Monday Music, for famous Seamus

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

I don’t prattle on about Seamus Heaney nearly enough on this blog. I love Seamus Heaney. You know how much I love Seamus Heaney? I love him more than instant coffee, which is really another way of saying that I love him more than life itself. This one time, I was in the presence of none other than Paul Muldoon, and when he used the phrase “famous Seamus,” I kinda wanted to thump my chest and say “Ave,” and the only reason why I didn’t do that is because I didn’t want to go down in the annals of the English Department as that Chick Who Sketched Out Paul Freaking Muldoon.

I have been rereading Heaney lately, for several reasons, and it’s a bit like having happiness dissolve on your tongue (yes, bad metaphor, nobody reads with their tongue, stupid Natalia does not care for such trifling details in her quest to sexualize the hell out of her relationship with great poetry). All I can do is dedicate some music to him.

Seamus Heaney, even when your poetry is brimming over with guilt and longing and despair, this is how you make me feel:

Love You ‘Till the End – The Pogues
Wai – Bonnie Prince Billy
Crazy He Calls Me – Billie Holiday
Tugboat – Galaxie 500
Mama Anarkhia – Kino
I’m Going Away Smiling – Yoko Ono Plastic Ono Band
A Journey in the Dark – Howard Shore & New Zealand Symphony Orchestra
Fruit Machine – the Ting Tings
La Duchesse Anne – Grizzly Bear
Il Pleut – Emilie Simon

“Il Pleut” is a great, amazing, haunting pop song, one of the few pop songs that oddly goes along with famous Seamus’ poetry. Here it is live:

And this is oddly soothing:

(I love these random YouTube image compilations set along to great songs)

I am Ireland-themed, at the moment. It’s brought back all sorts of memories. And made new ones.

No, Mary Daly was not awesome, you guys

You know who she kind of reminded me of, half the time?

You might not think I get it, but I do. Tearing down the icons of the past is the easiest thing in the world, especially when they’re no longer here to defend themselves. But it’s like what Monica Roberts said over at where I work, “Mary Daly was a complex individual who unfortunately took some problematic positions, and, as far as we know, refused to change her mind about them.”

“Problematic” mostly means “way more transphobic than a dumbass David Letterman joke,” by the way.

I don’t like to “call people out” on their “privilege.” I’m tired of the word “privilege” to tell you the truth; it’s already becoming a gimmick, as far as I’m concerned. “Examining” it just leads to more stupid navel-gazing.

But I think things were pretty clear-cut wherein Daly was concerned. If she was in this room here with me, right now, I wouldn’t talk to her about “privilege.” I’d just tell her she’s a hater. Hate costs lives. I’m just saying. It does. Look up the statistics, sometime.

Does the hate invalidate her body of work? Well, I would be a crappy judge of that to begin with, since my feminist crisis of faith did not involve her. But the answer to these questions, usually, is “no.” I mean, don’t get me started on people who self-righteously whine about how “OMG you like the Beatles? They were sexist!” ‘Cause I can’t engage their music on my own terms, right? Whatever. Fuck you (“That’s sexist and patriarchal too!” – Fuck you with a submachine gun). The stupid sanitization of liberal politics, the insistence that everything we enjoy or benefit from must be safe and cuddly, is getting people nowhere. Of course, we hold Mary Daly to a slightly different standard, with her being a major feminist, and all. Still, I think the same logic applies. I respect the fact that to many people, certain aspects of Mary Daly’s work meant a lot. I just hope, like Monica does, that the transphobic aspects and other bullshit won’t mean nearly as much in the years to come.