Opposites attract? What attracts me to Gothic literature? Frustration, psychological horror, sexual tension, weak women, easily-duped men? It surely can't be any of those as each page turned leaves my rage-residue contempt. Instead, my attraction lies in settings: isolated castles and grand houses whose walls drip ancestral knowledge, moody weather-vanes spinning out of control during a tempest, supernatural events that defy reason, omens, etc. The grotesque, in a nutshell.
Rachel escaped the weak woman trope; she is a fabulous enchantress. Her green thumb, though, did it have a hand in Ambrose's demise? Did she hex both Ambrose AND Philip? I do enjoy the development of femme-fatale types in literature. Poor Philip sequestered himself away all those years in his Cornwall manor purposefully removing the feminine from his life, he had no chance when encountering Rachel...All those pent-up desires just simmering.
Rachel, using her power of seduction, has lazer-focus (in my mind) and has set her sights on her nexgt victim (who really knows, though). Philip, slow to the game (again, is IT a game?), both revers her and is repelled by her, when he weakens- which is often. Who are these other men? Does she have other men? Philip is so moody (dull?) and predictable, always needing confirmation. It drives him mad. It drove me mad...
Reading the book, it seemed as if it was written earlier than mid-20th Century. Perhaps that is Du Maurier's gift of prose. The slow-burn leading up to Philip's 25th birthday, and, from what I inferred to be his 'de-flowering', the start of his demise. Mistaking sex for consent to marriage... Rachel demeans him (unknowingly?), and he doesn't seem capable of recovering from this episode.
I am thoroughly enjoying the novel at this point, understanding his descent into jealousy and violence in an effort to tame 'his' wild creature. His suspicions of Rachel's foul-play over Ambrose's death turns him against her- especially when finding her garden seedlings. Poison? Adulterer? Witch? he can't help himself at the end- leading her to her death. He's left wondering, "did she or didn't she?"
Perhaps she really did love him. Perhaps she didn't poison Ambrose. I like it that we just don't know for sure. I'd like to think that Rachel was indeed a Black Widow. I mean, why not?
It's a slow read and the story doesn't really get moving until a quarter through, maybe. This is only my 2nd Du Maurier work; The Parasites was my first, and I found it to be more of a 'wacky' nature with comedic episodes entwined into a dysfunctional family dynamic. I didn't get a 'Gothic' vibe from Parasites. My cousin Rachel, however, littered with Gothic themes. Perhaps I'll be encouraged to read Rebecca now.
Heathcliff loses. Cathy loses. Isabella loses. Edgar loses. Everybody loses.
That being said, I have NEVER regretted watching a film before reading the novel as much as with Wuthering Heights! To my credit, I was at least astute enough to go with the 1939 film version.
As I've been crying myself a river of 'poor me' lately, I tricked myself into thinking I'm not able to hold down lengthy readings or whatever because I'm so lazer-focused on a goal to attain when, in fact, all along I should have been focusing on something else to absorb my mind and take me away from fretting.
Wuthering Heights put me back in the game. What a roller-coaster of emotions. After approaching the first 45 minutes with trepidation, I continued on after a long break. What a treat! I absolutely love it when I prove myself wrong about such matters. Heathcliff seemed so... sullen and subdued; sometimes a lapdog to Cathy's whims and at the same time he is willingly becoming a glutton for Hindley's punishments. Both Cathy and Heathcliff were insufferable, but then something changed.
Heathcliff found his way back to Wuthering Heights, after a long stay in America, as a 'gentleman'. Oh, the irony of experiencing the 'American Dream'. Yet, his heart returned filled with revenge and darkness. The next hour filled me with so many emotions: mostly rage and frustration at how both protagonists continued to make themselves, and others, suffer due to their inability to deal with their past complexities and so put on a front to continue on, seemingly unaffected.
This 'doomed lovers' trope isn't unusual (Romeo and Juliet, Inês de Castro and King Pedro I, Tristan and Isolt...), but it isn't usually my cup of tea. Watching to the end, I was captivated; I was invested in all the characters' lives and, at the same time, forgot about my shit going on.
The death scene where Cathy asks Edgar to bring her a bunch of heather from the moors (why?) and then Heathcliff shows up at her deathbed... well, this part was a wee-bit cheesy. It honestly pissed me off; Isabelle got fucked over. Why did she marry Heathcliff knowing that his heart was still attached to Cathy? Why does Edgar go on as if his wife is happy and satisfied? Ugh. This movie was torturous for me, and I loved it.
However, watching it made me realize that the novel would have filled me with so many more raw emotions and visualizations. With the movie now stuck in my head, I will find it more difficult to free myself from these pre-set ideas of what characters 'should be.' I will work hard to get past Laurence Olivier's Heathcliff, for sure.
The day continues on over here in the mid-Atlas Mountains, and I've moved on to Fellini's "La Strada." Imagine my surprise to see that Zampanó is also Zorba the Greek (Anthony Quinn). Yes, I'm on a short break from this movie as well.
Although it is and has been a stunning day, it was the right choice to stay home, make food, shutter the curtains and watch movies here in my Gothic cathedral while the musky scent of heather from the moors wafts in with the late afternoon breeze.
Music to accompany my words: "Moonlight Mile" by the Rolling Stones. It perfectly summarizes this illuminated path one must traverse by moonlight to find their way home.
IN THIS MOMENT, relaxation seeps through my hardening shell of existence. To get here, though, IN THIS MOMENT, I've walked through the precipitous mountaintop of my ability to give in to what I can't control or continue to try to control the uncontrollable.
I've been hiking through the dark recesses of my psyche for some time now, and I continue to find myself beguiled by strange shimmering truths hidden in the gloom of a perceived cup being half full. That is not to say that I am not thoroughly enjoying the odyssey- because I am. HERstory is weaving a tale within an odyssey with so many diverging paths that every juncture is akin to finding an Easter egg, heedless.
Fuck it. I've amassed enough Easter eggs, for now. All of them etched into my memory just as their graven colorful bodies. Each gathered nugget carefully placed into my toolbox (anybody who knows me knows that I detest this word). I only recall hearing toolbox in the past decade or so. Admittedly, I struggle to keep up with evolving vernacular.
That goes for 'moral compass' as well...I mean, it perfectly describes, metaphorically, right from wrong, yet I resist many contemporary neologisms. Why is that, I wonder. Is my moral compass pointed to True North? Should it, instead, be south-facing? Perhaps mine needs de-magnetizing. Yes, that's it!
I digress. That was a muddy path I awkwardly stumbled upon; toolbox, etc...
Returning back to my eggs, I have a story of one divergent path (is it really 'divergent' though if I don't know my destination). You know, at times running with the 'cup half empty' can be really complicating...
So, as the story goes, I have been working my way through classical literature for a long time. As with contemporary neologisms, I'm not too focused on contemporary literature, perhaps because I have this (incorrect) idea that it is associated with contemporary issues. Whatever. My mind. My ideas. I simply associate the two as being too close to our daily global lives and that feeling of 'unease' of not knowing what will happen in the future due to current geo-political events that we can't escape- try as we might using our toolboxes of indulgences to abate from reality.
Back to the story... my current attention-span is limited as I'm solely focused to complete one transaction in life that will lead to the next chapter. I'm usually a bit more unconscious with my transactions, but this one is pretty fucking cool.
Yet another digression... Logically, I can't read all works of famous literature, but I can sure try. Often I'll substitute a novel with a movie version (no need to judge; it's simply logical to do so). I still haven't read any Emily Brontë (or any of the other Bronte sisters), and since I'm in a gothic mood, I chose 1939's Wuthering Heights to abate myself from my perceived worries as other abatements I wasn't in the mood for dealing with. :) The storyline (spoiler alert: I am not enjoying it) seems to be mirroring my own gothic internal wanderings as of late.
The moors, although bountiful of heathers that Heathcliff and Cathy delight themselves in, taking in its musky scent, hide destructive (sensual?) emotions. Cathy is annoying me as she flip-flops in her desires to follow her desires (Heathcliff) or fall victim to societal norms in how a 'lady' should think (retreating to 'settling for Edgar'). As a result of her indecision (very early Gothic), my decision was to take this movie in 15-minute chunks so as to process.
I like that the movie starts with Cathy's beguiling ghost is scratching at the window, ratt-a-tat-tat, during a storm and Heathcliff is freaked out. The storyline seems to be full of emotional arson with the protagonists finding the way through the fog in the moors. It's honestly hard to watch. Here I feel that reading the novel would give me a completely different analysis. Oh well... My ghost seems to be recalling the care-less days of Santa Cruz and Maui. My memories are seeping out of Pandora's Box, vying to be first in the queue to leave an imprint in my mind of the smell of the heather in the foggy moors, calling out to me, "Holly, wake up and LET ME OUT." I do not suffer the consequences of opening Pandora's Box, though. I prevail.
Catherine's ghost calls out, ""I’ve come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!" Cathy had been wandering the moors for 20 years. Have I? I've been living outside the U.S. nearly 20 years. Have I 'come home'? Am I 'coming home'? Where is 'home'? Destination Unknown has been my anthem for long, how do I accept the possibility of Destination Known? I'm right at the point of 'cup half full' is filling up, and the pure joy of knowing this fills my vessel with the positivity that I crave.
While my ingrained 'half empty' logic whispers these escaping memories should be anathema, I change course- choosing the higher path- inviting my cup to overflow, turning my ghosts into an anthem of my journey to Destination Known. Fuck true north. My compass coordinates are fixated on 41°42′N 8°49′W (more on this later)... The escaping memories feel like a benediction in the dark. Perfect timing to get outta my head from overthinking shit I can't control.
But... a lasting Debbie Downer thought enters a chamber set deep inside my mind, yet persists on manifesting front and center: In the Thoth Tarot, the 7 of Cups is unbalanced overflow. Or, am I moving from a place of containment to a place of abundance?
Oh geeze, overthinking again. I'm going to get back to the movie and see how it ends.
A compass is a cool device. When pointing at something, it tells you which way you are going, but it doesn't imply that you are on the right path. Not even tarot cards divulge this nugget. I'll just continue to float along through my chapters to continue with HERstory because the heathers in the moors smell fucking amazing.
current conclusion: logic fails to abate the tide of memory, cup overflows with delight
NOTE: I'm not editing...
Lyrics to Moonlight Mile:
When the wind blows and the rain feels cold With a head full of snow, with a head full of snow In the window, there's a face you know Don't the nights pass slow, don't the nights pass slow
The sound of strangers sending nothing to my mind Just another mad, mad day on the road I am just living to be lying by your side But I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road
Made a rag pile of my shiny clothes Gonna warm my bones, gonna warm my bones I got silence on my radio Let the air waves flow, let the air waves flow
Oh, I'm sleeping under strange, strange skies Just another mad, mad day on the road My dreams is fading down the railway line I'm just about a moonlight mile down the road Yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah
I'm hiding, sister, and I'm dreaming I'm riding down your moonlight mile I'm hiding, baby, and I'm dreaming I'm riding down your moonlight mile I'm riding down your moonlight mile
Let it go now, come on up, babe Yeah, let it go now Yeah, flow now, baby Yeah, home now, yeah
Yeah, I'm coming home 'Cause I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road Down the road, down the road, yeah Yeah-yeah-yeah, baby
