My Last Blog

Sfarsit -El fin -Die Ende! The end. My last blog EVER! Seeing that I've already written my last blog for capstone. I was pondering if I liked blogging, if maybe I would keep up the habit. No, I answered, for now I do not. Besides, what would I talk about without Sexson to influence me. Maggie might be right, I just might agree with everything Sexson says. Probably because Sexson hasn't always been a Professor. Oh, no. Before he started teaching at MSU he was known by many other names: Old Man Winter, Tom Bombadil, Badger, Prospero, Yoda, Christopher Robins, Velma (from Scoobydoo), Papa Smurf, The Volturi, Teiresias, Shaman Sexson, Julius Cesear, Homer, The Mad Hatter, Mariah Carey, and a thousand more. Sexson, or rather, the teacher, plays an important role in the education of English Literature students. Professors act as the bird, transporting us to another thought. One we haven't reached, yet, but just need that extra shove. One of the best decisions I've ever made was to drink the cool-aid. For one, it's called cool-aid. It aids in making the drinker cool. I think that having a teacher like Dr. Sexson, or Amy Thomas (who I talked about in my capstone blog), is a gift we should be thankful for. Students need teachers that push the limits. I don't want to learn about spelling or grammer, I should know things like that already, I want to expand my thoughts, I want to at least try and become original. I think that every student who has spent some time in school realizes that it's rare to have a teacher who becomes an inspiration. Also, there are the students in the class. I found that having a teacher like Dr. Sexson is one thing, but it's entirely another when you have classmates that are enlightening. When having writer's block it was very helpful to have the fellow bloggers to aid as my guide. Since this is my last blog, maybe ever, but probably not. I want to say thank you to Dr. Sexson. Thanks for making me a better student. Thanks for making me excited about reading, but most importantly about writing. And thanks for making me think outside the box. In order to be successful with your writing you need to have differant thoughts. Everyone can write the obvious, Sexson helps us to write the creative. Here are my last words....wait for it....End here. Us then. Finn, again?

I added a question mark, because we never know. (Ok I guess these were my last words).

Maybe, I should end with something better...."Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America." - James Joyce

Monday's Presentations

Today's presentations were great. I can't believe we had a dance routine and a acoustic concert all in one class. Lisa's dance was great. I loved the black and white ribbons transforming into the colorful rainbow ribbon. The Pink Floyd song was perfect too. Zach's original song was very inspiring. I especially liked the lyrics. I thought it was brilliant how he kept using the word "now," and its relevancy to The Tempest. Both have the word "now" as their most used word. My favorite part of the song were the lyrics:
"So even with them gone it’s not farewell
It’s fare forward as far as I can tell."
I like the saying of fare forward because it deals with the concept of conquering time. Then there was Tom's presentation. The book The Giving Tree used to be my favorite. Although, I always found it very sad. I know, because of Christina's presentation, that we should not find literature sad, but non-the-less I did. The Giving Tree relates perfectly with kenosis. The tree and the emotions of the reader are drained. I feel that the boy should have been nicer to the tree. Well, good job to everyone that went today. I can't wait to see the last of the presentations on Wednesday.

My Paper

Alright, well here's my paper for Emergent Lit. I hope you all like it. I actually haven't even handed it in yet, so you might read it before Dr. Sexson. P.S. It's 10 pages.


Prelude:
There are moments in our life where we revel in the grandeur of existence. We listen to the waves roll onto the shore and can truly appreciate being there at that moment. These moments are different than our everyday because of how they make us feel. It’s that swell in our chest when we breath in fall’s harvest or that feeling of minuteness when out looking the Pacific Ocean. These moments are filled with a divine presence. Divinity exists in the remote corners of our lives. It can’t be seen or touched; it’s just there to be felt. When we least expect it, we turn a corner and find ourselves witnessing the most beautiful sunset we swear we’ve ever seen.

Demilune:
A half crest moon is always part of its full counterpart. It’s only the part of the full moon being illuminated that takes hold of the sky and blinds its viewers from the moon’s remainder. That half crest sliver that shines on us is only a small part of a mostly black whole.



A Dividing and Indifferent Blue

“only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine”
-Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness

The Moon
It was eight in the morning and it was cloudy. She normally woke up around eight, but this particular morning, she opened her eyes and seeing the clouds and remembering it was Sunday morning, she hit the snooze and fell back to sleep. It wasn’t until ten that Mrs. Demilune picked herself out of bed, content with wakening to the birds. While brushing her teeth she noticed a change in her attitude. She felt lighter this morning, not in the way of pounds, she caught herself arguing with her thoughts, but lighter in the weight of responsibility. Today, on this Sunday, she was absent of responsibility.
After her morning cleansing, which usually took ten to fifteen minutes, she walked to the kitchen to make some toast and look at her daily calendar. Glancing in the direction of the calendar, she thought of the day she had purchased it. In the store she saw dog calendars, cat calendars, and calendars with good looking people dressing in their skin. This certain calendar appealed to her in a way which she couldn’t understand. She didn’t own or ride a bicycle, but she chose the calendar with the bright colored pictures of different types of bicycles. Today, the picture was of a green bicycle. Parked on a rocky shore, its only flare was a tiny bell attached to the handle bar. Coming back to reality, she recognized the difference that today’s calendar had. It was blank. There was nothing. It was void of black ink. Taking a deep breath, she began to make her breakfast.
She had decided to walk to the marketplace. It was Sunday, and even though there weren’t as many venders as Friday or Saturday, her purpose was mainly to exercise. Walking with one hand free, her right hand held a wicker basket. Turning a corner, Mrs. Demilune stopped. It wasn’t for the beautiful view, but the recognition of an old friend, an old, annoying friend. Charles Ryerson came striding over, grinning as if he just conquered Pandora. “Mrs. Demilune, how are you? It has been too long,” Charles beamed. Mrs. Demilune smiled, “It has, but unfortunately I’m on my way to do an errand.” “She wasn’t lying exactly,” she thought. “I could come with,” said Charles, “let me hold your basket.” “No, no,” Mrs. Demilune answered, “I prefer to go alone. Thank you, however.” She smiled to Charles then walked away. When she looked over her shoulder she saw Charles tuning away, head down and hands in his pockets. Inside she felt awful, she knew that what she did was unkind. Looking forwards and up the street, her attention strayed.
A horse, not just a horse for that description would an insult. It was the most beautiful animal she had ever seen. It was a coffee bean brown with pure white feet and a white diamond, perfectly shaped, on its forehead. The owner of the horse, a pudgy and uncommonly jolly man, noticed her admiration. “Would you like to pet him?” he inquired. Calling her attention from the horse, she looked slightly startled by the man’s voice. “Yes, please,” Mrs. Demilune answered. “What is his name?” she asked while she started to pet the horse’s mane. “Well,” said the jolly man, “I call him Fatty Lumpkins.” Mrs. Demilune laughed at the absurdity, “that is spectacular.” The horse, seeming to understand, made a half snorting and half laughing noise. “I suppose I must be going,” responded Mrs. Demilune. “It was nice to meet you Fatty, and you Mr….?” “Bombadil, you can call me Mr. Bombadil.” “Yes, well it was nice to meet you both.” Mrs. Demilune walked on towards the marketplace with the addition of a wide smile that held itself on the brink of laughter. The wind, blowing against her back, brought with it the faint sound of Mr. Bombadil’s voice, “he knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless”(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring). Confused, Mrs. Demilune kept walking.
Once at the marketplace, Mrs. Demilune was disappointed at the selection. She was hoping to find a unique vase or jewelry of some sort, but she didn’t see anything remotely interesting. One booth had, at one point, been selling crystal glass wear, but was packed and ready to leave. She wished she hadn’t woken up so late. Another booth simply held a collection of books, all of which were children’s stores. Across the market, there were two booths left that she had yet to look upon. The first, which was also packing as she arrived, only held Taro cards. The card on top of the deck was The Wheel of Fortune. Three women, standing behind the booth, stopped packing and looked up at Mrs. Demilune. “She recognizes it,” said the first woman. Mrs. Demilune became startled by the woman’s voice and strange appearance. “You’re scarring the poor girl,” said the second woman. These words held no comfort for Mrs. Demilune. The second woman seemed just as odd and eerie. “Do you know what this card means?” asked the third woman. Mrs. Demilune didn’t know how to answer. Finally, she responded with, “Only a little, I know that it means a new beginning.” “Yes,” hissed the first woman. “Look closer and we will give you a reading.” “No, thank you,” said Mrs. Demilune, “I really shouldn’t.” “Oh, but you must,” said the second woman. Something in the woman’s reply made Mrs. Demilune intrigued. “Alright, I will stay for a reading, but I am in a hurry.” “We have two more cards for you to see, then you can be on your way,” said the second woman. The three women smiled in their eerie way and the first woman flipped over Mrs. Demilune’s second card. It was The Hanged Man. Mrs. Demilune’s look was stricken. The first woman spoke, “This means rebirth. You must sacrifice in order to obtain your new beginning.” The third woman flipped the third card. It was The Moon. Mrs. Demilune didn’t seem so startled by this card, she was mainly relieved that she didn’t receive a card of death. “You have some imagination,” said the third woman. “This card is for those who live in a world of dreams and illusions.” Slightly offended, but more confused, Mrs. Demilune left the three women and walked to the last remaining booth in the marketplace.
The last vender was an old man with grey hair and glasses that hung on his abnormally large nose. He sold flowers of every kind and he introduced himself as Mr. Galeas. Mrs. Demilune held out her hand to shake his and replied, “I am Anna-Livia Demilune. You have a lovely assortment of flowers.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Galeas. “I appreciate anyone who finds divinity in the ‘balms or beauty of the earth’”(Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning). “Divinity,” Anna-Livia questioned. “Why, do you speak of divinity?” Mr. Galeas shuffled over to the flowers and plucked a few petals. “Don’t you believe that divinity can be seen in nature? If you believe that God made the Earth, then it seems appropriate for him to incorporate his presence in His creation.” Mrs. Demilune looked thoughtful. She didn’t want to admit her inability to grasp what Mr. Galeas was saying, so she asked a question. “If you believe that divinity is in God’s creation, Mr. Galeas, then you also believe that divinity is in humanity as well?” Mr. Galeas smiled and nodded his head. Ana-Livia looked again at the flowers and caught site of something that incaptivated her attention. Her face went from joyful to thoughtful and Mr. Galeas did not miss the change in her expression. “What seest thou?” he asked. “Lilies,” said Anna-Livia. “Lilies were my father’s favorite and seeing them made me remember him.” Mr. Galeas looked sympathetic and then spoke, “To remember someone in good light is the sincerest form of flattery. By remembering them is to bring them back to this place, right now. Through your thoughts, they are ever present.” “Is it wrong to wish him here in the flesh?” asked Anna-Livia. “Wrong, no, it’s not wrong, but death, ‘death is the mother of beauty’ (Wallace Stevens Sunday Morning). Take these flowers. Maybe, they will find their way to your father.” As Anna-Livia walked home, she reflected on her encounter with Mr. Galeas. It seemed strange to her that she had experienced such a remarkable conversation with a stranger. “Although,” she thought, “he did not seem like a stranger.” She again, for the third time that day, felt confused.
After walking a ways Anna-Livia finally looked up from her lilies. She did not recognize the street she had come to. This was not any street that led to her home. Looking around her, she realized that the church graveyard was only a block away. “It must have been the subconscious need to visit my father,” she thought. She then realized that this was exactly where she needed to be. Walking up to the graveyard, she approached the rot-iron gate. She had never paid much attention to this gate, but for years she could remember walking through and out of its opening. However many countless times she had been at this very spot, she had never paid any attention. She laughed to herself, “If I had a calendar of gates,” she thought, “I wouldn’t have been able to pick this one from the other eleven.” Approaching the grave, she felt her chest clench and her face pucker. “I’m not going to cry,” she said. Turning from the gravestone, the wind hit her face and the fresh Sunday air loosened the ties in her chest. Feeling revived, she turned back to the grave and smiled at her father.

The Hangman
The wind, suddenly picking up in strength, discovered a new found chill that made her feel, too, like a cold stone. Anna-Livia knelt down and found herself face to face with her father. She placed the lilies on the green grass before her father’s grave. Looking upon the grave stone she read the chiseled words which her father had requested,
“They shall know well the heavenly fellowshipOf men that perish and of summer morn.And whence they came and whither they shall goThe dew upon their feel shall manifest.”
She had read the poem by Wallace Stevens, but never had its words resonated with her such as they did now. Standing up, she looked out onto the horizon. The day was still cloudy and she could just see the ocean waves crashing against the shore in the distance. The ocean’s presence made her recall the day her father and her went to the beach and played in the waves. As a family, they went to the beach often. When she grew older it became routine that her father and her took laps in the sea for exercise. Anna-Livia felt the need to, once again, visit the ocean. She turned away and walked out of the graveyard. As she did, she made sure to take notice of every detail in the rot-iron gate.
Stopping by her home, Anna-Livia put on her suit and grabbed a beach towel. The beach wasn’t far from her house, “maybe a twenty minute drive,” she thought. By the time she reached to ocean, the clouds had become more prevalent. The sky did not look promising, but she was dedicated. “Alone at last along the ocean,” she thought. Running head on into the ocean she jumped and dove over the first wave. A rush of cold washed through her body. It was still spring and the ocean did not have the chance to warm itself in the sun that day. Anna-Livia paddled faster and ducked under the second wave. She remembered the third wave being the worst. As she raised her head out of the water, the salt water stung her eyes. It was just in time that she wiped her eyes and saw the third wave start to crash. She again dove under and felt relieved as she came back up for air. However, today wasn’t like the warm summer days she had spent with her dad at the beach. It was windy and the sea was restless. She felt a forth wave hit her and this time she did not get a chance to dive under. Anna-Livia was at the mercy of the ocean. She rolled with the wave struggling to find the surface. When she came up for air, she realized it had started raining. A fifth wave hit her and again she struggled. This wave held her under longer and it was awhile before she found herself gasping for air. She wondered why she had chosen to go swimming and kicked herself for being so stupid. The realization of death crept into her thoughts and she found herself, surprisingly, calm. “After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure,” she thought (J.K. Rowling Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone). Anna-Livia released herself and stopped struggling. She let the sixth wave incaptivate her.
She “sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she’d not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that Love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvelous moon.” (W.B. Yeats A Memory of Youth)
When Anna-Livia came to the surface once more, she found herself closer to the shore. It seemed to be in reach. The undercurrent had lessened in strength and she was able to weakly swim towards the beach. With a few more strokes she felt the sand under her feet. Crawling on shore, Anna-Livia plopped down onto the dry sand and coughed up the remainder of the salt water that had caught in her throat.

The Wheel of Fortune
Thankful to be alive, Anna-Livia sat on her couch at home cuddled up in her favorite sweatshirt and wrapped in a flannel blanket. The radio and the television stayed off. She sat in silence and in darkness looking out the window. It was nighttime and the moon illuminated the, now, clear sky. As she stared at the moon she thought of how it was a crescent moon. How it is the smallest of the moon’s wane, but, to her, it seemed to lighten her whole home. Somehow, this reminded her of her earlier experience. “The ocean will never cease to exist,” she thought. “’People come—they stay for awhile, they flourish, they build—and they go. It is their way. But’ oceans will ‘remain’” (Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows). Sitting in her home, on a Sunday night, Anna-Livia no longer felt confused. She only felt the need for a pen and paper in order to write down the following story.

My Rap

Let's just say that my bee-bop skills are off the hook! Here's the rap I did today.
I heard it through the grapevine,
That this presentation of mine,
Is on the divine,

Who are we, what are you,
If we aren’t all apart of this elite crew,
We live in the realm of myth and dream,
Where things aren’t always what they seem,


It’s Wallace Stevens with the solution,
One Sunday Morning a woman came to a conclusion,
Divinity must live within ourselves,
Passions of rain, or moods, in falling snow,
It’s all our one man show,

It was T.S. Eliot who once said,
That all things must be re-read,
We only know things if we revisit,
Because only then can we…miss it,

Divinity isn’t just in you and me,
It’s in our lives don’t you see,
Every character that we’ve read,
Always comes out….ahead,

There’s Prospero, the man behind the curtain,
What makes him so important?
Is it the books that he reads,
Or the magic, that’s the key,
Either way, he makes me believe,

Now, while I rome,
Let’s talk of Santiago finding his home,
Turning himself into the wind,
What kind of drug dealer did he befriend?

Speaking of drugs there is Neo,
Whoa, the matrix must be full of good blow,
Let’s continue with our girl Fatima,
She was Santiago’s redeemer,

On to Haroun and his stories,
Having one-thousand and one, he has no worries,
With his boy Butt and the Water Genie,
These three can conquer those eggheads, believe me,

Herman, or should we call him Socrates,
Wasn’t a man that was easy to please,
Dead or alive the man was confused,
In two seconds he became our muse,
As a writer, philosopher and Latin teacher,
He showed us how to live in the feature,
Let’s not forget our man Finn,
He’ll keep reappearing again and again,
A way a lone a last a loved along the
How many times do we have to ponder,

Finn may have fallen off the ladder,
But the people at his wake sure knew how to chatter,
He beat the odds and cheated death,
Less a man, and more the Egyptian god Seth,

All these characters had moments of the divine,
So let’s take it back to Stevens in rewind,
Stevens says that divinity isn’t only in the chapel,
But in all living things, even in Adam’s apple,

Even with all these characters, we here put them to shame,
Because they’re fictional and we remain,
With moments of divinity,
Not just found in the trinity,

That’s the end and I’m ready to split,
If I had a mic, I’d drop it.

Anxiety of Influence....Uh, just a little

The first group presentations were today and they were AWESOME!!! I was really hoping they sucked, but, alas, I was disapointed. I was telling Erin that, although I enjoyed the presentations, I'm alittle mad. It's just that now, I'm worried about going. Just like in writing, this group presentation is giving me anxiety because of the amazing forrunners.

Anyways, I just want to say good job to the groups today. I don't mean this is a negative way, but I hope the groups on Friday are worse....just kidding (kind of).

Doubt in the Alchemist

After reading the Alchemist I sort of forgot about the book. It ceased to concern my thought. One day, while driving along 19th street and thinking on my capstone paper I had a connection with the Alchemist. I found it odd because I didn't think the book effected me that much, or had any impact on me. My capstone paper is about the concept of time. I wrote on how time past can create doubt from the uncertainty of our memories. The Alchemist fit perfectly into this idea because of the constant doubt that filled Santiago. I never thought of doubt as being negative, but the more I dwell on it, the more I realize doubt sucks. It is the questioning of ourselves and our past. Doubt fills our daily decisions and without doubt we wouldn't hesitate on following our "personal legends." Its doubt that makes us choose a safe path. Fewer and fewer people act spontaneously and its common for people to stay boring. Instead of having adventures and being daring we stay at home and watch TV. Doubt has forced us to choose the easier path. We doubt ourselves which makes us doubt our abilities and our possibility to succeed. We need to realize the influence of doubt so we can recognize when it interferes with our ultimate goal. 

My Paper?

Because I've become such a Wallace Stevens finatic, I figured I might as well incorporate him into my final paper (and I know I'm not suppose to start a sentence with because). Because I feel that it is relevant to my descussion. I was thinking about writing on the nature of divinity presented in the characters that have been in the novels we have been reading. I made a list: There is, of course, Prospero. He is the epitamy of divinity in a novel. We've said in class that Prospero is that guy who's been around forever. Been there, done that. There is then Samuel Becket. I loved the idea of a character who killed off other characters. I felt by creating such a character that an author was acting as a divine being. He gets to choice whether a character lives or (da da dum) dies. Next I thought of, Vico. He came up with the idea that there are ages of men, the gods, the heros, and the demonic/chaos. I think it would be interesting to research that subject in greater detail. Lastly, there is Wallace Stevens. Now, here's the poem I want to incorporate, tell me what you think.

SUNDAY MORNING
II
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright, green wings,

or else In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must live within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

All pleasures and all pains, remembering

The bough of summer and the winter branch.

These are the measures designed for her soul.

And remember, if you don't have anything nice to say then say it in a nice way. Thanks for your input.

Just an Idea....

I just had another thought. There is a Shel SilverStein poem/book called falling up. This is how the poem goes:

I tripped on my shoelace

And I fell up-

Up to the roof tops

Up past the tree tops

Up over the mountians

Up where the colors

Blend into the sounds

But it go me so dizzy

When I looked around

I got sick to my stomach

And I threw down

Falling up is a religious saying that talks about the faults of humanity and the ability of religion to save. I was thinking of this saying and this poem in contrast to the hilltops in the Alchemist. If authors write epiphanies on the top of mountains or staircases then their characters must be, in a writer's since, falling up. I don't want to get into the religious aspect. The saying can make sense in a purely technical way. A character standing on top of a mountain top is role playing. They are playing the part of the divine, this is the reason for the revelation, ect. But because they are ultimately human, and therefore, have human faults, they can never be in a place of true divinity. I would say they are falling up. A character, in an author's eye, is flawed. Even with these moments of divinity they are continuously falling. So when Santiago is on the top of the stone wall, he is having a moment of up. The Shel SilverStein poem is written for children, but as I have argued, that doesn't mean it shouldn't be taken seriously. It is a lighthearted poem with a grand idea (or maybe it's just a lighthearted poem). Eliot says, or rather steals, "the way up is the way down." Even in our moments of "up" people must always come down, or fall. Eliot stealing, the way up is the way down, knows that no matter how high we climb and how epiphinised we get, there is always the fall which we must anticipate. It's like the Shel SilverStein cover picture. There is a moment where we are suspended in space, waiting to either float upwards some more or catch ourselves on the way down. A character, even when experiencing an epiphany on the top of a mountain, will always stay in the flawed state. It's not that they become the divine, they simply experience the divine in a form that keeps their perpetual humanity.

Metaphors, Epiphanies, and the Alchemist

Metaphor for epiphanies are loaded in the Alchemist. We learned that in our capstone class that there are certain metaphors that authors use to represent a revelation or an epiphany. There is the ladder, lighthouse, tower, mountaintop, and staircase. In the Alchemist the character Santiago has a number of revelations on each leg of his journey. First Santiago climbs the stone wall after he meets the king. He must decide whether to sell his sheep and pursue his personal legend or stay as a Shepard. Santiago must climb the stone wall in order to make his decision. At the top of the wall he overlooks Africa (pg 26). This causes him to make a decision and continue on his personal legend. Without climbing the wall Santiago would have never had his revelation. Next there is the crystal merchant at the top of the hill. After Santiago has had all of his money stolen he walks to around trying to find work. He spots the crystal shop that is vacant and asked the man if he can polish his crystal for food. This initial job ends up being key to Santiago accomplishing his dream. He had to hit bottom in order to walk up the hill and rise up. It took walking up the hill that lead to his new beginning. Without his work at the crystal shop he would have never earned the money and learned the lessons from the merchant that lead to his continuation toward his personal legend. Again the hill represented a new epiphany for Santiago. Lastly, there is the dunes. Santiago finally crosses the desert after years of struggle and he has to cross it during a time of war. This war is just another test he must pass to continue his dream. In the end of his journey Santiago is tired and weary and he climbs this last dune that overlooks the pyramids. Here he has his last revelation. On the top of the dune he gets beaten down, but is told by the thief the true location of his treasure. If Santiago had not gone on that dune he would have never realized his need to go home.

I noticed that every metaphor deals with height. Whether it's a ladder, a mountain, staircase (you get my point) they all deal with climbing up. The Greeks didn't put their heaven on top of Mt. Olympus for no reason. The tower of Babylon was built in order to reach the Christian's heaven. These are all significant in the image of epiphanies. Santiago needed to climb in order to have his revelations. I believe this is due to two reasons. First, everything worth anything takes hard work. The reason the view at the top of a mountain is better is because it took hard work. The act of climbing is an accomplishment when you make it to the top. Usually when a person climbs they become tired and out of breath, reaching the top is empowering. Not only do you experience a beautiful view, but you worked hard and accomplished a goal by making it to the top. Also, I believe that the act of climbing is divine. When at the top of a mountain you feel weightless. The pull of gravity seems to work less. If the majority of the world believes heaven to be in the sky or just up then it makes since that we have epiphanies when we are higher up. Being in a position to overlook the rest of the world, or the continent of Africa, makes one feel powerful, it also gives a person a small feeling of divinity. The Christian God or the Greek's gods were said to look down on their people. It's the same when Santiago climbed the stone wall he looked over Africa, or when he climbed the dunes he looked over the pyramids. This gave him a since of divinity, power, and revelation.

My Arguement For Lowbrow

Today in class, Friday, I found myself disagreeing with Dr. Sexson. This doesn't happen often, and I don't mean to question our cult leaders' beliefs, but I suppose it was Dr. Sexson who said not to drink the cool-aid. So, here I am, trying out some Lipton ice tea and realizing that it's better than cool-aid (except for grape). Call me childish, but what I didn't agree with was that Dr. Sexson said that with age we, as readers, should move on from lowbrow and graduate to highbrow. I don't believe this is true. I think that lowbrow as well as highbrow has a place in our world. Such as the example with his granddaughter. It was okay for her to read Harry Potter, but not for the older man. I think that everyone needs some lowbrow in their life. The contrast between the two needs to exist and everyone needs some nice lowbrow every once in awhile. For myself, I very much enjoy my lowbrow. Whether it is Harry Potter or the Alchemist, I think it's necessary when you are taking a break from your job or school to have an easy read at your side. Just like dreams, lowbrow/fantasy books have the ability to make their reader escape from reality. A single page doesn't take an hour to understand, the reader is able to flow through there book and simply enjoy themselves. It doesn't matter if it's a 13 year old girl or a 70 year old man, they both should have the luxury of appreciating the lowbrow. I hope that when I'm older I can pick up a fun children's book and sit down and pretend. Without our ability to enter the dream world we are just left with the tangible. I, for one, like a little mystery. I don't believe everything is white and black or right and wrong, there is always a little bit of mystery hidden in the truth. It's more in the lowbrow's ability to take their reader to an alternate reality. This alternate reality should carry over into our everyday life. It's up to the Harry Potter's in our world to remind us of the mysteries in our everyday.

A little bit about myself...

I was listening to the talk on the Alchemist story and realized how similar it was to my own. I grew up in a town that I felt that I had nothing in common with. For years I had a need to move away, I thoroughly disliked my hometown. I will never tell my family or friends this because it would hurt there feelings. Like people, places also have a likeliness towards them. It tends to offend people who have a connection to a place when another person, such as myself, dislike their hometown. Anyways, since I graduated I moved to Minnesota. I found how much alike Minnesota was to South Dakota, so within a year I moved again to Bozeman. Just like Santiago, I feel that I'm some what of a wanderer. I have never had a connection to a town and have never felt reluctant to move. When I moved away from South Dakota, I thought I would hardly ever go back. However, I find myself going home every chance I get. In a place I thought I hated when I was younger, I now visit for spring break, or during the summer. This change, I realized, is due to a sort of treasure I discovered. My middle sister has had two children, a daughter and a son. I love hanging out with my niece and nephew and no matter where they lived I would visit them as much as possible. It just so happens that they live in a place that I felt had nothing for me. Now that they've been born, I feel that there is something there for me. Just as the story goes, I had to leave in order to realize what I missed.

When you grow old

Dr. Sexson said if we have a favorite poem then we should memorize it. This was in the first week of class. I took his advise and memorized a peom (that is not 4 quartets), that I think, but am not for sure, is my favorite. I also bring this up because we were talking of poems that encompass the whole universe. I would like to think that my favorite can do that. However, I think in this instance I am biased. Here is the poem and you can judge yourself:

When you grow old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowely read. And dream of that soft look, your eyes once had, and of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace. And loved you beauty, whether love was false or true, but one man loved the pilgram sole in you. And the lines on your changing face. Bending low by those burning bars. Murmer, alittle sadely how love fled. And placed upon the mountains overhead, and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

This is a peom by W.B. Yeats called "When You Grow Old." Although, this could be argued, I think it might be better advise on how to live and what to do. None the less it is beyond the point. This poem for me can encompass the entire world because it has seen life through the eyes of an old poet. It speaks of love and death and life's memories. I think Zach of the Saving Bells will like this post because I remember him pointing this poem out to me in Brit. Lit. 1. Maybe he will agree with me on this all encompassing poem, or maybe not.

In both the capstone and emergent lit. class we have been talking about Giambattista Vico. Vico talks of New Science or metaphysics. There is the age of gods, heroes, and men (a sort of class system). Our emergent lit. group has been assigned to think of ways to represent the actions and speach of gods and heroes. It is impossible to know how the class systems above you think. As for the age of gods, I would ask, would they talk about greek mythology? Then answer, no, men wrote greek mythology, the gods were only actors. They probably don't care about their stories. Then I asked, would they say anything? If all is understood, what's the use of language. Maybe, but that wouldn't be a fun presentation. Today in class, I had an "ah" epiphany. Prospero, dear Prospero, he is our metaphor for gods. If Prospero has been around since the beginning of time, (since he is the Shamen in the cave) then he is the closest thing to god-like that I, being a human, can understand. Also, how about heroes? Heroes are easier because they are closer to the age of men. I was thinking today of Samuel Beckett's character who kills off characters. As an author you have the power to decide your character's fate. This ability gives heroes a divine capability. The power to have a power over something else reminded me of what Taylor said in class about To the Lighthouse. How bending over a tide pool and shadowing the light is an act of power. The action of a hero is to depict human behavior in some small way. Fully understanding the divine is impossible. Fully understanding a hero is closer to possible, but difficult. One must breach the invisible curtain from humanity to heroism. Here's the epiphany. Instead of racking my brain to understand the impossible, I need symbols. I need a character that symbolizes the divine, Prospero, and the hero, Becket. By having symbols, I can better comprehend what actions and speach a god or hero might make.

Advise from Sexson

Hey everyone, I e-mailed Dr. Sexson asking him ways to improve my blogs. He gave me some good advise that might be useful to others who were wondering the same question. Also, if you have anymore thoughts let me know. Here's what he wrote back.

Brianne: the best way to improve your blog is by reading the blogs of others and thinking through what makes them work (or not work). Clearly, in the Capstone there are some who are raising the bar very high. What are they doing to raise the bar, to engage the material so compellingly? the more you ask yourself these questions, the more your own blog will begin to mirror not what they say, but the manner and energy with which it is said. Given all that, successful blogs in my experience are ones that engage the texts and themes and issues of the class and bring to bear on this engagement the full energy and thoughtfulness that comes with having had previous classes and engagements with previous texts. Then there is the undefinable---the moment of insight expressed just right---rare even for the most exemplary of bloggers. You are on the right track when you bring to us those great pictures of Frye's "epiphany places" and title your blogs "Between two waves" and "Us Then." That's insight expressed just right. You are wandering down the wrong road when you ask what else can be said about eclipses-----when you know that we could have spent our whole class on the subject and not exhausted it. So----in a nutshell, get in conversation with a blogger in each class whose entries you admire----and try to figure out what's at the source of this admiration. It would be nice too if you could let them know of your admiration. Another thought is to bring this email exchange between us to your blog so that others can get in on the conversation and add some advise to you that I inevitably would miss. The whole idea of blog is interactive communication among peers. Let me know what you think.----MS

Illusions

We were on a boat, it was bright orange and looked like the kind of boat people take whale watching or one of those boats on the side of a huge cruise ship that is blown up with air and will supposedly save you if the cruise ship that weighs like 225000 gross tons, and yet somehow floats on water (I don't even know how to float on water), sinks. However, it had a motor, one that ran pretty fast. We were jumping the waves speeding out to sea, about 20 feet from us two sharks go swimming by. My heart jumps. "Don't worry," she said," they could never catch this boat, we will be long gone." We keep speeding out towards the high seas jumping higher and higher off the waves. I certainly didn't feel comfortable, my hands were hurting from holding on and the most important person on the boat was flying up and down about ready to fall off. "Hang on" I yell. The woman in charge is blond and tall, she's wearing some kind of Patagonia clothing, either way it looks expensive and somehow very appropriate for what we are doing. The waves settle and I see an ice burg about 30 yards ahead. I assume we are going to dock ourselves on the left side of the ice burg which looks flat and less rocky. The sharks by now are far back, "even if they saw us," I thought, "they could never catch up." The boat slowed down and was making its way around the ice burg. "We will have to set up here if we want to examine their culture." I looked up the ice burg and closer to its tip there were small very hairy animals laying out in the sun. I couldn't quite tell what they were, but they didn't take notice of us. I was worried they would spy us and ruin what we came all the way to accomplish. In order to dock the boat we all had to jump out and swim to shore. The others climbed the ice burg and went right leaving us so they could arrange camp further up the ice burg. The blond haired leader and I pulled the boat onto the ice burg to dock it. All the sudden I heard the loud growling of another engine. I grab the leaders arm and pull her into a crevice in order to hide us from whoever was coming around the corner. The boat edged slowly around the ice burg, obviously looking for someone. The driver of the new boat looked directly in our path and made a sort of face, as if he saw something, but wasn't quite sure. The motor stopped and the driver got out, still peering in our direction. I thought for sure he had seen us, but then he turned. I was amazed, how could he have missed us? On his way back to his boat he spots the bright orange boat which we used to get to the ice burg. He reached in his pocket and took out his knife and sliced the boat, leaving us with no transportation out. "I won't let you get close again," the driver said to the blond leader. As he said this he looked back in our direction. After destroying our boat he put the knife back into his pocket, hopped back into his still running boat, and sped away. I was devastated, it was late afternoon and I was cold.

I woke up. It was morning and it was sunny.

This blog is stranger than faction and more complicated than the Bachelor:

In the movie we watched today I noticed the similarities of the Proffesor to Jacques Derrida. According to Wiki, Derrida believes, "The first (relating to deferral) is the notion that words and signs can never fully summon forth what they mean, but can only be defined through appeal to additional words, from which they differ. Thus, meaning is forever "deferred" or postponed through an endless chain of signifiers. The second (relating to difference, sometimes referred to as espacement or "spacing") concerns the force which differentiates elements from one another and, in so doing, engenders binary oppositions and hierarchies which underpin meaning itself."
Harold Crick can only know what his character is by knowing what it is not. He realized at first that his life was not a comedy because of how depressing he was, he then realized he was definately not in a romance because the woman in the movie, Pascal, started out hating him. After finding out what character Harold was not, they realized he was in a tragedy. This can be true in Kenosis where the author takes out everything and leaves the reader with nothing left. The author, such as Samuel Becket, gives you all of what the novel isn't. This is why Molone Dies and Molloy are such frustrating novels. As a reader you want to be left with a good fealing. An author can either give you the answer right away, or hint at what it is until the end, or can give you the opposite until the reader finally (or never) understands. Samuel Becket takes everything out of the novel, similiar to how Derrida's theory works.

Ernest Hemingway

I found some quotes that really reminded me of things said or read in class. Ernest Hemingway said,

"All our words from loose using have lost their edge."
This reminded me of the uslessness of words in emotional situations. Taylor talked of how her students were able to explain epiphanies better than she (or I for that matter) was able to. When trying to explain something such as epiphany or love or anything important in life, we have trouble explaining how we feel. Sometimes, when thinking of perfection too long we lose even the imperfect explaination. As English Literature students, especially ones about to graduate, we realize how pointless words can be. Words, like all things created by humanity, are flawed. The sooner this is realized, the less intellegent we become (I'm only kind of joking here). Ignorance is useful. By knowing more we become less satisfied with what is said and therefore say less.

Here is another quote I found by Hemingway:

"As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary."

We learned in Huraun and the Sea of Stories how important heroes are. The job of a hero is to bring hope and salvation to others. The acts of heroisism aren't something one can grow out of or grow old of. Neither is it something that one can plan. I was at a bar the other day (shocker) and a girl came crying in the bathroom. There were plenty of other girls in the bathroom and I remember thinking, I hope no one is mean to her. Movies have done such an aweful job of portraying women. It is more often than not that women tend to be the villians. However, unlike the movies, in this instance three fourths of the girls went and asked if everything was okay, and the rest were wondering if they could help out without being overbearing. Weither that girl was comforted or not doesn't erase the fact that everyone there wanted to help. It is the job of others who might be having a good day to help those who are experiencing the opposite. Heroes are an important factor in our everyday life. Just as for Huroun in a world of depression he had to find a hero to look up to. In Huroun's case, it was his father, which is a good place to start.

So, why did I bring up Ernest Hemingway when he was nowhere near our subject of conversation. Well, as some of you might know, Ernest Hemingway's son lives in Bozeman. He comes in for dinner quite a bit at the place I work. I was waiting on him and his wife and their two guest the other day when their guest asked me my major. I told him, English Literature and that I was actually a big fan of Mr. Hemingway's father. Mr. Hemingway then replied, "Oh, really, you never told me that." I said "Yes, I didn't want to be bothersom," or something of that nature. He then asked, "Well, what is your favorite novel." I thought about it and told him, "A Farewell to Arms." He smiled and said, "Me too."

I thought that I had just had one of the most privelaged conversations in my whole life. So, ordinarily, I wanted to share it with my bloggers.

The Remembered Gate

We were asked to find a 20 minute lifetime in 4 Quartets. I decided to take my specific section that I was given in the Capstone class and find one in there. I chose the passage that says,

"We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time."

This passage is very important to the concept of the 4 Quartets in its entirety. In East Coker, Eliot says "Old men make great explorers, Here and there does not matter, We must be still and still moving" Eliot's belief that our lives consist of constant exploration is one of knowledge and learning. A person, even an old man, will never stop learning because the world is filled with infinite amounts of knowledge. Thus, old men make great explorers because of their ability to appreciate silence and the knowledge which can be found in the present moment. The younger we are the more we want to travel to new places and conquer new goals. Eliot knows that it doesn't take a different setting to discover to unknown or have an epiphany. Rather the places which a person grew up are never fully known because they're not looked for (another Eliot quote). This is exactly what Eliot is trying to explain in the passage I picked. Only in death will a person arrive to a remembered place, a place that is similar to birth where a person is completely helpless and weak. Unlike birth an older wiser person will understand their place for the first time. In a hospital bed lying and waiting for death a person is fixed between the past and future. Thinking always of better times while anticipating their new adventure in death. It's in those last hours where one can experience a lifetime when they're thinking of all their good and bad moments, yet still carrying the wisdom that their old age granted them.

My List

Here is a list of all the dogs I know whether living or dead and some which I do not yet know but who exist, I am sure, somewhere, non the less. There's Maddie, Patty, Dottie, and dirty Dawn. As well as Rosie Posy beloved mother and friend, Smelly Ellie the king of the job site, Finnius Maximus Maridius, Ella Bella, Barefoot the condemned, and Ginger the Innocent, there's Brandy Wine Bridge, Ruby wants a hamburger, and Jezebel the traitor, Jolene the seductress, Tricks, Kinder Kinderoo, Clara, Coda, and of course, Blinky, Slinky, and Sunny Bunny. Not to mention, Chewy my favorite, Ryder the marker of territories, Nalie Polly Pocket Pooch, Bentley whose home is a 1971 VW van, Diesel the fatstick, Peter snow falls on the ciders, and my future dog Bilbo Baggins the Explorer. Speaking of snow....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhfK98f5S00

Here is a link from Forrest Gump that has my favorite low-brow list. It's when Bubba Gump is telling Forrest just how many kinds of shrimp there is. Enjoy.

Groundhog's Day

We were asked to tell about our groundhog's day, but I will just tell about the part of my day that I really tried to appreciate. A friend and I went hiking at Bridger along the ridge. Although I don't care for hiking mostly because it's hard work, the view is always worth it and the ride down, of course. I took some pictures so hopefully everyone can enjoy it as well.

This picture is looking out eastward from the ridge towards the Crazy's.

This is looking southward at Slushman's.

Pairing your 30 words to a place

I randomly opened Finnegans Wake and landed on page 590. I decided that I would memorize these 30 or so words:


"Halp! After having drummed all he dun. Hun! Worked out to an inch of his core. More! Ring down. While the queenbee he staggerhorned blesses her bliss for to feel her funnyman's functions Tag. Rumbling. Tiers, tiers and tiers. Rounds."


It's obvious what is going on in these few sentences. There is a fight going on and someone is yelling help because he is being beaten and then he falls and gets stung by a bee and it seems that they play the game of tag afterwards. It's very clear.



I've been wondering how it is I'm going to memorize these 30 or so words? Some of them aren't even words at all, and I certainly can't relate to their meaning such as a favorite poem or quote. Then I remembered, in the Oral Traditions class a couple of semesters ago we had to memorize the names of the 9 muses. They, like the words in Finnegans Wake, were unusual and difficult to memorize for me. In order to memorize the names of the muses we paired them to items in the classroom, for example, Urania was the projector screen. I would remember Urania by thinking of stars being projected on to the screen. Or, Euterpe was this picture posted on the bulletin board that said, "Let it Snow." I remembered that because Euterpe is the muse of music and I would imagine the Christmas song "Let it Snow" being sung. I figured that with Finnegans Wake I can pair each word with an item in my room, such as the couch or my bookcase, or smaller items like a picture or vase. This is the same technique I used in order to memorize 50 governors (Arnold Schwarzenegger was paired with my bed). It helps if the pairing is funny or grotesque (such as Arnold laying on my bed or Sarah Palin looking at herself in the mirror), if it has a significant meaning then it's easier to memorize.

Honestly, this technique is so easy, I had all 50 governors memorize within 2 hours. Now I'm going to draw another awesome photo of the layout of my room and pair certain sentences or words to objects.
I placed my words to objects in the same order of the sentences. So, "Halp!" is the Finnegans Wake book because I need help reading the thing. "After having drummed all he dun" is the Bird bottle opener because "drummed" can be exchanged with drank or the act of drinking. "Hun" I put with the picture frame because some people call others hun. "Worked out to an inch of his core" is with the snowboard because I suppose that can be seen as working out. "More" is with the boots because it's more snowboarding gear. "Ring down" is the chair because it is the shape of a circle. The couch is undecided because that sentence is going to be tough to memorize. Then there's "Tag. Rumbling" paired with the bean bag just because and lastly there is the "Tiers, tiers and tiers. Rounds." which I placed with the bookcase because there are tiers and tiers of books and a round candle.
I realize I now look crazy, but I hope this helps.

The Eternal Return

Sexson mentioned a few examples of the eternal return in literature, such as The Tempest and Indra and the Ants. One I thought should be mentioned is "The Second Coming" by W.B. Yeats. He talks about the coming of an Antichrist or a second coming from an eternal being. The eternal return is seen by some as the ability to return to the mythical age. Yeats says that the Anitchrist will be the body of a lion and the head of a man, or in other words the return of the Sphinx, "what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born." This also fits in with the belief of the eternal return being a religious symbol. Well, I just thought I'd mention it. Here's a great video that I'm sure you'll all enjoy.
P.S. It doesn't have anything to do with my post and is also a complete waste of time. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FY4Y1gTO9HE

Archetypes

Look! I drew a picture.

In class on Friday, Sexson briefly mentioned the critique Northrop Frye. Thanks to Prof. Eckert I actually know not only who this man is, but what he believed. Frye's main belief was in archetypes and structure. He believed that archetypes help a reader make sense of the world with language. Salman Rushdie writes a very structured hero story. In Haroun and the Sea of Stories there is a Shadow, Ego, and Anima, as Frye would say. Each of these characters can all be found in our "self" while outside floating around is the collective unconscious. Inside our self, such as in a good story, the Ego has to confront and overpower the Shadow, this allows the ego to understand or achieve the anima. The Anima represents a treasure, usually a woman, but can also be seen as truth or knowledge, although in Beowulf it was actually treasure. The Shadow is, of course, the form of evil in every story. Frye focused on epics, believing that they were the perfect forms of literature because they contained archetypes.

Attaching Frye's theory to Haroun and the Sea of Stories is quite simple, although not as easy as Spencer's The Fairy Queen. Haroun is the main character and also the hero in the hero story. The damsel is Batcheat, but what makes Rushdie's tale so comical is that no one cares to save the damsel, well, except Bolo. Bolo is a funny character as well, he is a confused hero. However, Rushdie gives Bolo all the major components of a knight, such as quickness to anger, rashness in action, a hopeless romantic, but Bolo is an annoying knight who's main purpose is to get in the way. The Shadow in Rushdie's tale is Khattam-Shud, who is shadowless. Khattam-Shud's main objective is to have complete power using darkness and muteness. An interesting point is that the Khattam-Shud that Haroun faces is in fact a shadow. Like Sexson said in class, Rushdie was quite the genius. The characters of Iff and Butt are not in Frye's archetypes, but but but they are very important to Rushdie's story because they represent the question in reality. If this, then that...or There's this, but that. When we put if and but into a sentence we are questioning something. Therefore these characters are important to the fantastical situations in the story that Haroun must believe in order to become the hero.

There is one more situation in Rushdie's story that can be compared to all great epics, as well as Frye's theory, is the use of water. Water, in epic tales, symbolizes the unconciouse or transformation, such as in a baptism. The first use of water is when Haroun drinks the polluted story water. He sees himself failing as a hero, and unconciously Haroun believes that he will fail in his attempt to save his father. Later when Haroun puts on the wet suit and jumps into the acidic water he emerges transformed. He comes from the water, realizes he has the wish water, and comes up with the plan to destroy Khattam-Shud. Water, in this instance, was used as a transformer.

I'm pretty sure Frye would have greatly enjoyed Rushdie's ironic archetypes.

High Brow vs. Low Brow

Highbrow and lowbrow literature can only be explained in the form of dialogue. Thus, an example:
Low brow conversations:
(2 American men standing outside the old R' Bar)
Man 1: "What are you doing tonight bro"
Man 2: "Partying"
Man 1: "Me too" (but, he would spell too wrong)
(Man 1 and Man 2 high five)
High brow conversation:
(Of course, in a British accent)
Man 1: I say ol' chap, may I enquire what business you will partake this beautiful evening"
Man 2: "It is not entirely what will be my occupation in the later evening, yet rather the alternative quarries I must decide. Will I, perhaps, compete in an extremely dangerous cricket tournament? But no, dare I say that my bugger of a horse, Fatty Lumpkins has an injured calf. Yet, may I engage in a competitive game of chess, dear boy? Lastly, let us not forget a light read, perhaps Finnegan's Wake for the tenth time or, wait, I must attempt the Four Quartets once more; I've made an engagement with the Prince of Wales to compare notes."
(all the while light classical music is playing in the background)

Well, there you have it. A perfect example of the difference between high and lowbrow literature through dialogue. Point and case is that nobody wants to hang out with the British men, but more often then not we find ourselves hanging out with the American men. Just as in literature, we do not read the highbrow literature because it seems boring, yet, is it more self satisfying? Ah, that is the question? The highbrow literature doesn't leave us with a hangover. I must think more on this epiphany I've just had.....