Author: Clem N. Tine

I couldn’t help but notice that Geryon’s relationship with his mother is almost always signified by some sort of mention or source of light throughout the first part of the novel. To me, the presence of light is representative of the love and trust Geryon feels for his mother. 

This connection is first made through frequent mentions of light, lamps, and luminosity in the section titled Tuesday. Here Geryon clearly states his love for the weekly occasion, and this security and genuine happiness are accompanied by images and descriptions of light that fills the house and memories of Tuesdays with his mother(34). Lamps flare when Geryon is given genuine praise from his mom, and thus allows Geryon to describe his own skull (brain, creativity, mind?) as luminous (35). 

Space and Time: “He and his mother eyed each other from opposite shores of the light” (42). Geryon is growing up, something quite unfamiliar to both himself and his mother. In adolescent turmoil and confusion, they have become separated from the relationship they once had with each other. They stand opposite one another, Geryon reflects briefly on his departure from childhood with the line Stale peace of old bedtimes filled the room. Love does not-” (42), I would like to note that this thought on love is broken up into two lines, where the thought is continued on with slightly different context than it would if the line ended with “love does not” suggesting a double meaning here, but more so the emotional conflict within Geryon. This is a conflict that his mother is clearly unaware of shown by their opposite stances. But she herself is also slightly detached from this light when she refuses Geryon’s offer to light her cigarette (43). 

She: This section starts with the line: “Back at the house all was dark except a light from the porch” (57). After this distinction, Geryon gets an unusual urge to call his mother. I had a hard time making sense of this section in the following moments; however, darkness and light are used here in relation to his mother, but also allow Geryon to express feelings of fear or relief in this scene of distress “He had been here before in the dark…He banged the light off ”(57). This light then extends itself to The Grandmother who, perhaps being a maternal figure herself, is viewed as slightly more approachable for Geryon in his adolescence and attachment to Herakles. 

Fruit bowl: In this section, Geryon takes a break from volcanoes to focus on a conversation with his mother. There is only one mention of light here “They spoke of a number of things, laundiy, Geryon’s brother doing drugs, the light in the bathroom”(69). There is a certain shortness and fragmentation emphasized in this section through the use of clipped, almost unfinished sentences, “Wanted to go straight to his room”, “Hands in his jacket”, “Eyes on his chest” (68), this is then followed by a number of short, punctuated thoughts. Both of these express the distance and unfamiliarity that has clearly grown between Geryon and his mother. Where once they sat together under the lamplight in Geryon’s childhood, they now only share the light in infrequent moments of small talk that are shortlived, but perhaps still valued by Geryon despite his discomfort. 

There are more examples that I don’t have space to touch on (not to mention electricity and a deeper exploration of Geryon’s relationship with the grandma). The “elements” as depicted in various forms are a vital mode of symbolism throughout the novel I’m excited to see how they play a part in the second half. 

Perhaps one of things that makes Qwo-Li Driskil’s poem For Matthew so devastating is the use of repetition throughout the poem. This technique is used in five different ways throughout the writing. The first being the repetition of various US cities and their acts of protest against the treatment of Matthew: “In Seattle…”, ”In San Fransisco…”, “In DC…”, “In Laramie…”. This emphasizes the sheer magnitude and national outreach of the protests following incident and highlights the presence of the queer community in one man’s story. Repetition is then used in two different ways simultaneously; first, in form through the use of parentheses and also in the anaphora within these parentheses with the phrase “I wanted…” echoing the speaker’s internal anger. The parentheses act as a way of showing that these desires the speaker express are suppressed and secondary (or possibly complimentary) to the cities that precede these statements. The use of couplets in pairing cities with these angry and almost violent thoughts allows the cities to be separated in poetic form in addition to being geographically separated in a more literal sense. The contrast between the calm protests in each city, and the enraged desires of the speaker is quite powerful and, in my opinion, speaks to the idea of peacefully protesting in order to preserve the integrity of a movement, even when the movement itself is fueled by rage within the protesters.

 Even when this pattern of cities and desires breaks away, we are still left with even more repetition: “Thousands upon thousands say Never Again, Never Again.” Once again tying emotion and personal experience with community and numbers; the movement is pushed forward by the people, their simple message emphasized over and over again, from city to city, protest to protest. Then to end the poem, the speaker brings together all previous repeated ideas with the use of the pronoun “we”, merging the personal parenthetical thoughts with that of the protesting cities and, perhaps most importantly, the relationship between Matthew and the speaker. “We have no more time” is a statement of fact, one repeated three times, but never losing impact. The continuous repetition reflects, not just on the death of Matthew, but also upon that of many other queer people fallen victim to hate crimes and ignorant acts of violence. The kinds of widespread protests sparked by what happened to Matthew are nothing new to the queer community, and though the person being memorialized or the means of protest vary, the situations somehow seem very repetitive. The use of the Audre Lorde quote at the top of the poem “I have died too many deaths that were not mine” solidifies this underlying theme of connection and widespread feelings of grief felt across large parts of queer communities across the nation (world?). 

Stories, and the art of sharing them with others, are vital to sustaining humanity. This may seem like a bit of a stretch; on the surface, stories may seem like another shallow mode of small talk, or a fun silly interaction you share with loved ones. And yet, all of the readings from our class discussions have centered heavily around personal stories. The stories of Clare and Houska, even more dense academic writings of authors like Halberstam and Freeman, have been the driving points of conversation during each class. It is experience, example, and emotion that allows us to learn about the workings of humanity. It would be nearly impossible for a person to gain a wider worldly perspective without first understanding and listening to the experience of others. We learn about queer diversity and sustainability through Clare’s struggle with queerness in a rural childhood environment- about connections (and separation) between humanity and the earth through the intimate struggles and battles advocated by Houska- and the psychology of queerness, structural binaries and restrictions synonymous with the “ideal way of living” through the meticulous exploration of personal views, ideas of identity, and the organization of one’s self in the writing of Freeman and Halberstam. 

The very end of Stones in my Pockets, Stones in my Heart by Eli Clare details a sort of metaphorical utopia, in which Clare finds comfort and belonging not in one certain label, identity, hometown, or outfit, but in a space dedicated to storytelling. “…people of many varieties and trade stories long into the night. Laugh and cry and tell stories. Sad stories about bodies stolen, bodies no longer here. Enraging stories about false images, devastating lies, untold violence. Bold, brash stories about reclaiming our bodies and changing the world” (Clare, 159-160). The kinds of stories Clare describes are for the most part unpleasant, something that, in theory, shouldnt be something you wish for in daydreams; however, these somewhat depressing stories (which are impossible to shy away from in any genuine reflection and recollections of a person’s life) do not shy away from sharing the very worst parts of being alive. It is these stories that produce connection, these stories that bring people together through good and bad to understand one another’s emotions and experience even if it may seem to be completely unfamiliar. Houska notes in her essay Sacred Resistance that too many conversations about progression center around a flat language meant to draw in everyone, and touch no one simultaneously. That humanity shouts for change but screams over each other trying to be the one to say “I know what we need”. Perhaps through a bit of genuine reflection, empathy for ourselves, others and the environment we share, we would be able to actually speak to one another. Sharing stories is imperative to sharing the earth with one another (cheesy, but seemingly true from what I have read these past few weeks).

On page 137 of Written on the Body, the narrator likens Louise to an olive tree, detailing the pleasure they experience from eating the fruit from the tree that is Louise. While olives are not a significant recurring symbol throughout the novel, the narrator frequently likens Louise to food. At times, Louise is soup, other times she is a fig or honey. Perhaps in likening Louise to food, the narrator is emphasizing their need for her. The narrator does not simply desire, miss, or admire Louise, but instead holds a sort of obsessive connection to her. As any living creature must eat, the narrator seems almost as miserable without Louise as they might be without proper nourishment. The absence of Louise’s love drives the narrator into an almost crazed state of loss, each of their senses heightened by thoughts and memories of her. The narrator is unable to detach themselves from Louise, unable to live without the thought of her, unable to sustain a proper quality of life without feeding off of her love. 

These food-related metaphors also emphasize the importance of lust, desire, and physical intimacy the narrator holds in their relationships. These food-related metaphors are often used to describe scenes or memories of very physical interactions between Louise with the narrator. The narrator clearly has a certain “taste” for Louise, but it is one that seems to be primarily physical despite their clear infatuation with her and their relationship. The comparison between Louise and an olive tree offers is not as descriptive and clear as some of the other earlier comparisons, but despite this, it is still one that clearly emulates the dynamic of their relationship. The narrator notes that “It is my joy to get at the stone of her” (137) and the section revolves around taste. Mentions of mouths, tongues, taste, and other sensations provide a slightly sexual undertone to the passage, especially in comparison with other moments from the novel; however, this moment is much less detailed and instead reaches a broader audience. The narrator begins to address an unidentified “you” in the third paragraph of this page, where they detail the bursting of an olive upon the initial bite into the fruit. The address to a third party seems to invite an outsider to relate to what the narrator speaks of, especially since this passage is riddled heavily with metaphor and lacks personal details of Louise or the narrator. This allows the metaphor of food to move away from descriptions of physical desire into a tone that is much more hopeful and emulative of the relationship as a whole. The “burst of an olive” might be compared the the start of a relationship, where feelings of solitude and uncertainty can be left behind as a promising new relationship begins. As the narrator wishes to reach Louise’s stone, she recognizes that the fruit will be eaten until there is nothing left, but makes it clear that to have Louise’s stone, or perhaps Louise at her most raw and exposed, is a welcome trade. The narrator tastes not just the fruit of Louise, but her inner self. This was, and clearly is still, a strong desire planted in the narrator that they cannot seem to let go of.