The labyrinth is a mythical manifestation of the spiral concept, but while the labyrinth has its minotaur or sphinx (as in Harry Potter), the spiral is its own monster. Heroes attempt to maneuver the labyrinth and conquer the beast within, while the spiral captures and manipulates. All become victims to the spiral. If the sea is a labyrinth, then perhaps leviathan and the whale are its monsters. But the sea also holds spiraling vortexes, sucking in unsuspecting victims to its watery depths.
Wayne - More to come . . .
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Leviathan and Labyrinth
Interesting to see how pop culture revels in and appropriates the images and archetypes of myth. Here is an explanation of something to do with Hellraiser (I actually don't know what this is; must look it up), something I found when searching for Leviathan and Labyrinth together because for some reason I associate with both closely, and therefore wondered if anyone else did.
Random thoughts on labyrinths and spirals
The labyrinth works as a truncation of the quest phase of myth. The quest itself becomes or is representative of the labyrinth. While labyrinths are more often metaphorical than literal, the psychological implications are the same for each.
The connection of the concept of labyrinth with that of the spiral is inherent, yet while the spiral is a relatively predictable pattern and the labyrinth is determinedly mysterious in its wendings, the predictability of the spiral is still associated with the idea of spiraling down into madness, chaos, fear, and uncontrollability, and the unmapped paths of the labyrinth suggest that somewhere in them lies a definitive goal, a final stopping place, the reaching of a reachable objective, thus implying order and linearity. Illogically, the form of each is the antithesis of its actual or connotative meaning and conclusion. The spiral is a naturally occurring concept and image, while the labyrinth is man-made, consciously designed and thus knowable. Both are often associated with downward movement, but what this means, I don’t yet know.
The connection of the concept of labyrinth with that of the spiral is inherent, yet while the spiral is a relatively predictable pattern and the labyrinth is determinedly mysterious in its wendings, the predictability of the spiral is still associated with the idea of spiraling down into madness, chaos, fear, and uncontrollability, and the unmapped paths of the labyrinth suggest that somewhere in them lies a definitive goal, a final stopping place, the reaching of a reachable objective, thus implying order and linearity. Illogically, the form of each is the antithesis of its actual or connotative meaning and conclusion. The spiral is a naturally occurring concept and image, while the labyrinth is man-made, consciously designed and thus knowable. Both are often associated with downward movement, but what this means, I don’t yet know.
Review of The Mythological Unconscious
Book review on The Mythological Unconscious (By Michael Vannoy Adams; Reviewed by Dennis Patrick Slattery) which includes some interesting quotes from Jung and useful references to the labyrinth and spiral. Here is the excerpt which intrigued me:
For students of mythology, especially, but not exclusively, chapters on the Centaur, Pegasus, the Bull, the Minotaur, the Unicorn and the Griffin envisioned in myth, literature and dream provide some provocative bridges between the poetic, mythic and personal imaginations. These figures, often given their own chapter, constitute the bulk of the book's content. Without stating it directly, Adams' study is concerned with the richness of the imaginationís ability and propensity to engage in what Aristotle called a mimetic action. Mimesis was understood as a making, a forming and shaping into a coherent form some construction or image, from what had been suggested or confronted in daily life, or had been imagined out of whole cloth by one's individual imagination. Part of the suggestion here is that the unconscious may not only be mythological but poetic at ground level.
By keeping the reader closely involved with these mythic images, Adams describes how the psyche seeks a confluence of experiences that graze around a central image to make sense of experience, be its source imbedded in dream, literature, mythology or waking life. He quotes Jung half way through his discussion: "symbols function to transform libido, or psychic energy." (This is what he means by "symbols of transformation.") (p.236) Given the metamorphic nature of symbols, their strength seems to rest in their power, Jung continues, "to act as transformers, their function being to convert libido from a lower to a higheríform." (p.236) Such a transformation suggests that the energy of libido can be raised to a mythic or symbolic level. Jung's interest in the transformative nature of symbols suggests that energy from libido is altered, refined, shaped into a higher form of consciousness, which may be termed symbolic.
In fact, the symbolic nature of the psyche reaches into the heart of Adams' explorations, which use individual dreams, including his own, as major texts throughout the study. Here he is careful to make some clear distinctions between mythological and archetypal dreams. His idea is that all mythic dreams are archetypal, but not all archetypal dreams are mythological. (p.245) He takes this opportunity to point out a common error regarding archetypes, an error worth noting. Again, and this is one of the strongest qualities of his study, he returns to Jung's own words for us to contemplate: "It is necessary to point out once more that archetypes are not determined as regards their content, but only as regards their form, and then only to a very limited degree." (p.246) Adams underscores Jung's insistent distinction: archetypes are not images. An image becomes archetypal only when it functions as the specific content of an archetype, but the image that serves this purpose only occasionally is not the archetype. While the archetypes are more akin to "constant forms," the archetypal image is are "particular contents of these forms." This difference is well-known to Jungians, but for many entering the deep waters of Jung's Collected Works, it is a difference worth repeating.
This important distinction Adams leverages into the foreground of his study and keeps it there. The distinction offers rich possibilities for investigating the nature of poetic form in poetry, mimesis as the heart of poetic action, and the nature of poetic coherence in a narrative. It also allows one to muse that perhaps poetry, as much if not more than dreams and mythic images by themselves, takes up the material world in language in such a way that it leads psyche back to these primordial forms. Such may be poetryís archetypal fundament and its most intimate association with the paradoxical world of mythology.
Also central to his study, in addition to the images mentioned above, are the shapes or structures of the labyrinth and the spiral, which he investigates through Freud and Jung, as well as the thought of James Grotstein. What emerges from his discussion is a provocative connection between, for example, the labyrinth and the interior of the body. A strength of the study resides in the manner in which Adams will offer several major thinkersí interpretations of the same theme; the overall effect is a large and sustained comparative approach to psyche and myth, all finding their common ground in the unconscious. "For Freud (and at least some contemporary Freudians), the mythological unconscious is ultimately an anatomical unconscious." (p.268) One can easily make some connections between Freud and Joseph Campbell's work on mythology and the organs of the body through what Adams evoked here in psyche's anatomical unconscious. Campbell's fundamental belief that mythology has its genesis "in the energies of the organs of the body in conflict with each other." (The Power of Myth. New York: Doubleday, 1988, p. 39)
He also treats the spiral well through both his own insights and those of Jung: "According to him[Jung] the analytic process is not linear but circular (or cyclical), or, more accurately, spiral, and finally centripetal." (p.279) The spiral is the sine qua non archetypal image for psychological development. In Dante's Commedia, for instance, this image is essential for the pilgrim's progress through the territories of Inferno and Purgatorio, both of which consist of continuous spiral movements as they lead to the central image of the Griffin in Paradiso. This same spiraling assumes the form of the whirlpool generated by the white whale in Melville's epic Moby-Dick as it pulls the Pequod with its entire crew down into the realms of the unfathomable Pacific ocean, leaving only Ishmael, swirling and spiraling at the margins of the whirlpool, finally popping to the surface and rescued to tell the tale of the hunt to us.
For students of mythology, especially, but not exclusively, chapters on the Centaur, Pegasus, the Bull, the Minotaur, the Unicorn and the Griffin envisioned in myth, literature and dream provide some provocative bridges between the poetic, mythic and personal imaginations. These figures, often given their own chapter, constitute the bulk of the book's content. Without stating it directly, Adams' study is concerned with the richness of the imaginationís ability and propensity to engage in what Aristotle called a mimetic action. Mimesis was understood as a making, a forming and shaping into a coherent form some construction or image, from what had been suggested or confronted in daily life, or had been imagined out of whole cloth by one's individual imagination. Part of the suggestion here is that the unconscious may not only be mythological but poetic at ground level.
By keeping the reader closely involved with these mythic images, Adams describes how the psyche seeks a confluence of experiences that graze around a central image to make sense of experience, be its source imbedded in dream, literature, mythology or waking life. He quotes Jung half way through his discussion: "symbols function to transform libido, or psychic energy." (This is what he means by "symbols of transformation.") (p.236) Given the metamorphic nature of symbols, their strength seems to rest in their power, Jung continues, "to act as transformers, their function being to convert libido from a lower to a higheríform." (p.236) Such a transformation suggests that the energy of libido can be raised to a mythic or symbolic level. Jung's interest in the transformative nature of symbols suggests that energy from libido is altered, refined, shaped into a higher form of consciousness, which may be termed symbolic.
In fact, the symbolic nature of the psyche reaches into the heart of Adams' explorations, which use individual dreams, including his own, as major texts throughout the study. Here he is careful to make some clear distinctions between mythological and archetypal dreams. His idea is that all mythic dreams are archetypal, but not all archetypal dreams are mythological. (p.245) He takes this opportunity to point out a common error regarding archetypes, an error worth noting. Again, and this is one of the strongest qualities of his study, he returns to Jung's own words for us to contemplate: "It is necessary to point out once more that archetypes are not determined as regards their content, but only as regards their form, and then only to a very limited degree." (p.246) Adams underscores Jung's insistent distinction: archetypes are not images. An image becomes archetypal only when it functions as the specific content of an archetype, but the image that serves this purpose only occasionally is not the archetype. While the archetypes are more akin to "constant forms," the archetypal image is are "particular contents of these forms." This difference is well-known to Jungians, but for many entering the deep waters of Jung's Collected Works, it is a difference worth repeating.
This important distinction Adams leverages into the foreground of his study and keeps it there. The distinction offers rich possibilities for investigating the nature of poetic form in poetry, mimesis as the heart of poetic action, and the nature of poetic coherence in a narrative. It also allows one to muse that perhaps poetry, as much if not more than dreams and mythic images by themselves, takes up the material world in language in such a way that it leads psyche back to these primordial forms. Such may be poetryís archetypal fundament and its most intimate association with the paradoxical world of mythology.
Also central to his study, in addition to the images mentioned above, are the shapes or structures of the labyrinth and the spiral, which he investigates through Freud and Jung, as well as the thought of James Grotstein. What emerges from his discussion is a provocative connection between, for example, the labyrinth and the interior of the body. A strength of the study resides in the manner in which Adams will offer several major thinkersí interpretations of the same theme; the overall effect is a large and sustained comparative approach to psyche and myth, all finding their common ground in the unconscious. "For Freud (and at least some contemporary Freudians), the mythological unconscious is ultimately an anatomical unconscious." (p.268) One can easily make some connections between Freud and Joseph Campbell's work on mythology and the organs of the body through what Adams evoked here in psyche's anatomical unconscious. Campbell's fundamental belief that mythology has its genesis "in the energies of the organs of the body in conflict with each other." (The Power of Myth. New York: Doubleday, 1988, p. 39)
He also treats the spiral well through both his own insights and those of Jung: "According to him[Jung] the analytic process is not linear but circular (or cyclical), or, more accurately, spiral, and finally centripetal." (p.279) The spiral is the sine qua non archetypal image for psychological development. In Dante's Commedia, for instance, this image is essential for the pilgrim's progress through the territories of Inferno and Purgatorio, both of which consist of continuous spiral movements as they lead to the central image of the Griffin in Paradiso. This same spiraling assumes the form of the whirlpool generated by the white whale in Melville's epic Moby-Dick as it pulls the Pequod with its entire crew down into the realms of the unfathomable Pacific ocean, leaving only Ishmael, swirling and spiraling at the margins of the whirlpool, finally popping to the surface and rescued to tell the tale of the hunt to us.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Dreams: My Mother Won't Leave Me Alone
To all my dream analysts (it's a good thing I don't have to pay you . . .): Last night I had another dream where I was having a conversation with my mother about very mundane things. So boring and ordinary, I can't remember what they were. This is not the kind of conversation I ever have with my mother. Lately, I've been talking to my mother in my dreams far more than I ever do in real life.
When we look at patterns in literature and in life, when we talk about not knowing the story we are in, what does it mean that my pattern is the same as my mother's? I don't know what story it is, but the log rolls down the hill and I can't stop it. I am sometimes conscious that I am about to make one of the same choices or mistakes that she made, and yet I do it anyway, as if I were not in control. If we are all in a story, I think Dylan knew his. "The radio says the good times are killing me but I'm not afraid to die." - written shortly before his death. But what does it mean to find these patterns? What do we do with them? (I know I sound like a broken record and I've been writing in cliches all day, but I can't quite answer these questions and I can't quite ignore them either. Help is appreciated.)
By the way, if my morbid talk bothers you, let me know and I'll try to lighten things up. I'm really sorry. Everything in these classes is hitting too close to home for me to ignore. I can't seem to talk about these topics without talking about death, loss, and chaos.
When we look at patterns in literature and in life, when we talk about not knowing the story we are in, what does it mean that my pattern is the same as my mother's? I don't know what story it is, but the log rolls down the hill and I can't stop it. I am sometimes conscious that I am about to make one of the same choices or mistakes that she made, and yet I do it anyway, as if I were not in control. If we are all in a story, I think Dylan knew his. "The radio says the good times are killing me but I'm not afraid to die." - written shortly before his death. But what does it mean to find these patterns? What do we do with them? (I know I sound like a broken record and I've been writing in cliches all day, but I can't quite answer these questions and I can't quite ignore them either. Help is appreciated.)
By the way, if my morbid talk bothers you, let me know and I'll try to lighten things up. I'm really sorry. Everything in these classes is hitting too close to home for me to ignore. I can't seem to talk about these topics without talking about death, loss, and chaos.
550: Surrealism
I have appreciated elements of surrealism in fiction for a long time (Aimee Bender, Tom Robbins, Chuck Palahniuk, Haruki Murakami, and Ryu Murakami, to name a few), and while I enjoyed some of the poets I looked up, I have had a little difficulty getting into Michael Earl Craig’s Yes, Master. What I like about surrealism is the feeling I get from it; it manipulates my feelings, yet I can’t always explain very well how or why. I can try to describe my feelings after reading it, but cannot seem to tie them to anything in particular about the poem, much less find any decipherable meaning in the poems. It may sound corny, but I am sympathetic to the methods of surrealism, even if I don’t always agree with the reasoning behind it (well, sometimes that, too). I can be a bit of an anarchist, if that is not too anachronistic to say. I feel rebellious towards categories, genres, modes, rules, and expectations, sense and censoring, in the realm of literature. I feel that both literature and experience are too complicated to divide cleanly into discrete sections or order with too many rules, much like I don’t understand people who don’t like different foods touching each other or who have to eat all of one kind of food before moving on to the next. Give me food that is enhanced by the food around it, layer and sauce it up. Give me casserole. If it tastes good, I’m not much concerned about what’s in it or how it’s made. And the person who made it probably couldn’t duplicate it if they tried. And that’s okay.
Surrealism is so simple in its concept that I would suggest it must be actually very difficult to do well. Anyone can string together disparate images, stream-of-consciousness narratives, idiosyncrasies, or non-sequiturs, but not anyone can do this in a truly evocative way. Though, I have to admit, I’m still not sure how to read or judge surrealist verse. What should I be looking for? How do I discern mediocrity from genius? How much can a surrealist poem really be analyzed (at least where meaning is concerned)? What do we do with only the occasional surreal moment? Actually, I think the unexpectedly surreal pleases me the most. This is why I love Haruki Murakami. His novels, no matter how many surreal elements, phrases, characters, moments, are usually intensely grounded in the tangible and very real kind of world where you can’t go off on an adventure without having someone to take care of your cat or where you have to wash dishes and buy groceries, travel takes time and some days are really boring. Then the surreal bits kick in and you see the mundane world in a whole new light, oceans of possibilities, rivers of meaning flood your mind. It’s exhilarating and wonderful.
Neruda has been a favorite of mine for a few years now, but for some reason, I never thought of him as a Surrealist. After Dylan passed away, it was a while before I could read anything. Nothing made sense. Because Dylan and I had read Neruda together for a class the year before and had both enjoyed his work (and because Dylan, in fact, dabbled in surrealism, taking images from dreams and hallucinations, delighting in taking the reader on a mental trip through unexplored territory, where elephants dance on ceilings, where discussion of fall foliage leads to condemnation of the mindlessly wealthy), I finally decided to start with that. And somehow, the way Neruda talks about death, and love, and life, in its insanity, in its surrealism, made sense. The real had become surreal to me, and thus the surreal became real and resonated like nothing else could at the time. I think this has a lot to do with the fact that war marked many Surrealist poets and artists. With so much senseless bloodshed and violence, rules and order become meaningless and devoid of the necessary communicative or restorative powers. In the presence or aftermath of this kind of horror, I think that we need to believe in something beyond our puny, conscious, decision-making, destructive, killing selves; we need to believe that there is something yet that is beautiful and honest, even if we can’t control it or can’t fully comprehend it.
Getting back to Michael Earl Craig, I take back my initial hesitation. I enjoyed reading his work, even if it confounded me. I particularly liked “Notes on Robert Musil,” “We Picture the President,” “Axiom,” “Piece,” “I’ll Fight Depression for You,” and “Ways of Dealing.” And while I can point out lines that brought me up short or muse on feelings for a while, I can’t seem to describe or analyze these in any sensible way. And I think that’s the way it should be. Sometimes the quest for explicit meaning robs the joy of the journey. Surrealism is a trip I like to take sometimes, but I can’t give you directions.
Surrealism is so simple in its concept that I would suggest it must be actually very difficult to do well. Anyone can string together disparate images, stream-of-consciousness narratives, idiosyncrasies, or non-sequiturs, but not anyone can do this in a truly evocative way. Though, I have to admit, I’m still not sure how to read or judge surrealist verse. What should I be looking for? How do I discern mediocrity from genius? How much can a surrealist poem really be analyzed (at least where meaning is concerned)? What do we do with only the occasional surreal moment? Actually, I think the unexpectedly surreal pleases me the most. This is why I love Haruki Murakami. His novels, no matter how many surreal elements, phrases, characters, moments, are usually intensely grounded in the tangible and very real kind of world where you can’t go off on an adventure without having someone to take care of your cat or where you have to wash dishes and buy groceries, travel takes time and some days are really boring. Then the surreal bits kick in and you see the mundane world in a whole new light, oceans of possibilities, rivers of meaning flood your mind. It’s exhilarating and wonderful.
Neruda has been a favorite of mine for a few years now, but for some reason, I never thought of him as a Surrealist. After Dylan passed away, it was a while before I could read anything. Nothing made sense. Because Dylan and I had read Neruda together for a class the year before and had both enjoyed his work (and because Dylan, in fact, dabbled in surrealism, taking images from dreams and hallucinations, delighting in taking the reader on a mental trip through unexplored territory, where elephants dance on ceilings, where discussion of fall foliage leads to condemnation of the mindlessly wealthy), I finally decided to start with that. And somehow, the way Neruda talks about death, and love, and life, in its insanity, in its surrealism, made sense. The real had become surreal to me, and thus the surreal became real and resonated like nothing else could at the time. I think this has a lot to do with the fact that war marked many Surrealist poets and artists. With so much senseless bloodshed and violence, rules and order become meaningless and devoid of the necessary communicative or restorative powers. In the presence or aftermath of this kind of horror, I think that we need to believe in something beyond our puny, conscious, decision-making, destructive, killing selves; we need to believe that there is something yet that is beautiful and honest, even if we can’t control it or can’t fully comprehend it.
Getting back to Michael Earl Craig, I take back my initial hesitation. I enjoyed reading his work, even if it confounded me. I particularly liked “Notes on Robert Musil,” “We Picture the President,” “Axiom,” “Piece,” “I’ll Fight Depression for You,” and “Ways of Dealing.” And while I can point out lines that brought me up short or muse on feelings for a while, I can’t seem to describe or analyze these in any sensible way. And I think that’s the way it should be. Sometimes the quest for explicit meaning robs the joy of the journey. Surrealism is a trip I like to take sometimes, but I can’t give you directions.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Dream: They won't let me in
Small scene from a larger dream. The rest is gone; this remains:
I walk by an open door and look in. It appears to be a church, Catholic, probably, although I've never been in a Catholic church. It is full of people sitting in pews, and at the front of the room, on a platform is Dylan, playing his guitar. At least I can see him playing, but I can't hear anything. I can't believe that it is really him, and I try to enter the room. I want to hear him play; I want to talk to him. But the doorman stops me and refuses to let me in. I protest to no avail. The doorman does not give any reasons; in fact, I'm not sure he speaks at all, but he is adamant that I not be allowed in. I think I can see a youngish clergyman at the front of the room but below Dylan and off to the side, like he is supervising. I think Dylan might have seen me, but I have to go away because they will not let me in.
I walk by an open door and look in. It appears to be a church, Catholic, probably, although I've never been in a Catholic church. It is full of people sitting in pews, and at the front of the room, on a platform is Dylan, playing his guitar. At least I can see him playing, but I can't hear anything. I can't believe that it is really him, and I try to enter the room. I want to hear him play; I want to talk to him. But the doorman stops me and refuses to let me in. I protest to no avail. The doorman does not give any reasons; in fact, I'm not sure he speaks at all, but he is adamant that I not be allowed in. I think I can see a youngish clergyman at the front of the room but below Dylan and off to the side, like he is supervising. I think Dylan might have seen me, but I have to go away because they will not let me in.
A Dream Within a Dream - Edgar Allan Poe
Last night I was watching a film called "The Black Cat," about Edgar Allan Poe, and in it the actor playing Mr. Poe recited from this poem. And of course we are back to Shakespeare as well. Seemed appropriate.
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Edgar Allan Poe
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Edgar Allan Poe
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Psyche: Images and Shadows, Snakes and Mirrors
This section of Hillman most clearly, to me, seemed like a call to attend to the psyche, which I understand as that which is deeper, unspoken, intangible, non-literal, not obvious, and must be sought as opposed to the appearance and existence of the dayworld which is much more on a surface level, things taken at face value. The psyche is the ideation of the underworld, and therefore, we associate it with shadows, yet not normal shadows cast by light (because we must get to the more metaphoric kinds of understanding). Logically, Hillman asks,
How can there be shadows in the dark? The problem is very much like trying to sense the movement of one's own shadow. Trying to catch a glimmer in the shape behind the scenes [etymologically, Hillman says that the Greek versions of shadow "skia" and scene are related], to tune into what else is going on in what seems to be a natural action or simple conversation is precisely "trying to see shadows in the dark." It is to notice the fantasy in the moment, to witness the psyche's shadow play in our unconscious daily living. - 52, my emphasis
It is here that I feel Hillman is seconding the notion brought up in class relative to Frye: OF COURSE WE HAVE TO READ INTO THINGS, for this is how meaning is created, how meaning becomes, how we enter into the meaning of a text. Which moves me nicely back to the labyrinth. Two paragraphs down, Hillman writes,
So again, entering the underworld is like entering the mode of reflection, mirroring, which suggests that we may enter the underworld by means of reflection, by reflective means: pausing, pondering, change of pace, voice, or glance, dropping levels. Such reflection is less willed and directed; it is less determinedly introspective like a heroic descent into the underworld to see what is going on there. - 52
The labyrinth Daedelus designed for Minos required descent under the palace; other incarnations of labyrinth suggest descent into chaos or madness, the depths of human existence, the depth psychology of Hillman. In the film Uzumaki, this labyrinth imagery is further connected to the idea of mirroring, of reflection, when a character carefully places a mythically-infused mirror into a washing machine before going down to experience and die in its vortex. He also films himself doing this. As other characters are trying to decipher the meaning in this, they discover that the word transliterated "kagami" is the same, although written differently, set of syllables used to mean both mirror and snake, the snake's coils being a natural version of the uzumaki or spiral. The whole town in this film is slowly being sucked into or possessed by the uzumaki, something most are unable to recognize because they are living so fully on the surface, without a depth of and for reflection. Sometimes when we descend deep into reflection, we lose ourselves, we lose the dayworld in the spiralling, pulling interconnectedness. And that is as it should be, for as Hillman argues, we must leave the dayworld meanings behind us and seek the metaphoric in our underworld imaginings.
How can there be shadows in the dark? The problem is very much like trying to sense the movement of one's own shadow. Trying to catch a glimmer in the shape behind the scenes [etymologically, Hillman says that the Greek versions of shadow "skia" and scene are related], to tune into what else is going on in what seems to be a natural action or simple conversation is precisely "trying to see shadows in the dark." It is to notice the fantasy in the moment, to witness the psyche's shadow play in our unconscious daily living. - 52, my emphasis
It is here that I feel Hillman is seconding the notion brought up in class relative to Frye: OF COURSE WE HAVE TO READ INTO THINGS, for this is how meaning is created, how meaning becomes, how we enter into the meaning of a text. Which moves me nicely back to the labyrinth. Two paragraphs down, Hillman writes,
So again, entering the underworld is like entering the mode of reflection, mirroring, which suggests that we may enter the underworld by means of reflection, by reflective means: pausing, pondering, change of pace, voice, or glance, dropping levels. Such reflection is less willed and directed; it is less determinedly introspective like a heroic descent into the underworld to see what is going on there. - 52
The labyrinth Daedelus designed for Minos required descent under the palace; other incarnations of labyrinth suggest descent into chaos or madness, the depths of human existence, the depth psychology of Hillman. In the film Uzumaki, this labyrinth imagery is further connected to the idea of mirroring, of reflection, when a character carefully places a mythically-infused mirror into a washing machine before going down to experience and die in its vortex. He also films himself doing this. As other characters are trying to decipher the meaning in this, they discover that the word transliterated "kagami" is the same, although written differently, set of syllables used to mean both mirror and snake, the snake's coils being a natural version of the uzumaki or spiral. The whole town in this film is slowly being sucked into or possessed by the uzumaki, something most are unable to recognize because they are living so fully on the surface, without a depth of and for reflection. Sometimes when we descend deep into reflection, we lose ourselves, we lose the dayworld in the spiralling, pulling interconnectedness. And that is as it should be, for as Hillman argues, we must leave the dayworld meanings behind us and seek the metaphoric in our underworld imaginings.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
550: Chasing the Dragon
The following is inspired by the Chris Ellis poem of previous postings. I was at first most concerned with sound work as that is what at first drew me to Ellis' verse; somehow the sense followed. "Chasing the Dragon" is my tentative title, in homage to Ellis' "Finding the Dragon," and as I was also interested in the idea of addiction, the evocation of an opium den pleased me.
Coffee is percolating; clouds
of grounds infest the festive
waters in the press. I have
ground the beans and boiled
the water, measured, poured,
and waited. The silty silky-brown
scent of a dense, humid clime assaults
the anxious senses as I pace the
square squat rented rooms. The
drowsy feline seems to pay me no
mind as I will the elapse of minutes,
the evisceration of time until my
morning dew settles in a tacky mug,
unfit for ambrosia. Dust motes
tangle in the sunlight, vying for the
thrill of not landing first, basking in
being, rebelling as they float beyond
dictates of space, time, or gravity.
The cat has noticed them, though,
as the tense muscles in her hind legs
attest, watching, waiting for them to pose
more of a threat to her slumber. My life
quickens anew as the caffeinated
brew begins its dirty work.
Coffee is percolating; clouds
of grounds infest the festive
waters in the press. I have
ground the beans and boiled
the water, measured, poured,
and waited. The silty silky-brown
scent of a dense, humid clime assaults
the anxious senses as I pace the
square squat rented rooms. The
drowsy feline seems to pay me no
mind as I will the elapse of minutes,
the evisceration of time until my
morning dew settles in a tacky mug,
unfit for ambrosia. Dust motes
tangle in the sunlight, vying for the
thrill of not landing first, basking in
being, rebelling as they float beyond
dictates of space, time, or gravity.
The cat has noticed them, though,
as the tense muscles in her hind legs
attest, watching, waiting for them to pose
more of a threat to her slumber. My life
quickens anew as the caffeinated
brew begins its dirty work.
550: Shoeless at the Sweatshop
This poem is a parody of one on Valpo Review. If you have read the source, you will probably recognize it.
With 14 lines and one instance of endline repetition, I'm guessing this is a bastardized sonnet. I could go on and on about how much I dislike the original, but I might offend some.
This one is for Jack.
SHOELESS AT THE SWEATSHOP
Shoes on the bench. Toe the perfect
line of grey Mister Marks, the harsh
taskmaster of red blood-stained fingers:
stretch their white knuckles right into an arch.
Contemplate your knobby knees
covered in undone black leather piece work.
Weep at the weeks and years
lost this way, where two feel like ten.
Stare at indecipherable symbols: you could
learn to read them in school, not here. Sore
young feet desirous of first shoes; cuts,
bruises aching to heal; feet
trapped under the workbench; feet
bare of shoes.
With 14 lines and one instance of endline repetition, I'm guessing this is a bastardized sonnet. I could go on and on about how much I dislike the original, but I might offend some.
This one is for Jack.
SHOELESS AT THE SWEATSHOP
Shoes on the bench. Toe the perfect
line of grey Mister Marks, the harsh
taskmaster of red blood-stained fingers:
stretch their white knuckles right into an arch.
Contemplate your knobby knees
covered in undone black leather piece work.
Weep at the weeks and years
lost this way, where two feel like ten.
Stare at indecipherable symbols: you could
learn to read them in school, not here. Sore
young feet desirous of first shoes; cuts,
bruises aching to heal; feet
trapped under the workbench; feet
bare of shoes.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Romance: Death and Ecstasy
I found a website with a useful comparative chart of the stages of each mythos from Frye: romance, tragedy, comedy, and irony & satire. His discussion of each then receives its own page. My group's presentation is on Romance.
In seemingly unrelated thoughts, I read Yukio Mishima's short story, "Patriotism," last night and was struck by the feeling of myth which pervaded it. "Patriotism" tells the story of the ritual suicide of a young military man, Shinji, and his wife, Reiko. My initial thought was to place it in the realm of tragedy, but now I am reconsidering. Although it ends in two deaths, the deaths are meant to keep the couple together, and are shown as honorable, worthy of respect, admiration, and even celebration, like marriage is in romance or comedy. Purity and propriety are very important to these characters and the reader is shown nothing to suggest any hypocrisy. Shinji has an almost romantic notion of loyalty to empire. If the husband is the hero, then a life without conviction might be the enemy. After looking at the clear descriptions on the above Frye website, I'm thinking now that it might fall more into the realm of irony and satire. After some more thought, I will try to further explicate this. I agree with Charity that it may be important to expand our discussion of archeypal criticism to include examples from outside of the Western tradition. At least if this means of organizing and discussing literature is to be meaningful for me, I would like to see a broader application. If archetypes go beyond Greek and biblical myth, then perhaps they have some origin in humanity. Like I said in my response to Breeman, stories are our way to make sense of life and thereby to make sense of death. Mortality is an essential element of the definition of human.
In seemingly unrelated thoughts, I read Yukio Mishima's short story, "Patriotism," last night and was struck by the feeling of myth which pervaded it. "Patriotism" tells the story of the ritual suicide of a young military man, Shinji, and his wife, Reiko. My initial thought was to place it in the realm of tragedy, but now I am reconsidering. Although it ends in two deaths, the deaths are meant to keep the couple together, and are shown as honorable, worthy of respect, admiration, and even celebration, like marriage is in romance or comedy. Purity and propriety are very important to these characters and the reader is shown nothing to suggest any hypocrisy. Shinji has an almost romantic notion of loyalty to empire. If the husband is the hero, then a life without conviction might be the enemy. After looking at the clear descriptions on the above Frye website, I'm thinking now that it might fall more into the realm of irony and satire. After some more thought, I will try to further explicate this. I agree with Charity that it may be important to expand our discussion of archeypal criticism to include examples from outside of the Western tradition. At least if this means of organizing and discussing literature is to be meaningful for me, I would like to see a broader application. If archetypes go beyond Greek and biblical myth, then perhaps they have some origin in humanity. Like I said in my response to Breeman, stories are our way to make sense of life and thereby to make sense of death. Mortality is an essential element of the definition of human.
Monday, February 12, 2007
550: Sea swirling like a labyrinth unfurling
“Finding the Dragon” by Chris Ellis
Chris Ellis’ “Finding the Dragon” caught me from the first stanza with its rhythmic, repetitive, almost incantatory sound. The silky alliteration of "How silent the sea sounds" is immediately followed by the cleverly effective manipulation, even inversion, of inland and island, and then, without a break, the "churlish surge" is upon me. I love the sound, the feel, the sense of being lost or in an untamed world. I also have close connections to the main myth that I feel has been displaced in this poem, that of Theseus and the minotaur, because I am named after King Minos’ daughter, Ariadne, who aided Theseus in his successful maneuvering of the labyrinth and his triumph over the beast. Also, the images of the labyrinth and the spiral, ideas of chaos, order, and spinning out of control are captivating me right now. I like that the poem exudes an air of mystery, depth, and wildness, and that it is observant rather than active. It doesn’t tell me how to think or feel, but it shows thought and feeling. Ultimately, I'm fascinated by Ellis’ manipulation of sound, though sometimes I feel it more than I can express it.
Chris Ellis’ “Finding the Dragon” caught me from the first stanza with its rhythmic, repetitive, almost incantatory sound. The silky alliteration of "How silent the sea sounds" is immediately followed by the cleverly effective manipulation, even inversion, of inland and island, and then, without a break, the "churlish surge" is upon me. I love the sound, the feel, the sense of being lost or in an untamed world. I also have close connections to the main myth that I feel has been displaced in this poem, that of Theseus and the minotaur, because I am named after King Minos’ daughter, Ariadne, who aided Theseus in his successful maneuvering of the labyrinth and his triumph over the beast. Also, the images of the labyrinth and the spiral, ideas of chaos, order, and spinning out of control are captivating me right now. I like that the poem exudes an air of mystery, depth, and wildness, and that it is observant rather than active. It doesn’t tell me how to think or feel, but it shows thought and feeling. Ultimately, I'm fascinated by Ellis’ manipulation of sound, though sometimes I feel it more than I can express it.
The density of sound, image, and association is palpable. I felt this poem as much as I read it. And although I've never been to the Caribbean or to Greece, this poem can somehow take me to both places at the same time. With regard to the mythological subtext, the "stringless" speaker of the poem seems to be an anti-Theseus, bearing no weapon or guide or safety line, only bait, ripe bananas, journeying just for the sake of "finding the dragon," of maneuvering through the maze, no taming, or slaying or chasing involved. He courts the privilege of seeing the monster, but has no latent intent or desire to harm or otherwise subjugate. This seems to be a case of fascination and allure of the rare or appeal of the difficult rather than fear and blind daring such as we see with Theseus.
The "no sealing wax" image takes me to another sea, to Lewis Carroll, where the monsters are more mundane, but no less vicious in their silliness:
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
The mention of wax might be out of place if it did not so vividly bring to mind other poems and other stories, such as Carroll’s “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” and the tale of Icarus whose wings held together with wax were his (pardon the pun) downfall. Interestingly enough, this myth is also closely related to that of the minotaur, for both involved King Minos, the labyrinth, and the island of Crete. Which might also bring us to the birds populating Ellis’ poem. Yet we are not on Crete or on the bottom of the sea; our labyrinth is made of powerful, untamed plant life which seem almost as dangerous as any proposed dragon: "delinquent papaya, feral coconuts . . . yucca-like succulents . . . snarls of stickery vine."
The mention of wax might be out of place if it did not so vividly bring to mind other poems and other stories, such as Carroll’s “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” and the tale of Icarus whose wings held together with wax were his (pardon the pun) downfall. Interestingly enough, this myth is also closely related to that of the minotaur, for both involved King Minos, the labyrinth, and the island of Crete. Which might also bring us to the birds populating Ellis’ poem. Yet we are not on Crete or on the bottom of the sea; our labyrinth is made of powerful, untamed plant life which seem almost as dangerous as any proposed dragon: "delinquent papaya, feral coconuts . . . yucca-like succulents . . . snarls of stickery vine."
I’m delighted by Ellis’ use of interior rhyme (or near rhyme) in stanzas three and seven, and the occasional tongue-twister: yucca-like succulents, pink flick, obsidian ellipses, shushing dry brush, oddly aqualine cabocons. The repetition of tasting reminds me of checking a sound system: “Testing, testing.” This works as a transition to the idea of touchstone (a word I had to look up to more fully understand). According to the OED, a touchstone “tries the genuineness or value of something” and is black or dark which takes me back to the obsidian ellipses. I’m not sure I even know what this stanza is about, but it seems to work with metaphors to maintain the mysterious, almost alchemistical atmosphere of the poem.
Finally, I am intrigued by the possessive phrase “my summer warblers” in the last stanza. Again, I’m not sure what to do with it, what to make of it, but it seems to shift the whole poem for me somehow. Also, the reference to summer takes me back to the birds in the fifth stanza who are called “winter cousins.” These opposing references are almost disconcerting.
550: Valparaiso Review Choice
As Melanie said, here's my choice. Discussion to come. Though I do know I intend to explore the labyrinth and minotaur imagery here. Perhaps finding the dragon is just as important as defeating it. Maybe too much empahsis is often placed on the slaying aspect of the monster archetype. It exists for a reason, but the monster serves an important role. Here I go blending. I can't help it.
Finding the Dragon
by Chris Ellis
How silent the sea sounds,
inland on this island, the churlish
surge dampened outside this ruined
plantation. I have walked
a black track, stringless,
no sealing wax, bearing only
bananas, their yellow smell ripe
in Caribbean air. There,
where the asphalt bleeds
into sand, this is where I was told
he would be. By the sea,
some forgotten foundation,
an old groundskeeper's cave,
limestone slabs tipped by delinquent
papaya, feral coconuts pressing
native palms for each acre
of sky. Migrant warblers flip,
off bananaquits, winter cousins weaving
a dense mat of yucca-like succulents, quarreling
among snarls of stickery vine. There are eyes
watching, oddly aqualine cabocons,
vertically slit. That dead bough might stir,
from some stray ray, sun spangling
stripped bark into beaded brown
leather, cold blood warmed
on gold stone. I might hear
that ancient gait, each step
intent, and the serpentine twist,
a long tail shushing dry brush. Maybe
see the saurian face, dewlap unfurling
a masculine flag, the meaty tongue's
pink flick, tasting, tasting.
Obsidian ellipses slant
my landscape, touchstones
spiraling on updrafts.
I lob my last bit of banana
back at a vacant grove,
to some unseen iguana
lost among relics, deadfall
scattered under sentinel stones
overthrown by the sweet
thrill of my summer
warblers, the sloe scent
of cherries.
© by Chris Ellis
Finding the Dragon
by Chris Ellis
How silent the sea sounds,
inland on this island, the churlish
surge dampened outside this ruined
plantation. I have walked
a black track, stringless,
no sealing wax, bearing only
bananas, their yellow smell ripe
in Caribbean air. There,
where the asphalt bleeds
into sand, this is where I was told
he would be. By the sea,
some forgotten foundation,
an old groundskeeper's cave,
limestone slabs tipped by delinquent
papaya, feral coconuts pressing
native palms for each acre
of sky. Migrant warblers flip,
off bananaquits, winter cousins weaving
a dense mat of yucca-like succulents, quarreling
among snarls of stickery vine. There are eyes
watching, oddly aqualine cabocons,
vertically slit. That dead bough might stir,
from some stray ray, sun spangling
stripped bark into beaded brown
leather, cold blood warmed
on gold stone. I might hear
that ancient gait, each step
intent, and the serpentine twist,
a long tail shushing dry brush. Maybe
see the saurian face, dewlap unfurling
a masculine flag, the meaty tongue's
pink flick, tasting, tasting.
Obsidian ellipses slant
my landscape, touchstones
spiraling on updrafts.
I lob my last bit of banana
back at a vacant grove,
to some unseen iguana
lost among relics, deadfall
scattered under sentinel stones
overthrown by the sweet
thrill of my summer
warblers, the sloe scent
of cherries.
© by Chris Ellis
Safety and Chaos
I’m afraid that through patterns, we are somehow looking for safety, for recognition. I always want literature to be unsafe, to find recognition perhaps, but also to not recognize. For an English-type person this may be sacrilegious, but I don’t want explanations. I want to be lost. I'm not so concerned with finding my way out. Are we trying to order the chaos of literature in an unhealthy way? Which is more instructive, order or chaos? Sometimes I think this ordering oversimplifies and demystifies that which needs a certain level of complexity, chaos, and mystification. Are we trying to tame a dragon or conquer it when we should be observing in awe?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Circle or Spiral
I'm reminded of a line from one of Dylan's (Etchingham, but named after both Bob and Thomas) songs, "Life is a circle, nothing more," though sometimes I'm inclined to view life as more of a spiral. The eerie centrality and the multiple and simlutaneous meanings and incarnations of which in the Japanese film, Uzumaki (translated Spiral or Vortex and of course, based on a manga), are places I keep going back to also. Interestingly, I also just discovered that a popular children's character (of manga and anime) from Japan who also has an audience here bears the last name Uzumaki. Coincidence? I think not. Suggestive? Important? I think so.
Like Wayne, I am interested in the labyrinth and its stories and accoutrements. To begin with, I am named after Ariadne (of Theseus, the minotaur, and the labyrinth fame). I was even noticing spiral motifs in Pan's Labyrinth which put me in mind of Uzumaki.
There is something deliciously disconcerting about the spiral, for in a 3-D form, it can traverse the same territory as before but in a different time or at a different speed, or only partially. It evokes movement even more vividly for me than does a circle. And while it can repeat itself, it can also go in unpredictable and uncontrollable directions, much like life. A circle is comforting, while a spiral is frightening, unnerving.
If I were to list my areas of intrigue at this moment which might propel themselves into a paper topic(s), I might come up with something like this:
memories, fictional dreams, spiral/circle/vortex/labyrinth
Like Wayne, I am interested in the labyrinth and its stories and accoutrements. To begin with, I am named after Ariadne (of Theseus, the minotaur, and the labyrinth fame). I was even noticing spiral motifs in Pan's Labyrinth which put me in mind of Uzumaki.
There is something deliciously disconcerting about the spiral, for in a 3-D form, it can traverse the same territory as before but in a different time or at a different speed, or only partially. It evokes movement even more vividly for me than does a circle. And while it can repeat itself, it can also go in unpredictable and uncontrollable directions, much like life. A circle is comforting, while a spiral is frightening, unnerving.
If I were to list my areas of intrigue at this moment which might propel themselves into a paper topic(s), I might come up with something like this:
memories, fictional dreams, spiral/circle/vortex/labyrinth
Questions while reading D'Aulaires'
So, I've been reading D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths to my son, and tonight, some questions occurred to me while reading. How do we treat the dreams that occur in myth and fairy-tale and literature? How are invented dreams related to/ relatable to "naturally occurring" dreams? What do we do with these created dreams, other than looking at their relationship to the other elements of the piece in which they are found?
And, while I still have my questions concerning the usefulness of analyzing archetypal patterns (What do we do with these, really? What "real" purpose does this activity serve? Is this meant to bring us to some deeper meaning or understanding of humanity, the world, or literature, or? etc.), how do we approach the origin of such patterns? Or do we? How do we account for their existence at all? What purpose do they serve? Can we ever get away from them? For example, Classical Greco-Roman mythology and the Bible have countless convergences. Does this mean that there is some kind of Ur-myth, Ur-story lurking behind it all?
Also, the term displaced forces many questions upon me. Is the "original" the proper place and the displacement improper or out of place in a negative way? If these stories are somehow central to our culture, civilization, or humanity, then from whence come the stories? Do the stories form our culture or does the culture create the stories? When is a story considered original or "placed" and what does it really mean to say displaced? What do we mean by place? I can't escape connotations of perversion (per-version?) and impropriety when I think of displaced, yet I can't help thinking that displacement isn't a bad thing. I'm confusing myself now.
And, while I still have my questions concerning the usefulness of analyzing archetypal patterns (What do we do with these, really? What "real" purpose does this activity serve? Is this meant to bring us to some deeper meaning or understanding of humanity, the world, or literature, or? etc.), how do we approach the origin of such patterns? Or do we? How do we account for their existence at all? What purpose do they serve? Can we ever get away from them? For example, Classical Greco-Roman mythology and the Bible have countless convergences. Does this mean that there is some kind of Ur-myth, Ur-story lurking behind it all?
Also, the term displaced forces many questions upon me. Is the "original" the proper place and the displacement improper or out of place in a negative way? If these stories are somehow central to our culture, civilization, or humanity, then from whence come the stories? Do the stories form our culture or does the culture create the stories? When is a story considered original or "placed" and what does it really mean to say displaced? What do we mean by place? I can't escape connotations of perversion (per-version?) and impropriety when I think of displaced, yet I can't help thinking that displacement isn't a bad thing. I'm confusing myself now.
Frye on Romance
I'm sure everyone wanted to see my ridiculous notes on Frye on Romance,
but here they are anyway. Now, when I expose my thoughts more fully, there will be
something to refer to (for me at least).
Most notes are direct quotes from Anatomy of Criticism by Northrup Frye. Page numbers
appear above the relevant section.
186
BASICS
Wish-fulfillment dream
feeds on hopes and desires; ever-present
childlike and nostalgic for a golden age
plot is adventure; the quest
187
THREE STAGES (importance of threes)
1) AGON – conflict (perilous journey and minor conflicts)
2) PATHOS – death struggle (crucial struggle ends in at least one death)
3) ANAGNORISIS – discovery (exaltation of the hero)
OTHER IMPORTANT ASPECTS OF ROMANCE
Protagonist/hero & Antagonist/enemy
Form is dialectical
Hero (upper world) --> Our world <-- Enemy (lower world)
188
Inescapable connection to solar myth and sun-god
Reading as critics vs. Reading for fun
Divine ® myth ® canonical ® heavier weight of conceptual meaning
Myth as metaphorical key to the displacements of romance
189
Dragon-killing theme
Monster/Leviathan = sterility, sin, death
190 Labyrinth in the belly
Killing monster releases former victims from belly
Ariadne figure
191
Two concentric quest-myths in the Bible
1. Genesis – apocalypse
2. Exodus – millennium
Importance of sea/water symbolism
192
If leviathan = death, then hero enters death, dies, rebirth, resurrection
Now, we have a FOUR PART QUEST-MYTH
1) AGON – conflict
2) PATHOS – death, often of both the hero and the enemy
3) SPARAGMOS – disappearance of the hero (tearing to pieces)
4) ANAGNORISIS – reappearance and recognition of hero
These are also the FOUR PARTS OF A CENTRAL UNIFYING MYTH
1) ANAGNORISIS = COMEDY
2) AGON = ROMANCE
3) PATHOS = TRAGEDY
4) SPARAGMOS = IRONY
Treasure -- wealth -- power/wisdom (prophet/oracle/sibyl) requires mutilation or
handicap
193
Quest-romance translates to
DREAM as Deliverance from anxieties of reality, but will still contain that reality
RITUAL as Victory of fertility over wasteland
195-6
CHARACTERIZATION in Romance is not usually subtle or complex
· for quest or against
· two women – duty and pleasure
· faithful companion and traitor
· heroine and siren/beautiful witch
· dragon and friendly animals
· those who are morally neutral and have connections with the natural world
197
FOUR POLES OF CHARACTERIZATION
ROMANCE COMEDY
1) hero eiron
2) enemy alazon
3) nature spirits buffoon or master of ceremonies
PURPOSE is to intensify and provide focus for romantic mood
4) ???? agroikos (rustic clown)
PURPOSE would be to call attention to realistic aspects of life; practical;
the more realistic the story, the more important this character would be
198-203
SIX ISOLATABLE PHASES which form a cyclical sequence
1) Myth of the birth of the hero
a) water-based
b) flood, ark, animals
c) false father
d) false mother
2) Innocent youth
a) malaise; longing to enter the world of action
b) may be close to taboos; sexual barrier
3) Normal quest theme
4) Maintaining the integrity of the innocent world against assault of experience
a) May be individual, social, or both
b) image of the monster tamed and controlled by a virgin
5) Reflective, idyllic view of experience from above
a) natural cycle is prominent
b) contemplative withdrawal from action
c) experience as comprehended NOT as mystery
d) moral stratification of characters
6) End of movement from active to contemplative adventure
a) image of old man in tower
b) return to beginning
c) framing “cuddle fiction” device may be used
d) apocalyptic floods and life must begin anew (see many examples in sci-fi)
203-206
Point of Epiphany
- associated with mountain tops
- connection between earth and heaven or sun
- may be erotic – the summit of natural experience
- top of the wheel of fortune
but here they are anyway. Now, when I expose my thoughts more fully, there will be
something to refer to (for me at least).
Most notes are direct quotes from Anatomy of Criticism by Northrup Frye. Page numbers
appear above the relevant section.
186
BASICS
Wish-fulfillment dream
feeds on hopes and desires; ever-present
childlike and nostalgic for a golden age
plot is adventure; the quest
187
THREE STAGES (importance of threes)
1) AGON – conflict (perilous journey and minor conflicts)
2) PATHOS – death struggle (crucial struggle ends in at least one death)
3) ANAGNORISIS – discovery (exaltation of the hero)
OTHER IMPORTANT ASPECTS OF ROMANCE
Protagonist/hero & Antagonist/enemy
Form is dialectical
Hero (upper world) --> Our world <-- Enemy (lower world)
188
Inescapable connection to solar myth and sun-god
Reading as critics vs. Reading for fun
Divine ® myth ® canonical ® heavier weight of conceptual meaning
Myth as metaphorical key to the displacements of romance
189
Dragon-killing theme
Monster/Leviathan = sterility, sin, death
190 Labyrinth in the belly
Killing monster releases former victims from belly
Ariadne figure
191
Two concentric quest-myths in the Bible
1. Genesis – apocalypse
2. Exodus – millennium
Importance of sea/water symbolism
192
If leviathan = death, then hero enters death, dies, rebirth, resurrection
Now, we have a FOUR PART QUEST-MYTH
1) AGON – conflict
2) PATHOS – death, often of both the hero and the enemy
3) SPARAGMOS – disappearance of the hero (tearing to pieces)
4) ANAGNORISIS – reappearance and recognition of hero
These are also the FOUR PARTS OF A CENTRAL UNIFYING MYTH
1) ANAGNORISIS = COMEDY
2) AGON = ROMANCE
3) PATHOS = TRAGEDY
4) SPARAGMOS = IRONY
Treasure -- wealth -- power/wisdom (prophet/oracle/sibyl) requires mutilation or
handicap
193
Quest-romance translates to
DREAM as Deliverance from anxieties of reality, but will still contain that reality
RITUAL as Victory of fertility over wasteland
195-6
CHARACTERIZATION in Romance is not usually subtle or complex
· for quest or against
· two women – duty and pleasure
· faithful companion and traitor
· heroine and siren/beautiful witch
· dragon and friendly animals
· those who are morally neutral and have connections with the natural world
197
FOUR POLES OF CHARACTERIZATION
ROMANCE COMEDY
1) hero eiron
2) enemy alazon
3) nature spirits buffoon or master of ceremonies
PURPOSE is to intensify and provide focus for romantic mood
4) ???? agroikos (rustic clown)
PURPOSE would be to call attention to realistic aspects of life; practical;
the more realistic the story, the more important this character would be
198-203
SIX ISOLATABLE PHASES which form a cyclical sequence
1) Myth of the birth of the hero
a) water-based
b) flood, ark, animals
c) false father
d) false mother
2) Innocent youth
a) malaise; longing to enter the world of action
b) may be close to taboos; sexual barrier
3) Normal quest theme
4) Maintaining the integrity of the innocent world against assault of experience
a) May be individual, social, or both
b) image of the monster tamed and controlled by a virgin
5) Reflective, idyllic view of experience from above
a) natural cycle is prominent
b) contemplative withdrawal from action
c) experience as comprehended NOT as mystery
d) moral stratification of characters
6) End of movement from active to contemplative adventure
a) image of old man in tower
b) return to beginning
c) framing “cuddle fiction” device may be used
d) apocalyptic floods and life must begin anew (see many examples in sci-fi)
203-206
Point of Epiphany
- associated with mountain tops
- connection between earth and heaven or sun
- may be erotic – the summit of natural experience
- top of the wheel of fortune
Fryed Dreaming
So after reading sixty pages of Northrup Frye last night, I dreamt about Anatomy of Criticism. I’m not sure about the details, but I think it was a case of life following the six phases of romance (see pages 198-203), and I recognized the pattern, determining where we were in the cycle and what, to an extent, we could expect next. I think I was comforting someone who didn’t know what was going on by explaining the predictable, cyclical nature of life/romance. I know I mentioned Frye by name.
A dream from last week involved a small mountain valley town overshadowed by a building-sized boulder precariously balanced (almost roadrunner and coyote style, but naturally occurring). A rain of fire from the sky (I don’t think it was a “natural” phenomenon; it seems like it was “enemy fire” of some kind) sent the boulder down into the town. People had to run. Many did not escape. Somehow I was involved in rescue and relief effort. Conscious that we were going to have to rebuild the community (human civilization?) with our little band of people. I know it was much more detailed, but I can’t remember more than this for sure. This dream has stayed with me in an ominous way, so I finally decided to record it.
A dream from last week involved a small mountain valley town overshadowed by a building-sized boulder precariously balanced (almost roadrunner and coyote style, but naturally occurring). A rain of fire from the sky (I don’t think it was a “natural” phenomenon; it seems like it was “enemy fire” of some kind) sent the boulder down into the town. People had to run. Many did not escape. Somehow I was involved in rescue and relief effort. Conscious that we were going to have to rebuild the community (human civilization?) with our little band of people. I know it was much more detailed, but I can’t remember more than this for sure. This dream has stayed with me in an ominous way, so I finally decided to record it.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Rethinking Frye
I really like the idea of looking at myth and fairy tale and the idea of displacement, but I have to admit that I was very resistant to Frye's obsessive compulsive categorization. In one of the previously mentioned notebooks, I found class and reading notes Dylan had made on Frye, and found such gems as, "Was he constipated? What would make someone do something like this?" referring (I think) to the preponderance of schemata and organization in Frye. I couldn't help taking some comfort in such a small moment of agreement and convergence, even coincidence that I happened upon that passage in the notebooks, even from beyond the veil, as it were. While I still have reservations, I think that rereading is softening my heart and making me somewhat willing to go along for the ride, even if I'm not sure if the destination has much to offer.
One of my major reservations has been the issue of universality or the euro-centric nature of Frye's work, wondering what it might have to offer for an increasingly interconnected world or literature that does not owe debts to the Bible or Greco-Roman mythology. But at least Frye is aware of this bias and understands it as one of the unavoidable limitations with which he is working. If nothing else, this is making me want to read more. Where goes the time?
One of my major reservations has been the issue of universality or the euro-centric nature of Frye's work, wondering what it might have to offer for an increasingly interconnected world or literature that does not owe debts to the Bible or Greco-Roman mythology. But at least Frye is aware of this bias and understands it as one of the unavoidable limitations with which he is working. If nothing else, this is making me want to read more. Where goes the time?
Monday, February 5, 2007
550 Original Poetry: The Notebooks
Will never be written in again,
those holders of his boundless ideas,
frameless words,
and cryptic thoughts.
Yet they could never
hold him.
None of us could,
hard as we tried.
He lived art
uncensored,
breathed through lungs sans ribcage,
free from the constraints
of most mortals – or immortals, for that matter.
I like to think that Pan himself was jealous
of those mountain highs.
Untamed time melts into chaos as
past and further past mingle
dripping into each other.
But they harbor no present nor future;
stunted like trees buffeted by winds,
they will grow no more tangled branches.
Reading them is like a trip
into another mind,
another world,
into the past which is not a boomerang
coming back to its place of origin
to be thrown again.
Reading them is trippy;
your imbalance is his design.
Don't be afraid to fall as you follow
the words recklessly leaping in all directions,
taking you places you never knew existed,
and some where you never could then –
nor can now – go,
for the moss, fog, and fungi,
while not solid or stable,
are eerily forgiving.
those holders of his boundless ideas,
frameless words,
and cryptic thoughts.
Yet they could never
hold him.
None of us could,
hard as we tried.
He lived art
uncensored,
breathed through lungs sans ribcage,
free from the constraints
of most mortals – or immortals, for that matter.
I like to think that Pan himself was jealous
of those mountain highs.
Untamed time melts into chaos as
past and further past mingle
dripping into each other.
But they harbor no present nor future;
stunted like trees buffeted by winds,
they will grow no more tangled branches.
Reading them is like a trip
into another mind,
another world,
into the past which is not a boomerang
coming back to its place of origin
to be thrown again.
Reading them is trippy;
your imbalance is his design.
Don't be afraid to fall as you follow
the words recklessly leaping in all directions,
taking you places you never knew existed,
and some where you never could then –
nor can now – go,
for the moss, fog, and fungi,
while not solid or stable,
are eerily forgiving.
550 Original Poetry: Pock Marks
Her trail is precise, strategic,
the work of study and thought,
leading straight to the creek,
a destination
whose purpose I can’t decipher.
Like a sentry making rounds
her path is preordained,
veering neither right nor left. Perhaps
she is obligated to make a report;
her superior is awaiting her reconnaissance,
the legwork an integral part of a greater plan.
A sudden dash into the shed creates a ‘V’
and you can’t help but think she knows she was spotted.
Her cover, perhaps, blown by the little bird
whose twirp gave him away in excitement
at discerning the tortoiseshell’s plan.
Once she has forged the path,
once the snow bears the pock-marked evidence of her travels,
she makes the perilous journey again
and again,
each time mindfully placing her paws
in their designated receptacles,
molds of snow fit just for her.
And then I wonder if the retracing of steps is not
for her work as a spy or bounty hunter,
but is the rehearsal for her Broadway debut,
as she goes over her choreographed stage movements,
the slow-motion dance required for the delicate negotiation
of crystalline minefields.
At other times, I’m skeptical
and brush off her repetition as mere coincidence,
or the workings of a well-oiled machine,
whose pace and stride never vary, so of course
the padded paws find the same indents as before.
But deep down I know her efforts are deliberate,
methodical plotting
to someday catch the little bird unawares;
she plots to overthrow our aimless wanderings
and to usher in the age of the cat.
the work of study and thought,
leading straight to the creek,
a destination
whose purpose I can’t decipher.
Like a sentry making rounds
her path is preordained,
veering neither right nor left. Perhaps
she is obligated to make a report;
her superior is awaiting her reconnaissance,
the legwork an integral part of a greater plan.
A sudden dash into the shed creates a ‘V’
and you can’t help but think she knows she was spotted.
Her cover, perhaps, blown by the little bird
whose twirp gave him away in excitement
at discerning the tortoiseshell’s plan.
Once she has forged the path,
once the snow bears the pock-marked evidence of her travels,
she makes the perilous journey again
and again,
each time mindfully placing her paws
in their designated receptacles,
molds of snow fit just for her.
And then I wonder if the retracing of steps is not
for her work as a spy or bounty hunter,
but is the rehearsal for her Broadway debut,
as she goes over her choreographed stage movements,
the slow-motion dance required for the delicate negotiation
of crystalline minefields.
At other times, I’m skeptical
and brush off her repetition as mere coincidence,
or the workings of a well-oiled machine,
whose pace and stride never vary, so of course
the padded paws find the same indents as before.
But deep down I know her efforts are deliberate,
methodical plotting
to someday catch the little bird unawares;
she plots to overthrow our aimless wanderings
and to usher in the age of the cat.
Friday, February 2, 2007
On Reading in the Morning Paper That Dreams May Be Only Nonsense
by Billy Collins, from Questions About Angels
We might have guessed as much, given the nightly
absurdities, the extravagant circus of the dark.
You hit the pillow and moments later your mother
appears as a llama, shouting at you in another language.
Or you find yourself drowning in a sea of breasts,
or drowning in as sea of basketballs –
those who have attended night school will be quick
to explain the difference.
Or the nonsense is just a scrambling of the day before,
everyone walking around the office stark naked,
the elevator doors opening on to deep space,
the clamshells from lunch floating by in slow motion.
Too bad Freud isn’t here to hear this news,
maybe some pharaohs too, druids and wide-eyed diviners,
all gathered around my kitchen table
in their exotic clothes, their pale mouths moving
silently, as in a dream,
and me pouring coffee for everyone, proffering smokes,
pacing around in my bathrobe reading the paper out loud.
But the scene would soon swirl away
and I would find myself alone in some fix,
screaming within the confines of an hourglass,
being driven to the opera by a blind chauffeur
or waking up to the chilling evidence on the bedroom floor:
a small pile of sand, a white bow tie.
We might have guessed as much, given the nightly
absurdities, the extravagant circus of the dark.
You hit the pillow and moments later your mother
appears as a llama, shouting at you in another language.
Or you find yourself drowning in a sea of breasts,
or drowning in as sea of basketballs –
those who have attended night school will be quick
to explain the difference.
Or the nonsense is just a scrambling of the day before,
everyone walking around the office stark naked,
the elevator doors opening on to deep space,
the clamshells from lunch floating by in slow motion.
Too bad Freud isn’t here to hear this news,
maybe some pharaohs too, druids and wide-eyed diviners,
all gathered around my kitchen table
in their exotic clothes, their pale mouths moving
silently, as in a dream,
and me pouring coffee for everyone, proffering smokes,
pacing around in my bathrobe reading the paper out loud.
But the scene would soon swirl away
and I would find myself alone in some fix,
screaming within the confines of an hourglass,
being driven to the opera by a blind chauffeur
or waking up to the chilling evidence on the bedroom floor:
a small pile of sand, a white bow tie.
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