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.