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

The Way the Past Possesses the Present in “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been”

The boundaries between reality and imagination are a blurred line; humans, throughout the ages, have tried to find their place on the spectrum and, whether successful or not, the results are dependent on the individual. The relationships between humans and mythology are a result of both societal influence and one’s individual concept of ‘real’. Though time has changed the form of many myths, their meaning and emotions they portray remain constant and relatable.

 I believe one of the reasons Oates was able to tie in Greek mythology as flawlessly as she did was because, at their core, the Gods were human in their behavior. They lie, they love, they throw temper tantrums, and they get petty revenge. Greek society cast these beings as all powerful, yet beings that require sacrifice and gifts to suit their benevolence are hardly as separate as humans make them. The Gods were no more powerful or important than man; man cast them that role quite willingly. Because of this, displacing the myth of Hades and Persephone into modern day wasn’t as impossible as it seemed. Oates cleverly alluded to the situation and put it into a believable modern context, but it was the personality and emotions of the characters that really made the story come alive.

Myths stay alive within stories. “Where Are You Going” has a definite undercurrent of narcissism that clearly ties it to “Little Snow White”. Not only is the fabled mirror mentioned within the first few sentences, the Queen can easily be seen in both Connie and her mother – at the height of her reign and in the shadow of her stepdaughter, alive both past and present. Again, even though the myth is displaced, the accompanying human emotions remain eternal.

What was in the past considered reality has become myth. However, human nature remains the same. Humans have, both past and present, willingly cast their troubles onto a ‘higher power’ to shift the blame. For Connie the source is unclear; perhaps God, her mother, her sister, or the societal expectations of the time all played a part. In all, though it has twisted and disguised itself forms, myth remains very much alive.

Displaced Fairy Tale

Falling from a six story building was certainly a new experience, she thought. One she wouldn’t care to repeat.

Only ten minutes before, the two goons had caught sight of her. Tall men in black suits. It was stupid, so stupid; she shouldn’t have been walking out in the open like that, even if it was nearly sunset. Keeping her head tucked down, she’d sprinted into the nearest office building and headed for the elevator. She stood out in the sea of suits and briefcases with her threadbare red hoodie and ratty jeans. But a passing glance and a quirked brow were all she got. That was how it was. People didn’t care enough to stop and ask questions.

She had thought she’d lost them on the roof access, but apparently they were smarter than they looked. One had headed south, clothes concealing his form in the growing shadows, while the other took to her scent like a bloodhound and tracked her the two blocks she had managed across the rooftops. Sneakers skidding for purchase, she’d quickly ducked behind a monstrosity of an air conditioner. Its steady rumbling was enough to mask her presence, and she allowed herself a breath. She’d looked over the edge. Frost-nipped leaves in brilliant shades of gold and red. Dying light. The acrid taste of smog on her tongue.

The slam of a metal door and pounding pulled her back. She scrambled to her feet, but didn’t notice the slick ice beneath her feet and underestimated the distance from the ledge. Concrete and gravel from the alley below rushed towards her at an alarming pace. No time to think. Only react. Her arm caught the metal of a fire escape, shoulder screaming in agony.

And besides her gasping breaths, there was only silence.

She finally, after a moment full of pain and fear and relief, managed to pull herself up. She panted, head reeling in disbelief. She needed to hide, now. As a last ditch effort she tried the latch on the small dirt-smeared window facing the landing. She hadn’t expected it to open, not really. But she certainly wasn’t going to turn away now.

The apartment she found herself crawling into didn’t look like much. Sparsely furnished, with grimy carpet and hideously peeling floral wallpaper. Yet clutter was to be found in every corner, mounds and mounds of stuff stacked on every available surface, from cookbooks to newspapers to little toy soldiers and race cars. But it was dark, it was warm, and no one was home. It was a palace. And that’s all that mattered.

Ignoring her arm in favor of food for the moment, she raided the kitchen for something she could heat up and chase away the ice that had crept into her bones. She dragged over one of the kitchen chairs in order to get a better look at the top shelf and found a hoard of instant oatmeal packets. Everything from apple to blueberry to cinnamon… yes, someone was an oatmeal fanatic in this house. Probably a kid, as she’s gathered from the toys. And with enough of it to fill two entire cabinets, a couple packets certainly wouldn’t be missed. Best not alert anyone of her presence here if she could help it.

But of course, it could never be quite that easy. After she’d scarfed down her meal and rinsed out the bowl and spoon, she was putting them away in a high shelf when a car alarm went off. Normally not an issue, but with her nerves already frayed, she lost her balance and crashed.

The back of the chair was cracked, the bowl in pieces and glass shards scattered across the kitchen. She tried to get to her feet and winced as she put weight on her right ankle. Great. Fantastic, just what she needed, really. First her wrist, then her ankle. And now this. She just didn’t care anymore. The people wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. She was tired, she was cold, she was angry. She limped to the closest door she could find – hopefully a bedroom. She just wanted to rest. Just for a minute. Then she’d deal with the mess later.

She was right, then. The white door led into a kid’s room. Construction paper covered the walls floor to ceiling, toys scattered on the carpet. It was much brighter than that dreary living area, at least. Peace at last.

A whimper filled the air. She froze. The covers of the bed shifted. Oh no. No. She couldn’t believe this. She just continued staring like a deer trapped in a pair of headlights.

A messy head of blonde hair peaked its way cautiously from under a pile of blankets and eyed her with all the trepidation and fascination reserved for a wild animal.

Oh God, it was the kid. He’d been in the house the entire time.

Voices in the corridor. No no no. The jiggling of keys. The front door opened.

“What –” a woman’s voice exclaimed. “Oh God, look at this mess!”

A pair of lumbering footsteps approached the room.

Could this possibly get any worse? No, never mind. Just her luck and a tornado would plow through this side of the city.

“Shh, shh,” she whispered, even though the kid hadn’t said anything. “It’s alright.” What was he, four, five? What kind of parents leave their kid alone like that? Well, no. She knew what kind.

Footsteps were getting closer. She glanced around frantically. “I’m just playing hide and seek, okay?” She wrenched open the tiny closet door and dove inside, into darkness.

The footsteps stopped. “Danny.” A man’s voice, probably the father. He had to be in the doorway. “For God’s sake, I told you to stay put while we were out. What were you doin’, muckin around the kitchen and leavin a mess like that?”

Oh, no. Oh no no no. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her knees to her chest. Please kid, please.

“Well?” his voice boomed. She wished she could see. She was glad she couldn’t.

Silence. The sound of blankets shuffling.

A sigh. “Well, if you were hungry, you know you need to wait for us. You coulda gotten hurt pretty bad, then what would your Mama have said? You need to –”

He was interrupted by a knock on the front door. No, no. Dread ghosted down her spine.

“Christ, what now?”

“Just get the door, Artie,” the woman called out from the other room. “And stop your complaining. I’m still busy cleanin up this mess.”

He muttered something unintelligible. She heard him trudge out the room.

Should she? No. Yes. She needed to know. She carefully opened the closet, took in the wide-eyed stare directed at her, and silently crawled over to the bedroom door. She placed her eye by the hinge.

And then she wished she hadn’t.

It was one of them. Unlike the goons though, this one was burly with broad shoulders that strained against his uniform shirt. He was disguised well; a polite grin on his face, arms relaxed and posture unassuming, but she couldn’t stop her muscles from tensing up.

“Yeah?” the father grumbled.

“Sorry to bother you, sir.” The man’s voice was like oil on water. Something crawled under her skin. “We had a complaint about some noise. Just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

“What? Oh.That. No, all good here. My son was trying to play up in the cupboards again. Knocked some things around. You know how kids are.”

“Hmm,” the man hummed. And what was that supposed to mean? He’d turned to survey the living room. She almost wished she could see his face. But then again, maybe that was a blessing.

“So, yeah. Wife’s cleaning up now. Won’t happen again.” Another uncomfortable pause. Perhaps the father could sense it too. His blustering seemed to have taken a back seat. “Uh, need anything else?”

A pause. “No. I suppose not. If you do see something strange in the area, though, please do let us know.” He grinned, a sharp thing full of white teeth. “Thank you for your time, sir. You have a pleasant evening.”

She couldn’t stop shaking. Even after she crawled back in the closet, even after the kid was herded out to the kitchen, she just couldn’t stop.

So she sat. She waited. The TV blared, dishes clanged in the sink. Waited. The voices in the kitchen eventually died. Doors opened and closed. Lights went out. They retired to bed.

Waiting, still waiting.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the door creaked and starlight spilled into her safe haven. The kid was standing there, his tiny hand on the knob, a teddy bear in the other, solemn eyes regarding her silently. She wasn’t so sure he was five anymore. No, definitely not.

His feet shuffled forward, and he placed the teddy on the floor next to her feet. He patted the stuffed head once, nodded, and looked at her again. Then he left, as suddenly and silently as he had come.

She stared, not quite believing what had just happened. Her shoulder and ankle were throbbing. Her eyes burned, and she was sure she could sleep for a year. But as she curled up in a messy pile of t-shirts and socks and hugged the bear to her chest, she couldn’t help but smile.

Signs and Symbols

 From "Signs and Symbols":

"All around him, there are spies. Some of them are detached observers, like glass surfaces and still pools; others, such as coats in store windows, are prejudiced witnesses, lynchers at heart; others, again (running water, storms), are hysterical to the point of insanity, have a distorted opinion of him, and grotesquely misinterpret his actions."

Interesting use of personification. The entire paragraph really immerses us in the son's mind set, I believe, painting a surreal edge to the words and as well as setting up the idea of a communication barrier in the rest of the story. The parents and son are living in two separate worlds. The setting is bleak and depressing, and some of the so called 'signs and symbols' are decidedly ominous: the dying bird, the three phone calls. This seems to foreshadow tragedy - perhaps they will be too late and the son will already be dead by morning. Or does it? Are we over reading into things that aren't there?