Fa La La La La

Discussions of Tiresias who appears in Eodipus Rex came about today.   It doesn't really pertain to the tragic tale we are reading, but it was asked how is it Tiresias came to be blind. Apparently there are two versions to this story I found online.  They are as follows...

The more prosaic - he saw a goddess naked: never advisable (compare the fate of Actaeon). Out in the countryside with his mother, young Tiresias saw Athena bathing nude in a pool. His reactions are not recorded, but his punishment was swift and severe - he was struck blind, to ensure he would never again see what man was not intended to see. But having lost his eyesight, he was given a special gift - to be able to understand the language of the birds (and thus to foretell the future).

The other version - (first in Hesiod, and the one fancied by Ovid in Metamorphoses) is more exciting. Out as before in the country, near Mount Kyllene in the Peloponnese, he came upon a pair of snakes lustfully intertwined. He hit the copulating couple a smart blow with his stick - presumably striking a blow for animal decency. But Hera was not pleased: as the sensuous seductress of Zeus, she heartily approved of sex - even for the lower creatures. His punishment was cruel - the worst a man could imagine. He was transformed into a woman, in mind as well as body. But some time later (after seeing the copulating snakes again, but this time alllowing them their pleasure) he was released from his sentence, and permitted to resume his masculinity. All could then have been well, but Tiresias was drawn into an argument between Hera and her husband Zeus. A common area for marital discussion - who has more pleasure in sex - the man or the woman? Hera was clever enough to let Zeus believe that men were superior in this as in everything else. But it was decided to check with Tiresias - as only he had known what it was actually like in the two roles. As a dastardly man, he revealed woman's greatest secret: on a scale of ten, she gets nine parts of the pleasure to his one. Hera was furious, and instantly struck him blind - Zeus couldn't do anything to stop her - but he did give Tiresias the gift of second sight.

And so that was that.  Poor guy, and what a bummer.  Welp, if the Gods know best then what the hell are you going to do?  Probably not too much.  

So, an endearing line in literature.  Well goodness, I just don't know if anything could possibly be more so more than the first of G.E.  I honestly wouldn't know where to begin in presenting something I found to be an endearing line in literature.  But I'll certainly keep you posted if the light bulb goes off in this direction.

Anamnesis- 

1. the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence.

2. Platonism. recollection of the Ideas, which the soul had known in a previous existence, esp. by means of reasoning.
3. the medical history of a patient.
4. Immunology. a prompt immune response to a previously encountered antigen, characterized by more rapid onset and greater effectiveness of antibody and T cell reaction than during the first encounter, as after a booster shot in a previously immunized person.
5. (often initial capital letter) a prayer in a Eucharistic service, recalling the Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension of Christ.

The task of the poet is to help people live their lives.  What a job.

Everyone has the same amount of time in the day.  What we do is a matter of priorities.

If our lives are not interesting or important then neither is yours or anyone that of anyone else. What a terrible thought.  How incredibly depressing.  More credit should be given to the average human life.  There is always something there we don't realize.  With the billions of people living, it is hardly an option to put them all in a little box and say this and this of them just in order to make a point.  It simply is not accurate.  Yes television exists, some watch significant amounts, some not at all.  What may I ask is the motive of putting others you consider below your standards down?  It might be realized this very act is reason to have the same done to you.  But anyway... on to the next thing. 

a bit of this and that, you know..

Things that have been happening... goodness, quite a lot.  Sonnet creations have been exposed for all to see and consider.  This was much more intimidating than I expected.  Individually written poetry seems to be much more personal than most other things you could compose. But, we lived through it and learned.  I actually really enjoyed hearing all of them.  They proved to be worthy of the glorifying adjectives so commonly mentioned in class.  I suppose a recap couldn't hurt.

In reverse order of their being read.

Steve: wrote about a dog named Ricki (spelling uncertain).  Even if they can't be together, it is still possible to love the other.

Medina:  a sonnet to her mother Joy, whom she has come to profoundly appreciate through the hard times.

Ryan: recounts the epic hail storm and being caught in the middle of it with a  broken-chained bike.  And the appreciation of a kind lady to shelters him from his potential doom.

Amber: to her husband who she loves very much, and cars deeply about.

Greg: another classic expression of love for his wife whose favorite flower is the sunflower.  She has him by the bill.

Krystal: to her young son Kyven who she hopes wonderful things for, like seeing the world.

Kimberly: Concerning a horse that will eventually be hers.  Written to the family whose care it is currently under.

Tracy: to Rob, the guy awesome guy at the bar that makes the shift that much better.  He even is nice enough to stick around when the creeps lurk and take out the garbage.

Whitney: to her wonderful father who she loves and will always love very much.

Jason: about the well-known wreck on the four-wheeler.  Wounded body, and damaged vehicle, it was an experience to remember.  An Advil was taken but a Tylenol sounds better for poetry purposes.  Essentially, we were lied to. 

Steph: to her song-writing boyfriend.  To show her appreciation for him.His receiving poetry is nothing unusual.

Luke: reflections from his Australian walk-about.  Concerning who you are, and what is inside.

Some other thoughts to ponder-

The things we're looking for are often right in front of us.  

Why is it we suffer?  Perhaps to give the writer s and poets something to write about.

Always a matter of life and death.

The things that seem completely irrelevant may in fact be the most relevant after all.

It is important to be aware of linguistic practices and uses, or you may become stuck in the "like" trap.

Knowledge doesn't necessarily make you happy.

Write what is needful.

It has become evident that there is a tremendous amount of content in Mr. Pip from which a topic concerning Matilda's great expectations may be derived.    Passage after passage was rattled off and its according significance.  As far as term papers go our guidelines are intentionally vague.  Not just anything can be written as I made the fatal mistake of suggesting to Mr. Sexson.  Naturally it must be relevant somehow to Matilda and to expectations.  So not anything goes, but a clearly there a multitude of possibilities.  We are reminded not to bore.  It isn't a boring book I wouldn't say, so with the right approach and a little creative thought some fabulous topics might be had that will all but displease the teacher of 1130.  A rough copy is apparently to be had for Monday.  This has also been left open for various outcomes.  All the better to expand our supposedly cramped up little minds and reach for new heights. Intimidation need not loom over our poor souls.  This is a chance to have all kinds of fun, right? Well, maybe. Matilda is not such a regular old joe shmo without direction or purpose.  She is really a pretty impressive individual, and it is all the more INTERESTING to see her go through some evens many of us will never even remotely encounter.  So, what to write about... I think I have some thinking to do.

some things

Past half way already.  That does seem odd.  Time flies when you're having fun I guess.  Well, and the summer sessions are incredibly condensed.  So we continue on into the land of poetry while in room 1130, but on our own it is Mr. Pip that is supposedly filling the hours.  I'm about a third of the way in at this point, and I really don't mind it so far.  In fact, like was the case with Steve, it is kind of hard to put down.  Nothing too terribly awful has happened yet, but Luke assures us that it gets really depressing...wonderful.  The situation of the setting in itself is rather unfortunate, but the world as seen through the young and hopeful eyes of Matilda almost masks what is going on around her.  I'll just have to keep reading.

Found poems were officially found and read to the class.  Who would have thought poetry could be hiding on hair spray bottles ("Big Sexy Hair" - nice choice Medina), in the U.S Constitution, on a coffee can, and of course, even in a math textbook to name a few.  They were all pretty unique an fun to hear.  A few things were mentioned along the lines of poetry during the found poem recitations, and really just throughout the course of class.

A change of style in writing leads to a change of meaning.  An example being to take a paragraph form of something and extract parts, putting them into lines or stanzas.  

Repetition is often times effectively used to give linguistic power.

The confusing and obscure is okay, and at times is more appropriate and necessary than the clear, simple and direct.  

Poetry is made out of the world. 

What isn't a tale having something to do with life and/or death? 

Poetry (and writing/literature in general) is a way of preserving an experience.

To consider: oral traditions vs. writing; importance of dialectic.

Rudimental knowledge is to be known so that one may later change and "play" with the rules.

The MSU motto was found in a sonnet.

  

on to the sonnets

I have written, however successfully, my very first sonnet. I didn’t begin writing it with any particular intention, apart from getting the format right. It turned into a thing all its own as one line came after the other. What I have apparently described is a state in which we all reach at some point, brought upon by any number of things. The times of internal confusion and tribulation are familiar to each and every individual, due to one reason or another. It is how we deal with these encounters from the unwanted that sets us apart from each other. So I suppose, although I didn’t write this with a particular person in mind (apart from myself I guess, as it is written in the first person), it can be for whomever. It is a silly little set of fourteen lines that may or may not alternate hard and soft syllable sounds. But that is okay, because I’ve let this issue go since class on Wednesday.


In Somewhere

My mind is thinking right now as I sit
For to unfold the mysterious ways,
Of that which has thrown me into this pit
Where I fear that I’ll stew, all of my days.
I cannot tell where it is that I’ll be
Despite a mind’s struggle to learn and know,
How it is that despair has clung to me
And now brought upon this heart-wrenching low.
How is it I’ve come to be so clouded
From the happy to the terribly not?
I’ve searched and thought, my poor mind now pounded
This process, it proves to be quite a lot.
Although at this point, the feelings are sad
In time I will rediscover the glad.

a found poem I found

Without really paying attention, I picked up few flyers, packets etc. from the SUB hoping one of these would provide me with the content for a decent found poem. I looked over what I had collected a little later on in the day, and decided on a pamphlet titled "The Network of Spiritual Progressives."  I think it's having something to do with a branch of the campus ministry and what not, but the words in some of the articles seemed promising and even potentially poetic.  I narrowed it down to allow myself only the material from a small,  two paragraph section called "Rejecting Cynical Realism."  It took a little while to come up with anything very appealing, but after a lot of reorganizing, I sort of went with a theme along the lines of good vs. evil, or optimism & pessimism.  And so I created my first found poem.

To Live like...

Accepted:

A selfish world of

Deteriorating hope,

Small cynical vision

Dog-eat-dog fantasies

Dominant inequalities

Pursuit of poverty 

Motives of hunger and 

Uncaring people,

To Seek:

Generosity and goodness

A world based on love

Celebration of Compassion

A pursuit of centeredness to 

Protect ourselves,

People will advance

To have justice and 

Accommodate transformation,

We have a choice.

  

just a couple of pears?

Study Of Two Pears (A Wallace Stevens poem)

I

Opusculum paedagogum.

The pears are not viols,

nudes or bottles. 

They resemble nothing else.

II

They are yellow forms

Composed of curves

Bulging toward the base.

They are touched red.

III

They are not flat surfaces

Having curved outlines.

They are round

Tapering toward the top.

IV

In the way they are modeled

There are bits of blue.  

A hard dry leaf hangs 

From the stem.

VI

The shadows of the pears 

Are blobs on the green cloth.

The pears are not seen

As the observer wills.

The Wallace Steven’s poem Study of two Pears is lo and behold about more than just a few pieces of fruit. Although the majority of it is describing just that, some pears, much more is being relayed to the reader. Steven’s consistent theme relating reality with imagination is especially prevalent here. What an artist does in using their imagination to display their perception of reality is a more distinct way of observing what everyone does. The pears described signify a portion of reality that can be viewed in many ways. What is it to see/know them for what they are in the purest sense? I think this is one of the prominent questions the poem implies. What may be implied is that this most accurate form of interpretation is not only difficult, but not necessarily even attainable in the cognitive human grasp. 

There appear to be many layers suggested with the figures of the artist, poet, reader and so on. Given the pears themselves, at some point they are the most real they can possibly be in the physical realm at least. What this must be is having them directly in front of someone who experiences their blatant being first hand. If it is a painting that Stevens is writing about, then the artist of this work in a sense, while observing the pears in the most direct way, still may be said to not see them as he wills. With this I refer to the last line of the poem, “The pears are not seen as the observer wills.” The artist sees the pears as some more absolute causer of reality wills for them to be seen. Here we touch upon a more metaphysical study that may suggest something along the lines of Plato’s Forms, and other such theories for the causes of being. So, back to the frame of a frame thought I had concerning the observer’s will in seeing a thing… After the artist portrays his interpretation of the pears, there is now another way in which they may be seen. This painting (let’s call it) is not then viewed by the art gazers as they themselves wish it to be, but as the artist willed for them to be seen. And then along comes Stevens who takes this painting and creates his own new interpretation using poetry. Then I come into the picture and read this poem, not observing the pears as I will but as the most recent creator (Stevens) wills, as he is the one doing the describing. Perhaps we might even take it one step further using my presentation in front of an English class about this poem. I described to them my understanding of Steven’s work, and the images conjured up in their head are not as they will, but as I do putting my ideas into their heads.

I like that this poem, whether intended or not, could suggest such a puzzling set of seemingly connected meanings. It successfully provokes inquiry into the field of what is real, how we explain that which is real and what the significance of reality even is, if at all there is any. Surly there must be, as it is what we ourselves claim to be apart of. So how then does it come about? I continue to ponder along these lines initially brought on by pears, and wonder then what the actual impact of our imaginative perceptions are. The ripple effect is very much intertwined possibility with these notions. Like with the extended effects of the first creatively recorded observation from the artist (our supposed painting of the two pears), each and every mental creation and expression contributes to those that will follow it.

a thing called poetry

Into the realm of poetry we go.  Wallace Stevens is a more difficult way to initially throw yourself into it, but given how we don't really have a choice in the matter I've attempted to make the best of things.  He is said to be the master of the poem, so despite my miserable efforts to make sense of what he writes, I do learn.  It's safe to say that poetry is a more difficult type of literature to appreciate in that the message it delivers is not so concise as say, a novel. This way of using less words though (or more so using them differently), has lead to a powerful form of truth telling.  Because the point of poetry is not to go on and on forever using pages to describe one small thing, a meaning is gotten across (sometimes really more of just a vague idea) with a quick and distinct impact.  And like it was mentioned in class, even if we don't know the intentions of the poet, there is still something gained from our exposure to it.  And either way, we are never really "clueless" as Sexson says.  We always have some hints as to what is being suggested, even in a Stevens poem.  Profound revelations can be made through poetry, or just a heartfelt reminder.  And I like to think that I myself am coming to appreciate it in a new light. 

At the coffee shop I work at we have something called "poetry night" every other Wednesday, which just happens to be one of my regular shifts.  It's not something I would likely go to on my own, so just being in that environment for the past couple of months has sort of forced me to take it into consideration.  Even after the first time we had poetry night, I was actually surprised at how much I enjoyed it.  There is a sign up sheet open for anyone who wants to read their poetry, and occasionally you'll hear something from other more distinguished authors too.  It really is great to see these people go in front of an audience and express themselves with a poem.  What I find it especially goes at are the deep human truths, things the author considers important.  People seem to find a sense of clarity within their poetry- a way to put out in the open bottled up feelings, ideas concerning the ways of the world, and so on.  Like with most forms of literature, poetry can exemplify how people are very much alike in what we experience internally and otherwise.  I find it's a way of connecting people.  And although I will probably never put my name on the list for poetry night, I can certainly attest to getting quite a bit out of the overall experience. 

*assignments etc. to keep in mind:

Stevens poem "presentation" 

write your own sonnet

found poem creation

test on Friday (covering what we've gone over in class, & the readings)

it's a process

The now famous Mr. Pip (at least in room 1130) is under intense speculation these days.  No, he is not always the most admirable bloke you would ever read about, but it's not entirely fair to accuse him of the human nature we all possess.  His fixation on self-improvement so as to rise in social status in itself is not something he can be reasonably be blamed for.  But the misconceptions he will claim following from this are more likely to be looked down upon. Success is not a bad thing to want, but when it goes so far as to skew our perception of reality, mistakes are made and only life can possibly make clear the distorted obsessions of years gone by.  I'm sure we are all guilty of it in some way or another;  of letting our desire for something completely take over what we may have once thought to be important.  It easily throws off the balance, and like Pip, we often times cannot see the bigger picture until life is lived and experience is had.  Pip's fanciful ideas about the upper class enable him to think that this is where lies all he could ever hope for, and that the world of money and sophistication are the needed ingredients for a purposeful existence. I give him the benefit of the doubt in that while it takes him some time to understand the errors of his previous notions, he does come to realize that the character of people does not lie in their profession or the size of their estate. Human identity comes from within.  Some internalize this early on, while others have to first endure a process of development, and then there are those who never figure it out.  So kudos to Pip for at least having the sense to take a hint after a while.  It's more than can be said of some. 

for our continued intelligence...

accoucheur- a male midwife

mangle (n.)- a machine for smoothing and pressing clothes, household linens, etc.

etymology- study of the sources and development of words

contumacious- willfully and obstinately disobedient 

connubial- of or relating to marriage

ablution- washing or cleansing of the body

rimy- a coating likened to a frosty film       

a day at the pool

What is a big deal, and maybe even a painful event to a child, later becomes nothing more than a silly memory often times.  Our view of the world is so different at a young age, and big events then, are now a mere faded thoughts.  When I was around six or seven  years old, I usually wanted to do everything my older brother did- the hardcore tagalong.  My family is from Minneapolis, but we have actually been coming out here to Montana visiting family friends etc. during the summers for as long as I can remember.  One of the traditions has always been to make a stop by the (especially then) glorious Chico Hot Springs in Paradise Valley.  The pool is where we would spend most of our time.  Among our group there were the adults, the "older kids," the "younger kids," and then the really little kids.  I would have at this point been considered a younger kid, stuck in the middle of the two more well-defined  children's groups. When you're a "younger kid" all you really want to be is older so you can do all of the things that those ahead of you can.  I wasn't a proficient swimmer at this point in my life, and adamantly not allowed to play in the deep end with my brother and the kids who seemed so much cooler just for being older.  This one summer I refer to was especially tormenting as I recall.  It was the biggest let down and embarrassment to have to stay behind.  My mom not wanting me to drown didn't occur to me then, only how horrible she was for making me stay in the uncool shallow end with the "really little kids" - what a drag.  My pride had been shot down and the sooner we left the pool, the better.    

As taunting as some of our childhood memories may be, perhaps everything that has and does happen to us is all for one reason or another.  Class on Monday continuously reflected on the idea of chance, coincidence, accidents, fate and similarly related notions.  As we can more easily see in the literature world, nothing just happens for the sake of happening.  One thing leads to another, over and over again, bringing us to a usually some kind of profound conclusion.  I cannot say what the reason was, if at all there was a reason for my miserable day at the pool so many years ago, but who is to say it didn't have an affect on other events in my life?  Maybe it had something to do with my becoming an accomplished and competitive swimmer later on down the road.  Swimming actually became the center of my world during the high school years in particular, and I loved it. It's strange to think of cause and effect.  Are all things simply up to chance and factual probability, or is there some bigger, less obvious event happening?  Maybe providence really does play a part in the way of things, or something similar to it.  Within the controlled existence of literature, because it is created by an author, it can contain such a concept with sure doubt or certainty.  However in reality there is not way of definitively knowing why circumstances come about as they do.  There being a reason for everything though, does give some comfort with regard to the seemingly unfair and cruel occurrences.  At the moment it happens, our minds dwell on the event at hand only, but without our knowing perhaps there are unseen connections linking one thing to the next. Coincidence is just a name given to something we can't explain, and usually react to with surprise.  From this we get the common question, "What are the chances of that happening?!"  And if you have no other response in mind, "one in three" I think we've decided is a safe bet (or maybe just an inside class joke).   

some vocab...

salutary- promoting or conducive to some beneficial purpose

eviscerate- to remove the contents of

prig- displaying of exaggerated propriety

pander- person who caters to or profits from the weaknesses or vices of others

archetype- original pattern or model

the joy of fiction

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a.... 

Just recently I have come to the daunting realization the I am incapable at this point in time of following up these familiar words with anything even remotely worth while.  As I imagined the situation mentioned in class of having a gun at my head and the potential to save my life only with a story, I must ashamedly admit I do not think I would survive.  I am optimistic though, and convinced that this unfortunate inability of mine can be mended. If Shahrazad could do it, I want to be able to too.  Granted, I am not the daughter of a vizier, or am I likely to be at the mercy of any psychotic king in the near future.  Although I figure it's better safe than sorry. What I imagine will happen is that magically after having read the Arabian Nights I will find I have transformed into a certified storyteller who can amaze the world with her awing fictional creations.  Then again, maybe not. But either way, I'm sure I'll get something out of it.  

I suppose reading great stories can allow for one to reiterate the material they have been exposed to, but original creative expression is a rather more difficult task.  This might have something to do with the power good fiction contains.  Coming up with something extraordinary is not easy, but if successfully accomplished can have dramatic effects on people and even world situations.  If you think about it, the simple telling of what happens while it simultaneously doesn't really happen is a fascinating concept.  Literature comes from stories, stories that constantly surround us.  Whether or not we read on a regular basis, this idea of fiction affects us through movies, radio, and even in day-to-day conversation.  One of its most beneficial functions seems to be how through a narrative of what could be, we can reflect on an entire potentially complex situation without having experienced it first hand.  In another sense, we learn from stories.  Mistakes and triumphs of the characters we hear and read of give rise to contemplative thought, which opens our minds to previously unknown possibilities.  And perhaps if it is not some great epiphany that results from a work of fiction, there is still the chance of being inspired, or merely distracting one's thoughts from the worries of life.  I'm not really sure where I was planning on going with this, but I suppose the main point I've come up with is that fiction provides us with a lot more than we probably realize.  I think I find this comforting in that it is highly accessible for people's own personal growth/enjoyment, and it is open for anyone to create.