Death

The discussion on Tuesday, especially about Antigone, really had me thinking. Why was she so desperate to defy orders and give her brother a proper burial? Part of that stems from the time period. It is believed that placing a coin in the mouth of the dead was done so that they would be able to pay fare to Charon and cross the river Styx from the realm of the living to the underworld. Without this, and without a proper burial and the dignity and respect it brings, the dead would never be able to cross and would be stuck in a sort of limbo - great depiction here.

But similar ideas have popped up in other religions and cultures. The conclusion? It is in human nature to obsess about death, and because it is a certainty that we will never know what comes after, speculation will continue to run. Many ideas profess that there is a sense of self, the soul, that continues. I honestly have no idea what to think, but I admit it is a comforting thought, which is likely why a sense of respect for the dead is seen through so many cultures. In remembering where we came from and the past, we can get a better sense of the future.

I also thought I'd post a poem. I wrote it for another class, but it still touches on a lot of relevant subjects, like death, the underworld and all that good stuff. Happy Halloween!

The River

Violent tides of turn and tether

Toss the rocky craft ashore

Where heard within the pattered rain

Slivered thoughts resolve to reign and

Memories are swept away

Linger not, you shall not hear

The air of music lost

There lies the fall, descent of the mad

As unseen touch caress and snatch

Til nothing there remains

But here, reborn from shards and ash

The fledgling’s tremulous breath begets

That song of light, of music lost

Collapsing dusk will greet them here

As Death and his Lady eternal

They dance like windswept heather

In fields of gold and sage

Beneath the warm forgotten sun

Untouched by man’s remains

Magus questions

1. Why did Conchis create the Godgame? Why does he continue it every year/what does he get from it?
2. Do Nicholas and Conchis' personal definition of eleutheria differ? If so, how?
3. Did the experience on the island enrich Nicolas' life, or did it ruin 'reality' for him? Is he is incapable of going back and functioning in a normal society?
4. What are the function of the 'four stories' in the book? Are they true, or at least partially true? If not does it detract from the meaning?
5. What is the function of the quote on the last page?

cras amet qui numquam amavit

quique amavit cras amet

Ramblings

My thoughts on rereading the passage in The Magus of the German occupation of the island.

You start out with a singular thought - an emotion, a word. Perhaps eleutheria, because freedom is too small a word to describe the reasoning behind the rebel's silence or Conchis' own tormented thoughts when he stood in front of a hostile crowd and refused to bludgeon this near-dead rebel, a human, a man. Or perhaps sadistic, because the Germans' thoughts at this time are as intriguing as they are horrifying. Or perhaps my favorite, schadenfreude, which isn't stated explicitly but you can nevertheless feel it there between the pages. Similar in meaning to sadism, but more... humanized, more relatable, at least in my mind. Sadism seems to imply a touch of sociopathy or violence and cruelty. Some of the German soldiers, as a product of their environment, changed enough to feel this. Schadenfreude is something more ingrained, perhaps less learned. And the most intriguing thing is that there is supposedly no exact translation or English equivalent for it. And so how do we can we know exactly what it means? Through words, but not definitions - though the story, and through the characters. And so you take that singular thought, the thought or emotion, and in describing it, by giving it life, you've made connections you'd never even thought of. Human nature can never be so simple as to be able to isolate an idea like schadenfreude. There are moments of intense jealousy, an almost angry violence and soul-crushing despair at the world for what it took from you. Shades of pity woven in at moments, because sometimes through the haze you realize this is a human being, someone with a curly haired little girl and grieving widow who mourn just as fiercely, and who are you to play God?

It grows, and suddenly this isn't words on a page anymore, and becomes something beyond itself - which, really, is the hope of any of our thoughts, and of ourselves.

The book better describes complicated concepts like eleutheria than a dictionary could ever do. Because it's one of my biggest pet peeves when I look up a word, say 'vindication', and all you get is vin·di·ca·tion (noun): an act of vindicating. And what does that mean? Thanks dictionary, thanks.

Contradictions

Looking over The Magus again, it reminded me of one of my favorite poems, "Dive" by Andrea Gibson. If I had to describe it one one word it would be "contradicting", which also strikes at the heart of The Magus as well - everything from Conchis' mouth seems a mess of contradictions, and they can't all be true... yet at the same time they sort of are. The paradoxical nature of life, truth and lies. Certain lines in the poem could even be a direct reference to the book. It maybe even provides a little insight into how Nicolas feels after his experience. And like all poems it certainly needs to be heard aloud in order to get the full effect.

"Dive"
by Andrea Gibson

i often repeat myself
and the second time's a lie

i love you
i love you
see what i mean i don't
...and i do

and i'm not talking about a girl i might be kissing on
i'm talking about this world i'm blissing on
and hating
at the exact same time
see life---doesn't rhyme

it's bullets...and wind chimes
it's lynchings...and birthday parties
it's the rope that ties the noose
and the rope that hangs the backyard swing
it's a boy about to take his life
and with the knife to his wrist
he's thinking of only two things
his father's fist
and his mother's kiss
and he can't stop crying

it's wanting tonight to speak
the most honest poem i've ever spoken in my life
not knowing if that poem should bring you closer
to living or dying
drowning of flying
cause life doesn't rhyme

last night i prayed myself to sleep
woke this morning
to find god's obituary scrolled in tears on my sheets
then walked outside to hear my neighbor
erasing ten thousand years of hard labor
with a single note of his violin
and the sound of the traffic rang like a hymn
as the holiest leaf of autumn fell from a plastic tree limb
beautiful ---and ugly

like right now
i'm needing nothing more than for you to hug me
and if you do
i'm gonna scream like a caged bird
see...life doesn't rhyme

sometimes love is a vulgar word
sometimes hate calls itself peace on the nightly news
i've heard saints preaching truths
that would have burned me at the stake
i've heard poets tellin lies that made me believe in heaven

sometimes i imagine hitler at seven years old
a paint brush in his hand at school
thinkin what color should i paint my soul

sometimes i remember myself
with track marks on my tongue
from shooting up convictions
that would have hung innocent men from trees
have you ever seen a mother falling to her knees
the day her son dies in a war she voted for

can you imagine how many gay teen-age lives were saved
the day matthew shepherd died

could there have been anything louder
than the noise inside his father's head
when he begged the jury
please don't take the lives of the men
who turned my son's skull to powder
and i know nothing would make my family prouder
than giving up everything i believe in
still nothing keeps me believing
like the sound of my mother breathing

life doesn't rhyme

it's tasting your rapist's breath
on the neck of a woman who loves you more
than anyone has loved you before
then feeling holy as jesus
beneath the hands of a one night stand
who's calling somebody else's name

it's you never feelin more greedy
than when you're handing out dollars to the needy
it's my not eating meat for the last seven years
then seeing the kindest eyes i've ever seen in my life
on the face of a man with a branding iron in his hand
and a beat down baby calf wailing at his feet

it's choking on your beliefs
it's your worst sin saving your fucking life
it's the devil's knife carving holes into you soul
so angels will have a place to make their way inside

life doesn't rhyme

still life is poetry --- not math
all the world's a stage
but the stage is a meditation mat

you tilt your head back

you breathe
when your heart is broken you plant seeds in the cracks
and you pray for rain

and you teach your sons and daughters
there are sharks in the water

but the only way to survive
is to breathe deep

and dive

Could I revive within me

An interesting tidbit on Kubla Khan here. Perhaps it explains my own inexplicable and almost subconscious love for that particular section.

Quality

What I love about this class is that the discussions and concepts operate on so many levels, are filled with such chaos, such unsurety that the realms of possibilities are endless. The thought that there is no right way to read a book, only countless versions of less wrong was initially daunting but has become a firmly established presence in my mind thanks to this class. Environments like this inspire creativity, yes, but they also allow for passion. Pirsig states in his philosophy that in order to truly experience quality one must both embrace and apply it to the situation - to see as both a rationalist and romantic. I'd like to say that I can see how either extreme would wear at a person. Being a science major I'm constantly entrenched in lectures filled with logic and scientific reasoning and the rational mind.Which is why, every semester, I make sure to have at least one class that acts as a contrast. Literature, acting, foreign language - I can take a step back from thoughts as neurons and signalling and chemical reactions and instead begin to think in a different way, in which thoughts remain as mystical, skittish creatures that must be coaxed out of hiding. And when they do, they become so much more, so much bigger than ourselves and fill our world with new color and awe for the (possibly) unattainable.

It's an interesting question - can we measure quality in higher education? I think, as much as it is the responsibility of the institution to provide the opportunity, it ultimately rests with the individual to take their future in their hands and find passion in their surroundings. There is quality, but it is hidden. The system as it is now almost waits for you to stumble your way blindly upon it. The way to quality is wrought with chance; the teacher makes the class, and a bad experience could throw you off the initially promising subject forever. Yes, we have core classes that force us to explore different pursuits, but the key word is force. In order for there to be quality and in order for the students to truly gain an appreciation for what they are studying, they must want to find it. But in order to create that mindset, that desire to learn and grow, they need the right environment. Something besides scripted power point lectures. Something that causes us to question all we believe in, tear us down and build us back up anew, that can assure us that 'yes, this is why we are here'.

Startled in For the Time Being

I was startled to read the following lines, which came after the description of a girl with a severe physical birth defect: "You pray that this grotesque-looking child is mentally deficient as well. But she is not. 'Normal intelligence,' the text says" (6).

This instantly reminded me of a debate I'd had in high school concerning Of Mice and Men - would you rather spend your life mentally deficient, as Lenny was, or spend it as a paraplegic?

At first the initial response in the class was clear, as most people seemed to grudgingly accept the second option. There is this intrinsic fear of losing what defines ourselves, what makes us unique. Life in a wheelchair wouldn't be that horrible, they reasoned. They could adapt, especially in this current era, and of course they still had control of their upper body.

But then the question is ramped up a bit; instead of paraplegic, what about quadriplegic?

That's a whole other kettle of fish. No one seemed to want to answer. It shouldn't have seemed so much worse, but it was. To be completely dependent on another person, trapped in your body, perhaps not even able to breathe on your own, is a nightmare in itself. But then a metal injury can be just as debilitating. You may lose your memories, your intelligence, your personality - forget that your favorite color is spring green and you love playing the violin and hate broccoli and brussel sprouts unless your mom slathers them in cheese sauce, like when you were a kid.

Do you lose a piece of who you are? Or perhaps the two conditions are more similar than we think, as each is unable to express themselves, though in a different way, buried as they are under the crushing effects of their disease. It defines them because we let it.

Back to the line in the first paragraph, it startled me not only because of this association but also because it coldly exemplifies the saying 'ignorance is bliss'. You hope the girl is mentally deficient so that she may be unaware of her condition, at least to an extent. That she would remain safe in her ignorance from cruel words and gawking stares. That she wouldn't know any different. That she wouldn't sit up at night and ask God, why?

In genetics, I learned how often things can and do go wrong. Dillard states on that same page that "a chromosome crosses or a segment snaps, in the egg or the sperm, and all sorts of people result". But whether we look to faulty mutations or God as the reason, the answer is unclear - and if there is one, it is different for each person. Later, Dillard wrote, "God is no more cogitating which among us he plans to place here as bird-headed dwarfs or elephant men - or kill by AIDS or kidney failure, heart disease, childhood leukemia, or SIDS - than he is pitching lightening bolts at pedestrians, triggering rock slides, or setting fires" (167).

And then, one of the most important lines: "The very least likely things for which God might be responsible are what insures call 'acts of God'". This parallels an idea explored by Frye, in which the 'truth' of myth in a culture is reinforced by giving credit, such as for a fruitful harvest or successful battle, to the Gods.

Some are convinced by the rationality of chance and science. Some are of the belief that there must be suffering in the world for us to truly appreciate the good. Some will argue for the concept of free will, though I agree with Zach on this point, at least in that there must be more. But it is the searching for an answer, the journey itself, that is important. Because, of course, "every answer is a form of death".

Secular Scripture

Conservatism of a stable genre

• Romance alludes to other genres and literature
• Themes in Greek romances still found today

Myth vs. Folktale

• Difference not in structure, but authority and social function

•  Myths

• Form mythology (connected narrative)
• Covers religious and historical revelations
• Tell culture how it came to be, why it is there

•  Folktale

• More nomadic
• Peripheral group to mythology
•  Considered more imaginative, inventive

• "The mythical poet, then, has his material handed him by tradition, whereas the fabulous poet may, up to a point, choose his own plot and characters" (9).

Secular vs. Sacred

• Changes with time; what was myth to the Ancient Greeks became secular to Christians

• Bible

• Due to social pressures, collection of myths formed a universe
• Assumed centered on man

• Can secular stories come together to form the same?
• When culture supersedes another, myth loses authority
• Function not to proclaim its truth, but to not question it
• How? Credit to God

Hierarchy of verbal structures

• High myth - Biblical or Platonic, beyond literature
• Serious verbal structures - non-literary, tell 'truth' of society
• Serious literature - reflects on above 'truths', more agreeable and embellished, line emotions to reason
• Literature to amuse/popular lit - understood by common man, read without direction of betters