Jungian Analysis of the Lady in the Fenced Orchard

There is a heraldic beast called Blanche duBois, half wounded bird and half woman. This creature presents a problem to the chivalrous man, who can have sexual feelings about the woman even while he rescues the wounded bird. Stanley Kowalski solved the problem by ignoring the wounded bird completely, and his friend Mitch solved the problem by ignoring the woman. The chivalrous man, attentive to everything, must acknowledge the complicated whole.

The truly chivalrous man expects no reward for, or even acknowledgement of, his good deed, which is lucky for him. As soon as the wounded bird gains a bit of strength Blanche duBois goes into a telephone booth and out comes Superwoman. Superwoman never needed any help from any man, not even her father, so naturally she disavows any relationship to Blanche duBois. Should any literal-minded chivalrous man ask her who she was before the telephone booth, she will say, with amusement and scorn, that she has always been Superwoman. And she is right. Superwoman always has been Superwoman.

There's Nothing Wrong

I don't mind, and I ain't worried.

She's alright, she doesn't shake my tree. She just loves my peaches, and she loves my unfenced orchard. There's nothing wrong with love.

My youngest boy wandered over and shook one of hers. Got away with some sweet ones. Now there's a tall picket fence around her land so a person can't see the trees. She knows he meant no harm but she knows how to protect what's hers. There's nothing wrong with safety.

I saw the foundation being laid, and still I went hat in hand to see if I could come around anytime and pick from her trees. There's nothing wrong with asking.

I'm sitting on top of the world, and this is what I see. And there's nothing wrong with seeing.

A Gentle Man

Last night I stopped for take-out at the Kebab Factory, a stylish Indian place. While I waited the waiter brought me a pair of onion rings in Indian sauce -- "Compliments of the house." They were good onion rings, and when the waiter came by again I asked him if onion rings were traditional in India -- why not? -- but both he and the bartender became embarrassed. I tried to smooth over their embarrassment; it's a nice combination of traditions, I said, and nicely done. Then I took out my practice book of songs.

I felt the waiter leaning over my shoulder to look at the book. "Italian Songs," I explained, "mostly from three or four hundred years ago."

"Do you play them on the piano?", he asked.

"No, I sing them."

"I play the guitar," he said, and I looked at him. He was youthful, with liquid eyes. He smiled and said, "I am from Nepal."

This man might be gay, I thought, but this doesn't feel like a hustle. It feels like the attention of young boy, or a bird landing on my arm. I asked him if his guitar was Nepalese and if he played folk songs. It was a Western guitar, but he did play folk songs. There is a Nepalese instrument, he said, the sarangi, made from wood and skin with a horse-hair bow, but Nepalese boys these days would rather learn the guitar. There was one Westerner, a German man, who learned the sarangi and came to Nepal and sang folk songs. He was good, and they made a video of him.

I told him that I sang folk songs, too, some from America, and some from the Soviet Union. Then there was a lull, and the waiter said, "Thank you, Sir," and returned to work.