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.



Tuesday, October 13, 2009

The Battle of Rabbah

No matter how literary I become and no matter how many essays or protests or humane societies I spend time with, I will always be a complete whore for battle scenes. Whether it's Scots charging headlong into Long Shank's pikes or Admiral Akbar standing mightily against the Death Star or a bunch of sweaty dudes charging headlong into each other wearing only a thin piece of chain mail, battle seems to always entertain and rarely enrich me.

So to indulge my own post-intellectual desire for bloodshed, I have taken the tenth chapter of Second Samuel and transcribed it into a meta-textual/graphical medium, hopefully, worthy of A&E. I hope this accomplishes an attempt at both filling in lacuna and exciting the violence minded thirteen year old inside of you. Just imagine that everything here is being read by an older gentleman with a very trustworthy voice.

(Second Samuel 10:6) - "When the Ammonites saw that they had become odious to David, the Ammonites sent and hired the Arameans of Beth-rehob and soldiers, as well as the king of Maacah, one thousand men, and the men of Tob, twelve thousand men. When David heard of it, he sent Joab and all the army with the warriors."

This is an example of a preeminent attack. King David, an expert strategist and divinely inspired patriarch, has noticed that the Ammonites have mobilized their forces as well as enlisted the help of multiple nations of mercenary warriors. The combined Ammonite forces number in the twenty thousands. Lined outside of the gates of their home, Rabbah, the Ammonites take up a rallying position outside of their capital city in preparedness for an attack on King David. Meanwhile, the young warrior king has sent his nephew, Joab, to take a strategically advantageous position against the Ammonite army.

Below is a found copy of a courier document sent to David by Joab on the verge of war. The orange forces are the Aramean mercenaries and Red forces are the Armenians. This document is property of the Pony, Montana Museum of Natural History and Anthropological Artifact Thievery Coalition.



(Second Samuel 10.9) - "When Joab saw that the battle was set against him both in front and in the rear, he chose some of the picked men of Israel, and arrayed them against the Arameans; the rest of of his men he put in the charge of his brother Abishai, and he arrayed them against the Ammonites."

Though Joab's forces arrived at Rabbah, supposedly against an unprepared enemy, the combined forces of the Ammonite nations literally swallowed the smaller Hebrew forces. Quick thinking, Joab separated his army into two divisions. One smaller and more elite force could take on the smaller but still formative mercenary element while the second army, filled out with conscripts and regulars could face the pincer. Notifying his brother that, despite the division of forces, their first concern was holding battle lines, Joab set out with his special division to face Arameans.

What follows is a letter preserved under a rock for thousands of years. It is an account of the battle by an army regular by the name of Charlie or "Chuck the Puck".

Dear Ma,

I hope all things are well on the farm. Tell hi to pa' for me and tell him that I feel mighty shameful bout missing the second harvest this season. Hopefully we'll give these Amminites a good ole whoopin and get our skedaddles home. The fightin' on the northern front is lookin' to be mighty fierce. Yesterday, General Joab sent his brother with a company of our best officers and enlisted men to the southern front. I don't know why but some of the fellas here are gettin' skittish since that kind of thing usually means we're all surrounded. But if there's sumpthin' we're good at, it's bein' surrounded by a bunch of angry folk lookin to do some hurt on us. But I figure if anybody could get us out of here it's ole Joab. Food still stinks, we just eat beans, no gravy. Sometimes I wonder why I'm doin' this whole kosher thing, pork sounds mighty fine in dem beans.

God Bless and Good Yuntif ma,

Charles "Chuck the Puck" Goldblum


(Second Samuel 10:13) - "So Joab and the people who were with him moved forward into battle against the Arameans; and they fled before him. When the Ammonites saw that the Arameans fled, they likewise fled before Abishai, and entered the city."

Joab, having won the battle, drove the whole of the Aramean armies back with his small band of elite warriors. After seeing such a small force drive back the larger and more ferocious Aramean forces back, the Ammonite ranks broke into a rout and to the safety of Rabbah. Taking a defensive position inside of the city, the Ammonite forces prepared for a prolonged siege against the Israeli forces. Joab, seeing that his work was done and his enemies pacified, decided to pull back instead of waging a protracted siege maneuver against Rabbah.

After the Battle of Rabbah, the Arameans rallied forces from around their lands and mobilized against David where they were then almost annihilated by the Hebrew king. With this loss, the kingdoms of Aramea and Ammon were fractured from each other. And everyone lived happily after ever.

/Cue credits

Monday, October 5, 2009

The Conservative Bible Project

Someone is rewriting the Bible.

Link:

http://blog.beliefnet.com/crunchycon/2009/10/conservatizing-the-bible.html#preview
http://conservapedia.com/Conservative_Bible_Project

This is hilarious to me. Luckily, I suspect they won't be getting anywhere with this. However, if they do, god bless them.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Like Jewish Cofession... only not really.

As I write this post, my mind is swimming in guilt, lost in a haze of post-Saturday blues. I feel this way either because I did, as per usual, about half of what I was supposed to do for Monday or because of the Mafioso's body I dumped in the Hudson river the other day. He was a big guy; people called him wheat-loaf. His jokes were always a bit stale though. Some of this is more true than other bits. Neither of these are the actual reason for my guilt.

Last night, ironically while hanging out with a group of devout Christians, I engaged in a sort of culinary iconoclasm. I ate Pittsburgh style breaded pork chops on this holiest of weekends, the weekend of Yom Kippur. On this day, when Leviticus tells us to, "deny yourselves and present the Lord's offering by fire[...] for it is a day of atonement", I ate pork (something I've been told that I'm not supposed to eat in the first place) breaded in crumbs (it's a tradition to throw bread crumbs into a stream or river as symbol of letting go of sins and asking for God's forgiveness- not- eat them) cooked in a Pittsburgh style (God is a Red Wings fan). Also, I got kind of drunk. Since I'm not going to make it home to Billings for the Yom Kippur service tonight, I have decided to do write up on my favorite part of the ceremony, the beginning, the part where we allow our vain vows to God a moment to dissipate into the wind- The Kol Nidrei.

or, for you visual folk out there, this:



But, in actuality, I don't really know what this sounds like. Or says, for that matter. Nor do I really care, because I prefer the soundtrack to the script. The song entitled Kol Nidrei, composed by Max Bruch. It sounds like this:



Beautiful, huh? Anyway, hearing that piece was always really cool for me because as a kid, I always found the long high holy days services to be really boring and this piece made the ceremonies less so. Hearing this piece and seeing Uri Barnea perform it are two things that got me to start playing violin. Later, I got to be the one to perform Kol Nidrei for the service.

Since, in this class, the form of music is paramount to our understanding of the mythological, the compositions of Bruch, besides being neigh holy in some circles, is a symbol of how a mind outside of a place can become cognisant of that place's essential soul. This is almost exactly what we are doing as literary readers of the Bible. We hope to understand the music of the text, its mythological "resonance" outside of the pedantic restrictions of analysis or theology: all without an immersion in it's liturgical constructions and ceremonies. Maybe, here, there's a lesson in remediation and cultural grokking.

"..As a young man I had already ...studied folk songs of all nations with great enthusiasm, because the folksong is the source of all true melodics---a wellspring, at which one must repeatedly renew and refresh oneself."
-Max Bruch

Written by Max Bruch in the nineteenth century, the Kol Nidrei's usage in services has been controversial both because Bruch did not practice Judaism and because the prayer's purpose is a bit vague in the first place.

Max Bruch was not a Jew. Bruch's Protestantism disturbs some and understandably so. How can someone who has not lived and grown up with the traditions of a people even conceive an understanding of that people? And, regardless of understanding, to attempt a composition that captures the ephemeral spirit of a group through music without being a part of that community seems ludicrous. I think Bruch knew this. He wrote that his music was inspired by the purity of the folk song, not necessarily the "Jewishness" of the notes. Max Bruch was searching for truth in music, that unattainable direct link between a raw emotion that passes so suddenly and the lasting, repeatable truth of an artistic composition. Similarly to how the Czech composer Dvorak wished capture the spirit of America in his New World Symphony or how the Jewish New Yorker, Aaron Copeland, explored the Shakers- Bruch loved the peoples he studied, not out of any affinity for what they believed or how they separated themselves, but, instead how they fitted into Earth's musical milieu.

To me, this makes Kol Nidrei pure. Though written by an outsider, the composer's understanding of music itself and his hope to connect his compositions with the truths of humanity lends an innocence to his undertaking. He doesn't recount the tragedy of the first temple's destruction or the trials of Abraham or the great flood or any other form of Jewish memesis, only the soul of the Hebrew folk songs he has heard. Through this filter of a composer, he doesn't recount the tragedy but, instead, the feeling of sorrow that accompanies that tragedy. This act, without politics or hamfisted theology, shares its genetics in the original compositions of those who lived the stories which inspire the theology, and this, to me, seems like a celebration, not a contamination, of a people's resilience.

The prayer of Kol Nidrei is the beginning of everyone's journey to seek forgiveness for their sins. The music is a manifestation of the sorrow that shadows a mind aware of its own folly. Some say it sounds better on cello than violin:



"Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility.
"
-Saint Augustine

Due to my lack of knowledge about the content of the text (which may just benifit my attempts at treating it as poetry) I cannot discuss the language of the prayer. However, I am aware of how it is used in Reform Judaic communities and the usage of Kol Nidrei, and the whole service behind Yom Kipper itself is mythological (at least in how it is practiced in modern day Billings MT).

///(I have to finish this later, I have a paper to work on for another class and this one has gone a bit longer than expected.)///

The developing word

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/27/books/review/Krystal-t.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all

I was reading the above article today when I realized that there exists a clear separation between spoken and written word. My presentation the other day reminded me of this. While working on a paper, while writing on page, the words in my head seem to flow, however, when speaking they lurch out and I sound like I'm having a stroke. This makes sense to me and it also seems to draw some light no the bible, documentary hypothesis, and the mythological tones that the bible takes.

We learned in the Oral traditions class last semester that the psychodynamics of speaking are much different than those of writing. In the bible, there's a convergence of oral tendencies via parataxis and repetition. In the P writer sections there's lists of ancestry trees. During the time when this was written there was a definite need for people to look into their past. This is a facet of the first level of Frye's stages of literacy. This isn't really an analysis. I just thought it was interesting how this convergence is still a facet of our current day society.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Dr. God

I worked at the Bozeman Chronicle mailroom for a summer about three years ago where I shuffled papers, stacked crates, and taped boxes shut alongside some of the most ignorant and under-read folk a person can meet. Less concerned with poeticism than the color of their own shit, they seemed hellbent on smoking, chewing, cussing, and coffeeing their way into oblivion. This stood in stark contrast to my time searching and discussing meaning in the words of poets. When I first met them, just as I was entering the world of academic rigour (mortis?), I thought myself as a student of the erudite, a literary artist in a desert. But as I spent time with the "common people", I realized that their lives were filled with a poeticism that I could perceive only if I ditched my pretentions, start smoking, drinking folgers, and appreciating the little things. There was a different kind of sensitivity there, the kind that literary critic Declan Kilberd called,"the sacrament of everyday life." Now, I find the autopsy of Whitman and Dickenson and Thoureau in a stuffy, windowless room to be the most hilarious act of silliness I have ever participated.

I am experiencing this feeling again as I sit and try and read the Bible with my pretentions to civility and critical analysis and electricity. Once again, I am thinking that I have been approaching this text with blinders on- from sunday school to the sanctuary.

Like many American kids I spent many an afternoon watching Disney and hearing bastardized versions of old folktales, folktales that had been milked for whatever moral that Mom, Dad, and Michael Eisner could sell to me. Storytelling became a simple tool to teach me things such as "love your brother", "don't steal", and "save the princess". Abandoning all webs and imagery and meat in the texts, I was trained to distill the "moral of the story" at a very young age. Later, in High School, this process became the act of "formalist criticism" and "style analysis" and under the firm post-structural eye of one of my Uni professors, Lisa Eckhart, I learned a new name for it: "bullshit". Granted, there is value in it, that's undeniable, however, there are limits to the search for moral meaning in textual analysis, and having been raised in this way for almost two decades, it has become cataracts to my reader's eye.

//quick gear change, sorry about this, but I wanna make a metahpor.//

Though my friends in the Computational Sciences would slap me for this, I think of software as technology. A new piece of software changes the way I interface with my computer and, at times, the way I view and interact with the world around me. These are extentions of my senses and limbs which goes to the heart of what a technology is (once again I can feel the sting of my tech savy friend's hands as they beat me into understanding).

There's a problem with the operating system known as Windows (you know, the one manufactured by Microsoft) where one piece of software will conflict with another because they are trying to use the same resource as another piece of software or something like that. I don't know the technical term for it, but it exists and it is the bane of my career in the use of word processors.

So, in a more relevent sense, since moralities and analysis are augmentations to my natural, unbiased senses (they are the bias methinks, but whatever) they are technologies just like my shitty Windows Vista, and my newfound appreciation of the bare sensory awareness of things and "simplistic" modes of living are the conflicting pieces of technology.

Since those moralities have basically become totally ingrained in me, they act as an almost base hardware and possibly cannot be removed. So I can only hope to become aware of them right? I don't really know what I'm talking about. These are feelings pointing in a certain direction.

But, coming a little bit closer to relevancy, I have found myself becoming more aware of this conflict as I read the Bible for this class.

The professor told us that the writer "J" of the bible wrote beautiful prose and that the Bible is a magnificent example of storytelling. I took his word for it in class. I try not to disagree with people with "Dr." at the head of their names. So I guess it's beautiful, that's cool, what's the value of beauty anyway when you have the raptures of the common beating at your heart everyday? I didn't find it all that great, I mean there's very little scene setting, half of the book seems to be expository, which- wait, I was doing it again. I was consigning my expectations of a civilized reader to the text. So I need/needed (it's an organic process) to start appreciating it for its poetry, that common people mode of thinking, the mythological mind thing.

Going through Genesis this way was really hard. I felt myself looking at these people as heroes, archetypes again, the circuitry of my moral -finding-beagle was sniffing away and I started to feel that odd sense of detachment as Lots daughters raped their father that some find when their moral-finding-beagle connects with their presumptions-about-the-text-poodle and they get thrown into the pool of what-is-actually-there. This was a 404 error on my part. This text can't be read with my psudo-progressive leanings and moral attitude that the world needs to be fluffy and comfortable. I mean Aaron was a jackass, Moses was a pedo, and God is a bi-polar megalomaniac under these rules. Just as I needed to ditch my impulse (my technology) of moral hunting, I needed to embrace that ohm thing where I let what is there just settle and enjoy the ride.

Still havent done this.

Also, quick aside, the people from the beginning are my friends now. And I'm not saying that they are noble savages who are at peace with the world. I'm just saying that they do a pretty good job of looking at the stars and seeing beauty or shaking a hand and feeling kinship. They are just as capable of moral delusions and petty squable as anyone else. They are just as contradictory as I am in this blag post. It's just that they are cool with their contradicitons, and that seems kind of indicative of the whole mythological mind stuff we are discussing in class.

(like usual, this is not a finished blog post, my mind is spaghetting like mad right now, and I want to get something up before class).

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Homeword defense...

Fact is created from myth because word is imperfect. Otherwise it would be called

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Laws of Nature...

A friend of mine asked me why I was taking this class. He said that studying the Bible is pointless. I would agree except I don't think he was serious. At least not about that first question. In the tone of the first question was the broader question "why even study English?" What's the point? "Can it make you rich?" Though I knew the answer already, I figured I would write this for myself to answer those questions. I decided to share it since it is framed by my thoughts on Genesis.

Distilling the questions down, I realized that the question is of "WHAT DO YOU EVEN DO WITH AN ENGLISH MAJOR ANYWAY?" is a question of power. How does the study of language empower you? Money, jobs, whatever, is just the assumed corrolary have having power. He was rich and powerful. And besides, the sword can make currency worthless in a single swoop. It's what drives the sword to swing in the first place that interests me.

This is going to be mildly incomprehensible, and I apologize for that.



In middle school I had a class called connections where an old lady with big thick round glasses instructed my peers and me to glue things to a metal can. She told us to pick pictures and small trinkets that related to us. Things we related to. Things that defined us.

We were to create outward illustrations of ourselves on coffee cans where we would then store our daily supplies for the class. The expectation was that, through the majesty of pasting and gluing, we would create some sort of inner affirmation that would solidify our identities as creative beings. Most of us just pasted pictures of women in bikinis and people smoking in order to annoy the teacher.

If we didn’t do as she said and instead sat around talking, we would be punished in detention. Detention is where high school teachers send kids to sit still and not talk, a place to commune with the clock.

“If you do not make connections” The class implicitly said, “then we will keep you from doing things. We will punish you.”

I spent a lot of time in detention in Middle School. Sometimes for talking in class. Mostly for not going to class. (And it shows in your writing. haha. -Ed)

Now, this memory popped into my head while I was reading certain parts of Genesis. And this memory turned into a question, as most memories do for those raised by a Semitic mother. Is this going to make me sick? The answer was most assuredly no. The memory of a pointless class I took back in Middle school would not make me ill. Being fully assuaged of any worry, my brain did next what it is wont do. Ask more questions.

What the hell was I doing in such an infantile class?

Why did I even go to that class?

How does my school get off on teaching me that power is granted by the willful acceptance of a democratically empowered populace while also holding punishments for crimes gauged by something as arbitrary as my teacher's mood over my head?

After the usual deviations of a neurotic mind, these questions narrowed into a single, musable (I made that one up) question.

Where does power come from?

I mean this one's a doozy. My mom has power over me, the school has power over me, and I have power over certain people sometimes. Power, or the ability to influence a another's actions or thoughts such that they reflect the will or desire of the affectant, is a factor in the lives of all living things (the 'all' part of this is arguable).

Since a good chunk of the Bible involves the transferrence of power or the loss of power or the gaining of power, I figured this train of thought would be a relevent thing to blog about while it looped through the mountains of the hasty conclution zone to the synagogue of partial understanding where the humble Rabbi Hershel awaits to guide me through my silliness.

Pertaining to this question, my tiny, ill informed brain-space-world has given me 3 answers based off my severly limited experience of a suburban kid:

1.) "The Prince" would say that power derives from the ruler's ability to place fear into the populace. Might makes right.

2.) Hobbes says in "The Leviathan" that power comes from a contract between the head of government and a covenant of men that allows for a united front against the chaos of natural laws. Power comes from the whims of the majority.

3.) My roommate told me that power derives from my ability to shut the hell up and stop worrying bout that kind of shit and drink some beer and have some fun. Physical Power is secondary to the dialectic that creates it.

I find paralells to the Biblical texts right off.

First, it seems that God does indeed rule by an iron fist. For his own sake, he drowns everyone when we disobey (Gen 7). He also crushes cities (Gen 19:12) and approves of mass murder (Gen 34:25). It seems that God is all about making people do things at the end of a spear (or a flaming sword for that matter). Power, according to the Bible, comes from the ability to submit people to your will via mortal fear.

Ah, says the rabbi, as I finish my sophomoric rambling, but why would God use physical force when it is already apparent that he is perfectly capable of bending physical laws? Why not start over by simply erasing the slate? God invented Newton for Vishnu's sake, if he wanted to truly assert his will with force, couldn't he just make everyone do what he wanted by making their synapses fire off in such a way that would coax them into doing whatever? Sure, God'll slap ya if ya get too far out of line, but so will your Dad. You don't listen to your Dad just because he'll slap you, do ya?

Nah, says I, I listen to my Dad because my mom will slap me. The Rabbi chuckles and points to my second point.

What about the will of the majority? He says.

Oh, that? It's the same thing.

Is it?

Yeah, it just makes sense. The majority has the greater force behind it. With greater numbers comes a fuller urge for folk to protect their keep, their family, and their reputations. So they relegate authority to enforce, via a legislative body, a law which reflects the moral standards of the people.

Ah? So what allows the enforcement authority to do what they do?

Guns.

Guns?

Yeah, Guns, you step out of line, they shoot you in the face. It's really the same as the (1.)) first assertion. Might makes right. The power of the majority comes from the ability to coarse people into behaving correctly. You better act right, or you'll be smacked right.

What about the moral authority? How does that play in?

Well, they need some sort of standard.

Well how do they determine their moral authority in the first place?

I get where you're going with this. But I think it's a reciprical thing, the moral exists because it can be enforced and so the enforcement creates the law.

So the law itself is arbitrary then?

I suppose so.

No absolutes then?

Sure.

The rabbi reaches over and slaps me. There, he says, no laws, I have decided I'm right because I can hurt you. I am right by force.

The rabbi is one million times my age. I could snap him. I could break his neck and throw him to the rocks below where he's die on the rocks like the children of Babylon. Then I'd be right. At least under this application of the conversation I'd be right.

But that's not really it is it? How the hell do I figure out where does power come from?

The answer, I figure, is in the Bible itself and in the reasons for what I am doing in this class (or any other).

Why, the rabbi asks, did you write about your "semitic" mother in your blog?

I don't know. I thought it would be funny.

It's not. It's stupid. Not funny at all. Says the Rabbi. You wrote about it because it's true. Your mother nagged you every winter to put on your coat, she nagged you to eat your veggies, nagged you to watch where you step, nagged you to save money, get to bed, make your bed, and watch out who you kept bed with. Your mother, your father, they had authority over you because they gave you descresion. They nagged you into submission. Nagged you into living. You listened to your father because he knew more than you. He had more words in his head. Memories stored as word. Morals stored as word. Experience stored as word.

That makes no sense. I say/said (whatever, I don't really know what tense to use to I will used as many as possible) .

What is God symbolic for?

What?

Order. God is a symbol for universal order. No matter how anyone sees the universe, through Christianity, Judaism, Taoism, mathematics, whatever, the best part of a God, gods, spirit is order. There is some sort of reason to the Universe. A predictable, understandable order about things. That is, at least, what I see in the lord our God, Adonai, etc.

So what does this have to do with power?

Everything. The power of order is not its ability to connive its members into doing things. The power of order comes from our inability to truly perceive it. Ignorance of absolutes allows us to use what absolutes we can conjur or maybe perceive to influence the world around us. I believe this. You believe this.

I believe this?

Yes

Seems mighty presumptuous to me.

Well, what have we been doing for the last few pages?

Arguing.

Arguing a point. Making logic. Making bullshit. Whatever. We are using words, the dialectical tradition, to make order. The power of anything comes first from its ability to assign order to the universe through its interpretive capabilities. The mind takes in dull, raw, input from the ears and the eyes and the nose and the skin, and interprets it. It's the ability for the mouth to use said words to create a proper similicrum of the dullness in order for there to be any relating to that information. Order, by definition, is the restructuring, physical or mental, of our universe. Regardless of truth, evidence, or skeptacism. The form is arbitrary, the structure is arbitrary, the word grants power.

The first thing that God had Adam do is name things. The Baroness stripped man of their approach to godliness by stripping them of their common tongue. The Bible is a self reflexive text. Like all texts, it recognizes its own existence and the reason for its own power. It is also one of the most influential books in the western world. The root of all power, of all organization, is the creation of word. The Word. The ability to change perception is the root of all power and word, for humans, is the building block of perception.

And this is why I am in college studying language. The sword can make currency worthless in a single swoop. It's what drives the sword to swing in the first place that interests me. I want to be a peddler of reality.




Class notes 9/10/09



These are my class notes for 9/10/09:

Thursday, September 3, 2009

The Bible as entertainment

Ok, one last non-textual post. Then it's time to get down to business time.

This story may only be partially true. But the spirit of the experience is definitely true. And in truth, can we ask for much more? Yes, but that's not really what I want to talk about here. I want to tell a story about my first experience reading the bible.

At the age of 14 I had a Bar Mitzvah and about eight years of Sunday school behind me. At this point I counted for Minion and could read rudimentary Hebrew. If Judaisim had a GRE I would have scored average. But only average. I was an average Jew because I had never read the Torah. In fact, I had never read the bible wholly it in any of its forms. New, Old, Hebraic, Quaran, Child, or Gun- the Bible was an untouched stone for me.

My comfortable existence alotted me a back yard, a large 4 bed room house, two professional parents, a TV, and a myriad of ants to roast with a magnifying glass. I learned to read from books with goosebumps on the cover and learned to pray from a well established religion complete with a rabbi ten minutes away. My relationship with the holy texts was tangential at best and it was getting only more oblique, I had just purchased my first video game system (Bar Mitzvah money is great).

As a young man-boy who was gradually coming into self awareness, I realized the hypocrisy of having taken a Bar Mitzvah without having an actual Biblical literacy to go along with it. So I decided to give it the good ole sophomoric try. I resigned myself to reading the text.

It was a dark and stormy night. The light in my room flickered with each pound of thunder. God was playing at his electric set again, and it was time to read his book before he knocked all of us off the rock. I opened the Bible. I looked at the words. I began reading. I fell asleep.

The next night, it was a warm late may night and the grass smelled of dew and freshness through my window. I opened the Bible. I tried to read. The grass smelled of dew and freshness. I tried to read. Reading never arrived so I went outside and chased the neighborhood dogs or something like that.

On the third night, I played nintendo with my friends and drank lemonade. We also probably ate cheetos.

I never actually got around to reading the thing. As with a lot of people, the allure of shiny things that went boom ate my want for spiritual rapture. I asked my dad if I should feel guilty about not reading the most important piece of literature in western society. Dad responded that God should have made the world less amazing if he wanted me to read a book. My dad was an athiest and kind of bitter about these kinds of things. According to my ma, he had read the bible, and up to a few decades ago, had regularly attended a bible study class. I figure that he figured that I would figure out how important the document was later in life in some sort of detached manner. Probably in college.

(There is more to this post, but the story is the important part so I will post it now. More analysis in a few days or hours or something.)

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Fresh Poast

The best part of doing a blog for class is the first post because the first post is allowed to be as irrelevant as I want it to be. I dig irrelevant because irrelevant things are only that way until learning happens. This post is irrelevant because I don't know anything about the subject yet. So I get to make things up. I get to pear my memories with my thinkbrain and create a fruit basket. I also get to use my creativity to make thoughts and imagery and maybe, if there's enough content, weave some sort of narrative. Make thought into something palpable and enjoyable and organized. That's called alchemy. Alchemy is my favorite part of learning.

When alchemy is done by many different minds and is combined by alike notions, that's called hypertext. I learned that word last semester. It serves me well.

The bible is hyper textual. One piece relies on another for meaning while a single piece of symbolism or a single repeating number or a single repeating name holds a plethora of meanings. The people of old didn't have hyperlinks- what they had was their thinkbrains, their memories, and the word. The word had to link memory to thinkbrain and back again so each story had to bestow a meaning that resonated both emotionally and intellectually such that the reader could understand the meaning. It was like the bible was a game of semiotic ping pong, one idea being tested against another though some sort of link while the emotional core of the reader had to grasp the deeper meaning while at the same time bouncing the symbols against their prior learning. Now that I think of it, that process is called reading. Nevermind.

This blog is for a class entitled, "Bible as lit" which is going to be an awesome class. I am excited for this class. I am excited for this blog. This is the second blog I have created for a class. The first was for a class entitled, "Oral Traditions" where we studied tongues in a cunning manner. In that class, the teacher stressed a concept called erudition.

Erudition.

Somewhere it is written that erudition or being erudite or whatnot means to know a lot of things. But this is only a definition. The best part of the word, the part that exhibits the traits which make language more interesting to me than math, the "connotation", means, "to be better than everyone else through the possession of knowledge". Erudition is an important part of life. Knowing more than other people has healed diseases, won wars, cured neurosis, created neurosis, and cooked delicious meals. Erudition allows us to feel better than other people. And at these prices, a little elitism to sprinkle on my collegiate sundae is always a welcome thing.

So those are my modes for this class, Erudition and Alchemy. In the abstract, I want to create thought and then use that thought to influence, impress, and get me a job. Also, I hear that bible thing is kind of important to society or something. Might be worth learning about.

Whatever, this was all irrelevant, for now. I don't know.

Let's go get erudite together.