So Much Fun

Low Brow

I encourage everyone to check out lowbrow.com which houses the lowbrow project 2.0. The project is a collection of stories, thoughts, and messages recorded on audio and broadcast to the world. Anyone could submit with these guidlines: Instructions

* Be depraved.
* Be anonymous. Or not.
* Confess your sins.
* Unload your conscience.
* Share your fantasy.
* Share your shame.

Here's a bit more information:

About The Lowbrow Line

A friend once said that everyone has a story. A person is known for telling the story, and others, often, will beg for the person to tell that story. Culturally, it's been a way for people to introduce themselves -- or be introduced - to new people.

"Hey, tell John that story about how you..."

"Oh! This is John. He's the guy that..."

Everyone has one of those stories. Tell us yours.

Call (206) 984-4959 .

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The Lowbrow Forum
There is a forum that continues to exist with a vibrant and active commmunity. You can find it here.


A note about Lowbrow 1.0
Lowbrow 1.0 was a project that existed from 1996 to 2006, a nearly ten year run of collecting text-based stories of the depraved, the young and the feckless. The run came came to completion when The Management lost interest in the financial care and feeding required to keep it running. The option was extended to the end users to help support the costs of maintaining the project. The silence was message enough. The project continues behined closed doors for those who did step up. If you care to have access to the project, please use the donate buttonsbelow. $10 minimum for the final year of lowbrow.

What'll happen to the moments? They will be buried, on a cdrom, in a timecapsule for the future to find. it'll make a beautiful portrait of humanity.

And so I encourage everyone to go listen to these stories before they are buried forever.

High Brow

Group Presentations Wed April 20th

A little reflection on my presentation experience and then thoughts on others. Well, I wasn't really prepared to present my paper. I suppose looking back at all the creative things people did I could have hired a person to read the monologue with me in order to make it more engaging. Having no plan however, I dug myself into a little grade. I'm comfortable speaking in front of people to be sure, but presenting material I wrote is a whole other story. (Which is probably why I have to imagine no one reads this blog in order to keep myself sane). I knew that Dr. Sexson would probably ask me to read a snippet of my story, but I hoped I wouldn't have to read all of it. But as is the case most of the time things did not turn out the way I wanted. I read my whole story. It was hard to share because I was extremely proud of my work and worried what other people may think. That is to say, I am not my biggest critic, the fear of other critics is. On the bright side everyone seemed to enjoy it and I didn't die of wounded pride. Other notables include Bri Barber's presentation where she performed a rap. Now, I feel fairly comfortable speaking in front of people but performing a rap, by oneself for that matter, is totally different. I applaud her for going all out and fully committing herself to her performance, I think everyone would agree it was an enjoyable experience.

The Dream

I am so ecstatic that Rio has put the video of the dream on his blog. This movie absolutely inspired me and I wanted the ability to torment the masses of people I know with this high brow work. Remembering Classical Literature I knew that the group that contained Zach would be something to marvel at. I wasn't wrong. This film is done so beautifully its really hard to describe it in words. It has references of all our works from class placed in seamlessly along with references that only fit our classes discourse group, Dr. Sexson's granddaughter anyone? I really think that if Dr. Sexson or anyone else should teach this class again this movie should be incorporated into the curriculum. In fact many of the offerings that have come about from this class should be incorporated in. I also love that almost every presentation in the class dealt with Dr. Sexson in some way. The wizard of the class had to be incorporated or it wouldn't be the same.

Reflection over group presentation.

To be honest I am completely surprised that our group presentation came together at all. As James said, we were originally going to mirror what group one did. Then came the problem that group one had switched times and shortened our turn around period. And then we saw group one's presentation and realized it would be so hard to mirror their presentation. Which left us with three days to come up with a whole new idea. I guess our group had met once before, a meeting I could not attend, and come up with a somewhat idea dealing with the sun. When we met Sunday, a day before our presentation mind you, I was terribly worried. We had about four hours to come up with an idea, presentation and script. As we sat there discussing an idea began to form. What if we dealt with the stages of language and ended with the "dude" language quoting the "god" language coming full circle. It was a plan. So we paired off and individually with our partners came up with our sections of the script. Needless to say it helped that we had a group of fantastically brilliant people, but what would you expect in English anyway, that somehow made each script fit together perfectly. We talked about our costumes rehearsed it over once and prayed for the best. Luckily, and I hope you'd agree, we did pretty damn well for ourselves.

Group Presentations Monday April 26th

All of the group presentations today were fabulous, I mean who will ever forget Lisa's ribbon dance performance my four year old self was jumping for joy on the inside over her stellar moves, and what I have come to expect to see in a Sexon class. There were a few that really stood out to me though. First off would be Zach's performance on his guitar. Any time I have had the pleasure to read or hear anything Zach created is a treat and this held true yet again. The lyrics to his song were absolutely beautiful as well as the melody. I also liked the fact that he switched mid way through and refined a song he had previously written because he hadn't understood what he needed to yet. I had the same experience in this class so this really resonated with me. I also really enjoyed our resident business majors take on lowbrow and comic books. In Literary Criticism last semester we explored the idea of graphic novels in a classroom and the implications with which people view them. This presentation brought me back to that idea and how people often judge things without really looking deeper and finding meaning. I also really loved Christina's presentation and look forward to reading her whole paper. Great job again team.

The Paper

I guess I should clarify. Even though the following story does have some fictitious elements (I may or may not have altered people's words to make it more interesting) it was for the most part a true account. And when I proclaimed that I wrote it dealing with what I know now that I didn't know before I meant it. I now know I should never have been dating that boy and no longer do. So here is the full copy of my paper. Enjoy!

The Coffee Shop
…moved deliberately, her hands cupping the books she would ponder over, into the coffee shop that she loved so much. He followed closely behind her with books of his own and the heels of his chestnut cowboy boots clicked rhythmically after them. The air around them was filled with a stagnant annoyance it seemed to hover around them more often each passing day. They had bickered over the arrival to the coffee shop, where they would go, and now where they would sit. She was beginning to think it was the only way they knew how to converse anymore. With rapid steps she placed her things on one of the available arm chairs thinking he would do the same; he did not. Joining him at the counter her face wore a sullen look as she folded her arms refusing to speak. Glancing over her shoulder she watched as the seat next to her things was quickly taken by another tense college occupant.
“Great, now where will you sit,” she hissed tersely. He threw a look towards the seats. “Somewhere,” he muttered with an accompanying shrug. Her eyes darkened as her body tensed and she tossed her straw colored hair over her shoulder. “Fine.” Sitting down she grabbed her book and tried to immerse herself into the pages wishing to escape from the narrative that was seemingly her life. The book was the most beautiful at the last page, in her opinion, and so she began there. “…a last a loved a long the” She turned the words over in her mouth, at first whispering them and then speaking them to no one. It troubled her that she could not make them sound as exquisite as the girl in the class who had recited the passage. The words were written a dozen times over in her notebook in varying script and yet they never lost their meaning unlike most.
He sat across the room from her and she stole looks at him from time to time. It was a sight she had become familiar with after three years or so. Head in hand, shaggy auburn hair splaying across his face that held a look of deep concentration. Headphones in. A short sleeve shirt featuring some obscure band or the more embarrassing cartoon character. Slim dark wash jeans that were just too short to meet their mark and of course the ever present cowboy boots tap tap tapping. A seat had emptied beside him and he motioned her over. Her eyes became slits as she glared back at him; he knew she detested shifting places once she had settled in one place. It was part of her neurotic obsessive compulsive disorder which included counting the number of sips she took of a drink and how long she could inhale the smoke from a hookah. And yet, still he called to her and she found herself making the way across the tables. Having previously been lonely in her tiny corner she determined to revive the evening and positioned a smile upon her face.
“What are you reading about?”
He looked at her fleetingly before returning to the book. She wondered if he even noticed her anymore and it reminded her of a quote. Perhaps it was Mark Twain who had once described how various people could lose the ability to see beauty. He spoke of the sailor who could only see channels and pitfalls in the rivers instead of the splatter of colors and life and the doctor who only saw sickness in the blush of a striking woman. Had he lost the ability to see her splendor she thought as she read her cherished lines again, “…a last a loved a long the”
“Enterprise resource planning. It consists of numbers and figures. I hate my business classes with their pompous students whose only concern is what poison they can pour down their throats next.”
“Do you enjoy the subject?”
“No.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because it will make me more marketable,” he quipped and gave her an irritated look.
She looks away, faltering as she spoke again, “I see. Well, I quite enjoy the things I read and do. I cannot fathom if I didn’t.” She hoped he could not see her insides slowly caving into themselves. True, she enjoyed the experience, yet somehow she continuously missed the meaning and was often left hoping no one could see through the mirrors. The music wafted between them and it angered her with its carefree crooning. He looked at her book.
"What is this?"
"The most highbrow piece of literature ever written encompassing everything that has ever been written, ever."
She repeated the words that had been uttered so often in her classroom but they were empty coming from her mouth. She had yet to understand what they truly meant only that they should mean it.
"Ok..."
He snatched the book from her lap flipping through the pages robotically. His eyes skimmed the pages but it was clear he had no intention of absorbing. Finally he placed it on the table and turned his attention back to her.
"Well this is utter nonsense."
"Well kind of, you just have to know what to do with it. These words are words you know, they just look different, and see right here it's referencing Adam and Eve. It's like a puzzle."
"Did this man make money off this book? Maybe I should just write a whole bunch of damn letters in a row and call it art. This is gibberish."
She clutched the book to her chest protectively. “It’s like what a math problem is to you. You have to analyze and solve it using prior knowledge. But besides that it is wholly striking and resonant in certain areas. Take this it’s my favorite passage: ‘…a last a loved a long the,’” she peered up with hope in her eyes that the words would take hold of him as they had her.
“It’s nonsense.”
Defeated, she clasps his business book and shifted through the endless pages of cold hard words before throwing it upon the table with a resounding thud.
“This is nonsense.”
“I have a major with actual theory and facts. You have a major where you read pretend books and come to pretend conclusions. You could say the sky was fucking purple and your teachers would congratulate you on your inventiveness. What’s the use of stories that aren’t even real? Numbers are real. Facts are real. These are pretty words arranged in a pretty pattern that “intellectuals” tell us are profound.”
She turned away from him as the tears swelled in her eyes. She would remain silent, she always did. She went back to her book and her words and her fake stories and thought that sometimes fiction was better than reality. Purposefully, she slid her laptop from its container and flicked it on. With a final sigh she began to drum upon her laptop as she typed her ballad of misery.
She staggered into her class the next morning a zombie. The ideas that encompassed her head felt meaningless and vacant. She had lost faith in the beauty she had previously witnessed in the words just the following night. She sunk into her chair and prepared for the nonsensical droning her classmates and professor were sure to offer. They were just words and words meant nothing, they couldn’t defend against a world of numbers.
Her professor cued up her blog and she peered up, awakened from her pitiful fog. He solicited her to read through it, which she did with vigor attempting to add just the right tone to capture the humor of it all. The class filled with laughter and she beamed. She wasn’t stupid to think the words were enchanting.
“You know, you should probably disassociate yourself from this boy,” her professor lectured with a hint of a smirk.
The weeks passed and she further submerged herself into the class and philosophy behind the books. She became raptured by the words that were laid down before her. Swallowing the pill, she chose to not turn back.
For the life of me I cannot remember whatever made us think we were wise. Do we mean love, when we say love? I can't go on. I'll go on. If you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love. None that I love more than myself. I don’t think we’ll ever be wise. In my end is my beginning. A lone a last a long the…
She wrote the compile of words on a weathered note card and placed it in her back pocket. As he kissed her his hand grasped the paper.
It was March. She sat in her class and thought of the term paper she was to write. Ideas fluttered in her mind like minuscule gnats. What theme should she choose? What topic could she write about? Her pencil slipped into her mouth and she bit it nervously. “What has this class taught you…” the words echoed in her brain. Her face broke into a grin as she began to write these words, “She…

Ouroboros

from wikipedia:

The Ouroboros or Uroborus[1] is an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon swallowing its own tail and forming a circle.

The Ouroboros often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things perceived as cycles that begin anew as soon as they end (compare Phoenix). It can also represent the idea of primordial unity related to something existing in or persisting from the beginning with such force or qualities it cannot be extinguished. The ouroboros has been important in religious and mythological symbolism, but has also been frequently used in alchemical illustrations, where it symbolizes the circular nature of the alchemist's opus. It is also often associated with Gnosticism, and Hermeticism.

Carl Jung interpreted the Ouroboros as having an archetypal significance to the human psyche.[citation needed] The Jungian psychologist Erich Neumann writes of it as a representation of the pre-ego "dawn state", depicting the undifferentiated infancy experience of both mankind and the individual child.[2]

Alchemy

In alchemy, the Ouroboros is a purifying sigil. Swiss psychologist Carl Jung saw the Ouroboros as an archetype and the basic mandala of alchemy. Jung also defined the relationship of the Ouroboros to alchemy:[6]

The alchemists, who in their own way knew more about the nature of the individuation process than we moderns do, expressed this paradox through the symbol of the Ouroboros, the snake that eats its own tail. The Ouroboros has been said to have a meaning of infinity or wholeness. In the age-old image of the Ouroboros lies the thought of devouring oneself and turning oneself into a circulatory process, for it was clear to the more astute alchemists that the prima materia of the art was man himself. The Ouroboros is a dramatic symbol for the integration and assimilation of the opposite, i.e. of the shadow. This 'feed-back' process is at the same time a symbol of immortality, since it is said of the Ouroboros that he slays himself and brings himself to life, fertilizes himself and gives birth to himself. He symbolizes the One, who proceeds from the clash of opposites, and he therefore constitutes the secret of the prima materia which [...] unquestionably stems from man's unconscious.

The famous Ouroboros drawing from the early alchemical text The Chrysopoeia of Cleopatra dating to 2nd century Alexandria encloses the words hen to pan, "one is the all". Its black and white halves represent the Gnostic duality of existence. As such, the Ouroboros could be interpreted as the Western equivalent of the Taoist Yin-Yang symbol.

The Chrysopoeia Ouroboros of Cleopatra is one of the oldest images of the Ouroboros to be linked with the legendary opus of the Alchemists, the Philosopher’s Stone.

As a symbol of the eternal unity of all things, the cycle of birth and death from which the alchemist sought release and liberation, it was familiar to the alchemist/physician Sir Thomas Browne. In his A letter to a friend, a medical treatise full of case-histories and witty speculations upon the human condition, he wrote of it:

[...] that the first day should make the last, that the Tail of the Snake should return into its Mouth precisely at that time, and they should wind up upon the day of their Nativity, is indeed a remarkable Coincidence,

It is also alluded to at the conclusion of Browne's The Garden of Cyrus (1658) as a symbol of the circular nature and Unity of the two Discourses:

All things began in order so shall they end, so shall they begin again according to the Ordainer of Order and the mystical mathematicks of the City of Heaven.

The Following Story

Nooteboom suggested that the novel "covers the last two seconds of Mussert’s life, one second of memory, and one second of the passing from life into death." With its invocation of Socrates and the eternal return, the book points toward the idea that after death something survives to be born into life again. What do we die for? To become something else or to help other living things continue to live?

"That is the difference between gods and men. Gods can change themselves; humans can only be changed."The idea of metamorphosis in this novel is again a rampant theme. Humans have no control over themselves, over time, over the actions of the world. We are all just living another persons idea of a life another person's story until we die. But even in death we are not free to change but again only be changed. Like the beetle changed the rat we are changed by the factors that continue to live.

"Whosoever attempts to interfere with time, wheresoever that may be, whosoever seeks to stretch it, retard it, channel it, stem its flow, divert it, should know that my law is absolute, that my magisterial hands indicate the ephemeral, nonexistent now, as they always do. They stand aloof from corrupting division, from the mercenary now of the scholar; mine is the only true now, the durable now encompassing sixty counted seconds." -Although humans cannot control time, time can show up in many different forms. If the novel ends where it begins, then has any time passed at all? Time is so apparent in this book it is obvious Nooteboom is extremely perplexed by it. Clocks are described in detail, when the beetles actions have been fast forward Nooteboom says he realizes this is not possible, or is it? I believe Nooteboom is trying to conclude that time is what frees our bodies and minds and allows for the dead to continue on.

"Then an article about the budget deficit, which I have myself, and a piece about corruption in the Third World, but I had already read all about that in Tacitus..." Nooteboom again suggests the myth of the eternal return. Everything that happens has happened before and will continue to happen again.

Favorite Blog

The blog that I am probably most influenced by is Rachel's. Rachel never ceases to amaze me in her deep exploration of topics, ideas, and themes. Rachel seems to eloquently explain everything I'm thinking only much more, well, eloquently. Rachel inspired me more than once to pursue through the anguish of reading one more page of The Following Story in hopes of glimmering even a small amount of the fascination and meaning she had found. Because I don't feel I can give a gleaming enough review of Rachel's blog here is a taste of what you've been missing if you have yet to read it.

"Déjà vu is something that for the past semester I have found myself completely preoccupied with in Dr. Sexson’s classes, especially Nabokov and now Emergent. The idea that memories and déjà vu have the power to connect a moment in time with a moment in time from the past.

That is the sense that we have been some place before and it is strangely familiar. It is the only real way we seem as human beings to be able to time travel even if we can only do it for a moment and involuntarily it seems. But as I am sure Dr. Sexson would say we have been there before and we are only then at that instant remembering what we have already forgotten. But then in another moment it is forgotten again until we experience another realization of a past that we have had at another time."

Rachel is an incredible person and writer and I am so thankful for this class and my ability to "creep" on my fellow classmates in order to contemplate and immerse myself in new thoughts and ideas.

Paper

Maybe? I came into this class assuming high brow was high brow and low brow was low brow and may the two never meet. This class has absolutely reversed that idea. I'd like to explore and make the case that high and low are one in the same coexisting because of each other and Professor Sexson suggests I also tie this into alchemy and how high and low elements are presented in it. Am I up for this task? I sure hope so.

The World of Dream

from wikipedia: Morpheus (pronounced /ˈmɔr.fjuːs/; Greek: Μορφεύς, Morpheus, or Μορφέας, Morpheas, "he who shapes [dreams]") is the Greek god of dreams and sleep. Morpheus has the ability to take any human's form and appear in dreams, but is described as having wings on his back when in his true form.


Morpheus' dream world is protected by the Gates of Morpheus, which had two monsters capable of becoming one's fears, a method to drive one away. Only other Olympians could enter Morpheus' Dream World. It is notable that his dream world is where his family lived - other gods that were exiled out of Mount Olympus. Notable features of Morpheus' dream world are the Rivers of Forgetfulness and the River of Oblivion.

Sometimes when I look up at the stars I'll contemplate the infinite space that stretches before me and panic. My breathe will become short and jagged my heart will race and my head will spin. The same can be said for when I think about the world as a dream. What if I am sleeping? I would hope I would craft myself something a bit more mythical than the stagnant routine I normally produce day after day. But as I've explored before would this not take all the beauty out of life? Why is it that we as humans must be moved into action by some sort of catastrophic event. Why is it so hard to live as if we knew an author was meticulously planning our death in a matter of days? Questions like this both haunt and provoke me and perhaps I can one day produce satisfying answers for them all.

The Alchemist

I finished The Alchemist in a single day. The story was engaging and I understood the point and theme. Maybe it was a little too simple for me. Maybe it was because I already knew what would happen in the end. But I didn't really enjoy it. It was a nice message to be sure, and it was profound and meaningful but the message just missed me. Perhaps, it is because I am like all those vacant people that the boy encounters on his way, they do not realize their Personal Legend, or they just choose not to pursue it. The idea of home sweet home reminded me of a book I read in Literary Criticism last semester. Here is an excerpt from The Wind in the Willows:

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the river! And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in. Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him.

The call was clear, the summons was plain. He must obey it instantly, and go. 'Ratty!' he called, full of joyful excitement, 'hold on! Come back! I want you, quick!'

'Oh, come along, Mole, do!' replied the Rat cheerfully, still plodding along.

'Please stop, Ratty!' pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of heart. 'You don't understand! It's my home, my old home! I've just come across the smell of it, and it's close by here, really quite close. And I must go to it, I must, I must! Oh, come back, Ratty! Please, please come back!'

The Rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what the Mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice. And he was much taken up with the weather, for he too could smell something -- something suspiciously like approaching snow.

'Mole, we mustn't stop now, really!' he called back. 'We'll come for it to-morrow, whatever it is you've found. But I daren't stop now -- it's late, and the snow's coming on again, and I'm not sure of the way! And I want your nose, Mole, so come on quick, there's a good fellow!' And the Rat pressed forward on his way without waiting for an answer.

Poor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. But even under such a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. Never for a moment did he dream of abandoning him. Meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously. He dared not tarry longer within their magic circle. With a wrench that tore his very heartstrings he set his face down the road and followed submissively in the track of the Rat, while faint, thin little smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.

The idea that people and animals, and every living thing wishes for something beyond home only to find home is really what they longed is present throughout life. Maybe, then, I am walking in ignorance thinking that my life will defy this theme so commonly seen and I will not need to arrive where I started. Maybe my subconscious realizes this won't be the case and therefore my mind rejects the story of the boy because I do not want it to be my life. No matter, everyone's personal journey may seem the unique to them but fate will inevitably prove us wrong. Here's to me defying fate.

The Tempest and The Four Quartets

In the Tempest when Miranda and her father are discussing the act of recalling things you have forgotten I thought back to an idea Professor Sexson often discusses, the idea that we know everything we've only forgotten. In relation to this I found many passages in The Four Quartets that detailed this theory.

"By strength and submission, has already been discovered/Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope/To emulate"

Everything we need is there for us, we just cannot recall it. Miranda was able to break through this barrier however and recall things from her childhood with the help from her father.

"We had the experience but missed the meaning/And approach to the meaning restores the experience."

Miranda misses the meaning of the storm and the ship. She believes it to be the truth when she has already discovered it is not. Her father helps her to see the meaning and therefore re-create the experience she has missed helping her again to discover.

"We shall not cease from exploration/And the end of all our exploring/Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time."

Miranda has only begun to explore the ideas from her past and is just starting to experience it for the first time.

Curiouser and Curiouser

I remember once when a friend and I had just finished watching The Truman Show. We were utterly convinced that someone was also filming our lives and creating artificial moments. How probable was it, we thought, that the strangest things kept happening at the worst times. Later, during our sophomore year of college we would come to find out that probability was one in three but no matter. I no longer think a camera follows my every move, that a director feeds lines to the people around me, that I have no decision over my ending. But I do still think about concepts related to this matter.


The first such thought deals with existence in general. If you do not see something happen, did it really ever happen? Sure, I have a census that tells me there are X amount of people living in Thailand but if I never meet them does this render them unreal? What qualifies something to be labeled as existing? My second thought is over God. Suspend your beliefs on God for a moment and consider that there is in fact a God. Next, think about the idea of Stranger Than Fiction. God must create a death scene for every living person on this planet. God would have then created the tragic ending that is Socrates, Cleopatra, J.F.K, and so on. God is in that way an author writing out our stories and seeing them through until the end, but unlike the author in the movie he does not have us miraculously survive.


Truthfully, if one was to understand the concept of life as fiction there would be no consequences. When Will Farrel approaches the professor on what to do if in fact he is to die the professor advises him to eat pancakes. Clearly, he is trying to point out that Farrel can now do anything he wants to because he has been made aware of his death. Does this make life any less meaningful? An excerpt from a website dealing with this question: "If mechanistic theories are true, then there is no meaning or purpose to either the universe or anything in it. Though we can individually or collectively attribute meaning to something, or purpose to do something, these notions are functions of intelligence and emotion, and are merely phantoms. The fact that we can imagine something gives no substance to it. This is inescapable given the premises of a purely mechanical universe." The thing about humans is we are a group living in constant denial. We know inevitably that we will die yet we push this aside and try to accomplish something meaningful in our short lifespan.

The idea of someone else making all our decisions, makes it that much worse. If I have no control over my actions, why bother completing them at all? Whose to say the person writing my life will provide me with one I deem acceptable. To be sure, this did not happen in Stranger Than Fiction nor Beckett for that matter. Another site that deals with the question of life and fiction is An excerpt: "This paper argues that, in approaching this everyday process of life construction, it is legitimate and useful to apply critical frameworks which have originally been devised for works of fiction. Tile assumption is that the conventions used to make sense of one’s own life or another’s are similar to those employed by a literary author in the creation of a meaningful narrative involving the life of a fictional character. The justification for this transgression of disciplinary boundaries between science and art can be found in the dramaturgical model of social behaviour." All of human life is spent trying to create a structure of meaning and purpose, but what if all of that is just fiction? What if we as a human race have created the greatest fictional work of all time and are all none the wiser?

The Lost Work of Beckett

Dr. Sexson asked us to go onto the Samuel Beckett website and find something about him we found interesting. I couldn't resist when I saw there was an Onion article that discussed Beckett. For anyone who is unfamiliar with the Onion, please google it now, it is a news site that finds stories other major new sites seem to "miss". I think that any of us currently trying to tackle Beckett's work can truly appreciate this "wonderful news"

PARIS—Just weeks after the centennial of the birth of pioneering minimalist playwright Samuel Beckett, archivists analyzing papers from his Paris estate uncovered a small stack of blank paper that scholars are calling "the latest example of the late Irish-born writer's genius."

O'Donoghue shows off what could easily be the play's whimsically tragic opening scene.

The 23 blank pages, which literary experts presume is a two-act play composed sometime between 1973 and 1975, are already being heralded as one of the most ambitious works by the Nobel Prize-winning author of Waiting For Godot, and a natural progression from his earlier works, including 1969's Breath, a 30-second play with no characters, and 1972's Not I, in which the only illuminated part of the stage is a floating mouth.

"In what was surely a conscious decision by Mr. Beckett, the white, uniform, non-ruled pages, which symbolize the starkness and emptiness of life, were left unbound, unmarked, and untouched," said Trinity College professor of Irish literature Fintan O'Donoghue. "And, as if to further exemplify the anonymity and facelessness of 20th-century man, they were found, of all places, between other sheets of paper."

"I can only conclude that we have stumbled upon something quite remarkable," O'Donoghue added.

According to literary critic Eric Matheson, who praised the work for "the bare-bones structure and bleak repetition of what can only be described as 'nothingness,'" the play represents somewhat of a departure from the works of Beckett's "middle period." But, he said, it "might as well be Samuel Beckett at his finest."

"It does feature certain classic Beckett elements, such as sparse stage directions, a mysterious quality of anonymity, a slow building of tension with no promise of relief, and an austere portrayal of the human condition," Matheson said. "But Beckett's traditional intimation of an unrelenting will to live, the possibility of escape from the vacuous indifference that surrounds us—that's missing. Were that his vision, I suspect he would have used perforated paper."

Scholars theorize that the 23-page play might have been intended to be titled Five Conversations, Entropolis, or Stop.

In addition, an 81-page document, also blank, was found, which, for all intents and purposes, could be an earlier draft of the work.

"I suspect this was a nascent stream-of-consciousness attempt," O'Donoghue said of the blank sheets of paper, which were found scattered among Beckett's personal effects and took a Beckett scholar four painstaking days to put into the correct order. "In his final version, Beckett used his trademark style of 'paring down' to really get at the core of what he was trying to not say."

Some historians, however, contend that the play could have been the work of one of Beckett's protégés.

"Even though the central theme and wicked sense of humor of this piece would lead one to believe that this could conceivably be a vintage Beckett play, in reality, it could just as easily have been the product of [Beckett's close friend] Rick Cluchey," biographer Neal Gleason said. "And if it was Beckett, it's not outside the realm of possibility that, given his sharp wit, it was just intended as a joke. If Beckett were alive today, he might insist that it's not even a play at all. It could be a novella, or a screenplay."

Enthusiasts still maintain that the "nuances, subtleties, and allusions to his previous works" are all unmistakably Beckett. They also claim to have found notes and ideas for this play in the margins of Beckett's earlier works.

There are already plans to stage the play during the intermission of an upcoming production of Waiting For Godot.

Credit: www.theonion.com

Words

So I've decided on the list I'm going to create. It's actually an old assignment I had when I was a junior in high school that I just happened to remember today. The list will be some of the words I find most beautiful in the English Language. So without further ado;
alas
along
cellar door
brood
demure
cosmoses
nemesis
trout
wheel barrel
thoughtful
hurl
curl
hanger
disaster
ridicule
commotion
dreadful

An Ear of Corn in Silence Reaped

I have participated in the Eleusinian Mysteries. Or, at least as close as four girls in 1895 could come to duplicating them. Little did I know my sophomore year in Classical Literature when Dr. Sexson discussed his thoughts on these mysteries that I would soon be participating. You see, every sorority for the most part has a greek myth they adopt for their purposes. My sorority adopted the myth of Demeter and Persephone. On the final night of initiation we go into a room and close the door. Clearly, being called mysteries I must keep it that way. However, I can say something is said, something is done, and something is shown.

According to Wikipedia (the most reliable source on the internet of course):The

Eleusinian Mysteries probably included a celebration of Persephone's return, for it was also the return of plants and of life to the earth. Persephone had gone into the underworld (underground, like seeds in the winter), then returned to the land of the living: her rebirth is symbolic of the rebirth of all plant life during Spring and, by extension, all life on earth.

Ours certainly does. In fact our ceremony seemingly parallels Wikipedias description perfect and fills in the blanks Wikipedia cannot fill. This will probably mean even more to me when we get to The Tempest.

Purpose

While searching the archives of the never ending internet I stumbled upon one man's idea of how to figure out your life's purpose in twenty minutes. He says to:
Here’s what to do:

1. Take out a blank sheet of paper or open up a word processor where you can type (I prefer the latter because it’s faster).
2. Write at the top, “What is my true purpose in life?”
3. Write an answer (any answer) that pops into your head. It doesn’t have to be a complete sentence. A short phrase is fine.
4. Repeat step 3 until you write the answer that makes you cry. This is your purpose.

Now, he goes on to say that really this may take a lot longer than twenty minutes for some people because they will give a lot of false answers. I find this completely fascinating because we as humans spend so much of our time masking our personalities from the world and even ourselves. By doing this exercise we become vulnerable and are forced to strip away the layers we have. Plus, if we're lucky, we can live a lifetime in twenty minutes

http://www.stevepavlina.com/blog/2005/01/how-to-discover-your-life-purpose-in-about-20-minutes/

T.S Eliots Twenty Minute Lifetime

I think that T.S Eliot really says it best in Burnt Norton, "Time present and time past/Are both perhaps present in time future/And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present/All time is unredeemable." I think the concept of a twenty minute lifetime is extremely thought provoking. I'm sure we can all imagine a time when we were forced to grow up right that second and our life progressed ten years right before our eyes. Certainly, there are also more mundane examples such as my shirt folding experience I previously blogged about, but I also think there are more romantically beautiful ones. In fact, I think that the idea that boy meets girl boy and girl fall in love in a single day, boy leaves girl would be quite the perfect twenty minute lifetime story. But I'm sure it's all been done before.

T.S Eliots Twenty Minute Lifetime

I think that T.S Eliot really says it best in Burnt Norton, "Time present and time past/Are both perhaps present in time future/And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present/All time is unredeemable." I think the concept of a twenty minute lifetime is extremely thought provoking. I'm sure we can all imagine a time when we were forced to grow up right that second and our life progressed ten years right before our eyes. Certainly, there are also more mundane examples such as my shirt folding experience I previously blogged about, but I also think there are more romantically beautiful ones. In fact, I think that the idea that boy meets girl boy and girl fall in love in a single day, boy leaves girl would be quite the perfect twenty minute lifetime story. But I'm sure it's all been done before.

Groundhog's Day

Groundhogs Day
I wake up at 8. I know, it’s not the 6 A.M wake up I was instructed to have but if this is the day I must relive over and over I might as well live how I like. (Clearly Bill Murray and I are not quick on the uptake.) I drive to the gym with my roommate, and I can tell I’m getting sick. Of course the day I’m destined to repeat would include me feeling sick. I’m always sick. I run a few laps, easily passing the early morning walkers. I go into the sauna. I’m hoping it will clear up my congested head. It doesn’t. We leave and I lay in bed, the perpetually lazy person. I play a mindless game and then decide I should do something with my day. I fix my hair. I walk past the contractors currently making plans to fix something or other wrong in this horrid house. I grab my purse. I have a mission today and it is one I have been dreading. I drive downtown past the buildings I see almost every week. I don’t pay enough attention but my mind is trying to go blank. I walk into the jewelry store and drop the ring on the table. How much? A hundred dollars, I’ll take it. I browse the glimmering cases full of beautiful trinkets and think about how and why gems are so valued. I take my time looking at each offering carefully debating whether I should spend more or stay within my limit. Since this is supposed to be a very lively day I almost talk myself into the gorgeous flower earrings with the diamond in the middle. But then I spot the dainty yogo sapphire necklace carefully placed upon its box. I’ll take it. I drive back to my house with a sense of pride and also a sense of loss. It’s so strange the emotions we place into things. I get home and grab lunch. Sushi. It strikes me strange that I am never given a say in my meals. I go upstairs. Breakdown. I can’t believe Alyssa is leaving. I should help her, I have so much to do, I really should help her. Maybe if I stay quiet. Car. Driving. To where. Not my choice. Am I hungry? Back home. Homework. Homework. Homework. I thought this would be easy. Apparently I was naïve. Should I call him? No. I should call him. No. Should I? No. Yes. No. Yes. I’ll text him. That ended poorly. Don’t be upset. But I am upset. Distraction. Mindless. Sleep? Lock the door. No privacy in this house. Bang. Bang. Bang. A call? Ignore. Goodnight.

This is my dream world

I'm blogging about a dream I had a few weeks ago. For the most part I have fairly vivid dreams and remember them often. This one was especially haunting for the topic matter. I was shopping in a sporting goods store for pants. I remember the pants I found had paint like graffiti all over them. I told the sales girl I liked them but I didn't think I could pull them off. We reasoned that I would just dye my hair purple and get a Mohawk. I remember feeling anxious while I talked to the sales girl and with pants in hand started to hurry out of the store. I walked by a mother and daughter and then looked up at the ceiling. A swarm of flies were flying counter clockwise. I thought about the fact that I heard animals behave strangely before something bad happens. I rushed to my car. The scene cut to my house. Well, not really my house it was my old house from when I lived in Virginia. I went to my parents bedroom and they were standing on opposite sides of their bed screaming at each other. I asked them to stop because something was going to happen and we needed to all love each other. The second I said it an asteroid came crashing through the ceiling on the bed. We looked at the sky and saw that thousands of asteroids were coming down.

Roommates and A Whole Lotta Green

Living in a sorority requires some compromises. Mainly, that you get the whole dorm experience another three years and get to live with a roommate. So mostly, when I wake up I see things that don't have any personal value to me. I see the walls that were painted purple and blue years before I lived here and haven't been painted since on account of changing rules. I see pictures of my roommate and her friends, some I know some I don't. I see her very green bed and our very green drapes hanging over our matching closets and I see a picture of Gandhi that quite frankly gives me the creeps. I see things I own and pictures of my friends, the things Kae Loni sees when she wakes up. I wonder if she has the same thoughts as I do. This room is mine, but it isn't really. I have to move every semester so I never really get an established ownership. But it's a place to sleep and its fairly comfortable so really who am I to complain?

Fun for All

According to Wikipedia: Giovanni Battista (Giambattista) Vico or Vigo (23 June 1668 – 23 January 1744) was an Italian philosopher, rhetorician, historian, and jurist. A critic of modern rationalism and apologist of classical antiquity, Vico's magnum opus is titled "Principles/Origins of [re]New[ed] Science about the Common Nature of Nations" (Principi di Scienza Nuova d'intorno alla Comune Natura delle Nazioni). The work is explicitly presented as a "Science of reasoning" (Scienza di ragionare), and includes a dialectic between axioms and "reasonings" (ragionamenti) linking and clarifying the axioms. Vico is often claimed to have inaugurated modern philosophy of history, although the expression is alien from Vico's text (Vico speaks of a "history of philosophy narrated philosophically").[1] He is otherwise well-known for noting that verum esse ipsum factum ("true itself is fact" or "the true itself is made"), a proposition that has been read as an early instance of constructivist epistemology.[2][3] Overall, the contemporary interest in Vico has been driven by peculiarly historicist interests like Tagliacozzo.[4] and Hayden White.[5]

Now on to how my coffee partner reacted when I showed him Finnegans Wake.

"What is this?"
"The most highbrow piece of literature ever written encompassing everything that has ever been written, ever."
"Ok..."
(He takes the book.)
"Well this is utter nonsense."
"Well kind of, you just have to know what to do with it. These words are words you know they just look different, and see right here it's referencing Adam and Eve. It's like a puzzle."
"Did this man make money off this book? Maybe I should just write a whole bunch of letters in a row and call it art. This is gibberish."
(I take his business book.)
"Now this is utter nonsense."

Write Like Iff

Page 536 will be my page of Finnegans Wake chosen at complete random. Now on to a paragraph written like Iff. Because as Dr. Sexson put it why would one want to use just one word when you can use them all?

Why I would never in my life deliberately, intentionally, absolutely not on purpose, plan it to a T, intend without reason, make a premeditated decision, calculated or otherwise, without your highest input sir. For you see, this mistake was absolutely an unintentional, unintended, unable to be averted, really just happened by chance, kind of thing.

And here is the passage I hope to try to memorize from Finnegans Wake

"With us his nephos and his neberls, mest incensed and befogged by him and his smoke thereof. But he shall have his glad stein of our zober beerbest in Oscarshal's winetavern."

My Twenty Minute Lifetime

I wrote this for another class but I realized that it fits perfectly into the idea that we just keep repeating everything over and over.

I worked at Abercrombie and Fitch for a summer between my sophomore and junior year of college. For those of you unfamiliar with Abercrombie and Fitch it is a company that is consumed in aesthetic appeal. And though the fourteen year olds the store marketed to who bought the flimsy t-shirts with risque sayings would never notice, it was part of our job to take each size sticker and align it perfectly with the next, take each corner and make sure it had no wrinkles, take each pattern and make sure it folded the exact same way. It truly was hegemony at its finest.

I remember working one particular day before school would commence in the fall with the rush of tired mothers and whining daughters shuffling into the store. I would stand by helplessly as the duos would pick apart pile by pile everything I had worked so hard to perfect the hour before. And I would be forced to ask them with a plastered smile and pseudo enthusiasm, "Are you finding everything alright?" Knowing fully well my next hour would be filled with folding boards, size stickers and absolute mind numbing boredom. This was my twenty minute lifetime, my Bill Murray experience, destined to be repeated again and again and again.

But but but

This is a side note but I feel it must be mentioned. I find it absolutely fascinating that when asked to describe our coolest academic experience, in a class of about twelve, four of us chose to write about Dr. Sexson and those who did not chimed in with their praises. That was probably another of my coolest academic experiences. Now on to Haroun. I think for my first blog about this book I will dissect a few of my favorite quotes. I guess its almost stereotypical that almost all my favorite quotes deal with literature in a way but I don't think stereotypes are always a bad thing.

"O, Need's a funny fish: it makes people untruthful. They all suffer from it, but they will not always admit." (pg. 36)

I thought this was interesting because the ideas of need and want are generally intermixed with varying results. We may think we need something but in all actuality really we just want it and could go the rest of our lives without it. I think this quote is pointing out this disconnectedness to the word and the fact that many people in our society will not admit that they do not need, but want something.




"'Anybody can tell stories...liars, and cheats, and crooks, for example." (pg. 58)

Language is a powerful thing. What other thing on this earth can evoke such emotional responses, or transport the reader to a whole different place. Language is also accessible. Though it does take some skill to learn the art once it is "mastered" one may do with it as they please with no need to create anything worthwhile or truthful in the least. But, as the story points out, it takes a little more to create a story that is truly meaningful.

"...new stories are born from old-it is the new combination that make them new."(pg. 86)

This quote is so perfect because it reflects the idea that we explored so often in Classical Literature. Nothing is original. Everything has a predecessor and may only build upon but never create something original. But the building is like a creation in the way that though it is not entirely new, after all haven't we all written this same sentence before, the placement together does make a new thing entirely.

"'But but but what is the point of giving persons Freedom of Speech...if you then say they must not utilize same? And is it not the Power of Speech the greatest Power of all?" (pg. 119)

I won't comment on this quote because I could go on all night but I had to add it to make sure that everyone was afforded a second look. Enjoy.

Great Expectations

Quite honestly this is probably going to be the class I most enjoy this semester. It was the only class I actively sought out and made sure each day that it was not yet full. Why? Because I have never enjoyed an English class as much as Dr. Sexsons Classical Mythology. Most classes, and I would wager this is the same for all students, are quickly forgotten along with the material. However, I can still tell you why the movie Groundhog's Day is important, and am happy to see it has been incorporated into this class, and what memesis and catharsis mean.

I feel this class will be extremely stimulating given the topic ideas and the subject matter. I am, as Dr. Sexson pointed out, a bit intimidated by our "white elephant" though I think it will be a beneficial struggle. Now on to my views of high brow/low brow. I dealt with this idea often in Literary Criticism and I think it is quite intriguing. My understanding is that high brow is something that is deemed both culturally and intellectually rich and often is disliked by the general public. Usually it is something traditional, for example an excellent graphic novel would probably not be considered high brow no matter the content, and it is something with a tangible value. Low brow, on the other hand, is often something that is enjoyed by the general public for its escapist values and often the ability for one to "turn off" their brain when encountering it. Low brow art would be something consumed for pleasure not intellectual value and it is often considered easy to create.

Because of these ideas I think the exploration of this subject will be very interesting. I am already finding the class to be promising having started reading Haroun and the Sea of Stories. My hope that this class will exceed any expectations I come with, which I would bet it will.