Saturday, October 15, 2016

An Open Letter to All the Self Righteous, Pretentious Academics Lamenting Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize Win

This is what a writer looks like. Just so you know. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes.

Dear Voices Crying Out on The Web,

When I awoke to the news that Bob Dylan had won the Nobel Prize on Friday morning, I was overjoyed. “Finally,” I thought “lyrics will finally take their rightful place in the literary canon.” You can therefore imagine my horror and disgust when I saw not only Anna North’s New York Times article, “Why Bob Dylan Shouldn’t Have Gotten a Nobel” but also Hanson O’Haver’s piece in Vice,” Why Bob Dylan Doesn’t Need a Nobel Prize.” If the content of these articles were questioning the value of his work, I might feel that they had a leg to stand on. That however, is not the case. I came to find that these were just two of many articles refuting Dylan's Nobel Prize and all arguments hinge on the fact that Dylan is a musician and lyricist and therefore cannot be a writer in earnest. The academic world is up in arms at the fact that a *musician* had won the Nobel Prize. The Nobel Prize in Literature should have gone to a legitimate literary figure they say.

This is nonsense. Bob Dylan is as much a literary figure as Chaucer or Shakespeare, or Billy Collins or Natasha Tretheway. The fact that he is a lyricist only adds to his legitimacy as a literary figure. Historically, storytellers were not wrditers. They were not literary figures. They were poets. They were singers. They were lyricist who sang the songs of great warriors and of battles waged long ago. Beowulf? It’s a poem, sure, but guess what? The scop sung it to the thanes and the Leige in the Meade Hall.

Consider the story of Caedmon as told by the Venerable Bede. Caedmon was a simple cowhand who sadly couldn’t carry a tune. This could be interpreted as he wasn’t a very good storyteller. This embarrassed him so much that one evening when the harp was being passed around the table after supper and songs of heroes were being sung that he ran out of the mead hall and into the barn in shame when it was his turn. Later, lo and behold! A man appeared to him in a dream and asked him to sing. Caedmon sadly replied that he could not sing. The man said “Try,” and Caedmon started singing a beautiful hymn that became known as Caedmon’s hymn — a song meant to be sung aloud which was only later recorded by Bede.

Most of early Anglo Saxon Literature, and World Literature for that matter was oral and it was lyrical. It was music. To dismiss Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize in Literature is nothing short of pure ignorance of the origins of literature itself and frankly, it is a disgrace to the study of literature as a whole. Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize win is quite simply a boon to the study of literature, both modern and archaic the world over. Literature is more than words written on a page and bound in a book. Literature is the conveyance of a story — of a narrative — by any means necessary. A true scholar would know that.

With a song in my heart,

Joyce Ann Underwood

Thursday, October 13, 2016

What I Learned From Hurricane Matthew

Hello there dear friends and gentle readers. I apologize yet again for my absence. 2016 has been a bitch, but I am going to address that in another post. I'm here to talk about the hurricane.

Hurricane Matthew, perhaps you've heard about him? He hit the South Eastern Coast last weekend and left a swath of destruction in his wake. St. Augustine, FL and Fayetteville, NC were two of the hardest hit areas. While St. Augustine seems to be making a decent recovery, Fayetteville is having a harder time of it. Savannah, GA was also hit pretty hard. 

This used to be A1A. (source)

I have lived in or near all of these places at different points in my life and as such have friends and family in all of them. My mom, sister, and uncle came out of the storm no worse for the wear so that's good. Sadly, an old friend of mine in St. Augustine lost her business in the flooding. As far as I know none of my Fayetteville friends have been personally affected by the flooding there, so that's great news. On the other hand, a couple of my Savannah friends wound up here in Augusta with nowhere to stay so I put them up for the entirety of their evacuation. Luckily, when they got home all was well with their apartment. No damage, nothing was destroyed. All is well and I did a good turn.

So why don't I feel like I've done enough? I wish that I could do more to help. I wish that I could send money to my friend's GoFundMe to help rebuild her business. I wish that I could go to St. Augustine to help with the clean-up. I wish that I could go to Fayetteville to help with the clean-up. I wish that I could be there to help the people I care about. But all I can do is sit here and post what little information I have - which handy-ways and supermarkets are open and have supplies - on Facebook for people who need that information. 

I feel really helpless and it occurs to me in my helplessness that this is why people pray. When they have nothing to give, the only thing they can give is their prayers and it makes them feel like they are doing something to help. The thing is, there's always some small thing that you can do to accompany your prayer. Prayers are fine and well and good, but as Pat Robertson of the 700 Club tells us, they work better when a monetary contribution is attached. I know I don't have a monetary contribution to attach to my prayers, but I do have an extra bed to share with weary evacuees and I have information to share with people who might need it. And that's something. I'm doing something. 

What are you doing, I wonder? Just a thought. 

Incidentally, if you are feeling generous and you want to donate to my friend's GoFundMe to restore her business, here's the link: SaveTheFishTank She and her husband are really great people and they have 3 little kids, the youngest of whom was just born a few months ago. Any help is greatly appreciated! 

Monday, May 9, 2016

Daddy Issues

George Michael wrote a song about you.

I had a dream last night that I was finally able to tell him what he meant to me, and strangely, he didn't think I was weird for doing so. I buried my face in his chest and he held me close. It felt so safe. I have been dreaming about him a lot lately and it leaves me to wonder why I am feeling so insecure that I need my ersatz father figure so desperately.

I am sure that this is insecurity because I had another dream where he and Simon were kind of aloof and nasty to me. They are never like this in my dreams. Why am I feeling rejected? At least last night's dream made up for it. I also remember him saying something to the effect of he loved that no matter how I was feeling I could lose myself in the music - I wonder if that is some kind of subconscious metaphor for losing myself in him.

I have been losing myself in him for quite some time now - losing myself in the band. It began as me asserting my identity, but I wonder if I haven't gone too far and made the band the only part of me that anyone sees. Surely there is more to me than Duran Duran. They are a comfort to me though, they are safe. Nick and Simon are the fathers I wish I had.

I wish I could explain how good it felt to bury my face in the soft white cotton of his shirt and to feel his chest beneath it.

Friday, December 25, 2015

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Monday, December 21, 2015

PicSpam!

Mojo Jojo is in town and we be eatin' seafood!

He ate the whole thing.

Not just a pizza. Yum, yum.