anneoftheisland | anne the schoolteacher

Current Location: the garden

Entry tags:

billy,
in-game

anne the schoolteacher

Anne had found the butter churn -- very basic and homemade, but very nearly what she would have used back at Green Gables -- in the compound, where someone obviously kept it to protect it from the elements. The cream she collected herself, in the process keeping the kitchen supplied with enough milk to last a little while, as not nearly enough people on the island appreciated the importance of a glass of milk. While she was sure she would never be friends with the goats, quite, she thought they at least had an understanding now, after a few days of milking.

More importantly, she'd chosen a couple of books to start with, one that she was familiar with and one that she thought they might explore together. Billy would not be a typical student, after all, and there were no requirements for what she must teach him, so she thought she would give him the chance to choose.

So after hauling the churn and the bucket of cream outside, and slipping the two books into the pocket of one of her favourite skirts, she had only to take a seat by her apple trees and wait for Billy to arrive.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Billy stood and tentatively took the churn from her, immitating her earlier movements. "I think I got it," he said, as he worked it in a steady rhythm. "And I like that part you just quoted, too. I mean, it sounds nice, but I'm not sure what it meant. Like the stuff about Bacchus and his pards. What the fuck is a 'pard'?"

"I didn't know that either the first time I read it," Anne confessed to him. "It's short for leopards. Bacchus is the Roman god of wine, and he rode in a chariot drawn by leopards. Isn't that a romantic image, to be drawn in a chariot by leopards? Though I don't believe the poet was trying to evoke that image particularly when he wrote it."

"It's pretty cool," Billy said, thinking about it. Sure as Hell beat the fucking goat van. "What kinda image do you think he was trying to evoke?"

"Don't forget to keep churning," Anne reminded him, when Billy started to slow. "Well, he's using a metaphor there; that is to say, when he says that he is not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, he means that he is not brought to that state by drunkenness. Do you see?"

Billy immediately started churning again, not sure if anything felt different yet or not. He wondered how long it took to make butter. "Oh okay, yeah. So he got that drunk feeling some other way." Billy considered the rest of the stanza; fucking queens and moons and breezes and shit. Billy didn't consider himself to be stupid, but he was kind of feeling it then. He sighed. "I don't get it, Anne. The stuff about the queen and the tender night, is he in love?" Billy tried.

"He is in love with the nightingale's song," Anne agreed with him, "but right there, he's talking about the night sky, about the Queen-Moon and her starry Fays, the moon and the stars, as perceived as a Fairy Queen and her attendants. The moon and the stars might be in the sky yet it is dark. The world of the nightingale that he imagines is in darkness."

"Why's he so in love with the nightingale?" Billy asked, then realized it probably wasn't meant literally. "What does the nightingale represent?" He thought about his own question for a while. He knew what it would represent for him.

"Well, what do you think?" Anne asked him earnestly. "What is the nightingale, or the nightingale's song, doing for him?"

"See, if it were me, it would totally mean music, my guitar," Billy said, brightening a little at the idea. "Because other than actually drinking, that was the only thing that would give me that feeling: of being totally seperated from everything, from the world. This blissful, numb, happy feeling where it was like I was outside of everything and I could just float away with what I was doing and playing."

"So what you're saying," said Anne, with a bright smile, "is that the nightingale's song is an escape, it's a way for him to get away from what the rest of his life is like."

Billy nodded quickly at that. "I guess it is, yeah. Hey, like, um, viewless wings, I get it."

"You do get it," agreed Anne readily. "Why don't you pick another passage to look at? Any one you like. Or of course we could look at the mechanics of the poem, but I suspect you're more interested in studying the text of it, and the meanings behind what is written."

Billy gestured for Anne to pass him the book, and took it from her as he kept churning.

"Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath,"

Billy read.

Knowing what she did of him, Anne had been wondering whether or not Billy was going to bring up that particular passage. "Does that one mean something particularly to you?" she asked him, for his answer was far more important than hers.

"The guy, he loves this nightingale's song and the escape it gives him, and the escape of booze and drugs, but sometimes it's not enough. So he's tempted by death, too, with the idea of the peace it might bring," Billy said, still speaking slowly but with a little more confidence.

Anne just nodded at him. "Keep going," she said softly. "Keep talking, Billy. What's it saying to you?"

"Usually death is something scary or bad, but Keats is hurt by whatever he's suffered, and so he's sort of ... asking for death, calling for it. It almost sounds romantic, the way he puts it."

Billy was quiet for a while, he didn't want to upset Anne again but he continued anyway. "Near the end for me, I was depressed all the time, nothing made me feel better: not my music, not alcohol. All I wanted was to stop feeling bad, and death seemed like the easiest way. It was almost seductive."

"It's okay," said Anne after a moment. "This is what it's all about, what the poem makes you think and feel and remember. That's why we have art at all, isn't it, Billy? You and Joe helped teach me that, that it's not always pretty, that it should be honest."

Billy looked at Anne seriously. "Honesty is always beautiful. It's the only way art should be done. Any art."

Anne just smiled at him. She was starting to understand that herself, more than ever. "Do you like the poem, Billy?"

"I do," Billy smiled, starting to churn again. He couldn't really tell if anything was different yet. "Thank you for picking it, Anne."

"I thought it might be a very good place to start," said Anne, satisfied. "Especially when, upon rereading it last night as I prepared our lesson, it meant more to me than it ever had. Would you like me to take over the churn again, Billy?"

"It was a great first poem, you picked a good one. And I think I got it," Billy said, working the churn rhythmically. "How long does this take exactly?"

"It depends," said Anne. "Sometimes it takes hours, though the milk was soured when I put it in, so it shouldn't take nearly that long. It might even be ready soon."

Billy couldn't imagine doing this for hours. For butter? Billy didn't like butter that much. "Should we check it?" Billy asked.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject