Reading Mrs. Dalloway -- A Wandering Commentary

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.”

You read the first sentence, and you’re in. In the midst of things; in medias res. A classic, and classical, element of literature. Recall The Iliad, which begins so famously in medias res: “Sing, O Muse, the wrath of Achilles.” And you are thrown onto the battlefield, the Greeks and Trojans weary, heartbroken, nearing the fate that will send Odysseus on his arduous journey and Agamemnon home to horror and doom. How different from the opening lines of that other ancient book, “At the beginning of God’s creating the heavens and the earth, when the earth was wild and waste…” which declares forthrightly that it will start you “here” and take you on a journey to “there.” The origin and the endpoint, causality and teleology are paramount for religion and science; the messiness and unpredictability of daily living, the “middle part” between beginning and end, and what we humans do with it, belong to philosophy and literature. Medieval classical literature’s meta-example of in medias res, the opening lines that will bring us back to modern Mrs. Dalloway, are from Dante’s Inferno: “Midway in the journey of our life I found myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost.”

Clarissa Dalloway has just begun her fifty-first year of life, although we don’t learn this until some time later in the day, that slow-motion day that begins, for her and for us, with her rapture as she sets forth into the town. Her story has a beginning, at the start of her day, but the first line tells us we are in the middle of something. A decision has been made—to buy the flowers herself—which decision has a precedent—she had previously, perhaps, told someone else to go buy them? And now she has changed her mind. There is a future intimated in that first line as well—why are the flowers being bought? One generally buys flowers for a person or an occasion, certainly in this case for something specific that has required this determining to do it one’s self. Finally, the sentence states, she “says” this—presumably aloud, possibly to someone, there are more people than just Mrs. Dalloway involved—and the matter is settled.

[Excerpt from forthcoming essay/book "Reading Mrs. Dalloway" by Mary F. Burns (c) 2012]

Russian Icons -- Windows to Eternity

On our recent vacation on the East Coast, my husband and I stopped in Clinton, Mass. to visit the recently built Museum of Russian Icons (http://www.museumofrussianicons.org), established by one Gordon Lankton in 2006 in a 150-year-old former mill in the picturesque town. It was truly inspiring (I've been thinking for some years now of writing an historical novel with icons as the main subject...) and the museum is beautifully arranged. Our docent was a young Russian woman who was very well informed and engaging.  The icon to the left is called "The Image Not Made by Hands" and is the Russian Orthodox "version" of the legend of Veronica's Veil, and also akin to the Shroud of Turin. The story relates that a Persian King had leprosy and hearing tales of the miracles wrought by Jesus, sent an icon artist to him to paint his icon and bring it back to the king so he could pray before it and be healed. Instead of 'posing' for the icon painter, Jesus took a cloth, dipped it in water, and pressed it to his face, leaving the imprint as it shows on the icon. When the king saw it, he was healed (of course). 

Here are some other icons we took photos of -- be sure to visit the website to see more!

Emily Dickinson -- Poetry in Small Things and Large

I've never paid much attention to Emily Dickinson until recently, when I read a fascinating historical novel based on her odd, eccentric and remarkable life. (The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson by Jerome Charyn). And then, just three days ago as my husband and I were visiting friends along the East Coast, we found ourselves within 10 miles of Amherst, Massachusetts, where Emily lived and died. At right is the only known image of her, a daguerrotype taken when she was about 16 -- neither she nor any of her family thought it did her justice, and it was hidden away in a drawer, and she never had another photograph taken.

The day we visited her home was a mildly rainy morning, quiet, soft and gray. We walked around the grounds, a large property which included her brother's house, The Evergreens, also a museum. We were the only two in line for a  late morning tour, and our docent, an older man with a white beard and a cheerful manner, recited Emily's poems as we wandered from room to room. Upstairs in her bedroom where she wrote and slept and died, he movingly spoke aloud a poem she wrote about her many sleepless nights:

Will there really be a "Morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!

Old Western Cemetery, Bird Song and Silence

On a driving trip back to San Francisco from visiting family in Portland, Oregon, my husband and I stopped at Jacksonville, Oregon, about six miles west of the farm town of Medford. The Main Street is about four blocks long, with buildings dating from the 1850s. It was hot the day we were there -- 85 degrees or so -- that is, hot for San Franciscans used to the Summer Fog, but just delightful for the local folk used to temperatures in the low 100's during the summer. One of the main attractions of Jacksonville is the cemetery, which we walked up a winding road to get to at the top of a ragged hill with lovely views of the larger hills and valleys all around. Huge old orange-barked manzanitas shaded the peaceful resting places of pioneers to Oregon. The cemetery was divided into various sections:  City, Masonic, Jewish -- and the time-honored Potter's Field, where the poor and the unknown were buried, usually without any markers. It was a peaceful place, as you can see in the video -- if you listen carefully, you can hear the birds trilling in the late afternoon sun.

Amos Lee and that old Violin

I have fallen in love with a "new" singer--new to me at least--Amos Lee. His latest CD, "Mission Bell" has an incredibly beautiful, heartfelt song called "Violin" that just breaks my heart when I hear it. He has other CDs which I'll start tracking down, but this one I have already purchased and have been playing for days. There's really something fun about finding a "new" creative thing (for lack of a better word at the moment) -- musician, author, singer, artist -- and of course, he or she could have been around for a long time, just happens to be your new discovery. Finding that voice or painting or style that speaks to you, resonates with you and your life--it's such a gracious gift, and one I hope I never get used to or take for granted.

I'm about to head down to San Diego for a long weekend at the Historical Novel Society conference, and I'm really looking forward to reveling in meeting new people, reading new books, finding new authors, different styles, alternative perspectives--I'm mentally preparing to keep my ears and eyes and spirit wide open to receive all the impressions I can. It's the kind of thing that feeds one's own creativity with hope and facts and friendship. I'll be back with my impressions!

Playing within the Play's The Thing

I went to a reading of a play the other night, a play that was being considered for production, so this was a kind of try-out with a feedback session between the audience and the director (Brian Scott), the playwright (William Bivins), and some of the actors. The SF Playhouse at 533 Sutter Street was the venue, and REMAKING PUSSYCAT was the title. Not only was it great fun--witty, laugh-out-loud funny, well-paced and intelligent--it was a great place to get in a couple of sketches (yes, this is the second week of my drawing class at the Free University of San Francisco). Only one was good enough to show here, basically some of the people who were sitting in front of me, and I had loads of fun being creative about it, post-event, using the simple little Paint program on my computer.

I wanted to add color, just a little, to see how it would change the sketch. I had done it the previous week, with my "Vera" portrait, only there I added the color myself, with felt-tip pens. I wanted to preserve the original sketch (above), so I scanned it in, and made a copy, and played with the copy. Here's the first color version:

And then I noticed a little tab on the Paint program that said "Inverse Color" and thought, wonder what that does?  Here's what it does: 

And the best thing is, I didn't bring my sketchbook or even a little pocket notebook with me to the theatre--the only piece of paper I had on me was a 4x6-inch receipt from the Post Office--so I used that! Sketched in black ink on the back of a receipt--and it worked!  I like this class, I feel freer already.

The Illumination of the Ordinary

I have been struggling with writer's block, and have been seeking other ways to stir up, use, extend and try to satisfy my creative self's incessant demands (it's been giving me nightmares). I created and finished the third of four planned stained glass windows (the Four Seasons, I just did Summer). I have put renewed energy into my piano lessons, practicing every day and learning new pieces (Eric Satie's Gnossiennes). And finally, I started a drawing class last night at the Free University of San Francisco -- "Pocket Pad Art" taught by David Newman (we call him just "newman"). The idea is to sketch as you sit on the bus, walk down the street, linger at a cafe, lounge on the sofa with the TV on...anywhere, everywhere, no matter what the subject. 

We did some sketching of the room we were in last night, off a downtown, South of Market alley called Tehama St. (my sketch here was done the next day), where homeless people set up their tents and cardboard boxes, and the cold western wind from off the ocean blows hard against your forehead. There wasn't much in the room, but anything is available for sketching. I liked the one I did of a young woman sitting across from me--it started out as a contour drawing, then I elaborated later and filled it in with colored pens. It struck me that the "V" of her sweater made the picture look like an illuminated manuscript letter at the beginning of a sentence, so I decided to call her "Vera" (not the real woman's name) and begin a short story with her name:

VERA chose the purple eyeshadow that night exactly because it clashed with the green streaks in her hair, and also because green and purple were Easter colors, and even though she was Jewish, she didn't think that was any reason not to like Easter.