Will Landschulz
Am Lit. Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
Joe wants to be shown to all the people of the world. However, the people of the hospital where he's kept deny him this, claiming it to be "against regulations." Joe doesn't buy this stock answer, and thinks it much more likely that everyone wants to forget about him, to not have to worry about him anymore. However, if that was the case, then they'd give him a shot of morphine, then poison, thereby killing him. But they can't do that, because it is a medical miracle that Joe is still alive. They need evidence of his continued existence, so they can't kill him. But to let the state of his body get out to the general populace? Not going to happen, as Joe correctly deduces. If he would travel the nation as an exhibit - "come see what could happenif you go to war!" - then absolutely no one would volunteer for the army. If there's a draft, then the "little guys," the infantry, would turn on their generals, using the propaganda and turning it into truth.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
divine dreams
Will Landschulz
Am Lit. Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
...Oh...kay. That was the most surreal chapter I've ever read. Talking to dead people, getting on a train with them, jumping out of the train destined to kill all those aboard and then collapsing at Jesus' feet? Who has been playing blackjack with them and accompanying them on their trip to the afterlife? Yet another reason why we shouldn't do drugs. Anyway, all sorts of logic is thrown out the window the moment "morphine" is mentioned, I'll take a stab at this dream. Joe, after falling into a drug-induced coma, finds himself in a Train station lounge, playing blackjack with soldiers about to die. A soldier is heralded by the calls of his mother, pleading for them to let him return to her. Fairly innocuous. But Joe calls him Christ, for reasons I can't figure out right now. Anyway, the morphine throws that in and brings the Christ soldier into the room with Joe and the other future casualties. Who then starts playing blackjack with them. Bwuh? I guess Christ likes games of chance. However, this has a basis in the earlier readings, where Joe stated that he had the one-in-a-million chance by staying alive and wished he'd lost it. By why does Christ play it with them? Maybe because he can make sure they all win or lose, as he demonstrates by giving everyone a drink? No, he loses the next round, because he "can never hit on a twelve." If he is powerful enough to create several shots of whiskey, with the glasses, out of thin air, the dye on a playing card should be small potatoes. But no, he loses, maybe because there are some things even Christ can't do, or won't do. Like return a man's body to him, while living or after death. The train blows its whistle, which everyone notices and which Christ calls "the music of death." This makes more sense, as all the players, except for Joe and Christ, are due to die during the war and the train is taking them to their final resting place. But everyone notices Joe as being not due to die and basically ask him what gives. Joe tells them. They all think they've got the better end of the deal, and allow Joe to come along with them. Joe goes along at first, like he did before the book started by going to the bunker where the bomb blew up, by going to war. But he does not arrive at the destination, he jumps out halfway with the force of a bomb, to lie on the sand like he lies on the bed, a live mind in a dead body. Christ, by this time, has jumped up on top of the train and overpowered the whistle of the train with his yelling, and then teleported into the desert, like a faraway mirage. Joe runs to him for mercy, all those numberless miles to fall at Christ's feet for mercy, which is where the drug trip, sorry, the dream ends. Because Joe wakes up, this implies that the mercy he asked for from Christ didn't occur. He's still in his limbo, not quite dead, not alive at all. What does this tell us? DON'T DO DRUGS!
PS. I'm sorry, I thought the blog on being a martyr was yesterday's blog.
Am Lit. Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
...Oh...kay. That was the most surreal chapter I've ever read. Talking to dead people, getting on a train with them, jumping out of the train destined to kill all those aboard and then collapsing at Jesus' feet? Who has been playing blackjack with them and accompanying them on their trip to the afterlife? Yet another reason why we shouldn't do drugs. Anyway, all sorts of logic is thrown out the window the moment "morphine" is mentioned, I'll take a stab at this dream. Joe, after falling into a drug-induced coma, finds himself in a Train station lounge, playing blackjack with soldiers about to die. A soldier is heralded by the calls of his mother, pleading for them to let him return to her. Fairly innocuous. But Joe calls him Christ, for reasons I can't figure out right now. Anyway, the morphine throws that in and brings the Christ soldier into the room with Joe and the other future casualties. Who then starts playing blackjack with them. Bwuh? I guess Christ likes games of chance. However, this has a basis in the earlier readings, where Joe stated that he had the one-in-a-million chance by staying alive and wished he'd lost it. By why does Christ play it with them? Maybe because he can make sure they all win or lose, as he demonstrates by giving everyone a drink? No, he loses the next round, because he "can never hit on a twelve." If he is powerful enough to create several shots of whiskey, with the glasses, out of thin air, the dye on a playing card should be small potatoes. But no, he loses, maybe because there are some things even Christ can't do, or won't do. Like return a man's body to him, while living or after death. The train blows its whistle, which everyone notices and which Christ calls "the music of death." This makes more sense, as all the players, except for Joe and Christ, are due to die during the war and the train is taking them to their final resting place. But everyone notices Joe as being not due to die and basically ask him what gives. Joe tells them. They all think they've got the better end of the deal, and allow Joe to come along with them. Joe goes along at first, like he did before the book started by going to the bunker where the bomb blew up, by going to war. But he does not arrive at the destination, he jumps out halfway with the force of a bomb, to lie on the sand like he lies on the bed, a live mind in a dead body. Christ, by this time, has jumped up on top of the train and overpowered the whistle of the train with his yelling, and then teleported into the desert, like a faraway mirage. Joe runs to him for mercy, all those numberless miles to fall at Christ's feet for mercy, which is where the drug trip, sorry, the dream ends. Because Joe wakes up, this implies that the mercy he asked for from Christ didn't occur. He's still in his limbo, not quite dead, not alive at all. What does this tell us? DON'T DO DRUGS!
PS. I'm sorry, I thought the blog on being a martyr was yesterday's blog.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Martyrdom
Will Landschulz
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
Joe has now been denied the chance to tell his story. As such, the only recourse left to him is rant to himself (and, by extension, his audience behind the fourth wall) about how injust it is that noone gets to see his mangled body, which he refers to as the future. If only they saw his body, then nobody would volunteer for the army, nobody would obey the draft, nobody would go to war. What Joe realizes is that if the state of his body gets out, then there goes the grand majority of the United States' power. What he doesn't realize is that if he gets over his own despair and thinks, then he can easily ask for photographers to come in, and do an exposé on him. That way, it would probably get farther than if he was a traveling exhibit, and he wouldn't be breaking regulations at all. Despite this, he whines about how he's a "new kind of Jesus" that is denied the chance to rise again. I think he is a martyr, but he started as an unwilling one that grew into accepting martyrdom.
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
Joe has now been denied the chance to tell his story. As such, the only recourse left to him is rant to himself (and, by extension, his audience behind the fourth wall) about how injust it is that noone gets to see his mangled body, which he refers to as the future. If only they saw his body, then nobody would volunteer for the army, nobody would obey the draft, nobody would go to war. What Joe realizes is that if the state of his body gets out, then there goes the grand majority of the United States' power. What he doesn't realize is that if he gets over his own despair and thinks, then he can easily ask for photographers to come in, and do an exposé on him. That way, it would probably get farther than if he was a traveling exhibit, and he wouldn't be breaking regulations at all. Despite this, he whines about how he's a "new kind of Jesus" that is denied the chance to rise again. I think he is a martyr, but he started as an unwilling one that grew into accepting martyrdom.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Messages lost
Will Landschulz
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
The chapter opens during the "fourth year" of his timekeeping, a day like any other, except that they completely change his sheets for new ones for the second day in a row, as opposed to having a week-long interval between changings. Another new thing was that a nurse was spraying him with something "cool and misty" (most likely a disinfectant). Then, after he is lying in state, they leave and several people come in. They turn out to be high military officials, come to confer some honor on Joe, presumably for bravery. He gets mad at the fact that they have working bodies and he does not, that they cannot do more for him than pin something on his shirt only noticeably (to him) because of its weight, and he can't do anything about it. he gets mad and tries to rock, like he did when he was trying to turn himself over, only he was making a lot more noise, to scare the NCOs and to show them what he thought of their hunk of painted metal and cloth. During his exertions, he finds he can grunt through what is left of his windpipe. The group leaves in a flurry of vibrations, and Joe rests. These vibrations give him the idea to try and get a message to the people around him, via Morse Code. He starts tapping SOS on his pillow, and keeps doing so, to the point of forgetting all about his timekeeping system. It is imperative, to him, that he make some form of contact with the world ouside his two-way mirrored bubble. As he taps, his nurse thinks he is trying to relieve some of his pain, so she fusses over him, moving his pillow, changing the temperature, and eventually loving his nearly-immobile body. Joe is annoyed at this, but then collapses into a reverie about the other girls he's had over the years. And all the while he's tapping out his heartfelt messages, with no one able to receive.
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
The chapter opens during the "fourth year" of his timekeeping, a day like any other, except that they completely change his sheets for new ones for the second day in a row, as opposed to having a week-long interval between changings. Another new thing was that a nurse was spraying him with something "cool and misty" (most likely a disinfectant). Then, after he is lying in state, they leave and several people come in. They turn out to be high military officials, come to confer some honor on Joe, presumably for bravery. He gets mad at the fact that they have working bodies and he does not, that they cannot do more for him than pin something on his shirt only noticeably (to him) because of its weight, and he can't do anything about it. he gets mad and tries to rock, like he did when he was trying to turn himself over, only he was making a lot more noise, to scare the NCOs and to show them what he thought of their hunk of painted metal and cloth. During his exertions, he finds he can grunt through what is left of his windpipe. The group leaves in a flurry of vibrations, and Joe rests. These vibrations give him the idea to try and get a message to the people around him, via Morse Code. He starts tapping SOS on his pillow, and keeps doing so, to the point of forgetting all about his timekeeping system. It is imperative, to him, that he make some form of contact with the world ouside his two-way mirrored bubble. As he taps, his nurse thinks he is trying to relieve some of his pain, so she fusses over him, moving his pillow, changing the temperature, and eventually loving his nearly-immobile body. Joe is annoyed at this, but then collapses into a reverie about the other girls he's had over the years. And all the while he's tapping out his heartfelt messages, with no one able to receive.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Timekeeping
Will Landschulz
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
Joe is running from his memories, leaving them behind in a wash of random factoids from his school. The chain of squares (2*2=4, 4*4=16, 16*16=256, etc.), and then again starting w/ 2*3. A synopsis of David Copperfield. 5 of the planets. The commandments, of which he can remember 6. The Beatitudes, of which he can only remember 3. And so on. He eventually decides to try and figure out a time-keeping system. He decides to puzzle this out because, as he says, all the books he read of people being isolated - he cites Robinson Crusoe and The Count of Monte Cristo - have figured out a way to mark time, because "if you have an idea of time then you are in the same world with them . . . but if you lose time the others go on ahead of you and you are left alone hanging in air lost to everything forever." At first, he tries to brute-force the problem, by counting out the seconds one by one. However, he thinks of a sprinter metaphor from counting too fast and that leads him to a memory of his high school and oh no, he's lost count again. He tries the nurse's visits, and whether they bring food or have him poop or pee, while trying to count the seconds as before. But that is taxing, and requires constant concentration, hard work for a mind so fragmented and repatched. But he starts thinking laterally. What does he use to tell when a nurse is coming? vibrations, which he can feel. What else is skin good for, besides feelings. It sweats to help control temperature. If it can feel small changes in inner temperature, who's to say it can't feel small outer changes in temperature as well? And that's how Joe thinks of using the sunrise and sunset to mark the days. He can't see the change in light, but he can feel the increase in heat from the incoming rays of energy. Every time he experiences that, it must be a new day.
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
Joe is running from his memories, leaving them behind in a wash of random factoids from his school. The chain of squares (2*2=4, 4*4=16, 16*16=256, etc.), and then again starting w/ 2*3. A synopsis of David Copperfield. 5 of the planets. The commandments, of which he can remember 6. The Beatitudes, of which he can only remember 3. And so on. He eventually decides to try and figure out a time-keeping system. He decides to puzzle this out because, as he says, all the books he read of people being isolated - he cites Robinson Crusoe and The Count of Monte Cristo - have figured out a way to mark time, because "if you have an idea of time then you are in the same world with them . . . but if you lose time the others go on ahead of you and you are left alone hanging in air lost to everything forever." At first, he tries to brute-force the problem, by counting out the seconds one by one. However, he thinks of a sprinter metaphor from counting too fast and that leads him to a memory of his high school and oh no, he's lost count again. He tries the nurse's visits, and whether they bring food or have him poop or pee, while trying to count the seconds as before. But that is taxing, and requires constant concentration, hard work for a mind so fragmented and repatched. But he starts thinking laterally. What does he use to tell when a nurse is coming? vibrations, which he can feel. What else is skin good for, besides feelings. It sweats to help control temperature. If it can feel small changes in inner temperature, who's to say it can't feel small outer changes in temperature as well? And that's how Joe thinks of using the sunrise and sunset to mark the days. He can't see the change in light, but he can feel the increase in heat from the incoming rays of energy. Every time he experiences that, it must be a new day.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Fighting for something
Will Landschulz
Am Lit. Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
Joe, like Ben in Death of a Salesman, believes in things you can touch, like your family, your job, and your money. He thinks that these things are worth fighting for. Likewise, intangible concepts like "liberty", "honor", and "decency" seem to be not worth the time it took for all the soldiers to die, and not worth the life of one Joe Bonham, hovering in the limbo between life and death. He ridicules the idea that a soldier would come back and not regret having died so far from home. However, if he dies while fighting for the life of his family, that doesn't seem like much better, as the attacker or his friends would still be around to do whatever it was they came to do, be it kill, steal, or rape. This might seem cowardly from a live man who says "life before death," not "death before dishonor," but keep in mind the everpresent limbo of Joe's mind. As he looks from his window onto death and thinks back to the feeling world of the living, he becomes jaded, certain of the inherent hypocrisy in someone who has said "death before dishonor." That person cannot comment on death, as he is still alive. He has no idea what "death" means, and chooses not to define "honor." Furthermore, when people realize they're dying, they do not reflect on "my death shall not be in vain," they reflect on the family they've left behind.
Am Lit. Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
Joe, like Ben in Death of a Salesman, believes in things you can touch, like your family, your job, and your money. He thinks that these things are worth fighting for. Likewise, intangible concepts like "liberty", "honor", and "decency" seem to be not worth the time it took for all the soldiers to die, and not worth the life of one Joe Bonham, hovering in the limbo between life and death. He ridicules the idea that a soldier would come back and not regret having died so far from home. However, if he dies while fighting for the life of his family, that doesn't seem like much better, as the attacker or his friends would still be around to do whatever it was they came to do, be it kill, steal, or rape. This might seem cowardly from a live man who says "life before death," not "death before dishonor," but keep in mind the everpresent limbo of Joe's mind. As he looks from his window onto death and thinks back to the feeling world of the living, he becomes jaded, certain of the inherent hypocrisy in someone who has said "death before dishonor." That person cannot comment on death, as he is still alive. He has no idea what "death" means, and chooses not to define "honor." Furthermore, when people realize they're dying, they do not reflect on "my death shall not be in vain," they reflect on the family they've left behind.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Being at supper
Will Landschulz
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
When Joe starts to nod off, he suddenly feels a rat, crawling over him, grinning in anticipation of a great feast. As Joe has no limbs with which to fend off the vermin, there is literally nothing he can do to remove it except scream for the nurse loudly and continuously. What makes it worse is that if the rat escapes, Joe's sentient but rotting carcass would be too big of a temptation for the rat, therefore it will come again on the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and so on and so forth until his mind breaks with anxiety and his body disappears down the rat's gullet, one tiny bit at a time. But the new day comes, and the rat disappears with the nurse's entrance, back into that place where nightmares call home, back into memory and overripe imagination. The rat itself came from a delectable feast of Prussian noncommisioned officer, after it took refuge in an enemy dugout where Joe's troop killed it. And now its memory has come back to Joe in revenge. To the reader, the rat reeks of dementia, the madness of staying in a sensory deprivation chamber, the vision of invented smells, imagined noises, and conceived touches. It comes to Joe because some part of himself is decaying along with his missing limbs, worked into madness through frustration, but not removed from Joe's working mind like his limbs were.
Am Lit Per. 2
Mrs. LaMagdeleine
When Joe starts to nod off, he suddenly feels a rat, crawling over him, grinning in anticipation of a great feast. As Joe has no limbs with which to fend off the vermin, there is literally nothing he can do to remove it except scream for the nurse loudly and continuously. What makes it worse is that if the rat escapes, Joe's sentient but rotting carcass would be too big of a temptation for the rat, therefore it will come again on the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and so on and so forth until his mind breaks with anxiety and his body disappears down the rat's gullet, one tiny bit at a time. But the new day comes, and the rat disappears with the nurse's entrance, back into that place where nightmares call home, back into memory and overripe imagination. The rat itself came from a delectable feast of Prussian noncommisioned officer, after it took refuge in an enemy dugout where Joe's troop killed it. And now its memory has come back to Joe in revenge. To the reader, the rat reeks of dementia, the madness of staying in a sensory deprivation chamber, the vision of invented smells, imagined noises, and conceived touches. It comes to Joe because some part of himself is decaying along with his missing limbs, worked into madness through frustration, but not removed from Joe's working mind like his limbs were.
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