Friday, December 11, 2009

Worse day and some thoughts

So I figure it's only fair that I share my own worst day. All you folk in the class who did this earlier, you may say it doesn't take courage to do so, but to me, from where I'm coming from, it looks a whole hell of a lot like strength. So here it goes. Here's mine...

About two years ago my mother and I were eating dinner when my mom looked up from her food. Staring at her glass of water, she said, "You know, Tai, your dad was a real shithead."

At first I was taken aback by this, however, after a few minutes of thinking I replied, "yeah, yeah he was, wasn't he?"

And then after that we told stories about him and laughed and cried and did all the things that people in mourning do. That was a Saturday during the summer after my sophomore year in college.

My mom's house is built from my old life. There's a beauty cabinet in her living room that was given to her after her wedding. In the basement is a set of shelves that can't be replicated, and on top of that shelf is a portrait of a man with a grey beard standing next to a short, pudgy Asian kid wearing over-sized hiking boots.

Growing up, I lived in a bigger house with two parents and a cat. The old house was filled with the oak and plastic furnishings that my parents had collected as they built a life for themselves through the seventies and eighties. In the corner of my parent's room was an old mirror that my dad had constructed in college when he was studying to become an engineer. Along with this, a plethora of chests and shelves and the like sat around the house, all sharing the workman's print of my father.

He studied to become an engineer but became a science teacher instead. I'm not sure why; I never really asked. From the time I was a kid though, that's what he was to me, my science teacher dad. He would always have great stories of yelling at idiots at one of the local high schools. I always wanted to have him as a school teacher, but he told me that this would never happen. The cost of impartiality, I suppose.

In third grade I was beaten up for being Asian by a group of older guys. In response to this my parents signed me up for Taekwondo. I studied Taekwondo until my sophomore year in high school.

One of my all-time bad days occurred after Taekwondo right before I received my driver's license. My dad had told me he was going to pick me up when my class ended at 6. Around the time 7 rolled around, my mother showed up (note this is before cell phones so staying in contact at this point was a matter of luck and smoke signals, holy crap, I'm only 22). Someone in my class had called my mom to tell her that I had been waiting outside the dojo for an hour and so she swung by to pick me up after work. As we drove home in silence, she wondered what had happened. Panic crossed her voice as she ran through the possibilities. As we pulled in to the driveway she rushed from the car into the house.

I wasn't worried. I knew what was happening. Since sometime in middle school, I noticed that my dad had a tendency of falling asleep on the couch. My mom attributed this to fatigue from long days at work. I knew the real reason though. Once, when I was 13, While I was poking around our basement for my dad's porn stash, I uncovered a cache of wine bottles and boxes. Dad had been secretly drinking wine in unknown amounts. He wasn't fatigued from work during those nights on the couch: he was plastered, he was wasted, he was drunk.

When we entered the kitchen connected to the garage, a think haze of smoke had settled over the drawers and sinks. The house smelled of burnt potatoes and on the stove was a smoldering mess of an incomplete dinner. On the couch, my dad snored, bathed in the light of sitcom reruns. My mom quickly stirred him awake and asked him what was happening. She grabbed the phone, figuring that he had suffered a stroke or a heart attack or something. I told her to put away the phone. I told her that I knew what was happening. Having said that, I started towards the basement.

As I brought up each box of wine or empty bottle of vodka, I watched my mom's face turn from confusion to fear to anger. After I had cleared the basement, there were six boxes of wine, two bottles of vodka, and a collection of beer boxes sitting in our living room.

My mom asked my dad what was happening. She asked him for an explanation. She cried and yelled. He told her to stop being a bitch and then she hit him. After that, I went to my room, zoned out, and played computer games until I had school the next day where I got yelled at for being inattentive. My peers kept asking me where my dad was. This was a really terrible way to spend a few days.

Over the next months we bounced Dad in and out of rehabs where he would tell us that he would change. Turns out alcoholics are great at breaking promises. My mom divorced my dad during my sophomore year in high school and he spiraled into a drunken nightmare. I played second fiddle to his masterwork of dickery and there are all sorts of stories of him and I being abusive to each other, but this isn't about those. Three years later he would be dead, my mom would be in therapy, I will have taken up a regular drug regimen, and my cat will have decided to hate me. As the late great KV said, "So it goes."

I figure as far as realized apocalypses go, destroying your family is a great place to find it. Of course, I say this knowing full well my Blythe tone, however, that moment when I decided to bring up those wine boxes is an unveiling point in my life. From when life was about girls and cars and homework to when it became a litany of disappointment. I have plenty of illusions and regrets from that time, but that moment, when I revealed to my mom and, in a sense, to my self the extent of corruption that had permeated my family is not one. It is when I truly became aware of just how weird and horrible things could feel.

This is not a feeling you shake off. You either forget it or live with it. One of those, I think, turns you into a better person, one of those kills. I'm still not entirely sure which one is which. Both make me want to smoke cigarettes and shoot at things. Either way, this kind of metaphysical planning is good for me. It makes it not about my dad or my fuckups along the way, it's about the lessons, no not that- not lessons; it's about the poetry that one finds along the way.

This class has not been therapeutic for me in respect to this event. It's been almost seven years since the unveiling. I've been living with this for a while. However, it has given me greater understanding about how people handle pain and trauma, about how we are presented with models of how to handle pain and suffering. It has also given me something that isn't therapeutic, more useful, more like a translation device for this event. It has given me a contextual awareness of my past and past actions within the context of a society whose morals and expectations are built upon this text, or, sometimes, at least the idea of this text.

So when Johnny Beaver Clever's mother told me to have the patience of Job when my dad relapsed for a second time, and I told her under my breathe to go to hell, I now understand what she meant. I understand the prudentiality of the statement. I understand that under the cliche is a greater metaphor that demands my thought and meditation. The existence of this allegory suggests that this kind of thing is an irrevocable part of that human existence thing we talked about. That I am a minuscule but concrete part of that story. That my understanding of suffering is only prudential until I realize the whole story.

Musing aside, on a more practical note, this class has also taught me to talk to the dead. Now I know that when my mom and I call my dad a shithead that he is listening. Not because of some afterlife or spiritual realm filled with angel farts and rapture (also, my dad was an atheist and based on this kind of dualistic afterlife he is most definitely in hell and I don't think hell has many shortwave radios, if you catch my drift). He is listening because these words exist only in the context of my story, and this is my story. And, goddammit, my dad can hear my insults in my story because he needs to be reminded that his carelessness stopped him from seeing me graduate, fixing my car, or showing me how to do either. But, I know while I write this, as did my mom when she said that, that we aren't really talking about or to Dad when we say those things, we don't really know who we're talking to. I think forgiveness or reconciliation or de-fracturing or whatnot is located in that grey ether.

And that's it, that's the end. No real answers, only a bunch of stuff floating around in an infinite space and a bunch of fleshy meat bags wandering to and fro, wondering what stars taste like or if Lucille Ball actually talked like that. And then, every once in a while, something actually happens.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

PAPER

(Disclaimer: This paper is largely unfinished and is just as much a reader response as an analysis of two forms. I do not have the time to do a deep reading of all the texts necessary- which would include Jung and more Frye as well as writings by Wolfe, Capote, and many others to get certain facts correct. However, I think that I may make some good points.)


The New Mythology


“Well when I had thus put mine ends together, I shew'd them others that I might see whether they would condemn them, or them justifie, and some said, let them live, some, let them die; some said, John, print it; others said, Not so; Some said it might do good, others said, No.”
-The Pilgrim's Progress, John Bunyan

“In Cold Blood is the story of the lives and the deaths of these six people. It has already been hailed as a masterpiece.”
-Excerpt from the introduction of the first printing of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood

The mode of the Bible, as described by Northrop Frye, is one of Kerygma, or the balancing space between Proclamation and Revelation. Through the interplay of these two modes, the writers of the Bible avoided the abject moralizing of pure mythology while only tangentially serving the purpose of the historical. Extending past the three steps of literacy as outlined by Frye earlier in The Great Code, The Bible is a text out of time that has an awareness of its own intertextuality yet doesn't become suspended in its own symbols and narratives such that it exists outside of the people who wrote it. It can be used as an illustrative text of history that contains enough detail and parallel to it resemble a history, and enough firman to make it a legal document, however, it would never mistaken as either. I believe that this parallels the rhetorical mode of New Journalism, and by treating the former as Kerygma and the latter as literature, I will present a relationship between the two.
The Bible is the western world's seminal mythological text. Its modes, images, and symbols are adopted by and referenced in thousands of other texts. It has also directly influenced the world itself to a greater degree than any other work. As a subject of history, its influence is boundless. Considered as a literary work, the bible is a rich bastion of experience and story. It is in this literary consideration that many of the bible's indirect influences are found.
The indirect societal influence of the Bible is far too expansive for systematic categorization. Every day, its influence is felt. However, its rhetorical influence is rarely considered in day-to-day discourse. One form of day-to-day discourse, Journalism, has become a ubiquitous influence on humanity. In modern society, it shapes perception and has taken on a rhetorical styling of its own, one that assumes and pursues objectivity. Recently, this styling has been questioned by media theorists and participants such as Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson. Their efforts to analyze and react to the changing demands of society on media have given birth to the field of New Journalism.
At the head of this movement is the novelist, Truman Capote whose magnum opus, In Cold Blood changed the journalistic landscape by melding fiction and reportage. Oft criticized for its authenticity, I seek instead to use this text as a model of the Bible's rhetorical mode of Kerygma, treating the good book as a mythological master text to Capote's storytelling. The two texts' parallels in rhetoric, symbols, and narrative will hopefully illustrate the mode of new journalistic writing as a close cousin to the old mythological styling.
In Cold Blood was famous for its blending of ‘fiction’ and ‘non-fiction’ a thing that elicited both derision and admiration from Capote’s readers. Similarly, The Bible also blends ‘fiction’ and ‘non-fiction’ in its rendering of stories. However, the differences between the two are easily identified. Similarities are more interesting and many of the similarities in the two works go to the very effect that they create.
Simply equating the subjective tendencies of New Journalism to mythology would be a mistake. Mythology, as a classification, has a distinct purpose of recounting the experience of the living in as many realms as possible. This is only one of the functions of Journalism. Likewise, Kerygma transcends mythology, including langage which enacts laws, draws comparisons, and furthers a metaphysical discourse past the metaphors of the biblical stories from which they are drawn.
Northrop Frye characterizes Kerygma as a linguistic category between proclamation and revelation. Usually associated with the Gospels, Frye generalizes the concept for the entire Bible citing that the lyrical and linguistic difference between the Gospels and the rest of the Bible are minimal. He urges us to consider the rhetorical mode for its two aspects, concern and metaphor. These two elements are the things which set the bible apart from simple existence as either pure Metaphorical, Metynomic, or Demotic modes. In Kerygma is a complex interaction of imagery, metaphor, language, and narrative. Extrapolating upon Frye's original concept, it is also the tendency for the Bible to use literary aspects to outline complex moral and philosophic concepts while making said discussion neither the intent nor purpose of the story.
Job is a god fearing man and a small scale landowner who has a family and spends his time at humble pursuits. Yet, he is punished for crimes unspoken. Later, his friends come to him in order to convince Job to repent for his sins. However, their arguments are prudential, repent and be forgiven, whereas the God's actual intent is for Job to engage in a complex moral and philosophical introspection. This clashes with the end of the story where Job is rewarded for his suffering, seemingly undermining the philosophical discussions which occurred earlier.
Within this story is the basis for a complex discussion of morality, the will of God, and justice while also granting the simplified, more prudential, wisdom that people must maintain their faith even in the heart of darkness. However, the language also grants a story in which the reader may project their own experiences upon the text. While one interpretation states that “all is vanity” thus drawing a distinct line between the physical and divine, the next seems to say that God rewards fealty and that suffering is a test. This is another defining trait of Kerygma which is its literary use of common and contradictory metaphors to personalize a story, reflecting a kind of “poetic dissidence” that allows for a multitude of interpretations while also granting the contradicting elements against those interpretations.
It is a common mistake for readers of nonfiction to mistake the words of the text as direct truth. If it says tree, the image is tree. If the story talks of a house, the house is a house is a house. There is little consideration to the composite of the words, the images. All writing establishes an edifice in the reader’s mind where characters or concepts interact. In fiction this edifice is always under question, the poetics and reasons for a character’s placement or dialogue in a story are packets that can be considered for their very location in the text. In non-fiction it is assumed that those packets are arranged in such a manner that they simulate reality and retell a story. This is not the case. The writer of nonfiction places characters and ideas in a story map just as meticulously as a fiction writer, doing so to create an effect, often one that is just as varied from the reality or actual happening as an account considered fictional.
Consideration of words themselves and their effects and placement belongs to the literary. All writing has a poetic aspect and that poetic aspect reflects a desire to place life on page. This is the goal of the New Journalist, to bring life to a page and show what one thing is like, not, how it is. The former is attainable through craft, the latter: impossible. I believe all writing to be this way. Traditional Journalism, as a writing craft, is the struggle against this subjective style. New Journalism is its embracement. New Journalism’s demotic tendencies are balanced with metaphor and metonymy.
The Bible’s words, although metaphorical, sometimes describe a true occurrence in metaphorical terms. If a kingdom fell to god’s hand, it was a rival burning their capital to the ground. Frye claims that the demotic parts of Kerygma are few, however, if the entire bible, according to Frye, has a mythological bent, then where do non story books such as Leviticus fall into the rhetorical mode?
Within In Cold Blood’s prose is a mode of rhetoric that parallels the styling of Kerygma.
//I need to do a more analytical reading of In Cold Blood for this section… however I am very confident that the assertion stands…//
Mythological symbols are resilient memes that work their way into works thousands of years past their conception. For instance, in the House of the Fawn located in the lost city of Pompeii, a fresco of the guardian aspect, Priapus stands to scare away evil spirits. In Roman poetry, Priapus is a boastful soldier who threatens to sodomize to death the enemies of his wards. This character type inspired his anti-type: the Milas Gloriousis or the braggart soldier. The medieval playwrights of the thirteenth century used the Milas as a model in their writing of Herod, and In Paradise Lost, Milton portrays Satan with many of the same boastful characteristics. In more recent times, American westerns have adopted the anti-type, for instance, Stephen Crane's in The Blue Hotel, the character of the Swede is entranced by frontier myths and acts as a braggart while failing to live up to his claims. Although considered a realist, Crane used the literary archetype to illuminate the absurdities of the old west's impact on the other.
Cited as contradictory and confusing by the popular writer, David Plotz, the God of the Old Testament displays traits that could be concurrent with the Milas Gloriousis. Although capable of typological classification, God is a much more complicated figure than that.
In the Bible, God is neither a complete anthropomorphized legislator nor a pure avatar for order. He defies simple typology, a metaphor for an incorporeal truth that dictates understanding to reality’s murk. Paradoxically, God attains anima through writing, yet, in those writings, he only exists through an oral mythology. Only exposing his back to his witnesses, God becomes a symbol for the word whose influence is felt in even the most dry, dictatorial, sections of the good book. However, the defiance of typological analysis does not free the figure of that very thing, and the added aspects of divinity and symbolic verisimilitude may only serve to increase the usefulness of an archetypal and symbolic analysis of the figure.
God, in the Bible, represents order, he is a father figure, a patriarchal presence that has been the foundation of many a monarchy. Capote alludes to the father figure archetype as the primary catalyst for the Clutter family murders. He also draws upon the Milas Gloriousis for the character of Dick Hickock. He draws comparisons between Dick Hickock and Perry Smith’s upbringings which contrast with the idyllic Clutter household. Here he is outlining a conflict between two segments of society: those amongst fatherly stability and those whose fathers left.
Capote’s characters are psychologically sound as well as archetype-based. Jung was influenced by literature and the archetypal theories of Frye are based upon the interactions outlined by the psychologist. This alludes to deeper strands between literature and the humans it portrays. According to Frye, literature is the direct descendent of Mythology, and In Cold Blood contains more literature than most travel stories. Here, the lack of the father figure is shown to create a power dynamic between Hickock and Smith such that their inevitable act of murder was a product of a duo with an unstable past.
Although it would be easy to say, “that’s just how it was”, the fact remains that Truman Capote chose to focus on the fatherly dynamic and the masculine roles. This is a literary choice and it reflects a mind that, although not necessarily formally educated, is one that understands how the familial structure works, and also understands that the father figure, as a literary symbol, is a compelling one and thus is an aspect worth drawing from.
I think the patriarchal symbolism of the God-figure and the Christ-figure go without saying—that the culture which reads and bred the Capote work is heavily influenced by this male dynamic. A lack of either creates an imbalance for characters, a discomfort which, In In Cold Blood, leads to a burst of violence.
Though many of the congruence between the two works may be coincidental, the literary elements of Capote’s book seem to point to that unmistakable shared thread that all literature has. Whether the Bible influenced the scenes that Capote chose to highlight, the coincidences between the story of Esau and Jacob and the story of Hickock and Smith are undeniable.
When Esau received word of his brother’s deception, he was furious. Almost bursting into a homicidal rage, he was calmed after Rebecca sent Jacob away. Here, two brothers have a power dynamic based on a masculine figure which is actually influenced by a feminine one. The feminine mother, an archetype for the instrumentalist element of the family, both causes and assuages the situation. The masculine figures, in a constant struggle for power, are forced into a situation where loyalties are tested and blessings are the ultimate reward.
In the Capote piece, the interplay between Dick Hickock as the hyper masculine figure, and Perry as the masculine-feminine figure creates a power play similar to the story. Where Hickock limits his thinking to that of a single goal, Smith becomes the instrumentalist side of the relationship, and while aimed towards the same ends, his timidity seems to leave Smith as a side-kick or less powerful figure to Hickock. However his biblically feminine wit allows him hidden agency. At least this is how Capote portrays the two.
However, as the two approach the moment of instrumentality, where they meet the catalyst for their eventual demise, the masculine role becomes dominant as Hickock cajoles Smith into the robbery by emasculation (notably In Cold Blood seems to follow a 4 act structure: the set up for the climax, wherein the characters are introduced and the conflict, in this case the authority’s pursuit, is at the end of the first act, which goes out with the murders of the Clutters). This complete disempowering of the female aspect after its initial introduction leads to the murders, leaving one to ask, what would have happened if Rebecca had not stopped Esau’s fury?
Although a possible coincidence, it is also possible that literature draws from a wellspring of mythology and prior stories as well as basic human commonality. The breaking piece for the clutter murders spoke of the family, their murder, and the necessary details. Capote turned this into a story of power dynamic and gender-play. By introducing literary (and possibly biblical) elements, he managed to create a psychologically sound representation of two killers. His creation of a portrayal of two murderers that is empathetic at most and impartial at worst undermines the prudential morality that killers are inhuman while introducing a complex discussion of what makes a killer. This is a piece of “poetic dissidence” that also shows characteristics of the Kerygmatic modes: specifically, the inversion of expectation characteristic of the parables.
Similar to archetypal symbols, there exist archetypal narratives in the Bible. Built from ‘divine’ inspiration, the biblical narrators created narrative types that are in use, and are referenced by more recent writings as well as other bible stories. As well as being foundational elements in the creation of antitypes, the model narratives provide thematic similarities that, like archetypal symbols, are useful to later writers.
In the Cain and Abel narrative, God bestows to Cain a mark which protects him as he moves throughout the world. This is after Cain has slain his younger brother. The story of Cain and Abel presents a model narrative, the narrative of an empathetic fugitive, where justice becomes a grey area and the just, possible villains.
The entire book of In Cold Blood creates sympathy for the devil. From its portrayal of Perry Smith and Dick Hickock as fatherless wanderers to the Clutter’s degenerating hold on the American Dream, the interactions between the murderers, the victims, and the indirect participants suggest an outlook that once again questions the common assumptions about morality and justice brought by the reader. It educates ( a type of revelation) while asking for reconsideration (another component of revelation) ultimately, having a moral intent of its own (proclamatory) that is done through story (a characteristic of the Gospels).
We live in a time of revelation. The fog which has beset mankind for much of its development has lifted. Fields stretch into the distance, stopping at snow capped peaks whose dire precipices intimidate the soul. The hypertextuality of the internet and the mass consciousness cultivated by other forms of global media have allowed us to gaze upon the full enormity of the world. A metaphor of exploration: we stand upon a summit. We witness our accomplishments and the full value of our minds. However, with elucidation comes the realization of our own ignorance. In all its splendor, our vast psychic landscape itself creates a new kind of fog. The magnanimity of knowing stands to remind us of our everyday myopia. Here, a point of view becomes a prejudice and an opinion, a bigotry. With great information comes a need for consideration, but more importantly, with great information comes the responsibility, not just to self and family but also to society, to reconsider how our actions shape our future, our present, and our conceptions of past.
Tied to the acquisition of knowledge is the questioning of truth. In a society where citizens become journalists and law acquiesces to circumstance, the written word holds sway over the land. We also live in a time of proclamation.
Writing is the defiance of temporality. Many have suffered under this assumption. However, as many literary critics have reminded us, there are no right readings, only a collection of interpretive variations, and these variations are products of the very temporality writing supposedly undermines. Time changes meaning, so meaning is a shifting thing; our pretensions to understanding come from a misunderstanding of permanence.
This misunderstanding has created a hierarchical valuing of written words and has also colored how people consume media. This following ranking mirrors the epochs of literacy outlined by Northrop Frye, however, they are perceived media designators, not an associative linking of forms with Frye's theory. Based on a criteria of veracity, at the top of the hierarchy is descriptive writing, manifested in journalism and nonfiction. Under that, is literature which supposedly takes from subjective and moralistic sources. On the “bottom” is the mythological, which, under common definition, equates to complete fabrication. Texts are considered under this strict ranking and their relevance to everyday life is dictated by their proximity to “reality” or an agreed upon set of integers which are assumed to exist outside of interpretive communities. Just as the novel in Victorian times was considered a distraction, often, the two lower sections get considered as “lesser” forms.
Lives are carried out in the realm of the descriptive. Few would consciously admit to leading their lives based on the seemingly fallacious stories of the mythological. Few would also admit that their understanding of the world is dictated by a metaphorical understanding of the world. Written mass media has assumed an edifice of perceived objectivity, where words enact their subjects one-to-one. People live their lives by this edifice. And understandably so, who would interpret a newspaper article as allegory?
Concepts such as authorial intent and interpretive communities dictate that meaning exists between the the author, the word, the signified, and the audience. Within linguistic layers is a broad space for interpretation to take many forms, and this doesn't even take into account the conclusions drawn by the readers themselves. Ultimately, the first hierarchical structure is fallacious.
If words cannot encapsulate an objective reality then writing, in some sense, is always enacting the questions which surround the very concepts of truth and reality. This kind of questioning lends itself to the realm of literary criticism. Journalism, especially new journalism, which is a genre created in response to these paradoxes, becomes a literary form. According to Northrop Frye, literature is a direct descendant from mythologies, and so in their forms or intent or otherwise, the modern journalistic writing modes meant to educate have inherited characteristics of the mythological. When considering their intent: to elucidate and inform, journalistic writings, in a mythological context, begin to appear kerygmatic. With this in mind, the journalistic intent expands to include the chronicling and interpretation of the human experience, a murky thing filled with ambiguities and half truths. This expanded intention is wholly mythological.
Memetic whispers become echos which resonate through the halls of time, ingraining themselves in the folk tales, the chronicles, and the laws of society's pillars. In any pursuit of truth, they are elements that a journalist or storyteller or politician draws from in order to recount the human experience. As the mechanisms which deliver information become more complicated, old forms are remembered and the question itself of how truth emanates with a people becomes a foundation for the very relationships those people have with and within that society. New Journalism, a recent form, in its combination of proclamation, questioning, and illumination is a recipient of Biblical storytelling, the old form. It is the new mythology.

Monday, November 23, 2009

TSOI sauce

I was reading Fletcher's blog and his November 8th blog (http://fletcher-biblelit.blogspot.com/2009/11/adam-and-eve-relapse.html) reminded me of something that involves lacuna and the filling therein. His discussion of Milton reminded me of the Corpus Cristi Cycle play entitled, "The Sacrifice of Isaac" (TSOI) which is a retelling of the cancelled sacrifice of Isaac, or so I've heard. Similar to Milton, the writers of Liturgical plays engaged their audiences with re-tellings of familiar stories using the beloved characters alongside period archetypes to draw in viewers from the laypeople. Although not as influential as "Paradise Lost", these plays are precursory to Milton's text and illustrate certain similar traits.

In the Brome version of TSOI, God asks a distraught Abraham to sacrifice his son and Abraham agrees but first laments his task. Throughout, he whines and moans until he decides that he isn't going to do it. Ironically, the one who steps in to get Abraham is Isaac himself. Politely asking his father to bash his head in, Isaac becomes an example of a son who demonstrates his fealty to God through his own self sacrifice. A son sacrificed in the name of faith for a foolish, sentimental man (an everyman) for the redemption of his soul. Christ, this seems familiar.

Just as Milton traces the symbolisms of the fall to The Christ in order to draw comparisons between the audience's life and the religious edifice, the Corpus Christi Cycle enacts the most well known stories of the bible, using certain literary modes such as humor and irony and imagery to create often anachronistic portrayals of characters that viewers can relate to.

These plays (as in: medieval plays in general) channel a few archetypes that are used by Milton. For example, In "The Crucifixion of Christ", a group of bumbling soldiers fail to properly crucify Christ, however, through out the play, the soldiers brag about their carpentry prowess, yet, they cannot even hammer a set of nails through their savior. This is meant as humor, and the archetype of the Milas Gloriousis or the braggart soldier has made audiences laugh since the times of the Romans when he was known as Priapus. In Milton's piece, Satan proclaims his will, and though not humorous, the eventual corporeal salvation of man, as proclaimed by the angel Michael, shows that this is indeed a comedy. Satan is a braggart soldier.

Literature is interconnected. Who woulda thought?

Thursday, November 19, 2009

A short story: why I missed class on Thursday 19 November.

This is a not so but kind of autobiographical story (not really) of a really bad day, I woke up this morning with the last half of it in my head and I just had to finish it so I missed class. I started this when we were covering Job so I ask that it gets read with that in mind.

The Messenger’s Anamnesis

It was a goodly kind of day. The afternoon light syphoned into the room where a kneeling figure lifted his violin to his ear. He plucked each string, checking the tuning against years of practice and performance. The sound of the pizzicato was pastel as it absorbed into the beige walls of the room. Rising up slowly, he closed the violin case. Though it had only been in its spot for a moment, as the lid clapped shut, a small cloud of dust rustled off the case into the air.
The room had simple walls decorated with a dispersal of plain pictures, the kind that one bought to put in their bathroom. It was a mass produced space that probably existed on each block in each town from there to the city onto the vague. There was an empty cupboard in the corner and a window with drapes and a bed and a closet and the floor was carpeted. It looked as harmless and innocent as a room for a very boring child except that, on the bed, which was white and plain like everything else in the place, was a dying man.
What songs for these ears? The musician thought. His audience lied with eyes closed. Their skin was yellow and glassy, their blood more wine and whiskey than plasma and protein. Their hands, once strong and calloused, had ridges of a person fifty and a score years on, twenty years past the actual age of the fingers. As his chest fell, a loud moan escaped the dying fellow’s poison filled lungs. This song? for these ears?
The violinist stared at the man and moved his fingers over the ebony board and held the instrument like a guitar. His long fingernails dug into the violin’s neck as they mocked songs in absent rumination. The music man had the standard symptoms of sleepless nights and worry. He was unkempt and showed a sweat stained undershirt. Fast food ketchup stained his jeans, and his fingers were yellow-brown from low burning cigarettes. He had the stench of someone trying to cover up a showerless month with deodorant and chewing gum. Standing over the dying man, he could think of nothing to play- a light piece would be flippant, a heavy one redundant, and a fiddle diddy is for the living, and even then, serves no purpose but to compel a man to dance into hell. What song for these ears?
He thought.
The last sense to die is hearing. Long after the eyes have stopped, the feet stopped, and the breath stopped, the ears still hear. Just as The Word brought us from meaningless darkness and formed us on and out of a globe of sand and grass and water, it is the last thing that we hear as if it were to beckon us home. But a rational mind would say we hear the word last because hearing it is simply the last thing to go, no more no less. A rational mind would also say that the word doesn’t exist. A rational mind has no business in a dying man’s room. Thankfully, the musician was not rational and had the only important business for that room.
Standing outside the big building, he had departed the room leaving his violin there to smoke a cigarette and he fiddled with the unlit stick while he dwelled on his repertoire. The sun warmed the blacktop of the street and as its rays nestled into the concrete, thick lines of heat boiled into the air. The surrounding neighborhood cooked under the same sun, silent except for the rumble of air conditioners and closing garage doors. The violinist looked back at the large building where the dying man waited for his concert. He saw the a couple of children staring at him through the large window that faced the street. Two rooms down, their father had been admitted to the same hospice as the dying man for lung cancer.
Lighting his cigarette, the musician figured it rude to smoke in front of the kids, with their cancer stricken father and all, but he needed to work and in order to work, he needed this. This was just his process. Sitting on the street curb, dirty and confused, he could have been mistaken as a homeless man, alternatively looking at the sky and burying his head into his hands. His mind raced like a horse on fire. The one thing that had sustained him through his despicable exercise was leaving him. His music was leaving him. What to play for a dying man? If this is to be the end of his life, the final recital for ears to be released from their duties, what do they desire to hear? This has always been the musicians job, rationalized the musician, to play for the dying, to grant whatever form of beauty, be it sublime or grandiloquent, to the soul of a dying herd as quickly as possible with the immediacy that only tones can provide. They are all dying, he thought. We all just want some comfort. In hope, in hopes, in the hope that the music maker itself may even forget its own fragility and decrepitness. He wanted this to be easy again.
As he watched his exhalant dissipate into the afternoon air, the musician felt caprice and chorus flee into the inaccessible parts of his mind. If his head had, at one point, played host to the maypole and its dancing muses, then the field had now been burned and the bodies of the muses provided only ash and smoke to block out the sun.
His brain did not so much think, as much as it churned.
As the young man languished under his rock, a man in a navy blue suit approached. He held a briefcase and wore black and white Stetson shoes. Sitting on the curb next to the musician he took out a pipe and lit it with a match. Looking over at his partner in sitting who had taken little notice of his company, he began to speak.
“What are you doing here?” He said. “You seem distressed. This is a good day, you will be paid for this, you will inherit both the appreciation of that man’s family which will manifest itself in monetary payment. What is there to be sad about?”
Hearing this made the violinist want to bash his head against the walk until his brains flowed into the grass.
He replied, “That’s not the point. I don’t want their appreciation, I don’t want to benifit from this, well, not in that way. Your words make me want to kill myself. I am searching for a song that will lead this man back to the word, back to realization.”
“Your desire is your pain. You need to stop considering this moment in this way, there is no mission here, you render your services, you get paid, the audience is irrelevant, regardless of what you perform, they will take what you create, no matter what you create, they will take what they are compelled to take, no more.”
“This man won’t.”
“Oh? Was his life so decrepit that he has lost his way so indomitably?”
“He was no decrepit.”
“Oh? It seems to me that he must be decrepit to have strayed so far.”
“He was a teacher, he enriched the lives of his students. He was a husband, he supported his family and helped his wife when she was stricken with depression. He was a father, I hear his son has grown to be almost as flawed as he, but no matter, he bestowed what love and grace and strength he had. If this is decrepit, than I can only hope to be so similar.”
“If he was so virtuous, why than does he lie dying in that room?”
“He was distracted by drink.”
“He drank himself to death?”
“Yes.
“He drank himself to death and you hope to bring him back to his old self, without the flaw. You hope to cut out that darkness and have him do what?”
“Recognize, perhaps, possibly bring him to his own virtue.”
“Through song?”
“Through song.”
“Do you think this will redeem him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he deserves this fate? To be stricken with such a compulsion. Was it not his will to pick up wine? What place do you have as a redeemer of men? You seek to control this man’s suffering. Yet, it seems to me that you are trying to also erase his tragedy, the root of his suffering which is also the root of his redemption. This is beyond the scope of your mere fiddle. Play a caprice for him, collect from his family, go home and rejoice in the knowledge that you are not of the same cloth as he.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Fine, then that is your flaw, suffer as you will.”
The violinist lit another cigarette and stared into the neighborhood in front of him. He felt no catharsis, instead, he had an out. There was a point to what the suited man said. He could leave this behind, collect repayment and feel no more. This only made the wall between him and inspiration seem only more ominous.
The man in the suit stood up. With a flash of light he was gone. Replacing him was a corpulent woman garbed in a white dress. She had a prudential face. Just like the suit, she sat down next to the musician, only this time, she sat closer and draped her arm over the young man.
“The man is you, you know.”
“He is not,” replied the young musician.
She chuckled lightly. “Ah, there it is, that resistance, and you wonder why your fingers sit silent.”
Once again the young man imagined his skull cracking over the curb and his blood leaking into the gutter. The woman began again, this time speaking for story.
“I have a tale of a man like you to tell,” she said. “Although, my rendering may be inaccurate, I have told this story too many times for me to tell it the same way again. I suspect the lesson is the same. Would you like to hear it?”
“No.”
“I figured as much. I don’t care, and you will listen. Besides, I know you do want to hear this.” She began her tale.
“There was once a young farmer who was married and had many children. Day and night, he plowed and cared for both his fields. One day, he grew weary of his work and went to a place of recreation as the sun was touching the horizon, when he returned home in a drunken stupor, his wife said, ‘no matter, he will return to the fields when he is rested.’ The next day, as the sun was a few inches from the horizon, he quit again and went to the same place, and upon finding him passed out in the kitchen, the wife once again said, ‘no matter, he will return to the fields when he is rested.’ As the month dragged on, the man began making his trips to the tavern even more regularly and each time, his wife said the same thing. This went on until, broke, fieldless, and without a single head of produce, the man and his family starved to death. That’s the end of this story.”
“That’s a horrible story.”
“I know. It’s symbolic.”
“Am I the farmer?”
“No.”
“So I’m the wife?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
“These things are rarely perfect. I don’t think they’re meant to be. Anyway, do you understand what I’m saying here?”
“That I’m going to starve to death?”
“Pretty much. What could’ve the wife done to have improved this situation?”
“Stopped his drinking?”
“Maybe, or she could have become the farmer.”
“But then wouldn’t she have been consumed by the work? Just like her husband?”
“Possibly, but really the question is whether the farmer drank because of the work or did he drink because he simply wanted to drink? Was it the farm, the responsibility, or was it just in the heart of the man to do so?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly, as the cliche goes, you never know until you try. You don’t have to starve.”
“So I should walk away, not play this song. Go do something useful.”
“Maybe, where do you perceive your responsibility to be?”
“In playing.”
“So do it, just don’t burden yourself with the minutiae. The jerk in the suit was right though, it’s not your responsibility to save him. Mainly because you can’t. Just play, maybe a bit for him, maybe a bit for yourself. We can lead a horse to water, but we can’t make it drink. But you can save yourself, or at least seek some help.”
“You’re not very subtle, you know,” said the musician.
“And you’re not very literary,” she replied. “Yet.”
And like the man in the suit before her, she stood up and vanished in a flash of light. Replacing her, this time, was a man garbed in a black shirt and black pants. His face was so common, so boring, that describing it would be to describe the most mundane thing in existence. He looked like a waiter. Standing next to the young man, he stared at him and any warmth left from his encounter with the woman in white was emptied into fear and coldness and dark. This time, the musician started the exchange.
“Who are you?”
“I’m an auditor.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m auditing.”
The man in black stared at the musician for a while and looking down at the cigarette he let out a tsk tsk tsk and then with a puff of smoke, he vanished, leaving the musician alone with the sounds of the air conditioners and the garage doors and somewhere someone had started mowing their lawn.
The light was late in its arc and the musician blinked like someone who had just awoke from a dream. Standing up from his stoop and turning towards the large building, he walked back to the dying man’s room. What to play for ears in need of song? The children in the windows had gone to do something better than stare at strangers.
It was a goodly kind of day. The sun, higher in the sky now, sent rays downward onto the yellow skin of the sick man. An attendant had adjusted the man so that he no longer moaned as he exhaled. Plucking each string, the musician tuned the violin to his liking and readied his bow.
His hands broke into a vibrato and he began playing an old folk tune he had learned when he had first started learning violin. He had learned it before he could write. At the age of five, he had tried to not learn it, but at the insistence of his dad, he learned it anyway. It would be the first thing he would teach to his own students when he took them on. It was a song that required two strings, three fingers, and little dexterity. It was a simple song about stars and how they twinkle and the violinist remembered playing it for his parents and watching them light up and he remembered feeling like the world as a child. He hoped that the dying man would remember too for the violinist only wanted to see that light from his father once again, once and again.
As he rounded the second verse, he felt a hand stop his bow. Looking down, his father was staring at him with half open dead eyes. The dying man whispered a single word.
No.
And then he weakly lifted his hand and dropped it towards the door, a gesture to send someone away. Packing up his instrument, the musician left the room at the behest of the dying man.
Once again standing at the curb, holding his violin in its case, the musician waited for his ride. It arrived and he got inside. His mother offered a tired smile.
“You smell of cigarettes. How was your visit with your Dad? Did you play your violin?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry I missed it, I don’t think he would have appreciated my company there though. Did he like it?”
“He sent me away.”
“Well, he was never one for too much attention. That’s too bad though, he used to love to hear you play.”
They drove away and the rumble of the air conditioners stopped because the day was cooling.

Paper Outline

Thesis Para:
The mode of the Bible, as described by Northrop Frye, is one of Kerygma, or the balancing space between Proclamation and Revelation. Through the interplay of these two modes, the writers of the Bible forego the abject moralizing of mythology while only tangentially serving the purpose of the historical. Extending past the three steps of literacy as outlined by Frye, the Bible is a text out of time that has an awareness of its own intertextuality yet doesn't become suspended in its own symbols and narratives such that it exists outside of the people who wrote it. It can be used as an illustrative text of history that contains enough detail and parallel to it resemble a history, and enough firman to make it a legal document, however, it would never mistaken as either. I believe that this parallels the rhetorical mode of long form journalism, specifically the literary kind, and through a brief, and so sophomoric, attempt at literary analysis, I will show through parallels in style, symbol, and imagery, that Creative nonfiction Journalism is as historical as one might think, and may even inhabit this middle ground of Kerygma.

BASE TEXTS:
Truman Capote's IN COLD BLOOD: it is the paragon of literary nonfiction.
From the BIBLE: Parables, Job, Samuel 1&2, David, Gospels, Revelation.
FRYE: THE GREAT CODE
FRYE: ARCHETYPES
NEED MOAR!

REFERENTIAL TEXTS:
UPTON SINCLAIR'S THE JUNGLE



PARA 1: DEFINITIONS

PARA 2-4: ARGUMENT, THE RHETORICAL MODES OF -----

PARA 5-7: ARGUMENT 2, THE SYMBOLS OF -----

PARA 8-10: THE NARRATIVE STYLING OF -----

Both INCB and The book of Revelation hint at a happyish ending wherein the unjust are punished and the good are redeemed. However, it is a muted happiness in INCB because the author has humanized the characters, shown them as slaves to their desires and fates and situations just as the ethical wrestling of Job echoes through the halls of judgement.

PARA 11-13: TURN: DOES THIS EXPAND BEYOND CNF?

It is possible that Truman was writing into these themes on purpose, therefore my conclusions are not as organic as I would like them to be- does this matter? //This seems to support your point!//



14 - 16: THE HOLES, RECOGNITION OF SOPHISMS AND AREAS NEEDED OF GREATER RESEARCH.

///You're using brief samplings here, too much induction, as Frye demands you not to do///

A literary analysis ignores the place of the two texts in their respective societies.

PARA 18: Conclusion: (get to this organically)

Slavery Slavery Slavery

Reading "The Slave" was a lot like reading the Bible itself in that I found it an easily boring chore unless I augmented my usual reader thought stream. Granted, Dr. Sexson remarked that "The Slave" was a page turner, I never really felt that way while reading it, I suspect because the anxiety of reading something for class has always stripped me of enjoying a work. But that's no matter. Through reading this like the bible, I appreciated the duel allegory of Slave of Heaven, Slave of Man. It seemed to parallel a lot of the stories we have read this far, wherein literary characteristics are layered in such a way to create vast swaths of intertextuality. I also was impressed by the dynamicism of Jacob, he, like Moses, seemed to have a dynamic and hero-like arc to his narrative. Starting in a pastoral life , he witnesses the horror of warfare and the contradictions of his own desires which nearly consumes his moral self , and then as he ages and loses everything from his wife to his strength, living stripped of his own will, he must draw upon an indirect source of God (storytelling) to sustain and inform him through his suffering. Not only informed by, but raised, it seems like Jacob is a reflexive entity for the book itself, as the narrative churns through its tale, the story becomes dense with meaning and characters and symbolism, gaining greater resolution as one uses it as a parallel text to their reading of the Bible.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Northrop Frye was not a Dirty old Man.

But it's fun to draw him that way.

I finally understood Kerygma after we started to cover the John chapter of the Bible. So I finished this comic that I started and have been trying to finish since I read the second chapter of Good Book. I think I'll do another one here for the part I'm actually at which is past the second chapter or something. Ok, hope Y'all dig it.