Less Alive?

I don't know why it happens.  It happens every now and again, as though my subconscious was having a conversation about me behind my back, and I accidentally overhear.  A couple of days ago, I had a totally random thought that, for an instant, made me quite concerned.  

SUBCONSCIOUS:  You spend your life reading - delving into someone else's life.  Does that mean you are less of a participator in your own life?  Are you less alive because you escape from your life into dream worlds?  

I hardly knew where to begin in my mental argument against this appalling thought.  Almost as soon as I thought of it, though, my brain swelled up with responses.  

Maybe I do spend a lot of my time living other people's lives through books.  But I ask you the same question that I asked myself.  Have you ever felt less alive, less connected, less human after reading a book?  

Reading gives you a way out, temporarily, from your own troubles.  Escapism.  Perhaps if your entire life was built around this escapism, my subconscious might have had a point. 

But reading is not purely escapism.  It is also interpretive.  By living that story, by becoming connected with that character, you learn something either about yourself, or the world, through the reflection of that story.  Literature is not only a doorway, a portal from our world to another.  It is also a mirror, in which we see ourselves, slightly changed, maybe reversed, but there all the same.  It is a new perspective.  It is fodder for deep rumination, for the digestion of new wisdom and understanding.  

If I had never read a book - if you had never read a book - what sort of person do you imagine you would be.  Think of all the things that you have learned from books.  Think of the people you have met, and the experiences you have had, and then, all the epiphanies, revelations, realisations that you had because of something  you read.  Real incredible life revelations.  

Reading may grow you up mentally - make you wiser - but spiritually, it keeps you young.  You know and have felt things that other people your age have no understanding of.  But you are also more childlike: a wonderer who revels in the beauty of language and of the world itself; a dreamer who can pull the wisdom of a thousand bed-time stories out of their sleeve to decorate their imaginings.  

What on earth was my subconscious thinking, when it asked me if I was less alive because I lives in books.  No.  You probably have a million things to add to my revelation.  No.  We are much much more alive.  

First Glimpse at the Great Gatsby

O glorious day!  The Great Gatsby trailer is finally out!  I am excited and delighted by the crisp, atmospheric beauty that reels through the entire ad.  I think, somehow, that we shan't be disappointed!

http://www.hoyts.com.au/Movies/details/Great_Gatsby_The.aspx

Pavlov and his Dogs

A little while ago I believe I mentioned that I had an assignment for English that consists of me having to write a narrative intervention (short story that fits into) Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.  I just finished it, and I wanted to share it.  The point is to provide a new social or historical context to the novel while foregrounding the themes of the book.  I have based it around the idea of Neo-Pavlovian Conditioning.  

Pavlov struck the bell with the little hammer.  Just as he had predicted.  His triumphant smile bordered on incredulity and with an exultant swish of his lab coat, he spun to face his colleagues. 

 “Gentlemen, today you witness a great development in neurological science,” he declared, flourishing the bell like a Greek tragic hero.  “You have seen the result of successful behavioural conditioning.”  The small gathering applauded with exuberance, and he grinned even more widely.  “Let us not forget to reward our canine companions for their role in this discovery,” he said.  A dish of meat for the dogs. “The reward system!” Pavlov announced.  “By striking a bell when feeding the dogs, I have caused them to create a strong neural link between the sound and the food.  Thereby, they now hear the bell alone and salivate in anticipation for their minced meat.   Their reflexes have been manipulated!” A great success for science!  The hero had conditioned his dogs to salivate on command.  What a simple concept, yet so exciting.  What might the hero do next? 

 ….  

The spectacle in the Neo-Pavlovian Conditioning Rooms of the Central London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre had invigorated the throng of students.  What a privilege!  Like so many sheep, they bustled after the Director, absorbedly scribbling in their note-books. 

 “That,” the director peered philosophically over his shoulder, “is a great triumph of modern science.”  The students scratched into their note-books: that is a triumph.  “It’s incredible that Ivan Pavlov himself could not see the significance of his discovery.”  He took the concentrated silence of the scribbling students as an invitation to continue with the lecture.  “Conditioning was first used many decades before the time of Our Ford.  Pavlov was only interested in using it for meagre things… like teaching his pets to perform tricks.”  He shook his head regretfully.  “So inconsequential.”  The students, shocked, shook their heads and wondered how could one limit such a powerful tool for such trivialities?  In their note-books: old dog, new trick.  

“You see,” the director continued sententiously, “Pavlov had no interest in the good of society.” 

 ….  

The scientific minds departed from Pavlov’s laboratory in a swish of white coats and an academic creak of patent leather.   They would talk about this for months.  Pavlov took up his note-books, the bell, papers and pencils, and descended to his study.  As he drifted about the room, smiling, tidying, he humoured his little habit of reciting the Greek alphabet to clear his active mind.  Alpha.  He brooded over his desk with his back to the door.  Beta.  The sound of shoes on the stairs, heavy and slow.  Gamma.  Predatory; the bristles of grey hair on the nape of his neck stood up. 

 “Delta,” said the intruder.  

“Epsilon,” continued Pavlov, and he turned to face a deep-chested Russian man in his thirties.  The Soviet had strongly marked features and an attitude that denoted patient determination to achieve some inimical goal.    

“Excuse me, sir.  I am not free this evening,” Pavlov said shortly.  “Today’s Monday.  Perhaps tomorrow morning, then, in the parlour, I can see you-.” 

 “You will see me now,” the Soviet overruled him with an intense tone.  “This matter is of great consequence to yourself, as a scientist, and to the stability of our future world.  I recommend you listen.”  Pavlov cleared his throat and sat down, patiently, heroically. 

 “My research will not be used by Communism,” he declared.  The Soviet did not blink.  He replied, low, dangerous.  

“You knowingly limit your research to trivialities when it has the potential to benefit all of society.  Why stop at pets, when human beings will respond to similar conditioning?  If certain people liked or disliked certain things-.”  

“You would be reducing them to pets!” Pavlov shouted.  “It is against human rights.  My research is not about control.  It is about reflexes and the brain.” 

 “If we controlled reflexes, we could control society, tailor the likes and dislikes of the people so that everyone is content.  Stability is the ultimate goal.”   

“What is your proposition?”  

“You will lead the Soviet Union’s new regime of behavioural conditioning experiments.”  The Soviet’s face was deadpan. “You are mistaken.  I will not,” Pavlov replied.  The tragic hero waited.  “I have won this battle, sir.”  The Soviet nodded and silently exited the study. 

 ...  

“We won the war,” the Director continued, and checked to make sure the flock of students still followed. “Pavlov could not stand in the way of progress.  Our scientists saw the potential in Pavlov’s discovery and began to condition human beings through a system of punishment.  Indissolubly wedding fear with books and so on, as you have seen today in the case of the Deltas.  It has been a huge success, and is a key to social stability.”  The students smiled at each other, simply happy to be a part of the excellent present.  What a privilege! 

 ….  

Pavlov’s wife was woken up early on Tuesday morning by the peal of a bell.  Surprised to find her husband was not in bed, she went to draw the blind and gasped when she saw his four dogs roaming loose on the street, and the words burnt into the front lawn: welcome to the brave, new world.  No one could find him. 

Juggling Juxtaposition

Though it succeeded in confusing almost my entire English class, I really enjoyed Aldous Huxley's use of juxtaposition in Brave New World.  I've never experienced anything quite like it before, and it opened a door to so much reflection for me, not to mention inspiration.  I thought it was definitely worth mentioning if only because of how unusual and just... cool it is.  

In Chapter III of Brave New World, Huxley intertwines four narratives: 

1.  Mustapha Mond lecturing a group of students at the Hatching and Conditioning Centre,

2.  Lenina and Fanny having a gossipy conversation,

3.  Bernard Marx overhearing a conversation in the men's room, and

4.  A loop tape which is played while children sleep to brainwash them.

While these narratives interrupt each other only infrequently to begin with, as the chapter goes on, they begin to jut in every couple of sentences or so, until each sentence is a separate narrative.  Practically everyone in my English class managed to get confused, but for someone who actually reads more than one book a year, this chapter was exciting.  These narratives, which were seemingly unrelated, when cut and pasted together in this format, juxtaposed, you can see the links that Huxley was encouraging us to make.  It was like swapping attention mid conversation to another discussion on the other side of the room, only to realise that they are talking about the same thing.  

I have decided to use the same technique in my narrative intervention for the exam.  Having never had the opportunity to juggle juxtaposition like this before, I am excited by the possibilities it offers me to emphasise my point.  I will probably end up sharing the finished story with you, but if you were interested in reading the chapter and experiencing the effect of juxtaposition for yourself, you can find it here:  http://www.huxley.net/bnw/three.html.  It really it worthwhile!

The Fourth Teenager Milestone

I reached yet another teenager milestone today.  I have a humble collection of teenagery accolades now.  

1. I have my learners license.  
2. I have died my hair red (a while ago, and it washed out after a week so please don't worry!)
3. I slept in until after 12:00pm. 

I now have a fourth to add.  I was at a friend's birthday party slash sleep over last night, and after a long night of SingStar, lemonade, chocolate cake, pizza, and sparklers, I pulled my very first all-nighter, sitting up to talk to my friends until 6:15 am when the sun finally rose.  

I am quite proud of my achievement, though I have absolutely no intention to ever do such a hideous thing again.  I experienced a dark hour at about 2:00 am when I was sure I would fall asleep, but after that, I went on happily, and have continued to be ordinarily happy all day, without any over-tiredness which I dreaded.  I will be enjoying an early night tonight to compensate, even though I don't feel tired yet.  I consider the whole thing an immense success.  

The Luxuriance of Language

Last night I decided to reward myself for my hard work and finished assignments with a night off.  One of the simple pleasures I indulged in was taking a book in with me for a hot bath.  Because my collection of Sherlock Holmes stories is much too heavy to take into the bath (it's like a brick), I toyed with the idea of taking my much perused collection of English Romantic Poetry in, but wasn't sure whether Keats was quite the person I had in mind to share my evening with.  But it's so nice to be in a hot bath and just indulge in the beauty of language, and so I decided on The Streets of Crocodiles.  It seems every time I open that book, I am immediately lost in words, lost in images that I don't expect, atmospheres exotic and luxurious.  Bruno Schulz manipulates his vocabulary so cleverly and emotionally to bring out the beauty of every phrase until it feels like your own language has become strange and wonderful to you.  Here is an excerpt about a young boy's garden.  

The whole of this jungle was soaked in the gentle air and filled with blue breezes.  When you lay in the grass you were under the azure map of clouds and sailing continents, you inhaled the whole geography of the sky.  From that communion with the air, the leaves and blades became covered with delicate hair, with a soft layer of down, a rough bristle of hooks made, it seemed to grasp and hold the waves of oxygen.  That delicate and whitish layer related the vegetation to the atmosphere, gave it the silvery grayish tint of the air, of shadowy silences between two glimpses of the sun.  And one of the plants, yellow, inflated with air, its pale stems full of milky juice, brought forth from its empty shoots only pure air, pure down in the shape of fluffy dandelion balls scattered by the wind to dissolve noiselessly into the blue silence. 

The garden was vast with a number of extensions, and had various zones and climates.  From one side it was open to the sky and air, and there it offered the softest, most delicate bed of fluffy green.  But where the ground extended into a low-lying isthmus and dropped into the shadow of the back wall of a deserted soda factory, it became grimmer, overgrown and wild with neglect, untidy, fierce with thistles, bristling with nettles, covered with a rash of weeds, until, at the very end between the walls, in an open rectangular bay, it lost all moderation and became insane.  There, it was an orchard no more, but a paroxysm or madness, an outbreak of fury, of cynical shamelessness and lust.  There, bestially liberated, giving full rein to their passion ruled the empty, overgrown, cabbage heads of burs - enormous witches, shedding their voluminous skirts in broad daylight, throwing them down, one by one, until their swollen, rustling, hole-riddled rags buried the whole quarrelsome bastard breed under their crazy expanse.  And still the skirts swelled and pushed, piling up one on top of another, spreading and growing all the time - a mass of tinny leaves reaching up to the low eaves of a shed.  

The Streets of Crocodiles.  "Pan".  By Bruno Schulz, first published 1977.

I adore the passion and ferocity of these words, tangling up weeds and wrecking havoc in the nature in your imagination so that things you thought were ordinary are incredible as if brand new.

Is it not one of the most luxurious indulgences known to man, to revel in the beauty of these words?

Verfrumdungseffekt

The past four days, my life has been completely consumed by my drama directing task.  This weekend I woke up, worked on the assignment, ate lunch, worked on the assignment, ate dinner, worked on the assignment, went to bed, woke up, worked on the assignment, ate lunch, worked on the assignment, ate dinner, worked on the assignment, and went to bed.  It was exhausting.  Last night at 11:30 pm, the end result was a forty page port folio, and a bag full of props.  I am relieved to have it finished save for the presentation, which I have resigned to fate.  

However, I brought this up because the nature of the assignment itself was very interesting.  The task was to direct a scene from Bertolt Brecht's Epic Theatre play, The Caucasian Chalk Circle, using Brechtian techniques to foreground a theme.  

A major element of the assignment is a written director's port folio, which includes an introduction to Brecht and Epic Theatre.  Have a read.  

Bertolt Brecht was a German playwright who lived 1898 to 1956.  Brecht saw the potential in theatre for inspiring social change in an audience.  German director, Erwin Piscator worked with Brecht to originate the concept of Epic Theatre.  A bold contrast to Konstantin Stanislavsky’s methods of Realism, Epic Theatre focused on avoiding the illusion and emotions of reality and instead urge the audience to reflect on the social comparisons made onstage.  Brecht suggested that by blocking the audience’s empathy and other emotional responses to the characters, viewers would think objectively about the ideas of the play.  This technique is known as Verfrumdungseffekt or ‘alienation’.

Alienation was achieved through a variety of techniques that affected virtually every aspect of the play.  The aim was to make it clear that it was a performance, and not an attempt at realism.  Examples of alienation include: scene or costume change s made in full visibility of the audience, the insertion of songs in the middle of scenes to interrupt the action, the use of signs, sound effects, mime, projections, captions, and Gestus – the physical portrayal of a character or scene’s core attitude.  Bertolt Brecht instructed his actors to avoid connection with their characters and never hide the fact that they were acting. 

Brecht wrote the play The Caucasian Chalk Circle in 1944.  It explores themes of power, justice, and sacrifice.  A key theme to the play is nature versus nurture, explored when the biological mother of abandoned child, Michael, fights to get him back from the peasant women who raised him in order to inherit his fortune.  

 When experienced, these techniques create raw and beautiful scene.  It feels like the play grows into something more and becomes so challenging.  When executed correctly, Brechtian techniques have immense power to stir you to think.  I decided to share this because it was so different and exciting for me, that I hoped you might wonder too.