Revising form, and maybe genre?
Original Paragraph (from "Wandering & Wondering," Section IV): I've been thinking about Yeat's poem, Adam's Curse. Just those few lines - about our labor to be beautiful, the construction of beauty. More specifically, I'm thinking about the post-Garden of Eden collapse, of how, in Genesis, all of Creation becomes wild, is infected with sin. It's uncontrolled, it's imperfect and strange. And the human relationship with nature is uncertain, there is a divide. Thrown out of the Garden, we must work the land in order to produce anything beautiful. We must re-define beauty for ourselves - we must re-create whatever we think beauty should be.
Notes/analysis: Since the paper was called “Wandering and Wondering,” I tried to enact those things in my style of writing – not landing on any one point of view or type of writing, not drawing definite conclusions, but leaving room for changes. With this being a series of observations – not personal reflection – I lost a directed commitment to one view over another. So now I’m struggling with deciding on the ‘genre’ for this piece/paragraph. I think it is more tragic than comedic – with the “we” positioned as a kind of hero, a portion of the “Created” that is actively working against “division.”
If that is the case, where am I located? As this is a recording of my thought process, am I an objective observer or a member of the “we”? Should I be included? Should I commit myself to one direction?
I’m having a hard time changing the genre, so I’m going to work with form and see where that takes me.
I am woman, born woman. I know the labor (our labor) to be beautiful, I know
the Curse, the post-Garden collapse; I know of how, at our Genesis, all of Creation became wild, infected with sin,
uncontrolled, imperfect, strange – I became wild; you, man, the birds
of the air, the winds, the calls, the grass of the plains. Ever since the fall,
all affected, affected by all. Relating is uncertain, divided. Grounding is
indefinite, the fate of man and vegetable derided. Man pitted against Earth (or rather,
Man positioning himself as pitted against Earth).Thrown out of the Garden (or rather,
Man positioning himself as thrown out of the Garden). Who
would ever take the account, the name, the error?
Taught to stand alone, who would ever admit to anything less
than victimhood and terror? This
is the Curse – that very denial; I claim to have no name for beauty and yet
my would-be Gardens are all asymmetrical and carefully artless – I claim knowing
and yet I can only speak for myself, relating divided, grounding indefinite. I am so
embedded in cycle, I cannot see that
we – I, you, man, the birds – perpetuate
Reflections: I think the more creative the form, the more free I feel to place myself inside of it, more as a character than as myself. I can experiment with my own emotions – so I can question things in a different way and come to a new conclusion.
As for genre… Help?