January 5th, 2010
Happy endings. They’re a problem, aren’t they?
Of course, some people rubbish the whole notion of ‘happy endings’, finding them ridiculously simplistic and perhaps evidence of the lowbrow tastes of those who loll about all day in peach coloured negligees eating soft centred chocolates and reading bodice rippers – as so many of us do.
Happy endings are said to be evidence of patriarchal brain washing, seducing innocent young females into fantasies of rescue and everlasting married bliss when they should be fantasising about their earning potential as merchant bankers or realising their inner potential by climbing Everest without oxygen and sans makeup. Marriage these days is not the neat end of the story; it’s not the one and only aim of contemporary western women as it used to be portrayed, particularly in post war popular culture.
It’s not the only aim, if it is an aim at all, because we know that in real life happy endings, where the lovers remain dreamily happy forever, just don’t happen. Lovers turn into partners – or not – and a whole truckload of interpersonal issues get dumped on their white picket fence and, if they stay together, they’ll be dealing with these issues until death or divorce part them.
The story of the courtship, not the forty-year aftermath, is what concerns your average romantic comedy writer. In popular fiction and film, the courtship is much more fun than the marriage because many deeper personality issues have yet to surface and we can enjoy the projected dreams and desires as much as the characters do. We can laugh at their bumbling and misunderstandings, recognising and laughing at ourselves all the while. But where to put that full stop? How can we end on an optimistic note at this point when we know what lies ahead of them?
Marriage, a lifelong commitment to another person is a hard road to travel, and almost half of those who attempt it fall by the wayside. Sustaining a marriage requires relationship skills, generosity, hope, forgiveness and an ability to reach deep into the self to find these things. It’s complicated, more so than most of us imagine when we sign on. Marriage can’t signify a happy ending in this era. So I’m still a bit wary of plonking a marriage at the end of my stories. But we still need resolution and we want an uplifting conclusion that will somehow temper the remorseless of reality, and what marriage does do is signify commitment, and maybe commitment is the optimistic ending we are after.
Getting married is an expression of hope, symbolizing that you will do your best when the bad times come – which they will – to keep the relationship together. So why should that commitment in itself be a happy ending? Why not make serial monogamy or multiple lovers or celibacy the gold standard of human happiness? Because a functioning, intimate and sexually exclusive relationship with a person you respect and enjoy being with – sustained until the end of life, meets so many of our human needs that it is, let’s face it, what most people, male and female, yearn for.
So when the lovers on screen or in the book finally sort out their differences and decide they want to be together, that is what we are wishing for them. Not a sugary, improbable happy ending, but the strength and good fortune to sustain the love until the end of their lives. We know the odds are long, but we close the book or leave the theatre hoping their white picket fence stays upright and only needs a few coats of paint over it’s lifetime.
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Tags: books, culture, desire, film, love, myths, reading | 4 Comments
December 18th, 2009
Angry Eve, Keith Howard
This is a short story from my friend Anthony Barker from Portland, Oregon
In a small village in Tuscany, in the time of the condottiere, an old farmer lived with his young daughter, Gina. She was uncommonly beautiful, dreamy, tenderhearted, and absurdly innocent. She loved small animals, and turned her father’s lambs into pets. She hoped to enter a convent, for she thought it would be like living in a Fra Angelico painting.
One day a handsome squire met her tending the sheep. He soon discovered her trusting nature and persuaded her that he was an angel, come to give her a vision of paradise. She was a little doubtful, but he was so handsome, so kind, so gentle and reassuring that she finally agreed. He showed her, as he had promised, but in the morning he left her, forgetting the other promises he had made.
She longed for him as spring became summer, and wondered as her waist began to swell. The old man recognized the symptoms and in a furious rage forced her to tell her story. He was an old fashioned sort. “Whore!” he screamed, in response to her explanation. He called her other unpleasant names as well, and taking a stick, drove her out of the house.
She had no other place to go, and being suddenly made aware of her degenerate character, she hardly dared show herself, or seek any comfort from her neighbors. In this sad condition she made her way along the road into a forest.
People from her village rarely went into this forest because, in the middle of it, there was a small house occupied by three old crones. The villagers were not afraid of old women; but these particular old women didn’t seem to have any relatives, and as far as anybody could remember, there never was a time when they hadn’t lived in the middle of the forest. You can’t be too careful. Everybody stayed away.
Nevertheless, the girl found herself in front of their cottage just as night was falling. She was so tired and hungry, and the late summer evening was so chilly, that she could not imagine that she could be worse off. She knocked on the door. One of the ancient hags opened it and asked what she wanted. The girl was badly frightened although the woman was so frail and insubstantial as to be hardly more than a vision.
The girl blurted out her story, “My name is Gina and I live in the village. Last spring a handsome boy (he said he was an angel but he was just a squire in one of the armies) seduced me, and now I’m a whore and I forgot what else, and I don’t know where to go, and I’m going to have a baby.”
The old woman sighed (perhaps she had heard this story before.) She told the girl to come inside and get warm. The other two old women were kind enough, in a practical sort of way, bringing some soup and bread. They didn’t seem to find her story very remarkable, or even interesting. They said that since she didn’t have any place else to go she might as well stay and help take care of the animals until her child was born. They gave her a couple of blankets and made her comfortable in the straw of the stable.
She stayed with them all through the fall and early winter, helping with their cleaning and baking, doing farm chores, cutting wood for the fire and generally keeping busy and useful. In the evenings she was so tired she could barely shed a tear before she fell sound asleep.
Her time came in midwinter. The snow lay deep in the little clearing, and the animals crowded into the shed with her to keep warm. The old ladies helped, and with the usual turmoil and pain she gave birth to a beautiful little daughter. The three crones cleaned the baby, wrapped her in toweling and put her to nurse. Gina named her baby ‘Bianca’.
Who knows how word of such things gets around? You’d think that nothing could be more obscure than a birth in the middle of the forest, especially a forest where nobody cared to go (although they weren’t afraid of three old women.) However, it was only a day or two before everyone had heard of it. One brave and curious granny came out to see, bringing some baby clothes that had belonged to her grandchildren but which still had plenty of wear left in them. One of the grandchildren came with her. He brought a little toy. They were both amazed at how exceptionally beautiful the child was. They also marveled at the mother, who was so sad. They left their gifts and went back to the village carrying the news of the lovely child and her mother.
Needless to say there were lots of arguments. The villagers split into factions. The kindlier, more sympathetic (and curious) thought it was a great shame that such a pretty girl should have been seduced and abandoned by that cruel young soldier. Something ought to be done, they said, to get her out of the stable into decent surroundings where (who knows) she might yet attract a husband. The others, including her father, thought she had gotten off easy considering how she had carried on with that out-of-town scalawag. Nothing could be more suitable, they argued, than that she and her brat should be living on the scraps and leavings of three old hags who were probably witches. They said that no decent man, or sensible village, would have anything to do with any of them.
By coincidence there was a supernova just after the baby was born. The entire sky was lit by a star as bright as the full moon. It was so bright that it was visible during the day as well. This upset the villagers even more. According to their position in the dispute some of them blamed the girl and her baby, while others thought the blame should fall on her father, and others suggested the soldier. A few blamed the village itself. There was no priest to resolve these quarrels, but a wise old woman, who was related to nearly everybody, said it would be prudent to take something to the mother and child. After all, it was nearly Christmas. Perhaps it would help; and it certainly couldn’t do any harm. Also they would all get a chance to see the girl, the baby, and the three hags.
So, in the eerie light of the supernova they straggled into the forest. They continued to bicker, but they had dressed in their Sunday clothes, and many of them were carrying little gifts of cakes, fresh milk, candles, eggs or such stuff as they had to welcome a newborn, or possibly to appease a witch.
When they reached the clearing the old hut had disappeared. Only the stable remained, bathed in the stellar glow. Inside, the girl sat on the straw, subdued and melancholy—but Bianca was as alert and inquisitive as the animals.
The villagers stared quietly at the girl. They too found her beautiful and touching; but they were not entirely at ease. For one thing, where were the old hags? The villagers looked around nervously, some of them crossing themselves, or crossing their fingers against the evil eye.
Well they might, for at this moment the three old crones stepped out of the stall next to Bianca’s manger. They still wore their hooded gowns, but it seemed that they had been transformed. Seeing the crowd outside the stable, each of them pushed back her hood. They were not old women at all, but beautiful queens wearing golden crowns. Their hag dresses were just an outer covering which they removed as they knelt by Bianca’s nest in the hay.
The first queen was dressed in a brocaded gown with gold threads and a pattern of fig leaves. She spoke. “I am Eve, Queen of the Garden and Mother of all.” Reaching into her bodice she brought forth a jewel, shaped like an apple and formed of a single ruby. “Bianca, I bring you the gift of self awareness, the beginning of knowledge. It was the gift that made us all human. Of course, men curse me for it.” Bianca reached for the apple and smiled.
The second queen, dressed in a graceful linen toga, spoke, “Bianca, I am Helen, Queen of Troy. I bring you this mirror of electrum and silver, symbol of feminine beauty, which you will have in full measure. Men will desire you for your beauty, but blame you for it. That’s life.” Bianca saw her face in the mirror and laughed.
When the third queen removed her hag’s cloak the villagers were amazed by her dress of celestial blue, lit by stars. She ignored them and spoke to the baby, “Bianca, I am Mary, Queen of Heaven.” The villagers fell to their knees. “It was I who made the glory of God manifest in the baby Jesus, and I make every birth divine. Though you are an outcast, Bianca, and an orphan, you shall share in the Holy Spirit as fully as any.” She picked up Bianca and kissed her. She also touched Bianca’s mother and blessed her.
Now the villagers were filled with an entirely different sort of fear. Some of the men, including Gina’s father, trembled before the three great queens. Others, who were idlers and scoffers, were afraid because they had come to the forest to mock. Even those who had been kind were nervous for fear they might not have been kind enough, or soon enough—they wondered if eggs and winter apples, hand-me-down dresses and ribbons were fine enough for a child who had been blessed with self knowledge, beauty and grace.
Most frightened of all was a young man in the back of the crowd. It was the young soldier, Angelo, held by two of Gina’s uncles, each with a large cudgel. One uncle shouted, “We’ve caught the rascal, Holy Mother, and brought him to you.” He shoved Angelo to the front of the crowd and into the dirt next to Bianca’s bed. “Judge him, Majesties, Queens of Wisdom, Beauty and Mercy. What shall his penalty be? Just say the word and I’ll pummel him.”
The Queen of Heaven interceded for the poor squire, “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said. “Angelo, you have offended me greatly”. I require that you ask forgiveness of my daughter, Gina. Your penance will be whatever she demands of you.’
So, Angelo rose from the dirt and knelt before Gina and begged pardon. He was wise enough not to give any excuses. By a miracle, Bianca said her first word, “Da!”
And Gina, still basically ingenuous, but slightly more prudent, said, “Oh Angelo, I love you. If you’ll marry me I’ll forgive you.” Angelo sat down in the straw with his arm around Gina, and with Bianca in his lap. All of them glowed in the light of the supernova.
The villagers gathered around the family and offered their presents. The village fiddler played music suitable for festivals and weddings. Everyone had a good time. The queens had resumed their dark dress and withdrawn to the side. For a moment they watched the celebration.
Eve was thoughtful, “Awareness is one thing,” she said, “Wisdom is another. You need to have a little experience.”
Helen replied, “She’ll probably be sorry later, but maybe she would have been sorrier if he hadn’t come back. I often ask myself if men are worth the trouble.”
Mary sighed, “It’s no wonder there are so few miracles these days. It’s hard enough to arrange a happy ending.”
Helen of Troy
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November 17th, 2009
It’s been a rejection kind of day for some friends of mine. A day where the why-am-I-doing-this-when-I-don’t-have-to succubus sits on your shoulder cooing softly. That’s true, noxious harpy, you say as you brush her onto the ground. But it’s also true that I am resilient, and stamp on this maggot of malevolence – silencing her – but only for the moment, because like some hideous science fiction creation, she will be back.
To persist in the face of constant rejection does take resilience, (or a delusional personality). It is part of the writer’s job specification – the resilience that is. It goes with the territory, as does verbal abuse if you operate phones in a call centre, or untimely death if you are a pirate in the South China Sea. But when does persistence tip over into delusion? When do you hang up your keyboard and acknowledge that you gave it your best and it just wasn’t your time?
To succeed at anything, a little encouragement is essential. A little reward that affirms you are on the right path. This is why writers pore over every rejection letter and analyse every word, as a seer examines chicken entrails, looking for a tiny scrap of encouragement. Look, you say triumphantly, they say there is no room on their lists at the moment. At the moment! Which must mean that one day they will have room and I should submit again! Or, the full stop is after ‘ridiculous’, which must mean that they like ‘ridiculous’ – just not at the moment.
These rejections are easier to take when one has good travelling companions. A camaraderie among writers, born of empathy, can ease the worst of pains. Your pals say the agent is a ‘c**t’ who has the sensibility of a shopping mall designer because anyone can see that your work is brilliant, original and grammatically perfect. Or everyone gets out the cheap plonk and shreds the whole modern publishing industry, accusing them of dumbing down the population at large at the behest of Big Capital who just want a bunch of mindless consumers to buy Dan Brown at the checkout for $9.99.
But one day that letter will come and you’ll know. I live on a large block of land. The subsoil has a depth of around one centimetre; it’s lashed by winds straight off the hot Australian interior and baked by an unforgiving sun. When I moved here I had the urge to grow vegetables, a strong urge powered by some primal force within. I had heritage seeds that I nursed along. I bucketed water to my vegetable garden during summer water restrictions when using hoses was banned. I composted everything that wasn’t nailed down. Bags and bags and bags of manure, sheep poo, mushroom compost, water saving crystals, chook poo and home made soups of all of the above were lavished on my vegetable garden. I built tomato trellises, bamboo tepee’s for runner beans and spread straw mulch around everything.
After ten years of failure I now buy all my vegetables from the shop. The idea of vegetable gardening produces spasms of nausea - and a harsh cackle occasionally when others wax lyrical about their vegetal triumphs. Every year, EVERY YEAR, birds and insects would take their cut from my garden. Weather extremes extorted another major cut. Plants failed to flower, or there was not enough water to plump up the vegetables, and then some sort of mildew would move in and do its thing and I’d be left with two zucchini and a handful of silver beet to show for a whole seasons work.
It was a crushing, soul destroying experience and I’m still astonished I persisted for so long. I had resilience, optimism and the knowledge gleaned from a thousand Gardening Australia’s. Now I just eat vegetables, I don’t want to know where they come from – because it hurts too much.
One day I may feel that way about writing. I hope not.
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September 25th, 2009
The title of my book being published next year, The Book of Love, refers to a French book of lithographs detailing the erotica excavated at Pompeii in the eighteenth century. The book is called the Musée royal de Naples; peintures, bronzes et statues érotiques du cabinet secret, avec leur explication
What is extraordinary about the images, to our modern eyes, is the sheer quantity and usage of phalluses. Phallic wind chimes, phallic lamps, phallic charms, birds with phalluses, fauns with phalluses, you name it, there’s a sodding phallus on it. It’s a lovely appendage but is there, or was there, nothing else to decorate wind chimes with?
Yes, it was a male dominated military society and the phallus is good shorthand for male potency. But it was also more than that, the phallus symbolised generative powers and was believed to bring good luck and a fertile garden if you did go for the wind chimes and hang them over your carrot seedlings. Romans celebrated sexuality, and were quite open about it. But don’t romanticise them, it wasn’t a ‘free love,’ Woodstock-in-a-toga set up.
It’s no surprise that the phallus was such a common symbol in everyday Roman life if you consider the following. There were strict rules about who could do what to whom. At the top of the pile were the freeborn Roman men – they were the ‘penetrators’ and could not, by law, be penetrated. Males of this rank could initiate sex with whomever they pleased, except wellborn free boys. Males and females of lower status had to accept the passive, ‘penetrated’ role. For high ranking men to be on the receiving end was a mark of shame.
And if we think in terms of symbolising power we probably have more in common with the ancient Romans than we realise. We have a far more sophisticated visual culture, but it’s still there in our language. Money is our symbol of dominance, not the phallus, yet the symbolic power of the dynamics of penetration, as an active act for real men, has travelled down over a couple of thousand years in language and phrases. ‘I was screwed,’ (cheated), ‘he f**ked me over, (took control), ‘take it up the arse’, (be dominated), and so on. This is the language of power – and you can bet that those at the top of our political and financial food chains are busy metaphorically doing what those ancient Romans did to establish a pecking order.
If you grew up in Ancient Rome and saw, everyday, male dominance and the sexual symbolism of that dominance being in evidence in all levels of material culture – and were dropped into our culture you’d be forgiven for thinking pretty, curvaceous women symbolise a feminine dominance.
So, is she in charge, asks our sandal clad time traveller? Is that why breasts are everywhere? Yes of course, it must be - this culture values the feminine, the nurturing, and the breast as symbol of life giving. We know better though, don’t we? Ms Breasts is not up on that billboard because we celebrate and value the feminine. She’s up there because someone decided her breasts could sell a soft drink or a computer game. Her fleeting moment of power is only bestowed on her, and then only in the service of financial capital.
Plutarch declared that a good wife should lie still during intercourse. Another Ancient Roman echo in these pictures?
Plus ca change
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