife and I were making a trip to visit some of my family in Alabama.  As we had an extremely early flight from Gatwick we drove up the day before and stayed in a hotel.  Not only did this mean we didn’t have to leave home at something like 2am the day of our flight, but it also meant we were able to use the hotel swimming pool and just enjoy being isolated in our own little bubble together without any of our usual responsibilities.  It was nice to be able to relax before having to go deal with the lovely set of procedures that are such an integral part of air travel these days.

At any rate, we retired early in the evening and both fell quickly asleep.  A few hours later I woke up in a very dark room, feeling very confused about where I was, what I was doing and what had been happening.  As an awareness of just what had been going on in my sleeping head dawned on me I emitted a half-shouted “Oh. . . No!” which brought my wife fully awake in a state of panic.  When I told the reason for my sudden waking and speaking she laughed just about as loud and as long as I’d ever heard her laugh.  She was convulsed.

You see, I’d been dreaming that I was Susan Boyle the former X-Factor contestant.  The fact that I don’t enjoy that programme and that, as far as I can remember, I’ve never dreamed to be another publicly visible person would, one might think, combine with the fact that SuBo is a woman to make her an unlikely character for my sleeping brain to identify with.  Apparently that’s not the case.  What was even stranger about the whole thing was that in my dream I wasn’t Susan Boyle on stage performing to fans, or being interviewed by the press.   No, I was a barefoot Susan Boyle on the run from the law on a purple mobility scooter.

Apparently I was about to be sectioned as mentally ill and, I’d taken to the streets with the mobility scooter and a portable radio in the hopes of making it the station ahead of the woman-hunt being reported on.  I knew it was unlikely I’d be able to evade police capture and that I’d probably be best off turning myself in, but I thought I’d have a go.  Besides, part of me was enjoying really opening up the throttle on my purple mobility aide and tearing up the pavement at speeds in excess of 15 miles an hour.

After a couple of close shaves with officers on foot and reports that the authorities had a good idea of this Susan Boyle’s general location and were tightening their net I realised I had no shoes.  No shoes, according to First Great Western policy, meant no train ride so I was forced to return to my pebble-dashed bungalow where I donned a pair of sensible flat-soled shoes before hearing that all train stations were now under observation of the police as well as ports, bus stations and airports.  Escape was hopeless.  At that point I hopped back on my scooter, drove straight the station, turned myself in to a group of officers and woke up.

Even as I told my wife of this dream on that June night I saw the funny side of it and couldn’t help but laugh along with her.  At the same time I still cannot begin to comprehend what strange, twisted part of my psyche cooked that dream up.  In fact, though I wouldn’t call it a nightmare, it felt so unlike any other dream I can remember having I feel like there should be some third label I could apply to it with greater accuracy.  ‘Sleeping hallucination’ seems about right to me given how vivid the dream was and the fact that never once did I question my identity as a middle-aged Scottish woman with dreams of being a famous singing star.

At this point enough people have heard this bizarre story that, in turn, I’ve heard all the obvious and often crude jokes of a psychiatric and psychoanalytic bent about what it reveals about me.  I’m not worried about whether the dream had some deeper meaning but a big part of me still considers the entire experience and can only respond with a shake of the head and wonder “What the hell was that all about anyway?”

Still, at least I didn’t dream I was Louis Walsh.

I Have No Microwave

But I do have popping corn.  It was purchased earlier today at the bargain price of 51 pence.   I know it’s just a bag of dried kernels, but that still seems pretty reasonable to me as one small bag will last me a few months at least and will produce a surprising amount of one of my favourite crunchy treats.  The thing is, I’m not sure I’m allowed to make the stuff, as I normally do, by heating it in a pain with a bit of oil.

According to the pack my popping corn can be popped by using a popcorn machine in accordance with the manufacturers instructions.  Alternatively there’s a fairly detailed list of steps telling me how to turn the kernels inside out using a microwave which I do not have.  No third option is given.  Does this mean that by popping my corn the old fashioned way I risk putting an eye out or setting the house ablaze?  Will the technique produce potent carcinogens that microwaves and air poppers don’t.  Will I choke on my popcorn and think of Mr Bush and his pretzel as I slowly lose consciousness?

Judging by the results so far I don’t need to worry about any of these possibilities.  I does strike me as odd at that on a bag of popping corn no mention is made of how to use a pan and a stove to cook the stuff.  I have no microwave and no need for one.  Surely the people who use their microwaves to pop their corn buy those special packets of microwave popcorn anyway. . .

This posting probably represents the deepest thoughts I’ve had so far today.  Still, I did manage to unblock the sink upstairs. . .

Rainy Days and Red Mullet

One of my favourite things to do on a Saturday morning is to pay an early visit to my fishmonger.  I’ve never been very good at sleeping in and doing so gives me a chance to get out of the house rather than disturbing my slumbering wife and dogs.  Going early also means I get my choice of the day’s stock and that the fishmonger is happy to chat about the fish on offer in greater detail and at greater length than he would be able or inclined to do so later in the day.  Simply put my hyperactive inability to sleep allows me to indulge my obsession with food.

The trip I made this morning was relatively late as  didn’t get to the shop until almost 8.13.  I did manage to procure some beautiful red mullet which will be steamed and served drizzled with a sizzling scallion and ginger sauce.  When I left to visit the fishmonger I didn’t have any idea what kind of fish I’d buy, but I knew it would be something good and fresh.  My three mullet were caught from a day-boat out of Looe, Cornwall and haven’t been out of the sea much more than 12 hours at this point.  I always expect good things from this particular establishment.  This morning I was somewhat surprised by their relatively narrow selection of fish.

Readers based here in the UK will know all about the heavy rains and high winds we’ve been having.  This has meant, so the fishmonger informs me, that very few of the small fishing boats have been able to make it out to sea and get any productive fishing done.  Because it’s the smaller boats that tend to use sustainable methods this means a limited selection is available to fishmongers like mine which is something I guess I should have realised before today.  That being said, my main point here isn’t to sing the praises of my ethical fishmonger or congratulate myself for shopping there.

Paired with a rain-soaked walk at the beach this afternoon where water soaked through my waxed jacket and down my trouser legs into my socks, the reason for this morning’s limited selection of fish reminded me of just how hard fishermen have to work.  Given that I spend my professional life locked away in classrooms, libraries and my study it’s easy for me to forget that some people’s daily lives still are strongly determined by the elements and that they aren’t Arctic scientists or meteorologists.  Some of them live just down the road.

I could go on and on about this subject for a some time, but I won’t.  I’m looking forward to my fish supper this evening and I hope those I share with enjoy it.  As for the one crew who not only managed to get their boat out from Looe and back with a saleable catch when most others were waiting out the storm I have to say I’m very impressed and grateful.  I hope they can spend their Sunday being warm and dry.  I also hope I can do their catch justice.

Who is Fundraising Actually For?

Obviously there was no post yesterday.  This was due to my making an unexpected trip to Milton Keynes and back.  Leaving before dawn, travelling over 400 miles and returning home after sunset left me in no mood to tickle the keyboard.  Should I be worried that yesterday, my day of silence, was one of the busiest this week?  I’d like to say that my trip planted the seeds for an inspired posting.  Well, it didn’t.  Instead I’ve been thinking about the various walks, runs, swims, cycle rides and other activities that have become such a ubiquitous means of raising money for charity.

One of my goals for over the next twelve months is to participate in a charity cycle ride.  I haven’t chosen the ride yet, nor have I settled on a specific charity to help me narrow my choices down.  However, I do know I’ll be spending a fair bit of time on my bicycle so it strikes me as a logical use of my time and effort to find a way to help raise some needed cash for a deserving cause.  I’ve actually felt this way for a long time, but I’ve been hesitant about acting on my convictions.  That’s going to change, although the reasons for my reluctance remain.

The first is a simple embarrassment about asking people for money.  I know I won’t be asking for a handout myself, but I the mere thought of asking friends, family and colleagues to sign a pledge to pay me to pedal my bicycle around fills me with a certain amount of dread.  We all get asked to make donations all the time and I know it can be hard to say ‘no’ to someone you know even when are tight.  This reluctance is something I know I can and should just learn to cope with.

The other main reason for my tardiness in cycling around in spandex for some charity is, perhaps, less easy to define, and possibly harder to silence entirely.  Simply put, part of me has always wondered who some of the fundraising activities people take part in are actually for.  While I’m not suggesting that people shouldn’t enjoy taking part in some activity for charity it does seem to me that fundraising often serves as little more than an excuse for people to do something they’ve always dreamed of like swim the channel, walk the length of the Great Wall or climb Ben Nevis.

Personally I’m attracted to a ride organised by Action Medical Research that, over the course of four days, wends its way from London to Paris.  Thinking about it rationally, I recognise that while not impossible, a ride of this distance may be a bit too big a task for me to attempt for my first charity ride.  I’m going to have a busy teaching schedule next term and it’s likely to be the case that the time for the necessary training for this relative novice would be an exercise in masochism more than anything else.  If I did sign  up I know I could do it, but some less intense experience may be a good ideas as a foundation for a future attempt if nothing else.

At the moment my plan is to do a shorter ride, but still one that will test my limits.  I’m thinking I need to make sure that whichever charity ride I decide to participate in should involve covering somewhere between 80 and 120 miles.  Yes, I’ll still enjoy it but such a distance will mean I actually have to make a genuine effort to ensure I’m in shape to cover the route in a respectable time and work hard enough to earn the sponsorship I ask of people.  One thing that gives me pause however is the fact that when I contemplate doing something other than the London-Paris ride I start to wonder if there isn’t another charity, one that has a harder time raising funds, I might rather support.  Does that mean I don’t honestly care about raising money for Action Medical Research, but instead just see their ride as a means of fulfilling fantasy of cycling into Paris while people cheer?

I also know that I’m verging on something that smells strongly of hypocrisy here given that part of my reason for feeling I should take part in a cycle ride for charity lies in the fact that I’ll be spending a lot of time of my bicycle anyway.  In the end, if people raise money for a good cause they shouldn’t really be faulted for doing so by participating in an activity that they enjoy, should they?  Enjoyment and altruism are not two mutually exclusive categories of experience or motivation, so I should probably just move one.

But what about all the goodies made available to participants in different fundraising activities?  In the case of the four day Paris ride, for example, participants arrive the day before Le Tour finishes and are given the opportunity and space to watch that race finish the next day.  They all get t-shirts, accommodation and some meals are arranged in route, Eurostar tickets back to London are included and their bikes are safely transport.  Yes, participants need to raise a minimum of 1,250 pounds but part of me wonders how much of that money goes into this massive logistical organisation.  If you raise 2,500 pounds you can get an extremely fancy and expensive GPS system for your bicycle; perhaps the manufacturer donated those, I don’t know.  I understand that freebies help to recognise people’s participation and efforts and can even, in some cases, help attract individuals who wouldn’t otherwise take part.  I know that, at this point in my life, I would have a very hard time organising a route to cycle from London to Paris, let alone accommodation and meals while en route and according to the schedule of a much larger group.  Still, part of me can’t help but wonder how much of each pound raised actually funds Action Medical Research’s work.

Scanning what I’ve written so far, I have to admit that all this blabbering strikes me as something of a self-indulgent, middle-class whine.  If I can help somebody, somewhere, that’s a good thing.   Right?  If people want to use raising money for a charitable cause as a means to motivate themselves to find the time and effort to do something they wouldn’t otherwise accomplish that’s great.   Isn’t it?  Surely it could help open their minds etc, etc, etc, insert touchy feely neologisms here.  If I’m going to spend time and effort engaging in a pursuit that a friend of mine refers to as ‘grown men who should know better messing around on bicycles” why not try to turn it to some use?

Still, I think it’s worthwhile to consider what the motivations and implications of such activities are, who they benefit and by how much.  Otherwise I suspect there might be a danger that when I do get on my bike to raise money for some charity I’ll be being just as self-indulgent and solipsistically  omphaloskeptic as I’ve been in this whinge of a post.
Happy Friday.

Strong Winds, A Manic Spaniel, and Too Many Advertisements

I had a few ideas for today’s post but frankly I don’t feel up to putting the necessary thought or effort into them.  I spent this morning absorbed in various administrative and organisational tasks for the courses I’m currently teaching on and the courses I’ll be teaching next term.  It’s work that has to be done, but it always strikes me as an exercise in tiring, thankless tedium.  Still, it’s better than folding laundry.

As I had use of the car today I did elect to take the dogs for one long walk rather than the usual two shorter strolls.  In the hopes of clearing my head and tiring them out I headed for the nearest local beach at Exmouth.  It was nice, as it always is, to walk along the base of the  sandstone cliffs although the return journey was made entirely and directly into a very stiff wind.  I hadn’t planned on making that much of a physical effort.

The strong winds also engendered some sort of manic bird-lust in the cocker spaniel who had quite a time chasing after gulls, pipers and some other sea birds that I can’t confidently identify.  That was fine until she started to run to the ends of outcroppings of rock where her pint sized form was in a real danger of being swept off of and then against various boulders by the wind-whipped waves.  At one point that meant I enjoyed the opportunity of sprinting straight into the wind to snatch up the crazy-eyed little beast who knew what I wanted but had no intention or capability of heeding my commands.  The other dog kept a careful watch on his tennis ball when he was not demanding I throw it for him.

On the way home I stopped at the market to pick up a few fresh herbs that I’ll need to make the salsa and refried beans that will feature largely in our Mexican dinner.  I also decided to treat myself to a cycling magazine I’ve never bought before because of its high cost.  I’m not sure what I was expecting for £3.99 but it certainly wasn’t the collection of advertisements for supplements I don’t want and technical gear and parts I don’t understand, can’t afford or both.  Maybe when I have more of a look through it I’ll find some more redeeming features lurking in between the dramatic product photos and price lists.

Oh well, I may be feeling a bit tired and a touch grumpy but at least I can let my sleeping dogs lie on either side of me and I have a fresh Mexican meal in my immediate future.

Reflections on weightier subject can, and sometimes should, wait.

Chasing the Dream

In his introduction to the Penguin Classics edition of The Great Gatsby Tony Tanner identifies what he sees as a central insight of Fitzgerald’s work:

“namely, that the American Dream – whatever one takes that phrase to mean – is not an index of aspiration but a function of deprivation.”

What Tanner has in mind when he makes this statement is the way  certain dreams or goals cease to exist at the moment of attainment.  What once had the power to inspire awe, longing or wonder, once tangible, becomes too solidly anchored in the realm of fact to be a useful form of reverie.  I think that Tanner’s right when he makes this observation of Fitzgerald’s work; Gatsby’s dreams quickly fade and break just when he finally achieves them.  At the same time, I don’t think that the American Dream is always or only a function of deprivation.

I’m not going to try to define the American Dream here.  Over the past 6 years or more I’ve written well in excess of 80,000 words doing just that.  That would make a very long and very boring post.  Trust me,  I’ve had to read it all.  When I started the research that led to all that writing and for much of the time I was actually trying to define the Dream I was firmly convinced that as a construct and a promise the American Dream was dead.  At its worst I thought it paid lip service to certain ideals and possibilities as a means of ignoring a much harsher set of economic and social realities.  This made me both angry and sad.  Too many people were buying into a false advertisement.

Overtime my thinking changed.  I’d say it became more mature even though I resisted it at every step along the way.  It is definitely the case that the American Dream is a vaguely defined promise of possibilities that don’t actually exist for most people in the United States in any greater measure than they do for people in Canada or France or any other country.  Too often the American Dream is synonymous with great material wealth, a trend that has long been a problem and that Americans have themselves to blame for.  Despite the last election it really isn’t the case that every child who wants to can grown up to be president.   Fine.  What I’ve had to admit is that none of this means the American Dream is worthless, that it is completely dead and should be discarded.

At its potential best I think the American Dream is best understood not as a noun, but as a verb.  It’s a process of constantly measuring the reality of what is against the possibilities of what could be and taking action to move towards those possibilities.  As such it’s not a finish line that can be crossed or a destination that can be reached.  The minute it becomes such a line or destination the American Dream goes into terminal decline with death ensured by success.  Fitzgerald recognised this at some level and Gatsby had to live and die it.

So what does all this mean?  Well, as I’ve suggested already the American Dream as commonly understood ignores the fantastic potentials it might have as a process.  As a constant assessment of reality against some set of ideals  the American Dream has as many possible permutations as there are individual Dreamers.  Some of those dreams may be beautiful and fantastic  while some may be ugly and cruel.  Gatsby, for example, uses very questionable means to pursue a rather beautiful dream.  Maybe he could have remained great if he’d never seen Daisy again.  Also, though it’s called American this Dream is by no means the exclusive property of Americans.  It never has been at either its best or its worst.

It took me a long time to admit that there was still some vision of the American Dream capable of inspiring me, capable of being some force for good still existent in the world and, frankly, it was easier when I was convinced the Dream was dead.  Why was it easier?  Mainly because it meant I didn’t have any real personal investment in anidealised vision of the American Dream beyond my anger that false, materialistic promises were still being peddled like snake oil.  Now I have some hope to accompany that anger.  There’s also a large measure of sadness and pain in the mix as well because more often than not, even the most sincere expressions and pursuits of the American Dream see it as a goal to be achieved a prize to be won rather than an ongoing straining toward a receding horizon of a future ideal.

In other words, despite the exemplary lesson Fitzgerald provides with Gatsby too many American Dreamers  want his big car, hydro-plane and mansion so they can finally get the girl.  Too few want to be the yearning Gatsby that Nick first sees deep in his painful reverie of a certain green light as he stands alone in the dark on his lawn:

he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone – he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling.  Involuntarily, I glanced seaward – and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock.  When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

Corrupt and fallible as he may be there is something pure about Gatsby’s dream.  Without him and those like him we are left, like Nick, alone in the dark.

Dear Ezra,

Due to lack of time there will be no real post today.  Instead I present my shopping list:

• 4 potatoes of 300g each
• 4 entrecôte steaks
• black pepper corns
• shallots
• beef stock
• double cream
• butter
• cognac
• watercress

See, there is a difference between just making a list or a brief statement and Mr Pound’s poetry.

Anyone care to speculate on what I’m making for dinner?