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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
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.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
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.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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.
"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.
Monday, March 1, 2010
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 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?
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