Commentary on Charles Bukowski - The Blanket

The approximate timeframe over which the piece is set
The piece starts by the explanation of a pattern repeting itself over several years. However, the actual action takes place in the timeframe of a a couple of hours, during a late evening / night.




The themes that the piece explores
The main theme explored is the theme of madness. The character of Hank spends his time wondering whether he witnesses real events or imagines them. He also questions the very definition of madness, as he wonders if it is enough to be conscious something is wrong, and to have someone agree with you, to prove one is not mad. 'it took AT LEAST 2 votes to make reality real' he says. Although the person he goes to to maintain his opinion has drinking problems and is not an example of steadiness.

Any use of symbolism within the work
I think one use of symbolism is the fact the narrator, when talking about his hemorrhoids and the habit he has to scratch them, compares himself to apes, or monkeys, not even in their natural habitat, but in zoos. This comparison somewhat makes him lose some of his humanity.

The characterization of the protagonist-

Their motivation: The piece begins with the protagonist flying over time, setting his possible madness without actually taking action about it. Then time stops on a particular night, night when he decides, for some reason, that is it time to change things. His motivation is to get rid of this blanket which suffocates him, and to continue living, even though he himself says that he has no greater purpose in life, no wish of success.
The shades of lightness and dark in the character (with examples): The piece pictures more shades of dark than lightness in the character of Hank. He is possibly mad, although questioning it, which can seem like a prook of sanity:
"The best idea was to get next to some people to test the reality of the situation. It took AT LEAST 2 votes to make reality real. [...] too. If you are the only one to see
a vision they either call you a Saint or a madman."
The protagonist also seems somewhat socially impaired, as he explains he doesn't feel connected to people he sees outside of his apartment, or similar to them. He also speaks of being really vulgar, comparing himself to an animal, an ape in a zoo:
"When I am out among people I am uncomfortable. They speak and have enthusiasms that are not a part of me."
"I scratch until I bleed, until pain forces me to stop. Monkeys, apes, do this. Have you seen them in the zoos with their red bleeding asses?"
One shade of light that comes through is his relative common sense concerning love and sex. When the lady he lives with comes to him for sexual intercourse after seeing many other men, Hank doesn't differientate himself from these men, even though she insists on calling it 'love'. He doesn't see it the same way as she does and feels uncomfortable with it, to such a point it keeps him from being able to act:
"there was something about sticking it in there after all THAT ... it turned against me and I had a rough time. "Sweetie," she'd say, "ya got to understand I LOVE you. With them it's nothing." [...] All the talk didn't help much. It only made the walls closer."



Plot
The inciting incident: The character wakes up with tangible proofs of violence on his body, marks, bruises. He accuses a particular blanket which he suspects tries to strangle him in his sleep.
The climactic point: After leaving his blanket at his friend Mick's room, Hank goes back to his own room, but hears gunshots. The climatic moment comes when he discovers Mick enraged about the blanket trying to attack him as well.
Any moments of crisis within the plot: Hank describing how he dreamt of dozens of little men trying him and the lady to the bed, and him suddenly getting up, as they disappear. / The blanket strangling Hank in his sleep, before he goes down to his friend's room. / The 'murder' of the blanket at the end of the piece. / The last bit, when Hank discovers blood on his hands after the 'murder' took place.



 Showing and telling

To what degree is the piece showing and not telling? Even though the whole piece is written as a first person and following the narrator's thought, the plot and the questioning of madness are triggered by the various incidents taking place while he is dreaming or awake, as he never knows.
Photocopy the piece and highlight any instances of telling (there should be less): The first double-page of the piece sets the narrator's state of mind and possible madness, and is about a repetitive pattern, hence not happening at the same moment as the main plot.

Short story- Flash fiction

Flash fiction

On a stormy evening, Roman and Christina were sitting on the sofa, cuddled up under a blanket, an empty bowl still smelling of buttery pop corn at their feet. The curse of Chucky was playing on the 49 inch TV screen. As the killer doll opened its eyes and the music convienently got more itense, Christina whined and buried her face in Roman’s shoulder, who laughed it off.
‘Come on silly, it’s only a movie, don’t tell me you’re scared of a doll?’
‘A doll?! You call THAT a doll, Roman? This creepy, murdery creature! Just look at his eyes for Christ’s sake!’
Roman giggled.
'Oh I’m looking at them don’t worry, and all I can see is this terrible animating work! Seriously, I did better in my first year of cinema studies!’
'Yeah, well, everyone hasn’t been behind the cameras...’ Chris mumbled. ‘That’s why you’re not scared of anything, you cynical little man!’
‘It is indeed!’ answers Roman with a grin. ‘Trust me, once you’ve seen zombies go for a smoke break and orcs wriggle about in their costume because they need a wee, you’re hardly impressed by any monsters anymore. Besides, I‘m not an easily scared person, it would take a lot!’
Christina mumbled with frustration, and turned the TV off as the film finished. Roman closed the living room curtains, checking, as he did every night, if the lights of the garden shed were off. They were. After a kiss on Christina’s forehead, he went to bed, letting her finish her university work.
Not twenty minutes had passed when Chris called him from downstairs, sounding somewhat alarmed. Roman sighed and mumbled ‘if it’s a spider again, I swear to God...’, but walked down to the living room anyway. No sign of his fiancé.
‘Chris?’ he called. ‘What’s up? Spider again?’
No answer. He suddenly understood, and repressed a smile. She was trying to scare him, to take her revenge! She was probably hidden in a cupboard somewhere, or behing a door. He decided to play along, mostly because he loved her more than anything, and wanted to make her happy. He took a shot at his best possible concerned tone.
‘Chris? Chris where are you?’
He walked around, expecting to see her emerge from her hide any second. But after a few minutes, nothing came. She was apparently trying to play with his nerves before giving him the coup de grâce. He didn’t know how long it would take, and thought a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt. As he was facing the kitchen window to fill the kettle in the sink, he looked outside and noticed the shed lights were now on. He turned around and saw the keys of the shed were no longer hung on their nail. He sighed, smiling.
‘That’s where you are then, you cheeky monkey. Okay, here I come...’
He grabbed a flashlight from a drawer and stepped outside. The air was cold, and a cloud of mist was hovering over the garden. Roman shivered.
‘She really chose her night to try and scare me, anyone else would be-’ he stopped. As he was only a few yards away from the shed, the lights had suddenly turned off. He raised an obligatory eyebrow. Christina had always been terrified to be in the dark alone...
Roman was finally starting to worry. He groped around for the switch button of his flashlight. Eventually, a ray of light appeared, first quivery, then steadier. When he got to the door of the shed, Roman stopped to listen if he could hear or see Chris. Not a sound, not a movement around. He took a deep breath, shook his head and, calling himself an idiot, open the creaking door.
The inside of the shed was, as any shed interior, dusty and messy. Looking down though, Roman could notice that some feet-shaped spots were darker, where dust had been walked upon. He took a closer look, squinting. One thing Chris had always been self conscious about was her size 9, fairly big for a woman... Well, these prints were way too small to be hers.
‘What the-’
Something fell in the dark in front of him, making a metallic noise. He swiftly  raised the flashlight, and stopped breathing. Sitting on top of the box that once contained the TV, grinning, was a creepy, murdery creature. More precisely, a doll. Roman couldn’t believe his eyes, petrified.
‘Ch-Chucky?’
‘No baby, it’s me’ answered the speaking toy in a squeaking voice. ‘Don’t recognise me? Come closer, look at me... In the eyes.’
And then Roman saw it. Instead of the dull, brown eyes the doll wore in the films, the young man recognised the well-known, so dearly loved green eyes that made him fall in love with Chris four years earlier. His underwear were now feeling warm and wet, but he was barely conscious of it. His mouth was open on a silent cry that would never cross his lips.
The evil doll inclined forward, a morbid smile accross his face, and asked with a falsely affected voice, ‘Are you scared now, darling?’.
As for an answer, Roman dropped the flashlight on the floor. Everything went dark.

Writing about someone

About my grandmother
She was tall and twisted like an old tree
Life had beaten her, crippled her,
Memories of war played in her eyes
Like a constant, indelible film
Imprinted on her grey iris.
She always had a smile though,
For the kids running in the park
For the first flowers of spring
For the smell of freshly cut grass.
She was a tiny piece of human
My grandmother,
But she was a big, big woman.
She’d play nervously with her ring
When you mentionned The Old Times,
She didn’t like the past
My grandmother,
But on her face you could read
There wasn’t much of a future.

'I come from'

I come from a broken household
Where my father is not my sibling’s,
From women trying to bring a truce
And boys fighting with sticks and words.
I come from fairy tales and Disney fictions
Teaching me risible lessons about women,
I come from a mother proving them wrong,
From a heritage lost in the movement.
I come from Jaw Breakers, Mars bars,
Skittles, political problems never solved.
I come from a patchwork culture
Of American clothes, Chinese food
And bad home-made comedies.
I come from music taught by an older brother
That other kids at school didn’t listen to.
I come from Stephen King books,
From Burton and Miyazaki films,
That fuelled my quill and my day dreams.
I come from the French that revolutionised a system
To let us peacefully surrender to the next one.

The found poem

The Ukraine crisis

Act of aggression, international tension,
A war declaration to a country,
A mission to stop the invader.
New tents in Independence Square,
Gone dismantled symbols,
Flowers stuck in metal shields.
Spontaneous pilgrimage,
Pink carnations, dutiful prayers,
For those killed in the clashes.
‘We will defend the nation’ say
Kids in home-made body armours.
Fighting for a change,
Fighting to own their father’s land,
‘We’re staying until the end’.

(articles from Metro, February 24th and March 3rd releases)

My father - poem

My father’s life is laid on pieces of paper
not as a long letter, but as a big picture

 A magician who captures little moments,
 big moments, things others don’t see

 His hands are authority
but justice, and beauty.

A bad poem

Roses are blue
Violets are red
I am colourblind
I don't even like flowers
You can go to hell.