Persian Family Fest at Bowers

I'm going to give my best Huell Howser impression and utter, with a silly grin, that "I had an absolutely wonderful day at the Narouz Persian Family Festival" at Bowers Museum. Actually, no, I won't proceed with this impression, because I actually enjoy the good-natured delivery of Huell, and I only wish that I could do what he does. Instead, I am an academic who puts up with neurotic, perennially-malcontent colleagues who engage in continual back-biting and who seem to be unable to turn off their critical faculties. These festivals are a source of relief and wonder for me, and this festival was no exception. They are the nearest thing I have to therapy, and I look forward to them religiously, even though I am not otherwise a religious person.

Today the free family festival spotlighted the culture of Iran, a country with an ancient civilization. We have a sizeable community of Iranians in Southern California, and I first remember them from the early 80s, when I was attending a summer program at UCLA and we had a few recent immigrants from that country. What I noticed back then is that the person to whom I am referring took pains to disassociate herself from the word "Iran", and referred to her former country as "Persia", and her language as "Farsi". We all knew why. Iran was at the vanguard of the revolutions in the Middle East, and had been in conflict with the USA ever since .

May I say, I find the culture of Iran/Persia fascinating, and this event was certainly well-attended.

As I arrived I noticed a very long line of people waiting outside to enter, and for a moment I felt anxiety. I thought that it would take a very long time to find parking in the surrounding streets, and that I would miss the beginning of the festival. However, it turns out that the Benjamin Franklin exhibit will be ending soon, and most of those people who were standing in line came to see that exhibition. A chance to see the personal effects of one of this country's most notable early figures was not to be missed.

The festival began a little late, but the crowd was very patient. I attend these festivals because it gives me a chance to hear other languages and to see a range of cultural performances, and I haven't been to enough festivals that spotlight the Middle East. I specifically wanted to eat some Iranian food and see the dance and music groups. While I didn't get to try the kebobs (that was the only offering and they had run out), I did see the performances.

After an introductory singing exhibition by a children's cultural troupe (from the Zoroastrian center), the second cultural group was the Djanbazian Dance Company. This group, judging by the name, was founded by an Armenian who probably has ties to Iran.

The Armenians have diaspora communities scattered throughout the world, and it is a testament to their tenacious will to preserve their heritage that they have continued to survive despite a history of exploitation and conquest. They have communities throughout the Middle East, and my first exposure to a member of this community was in the person of a fellow engineering student at UCLA named Raffi Dionysian. I always did think that his name was strangely appropriate since he was somewhat raffish, but he was also a very intelligent and dedicated student. By now, the members of this dance group are in all probability not recent immigrants such as Raffi, but second or third generation members from this and other Middle Eastern communities. It is more imperative than ever that this (and other communities) manage to preserve ties to their ethnic heritage, since the genius of America seems to lie in its infinite capacity for assimilation.

The photos of this dance group follow:

And here is one of the Shouranqiz Ensemble of musicians, who were treated with reverence by the host even if some of the audience members seemed somewhat less than cooperative. By that, I mean that both the host and one of the musicians asked people to be absolutely quiet, and to not move around, but this was a restive audience and, as with any festival that draws families with children, people continued speaking and some got up while the musicans were performing. This prompted the host to chide the audience after the musicians had ended their performance, reminding them that hopefully "next time you won't cross the front area while the groups are making music". It seemed unusually harsh. Someone needed to remind the host that this is not a concert setting, this is an outdoor, free festival!

And then the Djambazian Dance group returned to perform more dances, this time including a specifically Armenian dance.

A memorable dance group. In the end they did an interactive dance with members of the audience who were brave enough to venture forward when the call was made for volunteers. They were taught some basic steps, they lined up in a circle, and we had the following result:

And of course, no post from a trip to a Bowers Museum festival would be complete without a short video of a dramatic landscape as I return home. This is actually an exercise that might land me in trouble one of these days as I film while driving. I'll have to desist now.

I'm looking forward to the next festival in April, one that will highlight Native-American cultures from both North and South America. By then, I hope also to have taught my first classes at Pomona.



The Battle of Five Armies: a prelude to future cataclysm

I finished reading "The Hobbit" yesterday, and I was left with an overwhelming sense disgust. This was prompted as much by the greedy behavior of Thorin, the dwarf who was seduced by the horde of treasure in the Lonely Mountain, as much as by the aggression shown by the various species who do battle in the end. There is also a reference to genocide, by which I mean the manner by which the goblins were gradually exterminated in these northern realms. Being no admirer of these creatures, I can nonetheless appreciate that they had their own society and their own interests. It is no wonder that there should have been such hostility evident in the subsequent trilogy.

It must also be noted that I enjoyed the dialogue between Smaug and Bilbo. I can appreciate the craftiness of the hobbit as he crafts a series of titles for himself, as well as the smugness and tone of reproval of a dragon who was able to insinuate and poison the mind of Bilbo as he conversed with him. This was another contest of wills evident in the terrain of rhetoric and discourse, and it was one of the most entertaining elements. It made me regret the fact that we had so little dialogue with Smaug, who was killed soon after by the men of the Long lake. Specifically, by a man named Bard, one who is described often as "grim".

Gandalf arrived at the end, but seemingly was able to do nothing to resolve the conflict that was evident between the band of dwarves and the army of men and elves. He instead cries a warning about the arrival of the army of the goblins, one that was little anticipated and much feared. He does service to the sobriquet that he was assigned in the "Lord of the Rings", where he was dismissed as Gandalf "Stormcrow", who always brings bad tidings, although in fairness, he strikes me as the organizational mastermind of this enterprise as well as the battle against Sauron.

It is Bilbo who seems to be immune to the spell of the treasure, and who wishes to resolve the situation peacefully. He is intrepid and resourceful, and this continues to surprise even when we are made aware of all the other strategems he has devised to save the expedition. Bilbo has hidden the famed Arkenstone, and he takes it to the elves and the men, forcing Thorin to make a deal with this army. However, the dwarf is weak, and he reneges on his promise, waiting to gain by battle what he was not willing to safeguard by negociation. He isn't the first character to break a promise.

I wouldn't be too harsh in my assessment of Thorin, however. We are all imperfect creatures, and I recognize that I have felt myself impelled to make bad decisions in my lifetime. It has happened in the past, it will happen in the future. Perhaps the aspect of redemption at the end is more hopeful, although he has to die to expiate the guilt of his having banished Bilbo and having reneged on his promise to the elves and the men. There seems to be much distrust between groups, and much pursuit of self-interest. It is only the threat of extinguishment that binds them, and perhaps, that is why I suspect that Gandalf withheld giving notice of the approach of the combined armies of the goblins and wargs. Perhaps he didn't expect them to arrive as soon as he did, or perhaps he recognized that an external enemy would unite the two opposing forces. It has ever served as a successful strategy in the past.

In the end, the battle is a desperate struggle, and there seems to be little hope of survival for the elves, dwarves and men where it not for the arrival of the eagles and of Beorn, the changling. Another more majestic spectacle could not be offered other than the sight of a giant bear tearing into goblins and wargs, cutting them to peaces. He is a primal force to whom no one can offer resistence, and it will be wonderful to see how this is filmed in the upcoming Peter Jackson films. And even so, there is a see-saw between the groups and moments of despair before the battle is somehow, unexpectedly, won. Bilbo does not see this because he is incapacitated by a blow, and wakes up in time to say farewell to a dying Thorin, the "King of the Mountain" who acquited himself poorly.

In the end, there are many farewells. Bilbo is counted as a friend once again by all, and he undertakes the long trek home, as the hobbits in the subsequent trilogy will do at the end. The elves sing, and I am still unsettled by the merriness of their song and comportment. They seem to be far-removed from the serious, dignified and somewhat haughty elves we would see in other books. Perhaps the elves have evolved as well, or, as is more likely, their character has been refashioned by Tolkein to reflect new narrative purposes. They certainly seemed more earthy in "The Hobbit".

The hobbit returns to Bag End to find his home and belongings being auctioned. He receives no warm welcome, and perhaps this is justified and natural. Ingratitude must ever be part of the reward for heroism, and it has the effect of reinforcing the modesty that we insist from our heroes. Bilbo, after the long quest, is forced to piece together his life, and cannot return to being what he was. He is no longer a respectable hobbit, content to glory in the staidness of life where nothing happens and each day is much like the rest. He has stories to tell, and these stories must seem like incredible exaggerations that are met with bemusement at best and with scorn at worst. Storytellers are not always treated well.

Bilbo also consorts with other species, from wizards to dwarves and elves. And yet, despite his being cast aside, he seems to conserve an air of dignity and quiet joy. He has changed, and as a result, has become more sure of himself. Enough perhaps to accept the isolation that comes with his changes, although he is never truly isolated nor forgotten by his friends. And, he now has a magic ring! Little does he suspect how the world will hinge on the control of this item, but the best testament in the meantime for his character is that Bilbo seems to feel no temptation to abuse the power of invisibility. In other stories, from Plato's fable to H.G. Wells' "The Invisible Man", such power has always been an invitation to abuse.

Now, I would like to proceed to other fantasies. Perhaps it is time to read "The Worm Ourobouros", by Eddington. Or, what is more likely, it may be time to undertake Shakespeares' "The Tempest". In Caliban I may encounter a doppelganger, after all.


Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2011
Copyrights ORomero 2011

The last in the line (Toy Story 3)

In my ongoing effort to document my year, I decided when I started this blog that I would write short reviews of the books, movies and cultural performances that I encountered. In this case, I've just seen last year's blockbuster, "Toy Story 3", and I was touched by the emotional punch of this film.

It is premised on a milestone that was bound to occur sooner or later. The child was naturally destined to grow up and leave behind childish things, by which I am referring not only to the emotional dependence all children have on their parents but also on the hidden life that cultivated when young, when they were freer to explore their curiosity and to give in to the seductions of free-wheeling narrative.

There is an energy in the opening sequence that I can only dimly recall from my own childhood, but that still seems recognizable. When I was young and we were living in an apartment block, I have a memory of playing with a pair of branches and imagining that it was the steering wheel of a magnificent car. It naturally seemed to me that this steering wheel should be singular, and what would lend it this characteristic? Setting it on fire, of course. And so I did to the wood branches, burning myself in the process. It all seemed somehow necessary at the time.

The boy of this series, Andy, is now a seventeen year old and is going off to college. He knows that he will be entering a new world and he is thus faced with the necessity of putting away his things at home. His toys he keeps in a chest, and these toys have not been played with for a long time, as the characters themselves lament. The plot is thus premised on the necessity of making a transition, and we have all gone through that phase. It also plays with the issue of evolving family dynamics, and just as the child recalibrates his relationship with his family, we are faced with the internal dynamics of the evolving family unit. Yes, this assortment of toys do constitute a family, filled with compelling, funny, irritating and, ultimately, familiar characters, and we have always known it.

After setting up the premise of seperation the plot seems to devolve into a series of action sequences. The characters are in trouble, and they need to find a way to maintain their unity and sense of purpose. This escape and rescue narrative takes center stage once again, as it has before. It reminds me at times of other thrilling movies such as the Steve McQueen standards, "Papillon" and "The Great Escape" that I saw in 80s as I was reaching that same age of adolescence.

There are many dangers to overcome and, of course, while many of the characters may waver, Woody never does. Ultimately the threat of seperation binds the characters more tightly as it always does, and gives the plot a pathos that draws the viewer firmly in.

While it may not have engaged me intellectually, I did enjoy the emotional resonance of the film. The character of Woody, the earnest, hopeful, idealistic cowboy who is voiced by Tom Hanks, represents as always the emotional heart of this constellation of characters. Once again the movie studio Pixar has carefully crafted a story that, while not necessarily novel, is still nonetheless engaging, familiar and thrilling. It was only a matter of time before we were bound to encounter a group of evil toys who were bent on exploiting Woody and family. The film appeals to a basic primordial need we all have to protect our community and our family, gaining as we do a sense of belonging that is so essential to our identity. We are all threatened by the idea of disposability, and commercial culture at its very heart reduces everything to a commodity that is put into circulation and is subject to exploitation. (Why do I have the feeling of delving into issues of class consciousness?)

I don't often see children's films, but I do make an exception for Pixar. I wasn't always receptive to animation in my adult years, but I've had time to reevaluate my position. I've long been a fan of Japanese animation, ever since I used to watch reruns of the series "Speed Racer" back in the early 70s.

With my discovery of the works of Hayao Miyazaki in the 90s, I've come to appreciate more fully the artistry of this medium as it is practiced by selected creators. Animators shouldn't strive for the appearance of traditional cinema, but they can and should draw on universal narrative techniques. It is natural to recognize that animators work with a different palette than other artists. Storytelling, however, is universal, and this film was captures some of the fears we feel as members of outcast communities in an age in which communities are more narrow than they have ever been.

Behind the rivalries, the envy and the anxieties, we have also a wish for finding a new home. I can't help but view it as a parable for those of us, all of us in reality, who feel despair at the fundamental emptiness of commercial society and the sterile demarcation of interest groups and targeted demographics who are analyzed and even nurtured with the purpose of creating a market for new products. Are we also disposable products ourselves, carefully crafted and molded under the strictures of advertising and market manipulation to service the needs of corporate society?

Ironically, I can't help but reflect that this message is delivered by means a supremely commercial film. I don't know whether this is meant to be subversive or whether I am meant to more fully acknowledge the seductions of capitalist society.

There and Back Again

Since I have almost finished "The Hobbit", in which the innocent hobbit Bilbo proves to be one of the most fascinating characters, I wanted to pay homage to him. As I recall, in "The Fellowship of the Ring", Bilbo has spent years writing his memoirs of this adventure, and he titled it "There and Back Again", in a typical example of dry wit.

My trip to work entails no such similar challenge, but I do venture forth twice a week to do battle with students in my classes. Well, not always battle. Sometimes they cooperate and I feel grateful that my efforts are not in vain.

I wanted to upload some videos of my typical journey to work, including as well a few videos of this location. It will remain without identification for now, but it could just as well have been named "Mirkwood Forest" for all the sense of foreboding I feel at times. Which is not to despair, for this entry is mostly tongue-in-cheek, and I enjoy working here very much.

This is the first part of my journey, on a freeway next to an open area that abuts our local dam. Yes, I am distracted as well by the trash evident on the ground, but sometimes I am more distracted by the vistas that appear breathtaking on a clear winter day.

This is the theater and staging area for performances.

An ancient philospher gazes out in a location next to the library. He seems to be chuckling to himself.

The library seems strangely deserted at night. This was filmed after I had completed my working day.

Finally, a panoramic vista of the student union. It seems an inviting place, although I am still astonished to see so little student activity at night.



Parables of Distance ("The Ice Storm")

I had a chance to see the 1997 film by Ang Lee called "The Ice Storm", and I found it fascinating. It is set in 1973, and follows the struggles of two families during a pivotal week, this being Thanksgiving. Both families are torn by conflicts and by urges that are difficult to explain, and they continue to resonate as much among adolescents as among adults.

A few of the scenes with the child characters are particularly moving. They capture the inarticulate and awkward as well as wondrous experiences that are so characteristic of this age. The scenesbetween siblings seem very authentic, with the mixture of aggression and the jockeying for position as well as the urge to establish some sense of commonality. The Toby McGuire and the Christina Ricci character have settled on calling each other "Charlie", a distancing mechanism that reflects how uneasily they strive to overcome the barrier they sense between them.

At other moments we have scenes of sexual awakening between friends, especially between the sons of the other couple and the Cristina Ricci character. Yes, the behavior is compulsive, irrational, frightening, and also very honest as it captures the fact that they become infatuated with each other. How to explain the changes that these adolescents are feeling? And is there any assurance that they will gain any more self-confidence as adults, especially when it is manifestly evident that there are tremors of discontent in their families that threaten to disrupt their lives like a storm that is capable of paralyzing and disabling them?

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As alluded to before, this awkwardness is evident among the adult characters, two couples who would seem to have fallen into a trap of despair where traditional relationships and roles seem stultifying. They are both well-meaning, open and generous couples, trying to be good parents but also bewildered by their own urges. One husband will have an affair with the wife of his friend, a particularly cold relationship with an absolutely frigid and self-centered woman played by Sigourney Weaver, capturing the end of the cycle of self-gratification as it leads to an arid emotional life.

I love the gestures of freedom. The sight of a young child peddling on a bicycle, the fall of autumn leaves, the need to explore their sexuality by revealing the sight of their genitals ("I'll show you mine if you show me yours"), the urge to shoplift that overcomes both mother and child. Yes, these are gestures of defiance but also attempt at self-definition as they push at boundaries that seem so suffocating.

The evocation of this period, at the beginning of the Watergate crisis, is also very evocative. It coincided with my early youth, and unfortunately I conserve few memories of this period. In my family we didn't really follow the news, and we were always made to feel like outsiders, stuck in a Mexican caccoon by immigrant parents who were desperately pining for the life and family they had left in Mexico, and unwilling to commit to this country.

I still recall the feeling of this period, though. There is this sense of an eternal autumn, one that contrasts with the spring and summer of a wondrous decade of expansion which was the 1960s. This was a magical period, and we are still living in the glow of the reflected light.

The 70s were another epoch. This family, as was the case with so many other families during this period, were trying to adjust to new roles and a new sense of needing to be open. In one particular instance it leads to a horrifyingly awkward scene where the father, played by Kevin Kline, tries to have a sexual talk with his teenage son who has returned home from prep school. The son cannot understand this impulse by his father, who uses tired, old-fashioned phrases such as "self-abuse" to refer to masturbation, and he falls into an understandable silence as he tries to resist what he considers an attempt to pry into his private life on the part of his father. We all need to set our boundaries.

The music is evocative, as well. I recognized Bread, and Elton John, and other groups. This was music that was played in the background everywhere, and even someone who was raised in a Mexican barrio such as myself and was only exposed to it from time to time. For me, it was tantalizing because it represented another world that was so near but, at the same time, so far away.

I'll share more of my impressions, and refine them further, at a later moment. Suffice it to say that the tragic event at the end seems like an unavoidalbe culmination to a process of self-destruction that was evident from the beginning. And yet, one feels immense compassion for the characters.

Revisiting "The Hobbit", part 3

What a bright morning it is! I woke up expecting a storm, and instead find clear skies and the pitiless sunlight that we are known for out here in the California desert. Appearances to the contrary, it is still bracingly cold outside, but not as much as it had been last week.

I woke up to news that the Libyan dictator Gaddhafi is mounting an offensive to capture rebel-held cities, and is being successful. It is dreary to hear this. The narrative of Middle-Eastern liberation seems to be stalled for now, although protests continue throughout the region. I suspect we will continue to see major changes, and it is my hope that the people of that region can establish governments that will represent their interests as well as maintaining respect for tolerance and dignity due to all peoples.

Now, from the Middle-East we turn to Middle-Earth. Here are reports from a few more chapters of "The Hobbit".

Chapter Nine: Barrels out of Bond

When we last left our adventurers, they were still deep within Mirkwood forest, having escaped the attacks of the giant spiders. Thorin has been captured by the Wood-elves, and the rest of the band is coalescing around Bilbo.

The Wood-elves return and they capture the rest of the band and take them to the king of the elves. The crucial element, however, is that they don't capture Bilbo, who eludes them by putting on his ring and disappearing before they detect his presence.

It is still amazing to me that the elves, for all their heightened sensory apparatus, were unable to detect Bilbo. I would imagine that, although he tried to creep along as quietly as possible, he would be bound to make a noise. Wouldn't they also be able to smell him? The elves were presented as these somber, haughty, crafty and graceful people in "The Lord of the Rings". It is still amazing to me to see that in this novel they are presented as having quite human appetites, capable of losing themselves to the delights of a feast and to intoxication.

Upon being presented to the king the dwarves refuse to give any details of their mission, and they are consequently put in solitary confinement. They are fed, but this seclusion proves to be very hard for them. Meanwhile Bilbo begins to live up truly to his role, and he becomes a burgler, stealing food and exploring his surroundings. He is the one who will hatch up a plan to liberate the dwarves.

He decided to free them and put them into empty caskets that will be floated down a river to the outskirts of Mirkwood, where they will be delivered to a town of men. These men are one of the few settlements out in the desolate east, and they engage in trade. Bilbo reveals himself to be a crafty individual, and he frees all the hobbits, taken advantage of a moment when the elvish guards are intoxicated with wine.

Once again, the presentation of drunken elves seems to diminish their stature in my eyes. I can appreciate that they would be presented as fey, but to read of them actively enjoying feasts and indulging their appetites detracts from the image I had of elves that was based on Elrond and Legolas. However, this is an early form of the myth that is being developed by Tolkein.

They manage to escape, however, due to fortuitous circumstances that reveal a lack of care on the part of the elves, who don't investigate caskets that seem to be very heavy (because they have been loaded with dwarves).

Chapter Ten: A Warm Welcome

After a very wearying journey in which Bilbo, who was unable to climb into a casket and thus had to cling to one and become drenched, they arrive at the town of men. There, he liberates his fellow companions, and Thorin takes the lead and presents the group to the authorities. There is a legend that the dwarves would one day return and lay claim to their ancient domain, and because of this legend they become celebrities and avoid being retaken by the representatives of the elves.

The King beneath the mountains,
   The King of carven stone,
The lord of silver fountains
   Shall come into his own!

His crown shall be upholden,
   His harp shall be restrung,
His halls shall echo golden
   To songs of yore re-sung.

The woods shall wave on mountains
   And grass beneath the sun;
His wealth shall flow in fountains
   And the rivers golden run.

The streams shall run in gladness,
   The lakes shall shine and burn,
All sorrow fail and sadness
  At the Mountain-king's return!

They become famous during their duration in that town, and are celebrated continually. It seems as if these men fall under the power of legends, and because of this power they are able to gather themselves and make further progress to the Lonely Mountain, that terrible place that Bilbo had seen during his journey on the river.

Chapter Eleven: On the Doorstep

It is almost winter now, and they make their journey to the mountain. It is desolate, and they can well imagine the presence of the dragon within, even if they haven't seen him. They find the door and, with fortuitous help from Bilbo who detects the keyhole, they manage to gain entry.

Bilbo has been crucial to the success of this enterprise. He has rescued the dwarves several times (twice, from the spiders and from the elves), and he has helped them locate the keyhole, something that had eluded the detection of the dwarves. It seems he has become indispensible, and has become quite the figure, although he is still a reluctant hero who wishes frequently that he had never left his home. This conforms to the contours of the reluctant hero who was analyzied by Joseph Campbell, and I would hasten to add that he preserves his reluctance even at this late stage. I'm not sure what is motivating him.

Chapter Twelve: Inside Information

They have managed to open the door, and now it is time to venture inside. However, it is a chilling prospect to think of stepping in, and instead they enjoin Bilbo to do so, couching it in terms of his chance to "earn" his share of the reward. As if he hadn't earned it several times over by now!

It seems as if the dwarves have a very grudging character. It is difficult to make deals with them because they are very watchful of always assuring their gain. As the narrator says:

"There is is: dwarves are notheroes, but calculating folk with a great idea of the value of money; some are tricky and treacherous and pretty bad lots; some are not, but are decent enough people like Thorin and Company, if you don't expect too much."

Are they then ungrateful? It would seem so, or maybe they are conservative types who believe that maximizing self-interest is the main justification for life. To tell the truth, they are begining to seem like the eternally grasping, comical species know as the Ferengi on Star Trek.

Now, to return to the chapter, Bilbo Baggins ventures into the mountain and after proceeding along a passageway for a long distance finally encounters the sleeping dragon, Smaug. Bilbo is quite an intrepid figure now, much transformed from his prior self.

He was trembling with fear, but his little face was set and grim. Already he was a very different hobbit from the one that had run out without a pocket-handkerchief from Bag-End long ago. He has not had a pocket-handkerchief for ages.

The sleeping dragon, lying on top of an immense treasure trove, is an absolutely majestic creature, generating immense heat and curled lazily in that immense hall.

There he lay, a vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; a thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke, but his fires were low in slumber. Beneath him, under all his limbs and his huge coiled tail, and about him on all sides stretching away across the unseen floors, lay countless piles of precious things, gold wrought and unwrought, gems and jewels, and silver red-stained in the ruddy light.

Bilbo steals a cup and returns to his companions, who congratulate him before they notice that the dragon has woken up. Smaug is angry because he has noted the theft, and he ventures out of the mountain, looking for the thief and raining fair and brimstone. Oh, to see such a spectacle! One would almost lament the loss of such majesty, and this wouldn't be the first time that someone such as myself would find sympathy for a monster.

Revisiting "The Hobbit", part 2

After a miserable Monday (aren't all Mondays miserable?) in which I struggled with a cold that had been gestating for several days, I was able to resume reading this classic. Unfortunately, I didn't make as much progress as I would have liked. Monday was a prep day for me, during which I grade materials and prepare lesson plans for my two classes. I wasn't feeling very alert as I normally do, given the throbbing in my head and my clogged nostrils that made it difficult to breathe, but I muddled through. I was hoping all the while that today would be a routine teaching day, with little of the feel of trying to restrain caged souls that are there against their wills, straining to leave with all their might, paying little head to what I am saying. Of course, why should things have been any different today?

I had a miserable afternoon session. This is my large class with over thirty college students, but they have been slacking off ever since the last midterm. Maybe they are tired as we near the end of the term and maybe they are feeling discouraged because this class hasn't been as easy as they were hoping it would be, but they were quite resistant to any participation today. It felt as if I was doing battle with them, and they were skillfully retreated and vanishing into the gloom each time I sought to engage them. Yes, that is what this is, a combat in which I dash forward here and there, perceiving their shadows huddling together fitfully, gathering momentarily before dissolving, and here I am in the meantime, standing foolishly in front of the chalk board, writing sentences and talking to them about rhetorical structures, facing a phantom army.

It is very dreary to see so many of them are sauntering in ten to twenty minutes late. A few creep out of the class surreptitiously as we near the end of the class, waiting until my back is turned before I head the pop of the student extricating him or herself form the seat and dashing to the door. I actually linger without turning, speaking to the chalk board, because I don’t want to catch them in midflight, like a startled deer on the road, frozen by the sight of Medusa.

Yes, I know that it is difficult for them to remain seated for an hour and forty minutes, and I wonder at times how it is that I can be expected to hold their attention for that long, but I used to be able to do it. It takes a combination of frenetic activity on my part, trying new tactics to engage them, but in the end, we have to talk about grammar, and I do have to talk about the errors I find in their homework.

There were many errors this last time. I know better, and so do they, but it seems as if they want to give me the impression that they are regressing in their skills. I know that most students remember very little of grammar when they enter college, and when you consider how a typical high school experience, which is more about maintaining control and creating the illusion of a structured environment rather than imparting conduct, it might seem miraculous that even that little was gained. I remember the desperation I felt in my last few years, sitting in classes with snickering teenagers who couldn’t concentrate on the material, could barely read, with students engaged in continual power plays and acts of defiance, wishing to draw attention to themselves because, yes, it is all about themselves when they are in high school. I was fortunate because I was able to escape this environment by being placed in a special program (GATE), but many others aren’t, and to tell the truth, giving our raging hormones, it is a miracle that we even bother to sit in our seats when in high school.

As I proceeded with my plans for today, I found myself despairing fully as much as the dwarves in Tolkien’s novel as they tried to cross Mirkwood forest, trying to reach the other side but having no glimmer of hope. It is very frustrating to be met with a solid wall of bored or indifferent faces, and some of the students actually rest their heads on their desks or else lean back with open mouths and closed eyes, like my nursing student. If I were malicious I would walk over to them and signal to the rest of the class that this was inappropriate, and then bark out a call to the student, asking them to give me the past perfect conjugation of the verb to sleep (dormir). But I don’t, of course. It is no use drawing attention to those who aren't paying attention because by doing so, you have lost the battle. It confers on the offenders celebrity status, like Charlie Sheen, the actor who has been gathering so much attention on the news of late, basking as details are revealed about his troubled personal life, of how he revels in his dysfunctional relationships with his ex-wives and insists on attacking the producers of his hit show, Two and a Half Men.

The end couldn't come soon enough, and I left to find a quiet refuge to clear the clouds of gloom that had gathered around me. It was a chilly and mostly-overcast today. The snow-capped San Gabriel Mountains loomed in the distance, entreating my spirit to take flight and escape, cover the dozen miles or so that separate us and lose myself in the soft and enveloping snow. During the summer there is so much haze in the air that these same mountains are frequently invisible, but on clear days, they make me dream of icy landscapes and of one day climbing up the Andes in South America and finding a hidden valley with untold wonders. I will have to bring my camera to take pictures the next time.

Without further ado, here are the next chapters, with my summaries and impressions.

Chapter Seven: "Queer Lodgings"

After having escaped the trap that had been laid by the wargs and goblins, the hobbits and Gandalf are transported east by their friends, the eagles. These eagles are no allies of the goblins, and while they little concern themselves with the affairs of the other races, they will at times disturb and impede the progress of the lesser, more savage races. And thus, yes, it must be recognized that there is a hierarchy of racial groups, a hierarchy that seems at time to resonate with the feel of the doctrines of scientific racism that had overtaken Europe in the nineteenth century.

I've always felt that the distinct races are supposed to be suggestive of distinct ethnicities in the world of that time. The hobbits, is must be said, are distinctly British, with all the innocence and earnestness of a group that is living in what critics of an industrial society must have envisioned life being in a pre-industrial agrarian economy. I hate to assign ethnicities to the other groups, but I've felt that the elves are supposed to represent more rarified, northern races, while the dwarves are much more earthy and hardy, with a distinctly earthy and Germanic feel, at least to me. They strike me as well as kin to the ancient Greek god Hephaestus, the lame and stocky god who was always at his forge. And the orcs and trolls? No need to speculate there. They are violent, uncultured, depraved and ugly.

After having landed in this new place, they are taken by Gandalf to ask for lodgings from a being of whom he has knowledge but whom he has never met. This is Beorn, the Changeling. (Yes, the name sounds Scandinavian to me, and was undoubtedly consciously chosen by a philologist such as Tolkien with his knowledge of old Anglo-Saxon and other Germanic tongues.) He lives close to a massive rock outcropping called the Carrock, and is another solitary and powerful individual who lives in majestic isolation. Middle-Earth is filled with these beings, and some are distinctly threatening (like the Necromancer, whom I had not remembered), while others are merely gruff. I would imagine a figure like Dan Haggerty of "Gentle Ben", the series that was aired in the 1970s, except this figure is a vegetarian, and lives off the cream of his cattle, the honey from his bees, and the produce that he plants.

This Changeling keeps very comely and intelligent animals, chief among which are the horses with whom he communicates. Thus, I can't help but recall Jonathan Swift, with this seeming homage to the Houynhms, the intelligent horses of his famous satire. The only thing is that these intelligent horses are much less haughty and judgmental, and thus, much less eerie and, ultimately, intimidating. The horses seem to follow the directions of the Changeling, and they are polite with the travelers. They may have little to say to them, yet they render assistance and service, as directed by their master.

Beorn clapped his hands, and in trotted four beautiful white ponies and several large long-bodied grey dogs. Beorn said something to them in a queer language like animal noises turned into talk. They went out again and soon came back carrying torches in their mouths, which they lit at the fire and stuck in low brackets on the pillars of the hall about the central hearth. The dogs could stand on their hind-legs when they wished, and carry things with their fore-feet. Quickly they got out boards and trestles from the side walls and set them up near the fire.

As a child, I might have been enchanted with such a description of intelligent and serviceable animals. As an adult, after having read Animal Farm, I would be filled with dread at this unnatural parody, one that seems all the more offensive to me because it recalls novels such as H.G. Wells' "The Island of Dr. Moreau", an unsettling parable condemning the cruelty of vivisection and, by extension, of species parochialism and the dehumanizing and authoritarian nature of much science. Are men really that unconscious of the cruelty they actions?

Beorn offers the band of travelers shelter, and asks to hear their story. He then leaves mysteriously without telling them why (it turns out he wants to confirm the details of what he has been told).  He returns much impressed with the band of adventurers, admiring their daring. He is no fan, after all, of goblins or wargs or other savage creatures, and I can't help but wonder if he (it) is not an analogue to the Rangers that we will encounter in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, a watchful entity who patrols certain territories, trying to resist incursions by invading forces.  (Could he/it be a “Minuteman” of an alternate realm, to make reference to the vigilante group that arose about ten years ago to patrol the border and extra-officially arrest, with illegal and unconstitutional force, poor Mexican immigrants who only want a change to better their circumstances? I can’t help but see immigration everywhere in this sage of Middle Earth, and can hardly see it as an innocent story meant for children, especially when I myself am of Mexican heritage. I’ve seen this before, after all, and recognize the tactic of circling the wagons.)

 

Beorn decides to give them aid, sharing supplies as well as the use of some of his intelligent horses to convey these to their next stop, the entrance to Mirkwood forest. This place is an appallingly dreadful and mysterious abode, with a fame that fills them with dread. Gandalf accompanies them on this journey, and he reiterates the injunction given by the Changeling that they not leave the pathway, because somehow, they are given to understand, following this path will afford them some form of magical protection. (Fairy tales always have some form of injunction, as noted by the Formalist scholar Propp, who undertook an analysis of the constituent elements of these tales. An injunction is given – don’t do this, don’t forget that, remember to do this, etc., and the injunction is always broken, inviting danger and pointing out the way in which fairy tales always involve a form of transgression.) The path is their via segura, their safest way to cross this terrain, but it is an arduous one. One is left to wonder if the particular magic of this realm is somehow harmful to Gandalf, or if he himself fears awakening something. (Did we not see this once again in the Fellowship of the Ring, in the passage through the Mines of Moria, where they awaken the Balrog? Are all these elements to be recapitulated in the trilogy which follows?) Why can't Gandalf help them, and why does he have to remove himself? (Think Gandalf falling down into the chasm in the episode of the Fellowship of the Ring just referenced.)  Is this the moment in which the travellers will have to prove themselves without the help of protectors? Another defining moment in which Bilbo will prove that he is more than he appears to be, especially now that he is in possession of the Ring, that powerful talisman?

Gandalf tries to reassure the despairing adventurers who plead with him and express their bitterness in ways that to me seem quite logical and, also, a little bit comical. The wizard seems prescient in his praise of Bilbo Baggins as he directs the following remarks to the dwarves who, somehow, haven't come to fully appreciate his abilities:

 ...and I am sending Mr. Baggins with you. I have told you before that he has more about him than you guess, and you will find that out before long. So cheer up Bilbo and don't look so glum. Cheer up Thorin and Company! This is your expedition after all. Think of the treasure at the end, and forget the forest and the dragon, at any rate until tomorrow morning!

Chapter Eight: Like Flies for Spiders

And here we encounter the details of their passage through Mirkwood forest, a passage that turns out to be as fully perilous as they had been warned it might be.

It is a long and dark passage, and the adventurous band seems to be suffocated by the gloom and the strangeness of this place. It is to be expected that they will be attacked at some point, and I remember faintly the episodes with the spiders. Apparently Tolkien would recapitulate the use of this same monstrous creature when he created the character of She-lob in his subsequent trilogy, pointing once again to the fact that the Hobbit, more than a prelude, seems to be a preliminary version of the subsequent trilogy.

After much tedium and a feeling of mounting desperation, they begin to feel overwhelmed. Their supplies have been consumed, and in addition one of their party, Bombur, the most corpulent of the dwarves, has fallen into the enchanted river and has fallen asleep. They had been told that those who drank of these waters would lose their memory, as they will after he wakes up.

They see lights far off in the distance and, against the many injunctions of Beorn and Gandalf, they stray from the pathway seeking aid. They are starving, thirsty and tired, and they come across a feast held by mysterious folk but, each time they approach, these folk disappear, leaving them in complete darkness. This is part of the ethereal nature of the elves, after all, and these are wood elves, who are said to be a little wilder and less refined than their western kin.

In the meantime they will be captured by spiders, and this is the moment for heroics. As Sam does when he frees Frodo from the orcs, Bilbo will discover a hidden reservoir of strength and courage and he will attack the spiders, malevolent creatures who nonetheless partake of the same deficiency that curses all villains: they talk too much and delay carrying out their plans. (This is, of course, a narrative technique to delay the turning point.)

Bilbo is quite ferocious as he lashes out and kills spiders, and quite clever at leading them astray so that he can backtrack and free the dwarves. He then leads an escape party that is harried and attacked by the returning spiders, and they manage to escape.

As they rest, they are later to find that Thorin is missing. He has been taken by the Wood-elves, who are described thus:

These are not wicked folk. If they have a fault it is distrust of strangers. Though their magic was strong, even in those days they were wary. They differed from the High Elves of the West, and were more dangerous and less wise. For most of them (together with their scattered relations in the hills and mountains) were descended from the ancient tribes that never went to Faierie in the West. There the Light-elves and the Deep-elves and the Sea-elves were and lived for ages, and grew fairer and wiser and more learned, and invented their magic and their cunning craft in the making of beautiful and marvelous things, before some came back into the Wide World. In the Wide World the Wood-elves lingered in the twilight of our Sun and Moon but loved best the stars; and they wandered in the great forests that grew tall in lands that are now lost.

It is a wonderful and deeply resonant description, and only underscores that this is a myth that shares in the narrative of the West, that narrative of an ascendant Europe battling against the powerful and tyrannical empires of the east, a touch of the Orientalism outlook, if we make reference to Edward Said’s famous study, or much longer ago, to the chronicles of Herodotus and Xenophon, back in Classical Greece. The West is highlighted above all else, and if we were to substitute "science" for magic, we might find a fair approximation. Yes, this mythology resonates with an element of disguised eurocentrism.

The king of the elves is examining Thorin, and wishes to obtain an explanation for their venture into Mirkwood. The leader of the dwarves, however, is very wary, and will tell him nothing of his true objective, which is the reclamation of the treasure guarded by Smaug in the lonely mountain. Thus, Thorin is kept in a dungeon, and here is where he will remain. It will be up to the rest of the dwarves, under the leadership of Bilbo, to rescue him so that they may resume their journey. Bilbo's star is in the ascendant, so to speak.