Presentations, Day 5

Carol: As a total bookworm growing up, it was great hearing a presentation on something as near and dear to my heart as literature. You made great points about the bed time stories our parents told us and those connected through our dreams to become our own stories and tales. Then taking that principle and giving it breadth through other disciplines made the whole circle come into view in my eyes. When you said that "Literature is the human compulsion to create in the face of chaos" I had one those little light bulb moments when suddenly I wanted to write just for the sake of writing. It is a thoroughly soothing activity that in which I find clarity and meaning in my life which is chaotic to say the least. When you transitioned from written word to music though I saw a great many parallels between your work and that of Joe which made it only the more meaningful. Music truly does transcend any one person's capacity for description yet everyone knows the emotions associated with the chords. It truly is universal. Thank you Carol.

Brady: Whenever I look at the Kubla Khan poem now all I can think of is your alternative interpretation and what Samuel Coleridge would have wanted it to sound like. Your insights and perspectives, not only on that poem, but on every piece of literature we have come across have always been thoroughly stimulating to listen to. You certainly know what you are talking about and no one can deny that. I could not agree more with you that emotion is one thing that cannot be truly conveyed by written word alone. Thank you for all that you have given me this semester Brady.

Logan: My favorite part of your presentation was the sheer passion you brought with it. It was infectious to hear you talk on a subject you have spent so much time and research on but also one that you seem to thoroughly enjoy. I kept repeating "Yields falsehood when preceded by its own qoutation" over and over again in my head after class. The idea of so simple a self reference was fascinating to me but trying to concentrate on it too hard just made my brain hurt. However your point that language cannot express all ideas will always stick with me because of that example. Thank you Logan.

Presentations, Day 4

Valerie: I was blown away by the thoroughness of your presentation, you could tell you really put a lot of effort into this project and I appreciated it. The tarot cards and their symbology had always been a curiousity of mine that I never took the time to fully research but thanks you I feel that I now have a pretty firm grasp of the subject. The way you were able to totally integrate your project with The Magus was also very inspiring and must have taken a great deal of time and research. Thank you for sharing your passion with us and for giving us all a token to remember it by.

Matt: Before your presentation I had no idea about any underground publication in the 1980s or 90s and now I am happy to say otherwise. It was a very interesting topic to hear you share your insights on communications and the different methods people may use. The subject brought up many questions in my mind, especially in relation to how communication has evolved into its present form with internet blogs and chat rooms taking up too much space in the minds of people. Hopefully underground communications may make a return in popularity and bring back some creative soul to the art of communication. Thank you for sharing your vinyl with us all and let us know how your publication turns out!

Presentations, Day 3

Third time is the charm...

Rose: Your presentation was one of the most personal and heartfelt I have ever seen. The courage it must have taken to speak on the subject of emotion is simple astounding to me. You brought up the concepts of vulnerability and connections which I felt were incredibly appropriate for this time of year when everyone feels vulnerable to some degree as one year ends and another begins. When you connected that vulnerability to emotions and questioned what place those feelings actually had in learning, I remember being shocked I had not asked myself that same question before. How we react to something affects everything we understand about it. "We can only deal with our demons when we choose to face them". I loved when you brought up the comparison of emotions to stories everyone carries around inside them. They represent everything and yet nothing, which makes all the difference when you really think about it. Next time I am reading a text or taking a test I will be sure to gauge exactly how I feel at that moment and see if I cant connect that story to see where it leads me. I could not agree more that life is a script and we share that script with every actor on the stage. Thank you Rose.

Katie Neal: That was the very first murder mystery skit I have ever been apart of and I will always have you to thank for that experience. I truly did enjoy becoming a detective and hunting down the dangerous murderer that never existed with my fellow lawmen. Your was incredibly fun and interactive which I appreciated at the end of a long day of books. Although we had a truly messed up family the experience and the lesson you taught us about how "its wanting to know that matters" is one I will not forget. If I ever become I detective I hope I never have to deal with a case in any way like that one but all the same, thank you for the laughs and memories Katie.

Joe: This presentation was truly remarkable not only in its delivery but in its scope. To tackle some of the biggest questions of all is certainly an intimidating task but I felt that I was able to learn so much from your timelines and analogies. You brought up the question given things as they are how should one live? In my notes I wrote down be like water, be formless and adjust. Given the breadth of the question I can think of no better response than that one. Your presentation made me think on many subjects, not the least of which was how I will live my life and what I want my life to mean. The song you ended with is still stuck in my head reminding me of questions and to never stop questioning. I believe it is safe to say that you effectively changed a great deal of my outlooks on life with your single statement: we know rhythm by the silence between the beats. Now I am listening for the silence rather than the beats in my life. Thank you Joe.

Presentations, Day 2

More musings and reactions by me on the subject of today's presenations :)

Alaine: First of all just wow, that was a truly engaging poem and dynamic presentation. I had to write very quickly just to keep up with and even then I was only able to catch words that truly spoke to me: college, pursuits, knowledge, roles, future, grades, life, grow in not out, introvert and extrovert, social world, social obligations, mini atlas, lost, now. I have no idea why these words in particular are the ones I chose to write down but they are the ones with which I feel the greatest affinity. My impression that I shared after your presentation was that it was a poem so personal it was universal. I found myself reciting the words along with you as each of them fell into place among my own fears, worries, dreams, ambitions and doubts. Sometimes I forget that I am not so alone as I feel on this island and when I face the same challenges in the eyes of others it is a terrific wake up call. It was truly a relief to know that I am not the only one who only wishes to be themselves, no matter what else the world says or expects. Thank you Alaine, you truly have a gift for personal insight.

Brooke: The very first thing I wrote down while listening to your presentation were the words: "Life will break you". At the time I smiled when you brought up that point because it seemed to me something you would hear at a particularly motivating montage in a Rocky movie; something to shock you with its boldness. We have grown up in this world with all our comforts and protections that more often than not we forget what adversity is and choose to run from our fears and doubts. I learned early that failure is an embarrassing thing which I cannot afford and because of that I rarely took risks. I know now that I was wrong. You brought up the question why do we fear pain, one that certainly goes through my mind on a daily basis if not everyone else's. Your presentation made me question why I choose to fear at all if I am truly strongest at my most vulnerable. My only conclusion to those thoughts is that I simply have no idea what true vulnerability feels like. I have been quite comfortable in my nest and saw no reason to leave it. Perhaps it is time to brave the world. I absolutely loved the quote you chose at the end of the presentation: "Reason not the need, if only to be warm were gorgeous". Incredible words to live by, thank you Brooke.

Spencer: First off, your presentation reaffirmed my suspicions that I would not survive very long in any physics class that was not taught by you. The way you wove stories and jokes into your lesson was truly a standard I wish more teachers would pay attention to. Not only did I thoroughly enjoy a science lesson (for the first time) but the knowledge actually stuck with me. You truly showed how every discipline is nothing but story telling in different forms. Also, your drawing was pretty entertaining as well. Revisiting class memories on the white board with you is an experience I will not forget. Thank you Spencer.

Presentations, Day 1

I felt this would be an appropriate venue for me to express my thoughts and impressions I received from each presentation. Sometimes it may just be random questions I was thinking of during the projects or even random phrases that stood out to me but here it is:

Jonah's presentation on freedom and how we define it looked into the statement: "The better you understand freedom the less you possess it".
I particularly enjoyed the part where he brought up the experiment of Schrodinger's cat as a means to describe a possible translation of freedom. The way we want to so badly to be free and to know what freedom means hit home with me and my thoughts on the matter. I felt it was very appropriate how he brought up contradictions and categories we are all taught as children as they are the main vehicles we use in our definitions of reality. After the presentation, my concepts of freedom had to accommodate a vastly different field of vision, one that looked more inwardly than out. Thank you Jonah for pointing out how incredibly secluded and boxed in our perceptions of society and freedom are. I now know that freedom is not a category but a question and a mystery, as it should be.

Katie Chamber's presentation on the power of dreams and interpretation made me rather wish I was better at the art of dreaming. I rarely remember any big dreams I have while I sleep and the one that do stick with me in the morning are the boring ones about being late for class or failing tests. Her paper "The Fiends of Dreamland" gave me a terrific insight into the true essence of dreams as canvases for truth and the impossible. I found it to be a wonderfully written piece which I was immediately drawn into. Her perceptions of the dreams explored the themes underlying what it means to be human, especially at our baser foundations. Everyone must find their own truth in their realities, as both waking and sleeping dreams are realities. Thank you Katie.

Yasmin's presentation on the smile of truth did actually bring a smile to my face. I love to learn new things about history and Yasmin certainly gave me that opportunity. The Mona Lisa also happens to be one of the most interesting paintings to me, not because of the artwork itself but rather the reactions and readings people attribute to it. My personal theory of why that particular painting has achieved such fame all comes down to the smile on her face: the smile of truth as Yasmin suggested. The question has to go through every viewer's mind as they wonder what made her smile such a knowing smile. What does she know that we do not? Is it a joke? A riddle? A wise piece of advice? The human conscience goes into overdrive trying to solve this puzzle yet it will never be satisfied with the answer. That is the real Smile of Truth: asking questions that there are no answers to. Well done Yasmin, I could not agree more with your presentation.

What I want to be when I grow up

I was recently going through some old school files trying to decide what to keep and what to get rid of since my parents were moving. My mom loved to keep these old scrapbooks of projects and newspaper clippings from when I was a kid and it was safe to say she may have gotten a little carried away with her projects. None-the-less, an hour into my personal journey of rediscovery I came across several papers I wrote in elementary school about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Being as curious as I am sure the rest of you are, I decided to flip through these old pages and discover the wonderfully ambitious musings of youthful Calder. One thing was immediately apparent, I had a hard time making up my mind back then. My life goals and dreams seemed to change with every new year so that I went from desiring the honorable post of fireman one year to the equally daring field of painting the next. I could not help but laugh at myself and the absurdity of the papers yet what I found even more absurd was how could I possibly know what I wanted to do when I grew up or, indeed, how could I even know I did grow up?
Since the fifth grade I have had a passion for history; a passion I have since nursed with multiple books and movies until it became a dream. My dream was to go to college to study history and teach it in a way that would not cause my classmates around me to roll their eyes or doze off in the back corner. I knew I could do it too, I still know I can in fact. Yet as the years rolled on and I entered into my senior year of high school I looked back at where I was and decided it was not enough. I knew I could do more, I knew I wanted more. The pursuit of history was still my guide and my goal but I would not be content with placing myself in the box of teaching high school in a single town. I still knew teaching was a very prestigious occupation and that was where my heart wandered to but there had to be something else, something more.
I came to Montana State and immediately declared a history major, no teaching option just straight history. I decided I would do whatever it took to work my way to a doctorate and teach history on a college campus. Becoming a professor seemed like an option that could offer me everything I was looking for: prestigious academia, my own writing and research, travel and most importantly lecturing on a grander scale. Nearly four years later, I have kept that dream close to my heart and have worked every day for it. Why then, when I looked through those old elementary school papers, did that question cause me so much concern? What do I want to be when I am grown up? Am I grown up now? I do not think so but if not now, when? What happened to shift my foundations, my certainties?
Personally, I blame this class. It was not the lone culprit, it certainly had accomplices this year, but this Tracings certainly got the ball rolling. After all, given things as they are how should one live? I find this question far more appropriate then the generic what do you want to be when you grow up model. My life has become more complicated because I know look at it through lens tempered in this class. I do not feel this is a bad thing though. No matter how much anxiety the future gives me, it is still and always will be the future; my future. This class has shown me that to question everything is simply the best way to live and the only way to be free. I still have the dearest passion for history and perhaps that will take me to that final destination on a far flung campus one day but it will not be tomorrow nor in the next few years. Those years are for the journey.
The contradiction now stands that although I have so many questions about what I want to be or want to do with my life, my answer to the question what I am interested in has become far more simple: I am interested in living.

Final Project

Life in Silence

It has been maybe ten minutes and my mind is still trying to absorb everything from the presentations today, there was certainly a lot to think about. Hopefully at some point this week I will be able to find the time to take each presentation and give it the attention it deserves but at the present moment I can't seem to think of anything else but a quote from Joe:
"We would not know rhythm except for the silence between the beats."
...fuck he has a good point... My whole life it seems that I have heard nothing but the vices of silence. Its a sign of weakness or nervousness or ignorance. Any professional will tell you that an overly prolonged silence is fatal in a presentation. We are told to speak up in class and get noticed, after all no one can write a letter of recommendation for the silent kid in the corner. The quiet souls of this world find their spaces constantly assaulted with social media and the pressure to achieve and succeed, to stand out. Silence does not achieve these goals, ambitions, dreams, futures or expectations. Bull shit.
The parallel I can think to make was already made by John Lennon:
"Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans."
My life right now is full of nothing but plans. I schedule time to study, time to go to class, time to speak to professors, time to apply for graduate school, time to discuss career plans, time to make my time. Yet I ask anyone about how they used their time in college and no one seems to remember much of tests or homework or career paths, however everyone seems to have that memory of streaking at 3 am across campus or that one mind blowing concert experience the night before an 8 am class. The beats are still there certainly, those tests are very much real as any student will attest yet without the silence between the tests it would be meaningless white noise. When was the last time you asked someone their favorite television show and they said the snow from the disconnected channel? Life without silence is not life yet the beats are the only thing we, as a society, seem to care about because those are the moments we think we have control over. A composer, when creating sheet music, controls the tempo and volume of the sounds with notes. He uses pauses sure but it would be hard to imagine that composer creating a song with the sole intent of incorporating pauses. We do not control silence, it envelopes us. We do not control life, we live it.
Now do not mistake me, I am not advocating anyone to renounce all worldly obligations and rename themselves "talks-to-squirrels" because that would not exactly be living either. A song needs both silence and beats, so too do we need both plans and the spontaneous.
I used to look at my childhood with a great deal of embarrassment and disappointment. Silence seemed to be my best friend as I was that shy kid in the corner that no one could get more than a few words out of. I simply did not feel comfortable leaving my bubble and because of that I always felt I had missed out on so many opportunities. Now I see, my silence was simply my observations. My mouth may have been closed but my mind was always open. Every beat I saw, I absorbed. My silence has given me a unique appreciation for the music of others, a gift for which I am incredibly thankful now. It seems contradictory but in my life, silence was never ignorance but knowledge. Something to think about.

Thus far

To begin with Arcadia,

My previous blog on this play pretty much sums up my feelings that I thoroughly enjoyed this piece of writing. Not only did it hit on many issues that I consider very close to home but it approached those issues in such a way that I was forced to look at my aspirations in a new light. Everyone fears the unknown, it a symptom of humanity and seems to always have been. Mistakes make us cringe and shy away from the bold and new if we can feel the embrace of comfort. I think about the future so much more than I ever have in my life and my feelings are as mixed as my ambitions but the one pillar that is always supporting the weight of those thoughts is fear. Arcadia spoke to me about this fear, it did not hide it or deceive the importance of the emotion. It attacked it head on.
"...better to struggle on knowing that failure is final..." 
Is it better? I can only make the argument that the alternative would be to simply curl up and exist, a fate which sounds eternally more damned to me. We are on the march, we cannot stop and looking back does nothing for the view. I guess the only option we really have is that of marching on, to where I do not know.
"But its wanting to know that matters..." Arcadia may have a point there as well. Curiosity certainly is a fantastically fatal motivator but honestly who would be able to not look in that box? (sorry cat) Why are we so curious though? Can we not simply be content to march in our line and keep our heads down? No? Well alright then...what would make you look up? A bird calling? The wind blowing? What about the crack of a gun? I'm pretty sure I would look up for that third one if only by reflex born out of fear. Ha! Fear! What a coincidence... Such a tricky cycle. Our fear makes us curious and curiosity lifts the veil.

Remember, Remember

As yesterday was November 5th I felt I could not resist providing a bit of a history lesson on the legacy of that particular day.

"Remember, remember the 5th of November,

the Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason

should ever be forgot."

Many of you may recognize these words since they gained such fame in modern pop culture. They come from a move, V for Vendetta, based of a graphic comic and released in 2005. Since then, every November my Facebook has blown up with people quoting this movie and celebrating an idea, yet how much do you really know about Guy Fawkes Day and why it is remembered? For starters, not many know that the quote from the movie is actually just the beginning lines of a poem from an English folk verse in 1870:

  Remember, remember! 
    The fifth of November, 
    The Gunpowder treason and plot; 
    I know of no reason 
    Why the Gunpowder treason 
    Should ever be forgot! 
    Guy Fawkes and his companions 
    Did the scheme contrive, 
    To blow the King and Parliament 
    All up alive. 
    Threescore barrels, laid below, 
    To prove old England's overthrow. 
    But, by God's providence, him they catch, 
    With a dark lantern, lighting a match! 
    A stick and a stake 
    For King James's sake! 
    If you won't give me one, 
    I'll take two, 
    The better for me, 
    And the worse for you. 
    A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope, 
    A penn'orth of cheese to choke him, 
    A pint of beer to wash it down, 
    And a jolly good fire to burn him. 
    Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring! 
    Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King! 
    Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray!

Guy Fawkes was born in 1570 in the town of York. His father died when he was 8 years old, after which his mother married a catholic man. Through the teachings of his stepfather, Fawkes eventually converted to Catholicism at a time when the national religion was Anglicism. Guy spent much of his young life abroad fighting in wars soon becoming quite proficient in the art of weaponry and made his living as a mercenary. It was during his travels that he came into contact with Thomas Wintour, a member of a group of conspirators from London led by Robert Catesby. It was Catesby's plan to assassinate the King and raise his daughter, Princess Elizabeth, to the throne thus restoring England to a catholic monarchy. There plan was quite simple, they purchased rent of an undercroft which was located right under the Parliament building and began storing gunpowder in it with the intent of blowing up the entire government along with the King. The conspirators amassed a store of 36 barrels of gunpowder in July but were delayed by the plague. In early November, everything looked to be in place and Fawkes was put in charge of guarding the undercroft. The plan may have worked too it it were not a for a letter the group sent to all catholic members of Parliament warning them to stay away from the building that day. The plot was only to kill those members that were not Catholic after all. One of the members who received such a warning quickly showed it to King who had the tunnels under Parliament searched the night of November 5th. Fawkes was found leaving the cellar with a slow match. He was immediately arrested and tortured until he broke and gave up the whole conspiracy. Afterwards, Fawkes was held in the Tower of London until January 31, 1606 when he and three others were dragged out to the gallows and the fate that awaited him. However, Fawkes took matters into his own hands by leaping from a top the gallows platform and fell headfirst onto the ground, breaking his neck and ending his life. 

Today, the 5th of November is known interchangeably as Guy Fawkes Day, Plot Night or Bonfire Night. After the death of Fawkes, King James I encouraged his subjects to celebrate the day the King was able to escape assassination and keep them from anarchy. Bonfires were lit and accompanied by fireworks. Soon, the tradition grew to burn effigies in the bonfires as well. It was not until 1841 that Guy Fawkes began to make his appearance as a sympathetic character in William Ainsworth's "The Gunpowder Treason". From there and especially since 2005, Guy Fawkes has become a celebrated figure in political culture representing the horrors of oppressive government and a desire rise up and oppose tyranny in any form. 

It is interesting to me how literature and culture can take someone and completely turn their image around from terrorist to hero, not because of what he did but because of what he failed to do...

I doubt we would be celebrating his image as widely today if he had actually succeeded in blowing up the Parliament building and killing the King. Think Osama Bin Laden and you would be pretty close to how history would have viewed him. 

Arcadia, Day 2

As someone with a vested interest in history, this play seems to speak of topics that are "right up my alley". How much of history do we really understand to be factual? How many of our cultural foundations could be based on nothing more than "Bernardian assumptions"? These questions meander through my mind every time I pick up a book or look at a historical primary source. There are simply too many variables when it comes to the study of history but, in a way, that's what makes it such a dynamic field as opposed to the stagnate pursuits of librarians everyone equates historians to be. I applaud Tom Stoppard in presenting my favorite aspects of historical research in a light that makes it relevant for the pop culture. If it had not already been done this would have been a great idea for a final project...ah well. Here are a few quotes that really stood out to me while I was staring into the speaker:

...the snowflake and the snowstorm...
...the future is disorder...

-These passages spoke to my scholarly soul in a variety of ways. The first paints the bleak picture of what one must always keep in their mind whenever they read an account of a historical event. It matters not whether that event took place in Ancient Greece or 1920s New York City, the account is simply a snowflake in a snow storm. Was it written by a single person or a group? Where was this individual born? What are their political ideologies? Were they involved in a war? How close in time and space were they to the event they are trying to describe? What type of schooling did they receive? Are they writing during a time of war or peace? A single snowflake is a marvel to be hold under a microscope, each unique in design and dimension, but if one only focuses on the singular event think of how many other snowflakes they would lose sight of in the storm. Now imagine trying to capture the power of that storm when only a few, tiny flakes are available to share their knowledge. As for the future, how can it not be anything but disorder? No one can say when an earthquake or other natural disaster may be fall us. Will global warming push us into a catastrophic event we are not prepared for? Unanswered questions, yet only by studying history can we gain a scope to prepare for those future events. History: future disorder through the human scope.

...the best time to live...is when everything you knew is wrong...

-I could not help but remember that passage from The Four Quartets:
“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
-Which parallels nicely into the next quote:

...you could not see to look before...

-scope and proximity-

...enough time and paper and boredom...you'd have to have a reason for doing it...
...the questions you are asking don't matter...

-Once, again Stoppard captures my passion for history perfectly. My view of the world has always been held through the context of time, paper and boredom yet there would be no view with reason and questions. However, all questions matter. If I were to ask you what you had for breakfast this morning and write down your answer then seal that response in a time capsule you make think me crazy and extremely bored. Yet those are the types of questions historians can make the most of. For example, say you had eggs, toast and a glass of milk (not too far out there for a breakfast choice), someone studying that response in the future would have quite a bit of information about you if they looked closely enough. You obviously had money for those supplies and the means to cook them. Those particular eggs and milk had to have come from somewhere and processed in some manner, thus giving a picture of food standards and dietary supplements. The animals and crops for those items had to have been readily available (would those same breakfast items be found in Greece or Tibet?) thus a picture of the geography and location. You had those particular items for breakfast but why not lunch or dinner or as a midnight snack? Possibly the work of social integration and propaganda? (what is the first thought that comes to mind when someone says eggs? what time of day you picture? why?) Every question matters.

...like travelers who must carry everything in their arms...we die on the march...

- We cannot carry every book or paper written on our history and culture yet we carry them with us none the less. One does not have to have seen Star Wars to recognize the music and plot from the film. (as we have proven) I doubt anyone can tell me the life story of Levi Straus yet most of us wear his legacy everywhere we go. What we carry is what we deem most important. Culturally, socially, personally. We do not take our houses and money with us when we die, we take only what can fit on us and within us.

Apology in Absence

A friend asked me once why I always preferred the backwards method of handwriting my essays and papers before retyping and submitting them for classes. At the time I found that I had no answer for her, it was simply the way I had always wrote and never gave a second thought to it. Yet this question stuck in my mind and, just for my own curiosity, the next time I wrote a paper I tried to jump right into the typing portion and skip the hand writing. You know what I discovered? I hated it.
It was not that the paper was any more difficult to write than any previous one or that I received a worse grade, the problem was it simply was not...enjoyable. To stare at a computer screen is to stare at the world in all its immensity. The internet, computer games, facebook: distractions, unknowns, fears, hopes, expectations, questions. One click and all is laid bare. My mind buzzes too loudly, its voice too soft.
A piece of paper, now there is my sanctuary. There is nothing on it, a blank space, no expectations, no future plans, no distractions, just my pen strolling along on its less traveled path. It is the journey of writing that I seek, not the concluding word. My mind wanders while my hand follows, page after page. My sanctuary, my wooded cove. For me, there is very little else as peaceful and freeing as the simple act of writing, I can only hope I never lose my way.

I titled this blog Apology in Absence because I felt that it has been entirely too long since my last blog. I could say that it was because of my entirely too hectic schedule but something pulls me away from that excuse. More so, I think, it is that my thoughts have been unwilling to be written. As a senior, it is becoming increasingly clear that this world I have constructed for myself here at MSU is quickly coming to an end. My own apocalypse draws near and eventually I must lift my veil and look upon the world beyond these mountains. What will I take with me?

Last week I had the tremendous opportunity of being able to interview Senator Jon Tester about his views on climate change policy for another seminar I am taking. It was an eye opening experience for me in so many ways that I am still contemplating my paradigm shift. Here I am, asking a United States Senator about what he believes are our chances of preventing wide spread destruction and misery while really wondering if he has ever heard of a Nicholas Urfe. Why that particular thought was in my mind I could not honestly tell you but there it was none-the-less. It is an interesting feeling being able to passively dissect the questions of man's mortality and the roles of gods in the same classroom as the one I had just beheld the secular gods of our possible destruction, mother nature and man's ignorance. I struggle to find the bridge that I know must link the two but how does one look past the ridiculous notion that I equate to reciting a Shakespearean sonnet on the congress floor during a debate on climate change? Again, what do I bring with me?

Answers are death, I am alive, therefore I have nothing with me but questions and nothing but the future ahead of me. Perhaps Mother Nature looms there and nothing I do now can ever take away the fears and apprehensions that come with that thought yet, for now,....there are still golden leaves on the trees.

"I asked the leaf whether it was frightened because it was autumn and the other leaves were falling. The leaf told me, 'No. During the whole spring and summer I was completely alive. I worked hard to help nourish the tree, and now much of me is in the tree. I am not limited by this form. I am also the whole tree, and when I go back to the soil, I will continue to nourish the tree. So I don't worry at all. As I leave this branch and float to the ground, I will wave to the tree and tell her 'I will see you again very soon.'" - Thich Nhat Hanh

It has everything...

I'll admit when we first started this book I was a little skeptical when Dr. Sexson told us that this book is the closest to having "everything". I kept wondering, what did he mean by everything? Did it contain all the answers to questions one would ask themselves throughout their lives or maybe it just contained all the questions one ought to ask themselves. Also, how could it have everything in it that I was searching for? I have to imagine that everyone's everything is slightly different just as we are all leading slightly different lives down slightly different paths. Was this book a generic frame of what the path would probably look like? I had no idea but I figured the only way to find out was to simply jump right in and read. That is what I did.

It did not take long before I began to figure out what "everything" meant. Actually, it only took until page 63. Last week, the discussion of death we were having had been weighing constantly on my mind and my thoughts. Jonah's blog described how we are all enduring suicide in one way or another which I was very adverse to at first given the heavy connotations of the word. I had had a family member take his own life at around the same age I am now and to see the ripple effects that act has had on my entire family has been sobering to say the least, anyone would recoil from that thought after that experience. Yet it seemed I could not escape that word for there it was, in black ink on white paper: suicide, page 63. I read these pages with perverse fascination, it seemed so suddenly that Nicholas descended to the point of contemplating this end. I always had the assumption that the descent was more of a spiral than a straight plummet. The way he thought about his suicide, cold and calculating almost as if it were being planned by someone else and he simply accepted that this was the way it was supposed to be now. Then "the balance tipped".

What balance? What was Nicholas trying to weigh? I remember all these questions in my head as we discussed our own eventual demise in class trying to discern any other hint of a reference to the balancing act in life. Could life and sanity be so fragile as to be walking on a tight rope between what is real and is unthinkable? The way he borrowed the gun from the gatekeeper as casually as buying a piece of bread from a local store disturbed me. Did he have no thought for how the gatekeeper would feel when his gun was discovered next to this corpse? Would the gatekeeper blame himself for not seeing the signs in time and trying to stop him? Would he too plummet into a depression? All unanswerable questions but ones that warrant a reference none-the-less. Heedless, seemingly, of any other notion Nicholas set off into the woods. A place that had provided him with such relief and solitude only weeks before would now serve as his waterloo. I found it interesting that on his way to his end he chose to only mention those sights and sounds around him that would normally paint a very comforting picture in anyone else's mind. The luminous sun, the warm air, the bells from the herds of goats. Interesting. He selected his spot by comparing it to relieving one's self, a very interesting metaphor choice. It was as though this sort of thing happens everyday and, indeed, was simply a natural chore to be done. No questions, no surprises. Cold and calculating, he set about making sure his death would be achieved in the most efficient way by the optimal angle. A good death should not be done rashly after all.

I wonder what Nicholas felt when he actually rehearsed his death...

Then, it was all over. Where images of beauty and warmth could not save him, the voice of mystery and sorrow could? (wtf to that) He waited for his moment but it never came. The spontaneous singing seemed to ruin the moment. This was not a romantic death, there would be no songs or elegies created to remember this lone man in the woods with his gun....He had missed, it seems, everything.

Dr. Sexson said in one of our classes a while back that it is almost sadder for animals and babes that suffer death so soon. They, who have no knowledge nor faults yet take the ultimate burden, should be pitied above all else. I may have to disagree with this point for though their deaths are incredible tragic, it was not a death obliterate. There would be no whispered questions at their funerals..."Was it something the parents did wrong, did they not love them enough?"..."Should we have been able to see the signs to prevent this"..."How could they choose this"... The parents of a dying babe may try to blame themselves in some way but deep down they would have to know that those accusations had no ground, it was simply fate. The parents of suicide victim afford themselves no such luxury.

"Did you kill anything?"
"One shot, I missed."

.Death obliterate.

It Startled Me to Read...

“Does anyone believe the galaxies exist to add splendor to the night sky over Bethlehem?”

A simple question that Dillard poses yet one that is so very difficult to answer. The figures Dillard gives to precede this question state there may be as many as eighty billion galaxies in existence, each housing at least one hundred billion suns. They are also over thirteen billion years old…how’s that for perspective. We are such a proud species with our technology and scientific progress yet what do we really know? We, who occupy one planet orbiting one sun and only have for such a short period of time yet we have the audacity to proclaim we know the secrets of the galaxy and secrets of God, who made us in his own image? How? How can we stand so tall on that pedestal? Could we even handle the alternative? Dillard proves nothing else in her book if not that life is fleeting and fragile. 138,000 living, breathing people can disappear in a single moment and did on April 30, 1991 almost one year exactly before I was born. It did not matter how rich or powerful they were how much “stuff” they owned; they were all equal in death. But then what is the point? What do we work so hard for? Why do I spend hours of my short time on this planet in a state of high stress over a tiny black letter on a piece of paper? Do the stars truly shine only for us? But then…maybe that’s the answer: the stars. Something so vast, so awesome and so completely unknown yet we appreciate them above all else for their beauty. Each of those stars could have their own earths with their own intelligent masses and we may never know but we do know what a starry night looks like. Is that enough for you? I think it may be enough for me yet how can one truly conceptualize that eternity? Dillard seems to offer only clouds and numbers as sources of solidarity. Startling and stark. All I have at this point is questions but for now that will be enough, questions and stars. 

Lets Take a Walk

Begin by strolling down the road, any road will do, on a clear, crisp autumn day. You look up and are not very surprised to find clouds rolling through the sky. You may admire their shapes or colors or you may find them worrisome due to tomorrow's prediction of snow fall. Whichever the case may be, the clouds take no notice of your admiration or apprehension but drift along in their wanderings, seemingly indifferent and apart from the worrisome world you know so well. Yet, you might think, they cannot really be that apart if you remembered the Buddhist teachings of one Thich Nhat Hanh in his book, "The Heart of Understanding". Think of a piece of paper. Now that paper could convey anything in the world from a thought, a story, a poem, a priceless piece of art or just a crude drawing. Yet that piece of paper is a tangible part of the world, meaning you can touch it, smell it, taste it if you so desire. Any test you deem worthy enough of spending your time on in order to prove the existence of that paper in that location in time and place I promise you it will pass. Now take a deeper look into that piece of paper. You may see nothing more than a blank facade yet, according to Hanh, one can be trained to see not just the white fibers but the soils from which it came. The bark that gave it protection. The leaves that collected rain and nutrients. Finally, you will see the clouds in the sky. The paper is all of these things, it only matters from which point in space you choose to observe it. In fact, if you obscure your point of view in time, that piece of paper is all these things at the same time. Not unlike a certain cat you may have heard of...

Superposition. 

At this point in the walk, you may find yourself at the redbox in front of the Holiday gas station located on the corner of 19th and Durston. You may also find yourself wanting to see the new Great Gatsby movie and why not, it has Leonardo Dicaprio in it after all so it can't be all that bad? With disc in hand you return home from your ponderous venture, plop down on the sofa and seclude your mind from all these vexing notions, or so you hoped... For you come to this part in the film: Nick Carraway stands at a window while the chaotic nature of uninhibited life swirls behind him. He spots a lone person walking the streets below and suddenly he realizes that he is that person, looking up into the window while at the same time he gazes back at him. "...I am both within and without..." 

Superposition.

Slightly unsettled by the continual references to this being all in all places at once nonsense you might turn off the film at this point. Lay back on your sofa, eyes closed, listening to the whispering of the wind outside and think: what are the chances of that?

                                            

How the Past Possesses the Present in Signs and Symbols by Vladimir Nabokov

                My love for this short story is matched only by my disbelief at how soon it ends. This may be a short story but never before have I encountered a trinket with such immense density. Trying to discern what influences hide behind this work is like trying to extricate one grain of sand from a mandala. It is certainly easy enough to pick up the piece, but what about the millions upon billions of other pieces one would leave behind? There are simply so many categories one could choose and each would show equally remarkable connections to each other and to the past. Thus, every category must be reviewed in its respect to this story, from the literal perspective to the anagogical one.

                Literally, this story is nothing but a down trodden couple looking back at their past. They remember everything and bring it to play in their present day. Scenes of weariness and age are used to frame the couple which came from so much and has been through even more. Aches of pity spring to the surface as Nabokov describes the fall of these once proud people in their old country. The husband “had been a fairly successful businessman, was now…wholly dependent on his brother…” The wife remembers “…maid they had had in Leipzig…Minsk, the Revolution, Leipzig, Berlin, Leipzig again, a slanting house front…” The child “looked more surprised than most babies…looking away from an eager squirrel, as he would have from any other stranger.” Together they remember “…the year they left Europe…the shame, the pity, the humiliating difficulties of the journey…” There is where they live. The wife’s photo albums bear witness to the realization that nothing in the present is as good as it used to be. It is little wonder the husband cannot sleep and I cannot blame him for that. Nor can I blame the wife for placing the photo album in such high esteem. Life was not kind to this family so why not cling to what they had? However, after three phones calls even the old couple knew that “…living does mean accepting the loss of one joy after another…”

                From here the water gets much deeper. An allegorical reading of this story could find any metaphor and translation it wanted to in these words. Under a tree outside the sanitarium, the couple finds a “…tiny unfledged bird…helplessly twitching in a puddle.” What else could this represent other than the fate of the child the parents had just tried to visit? A child who, as a boy, had drawn images of those same avian animals “…with human hands and feet..” to represent himself or his being trying to escape in flight yet failing to grow wings. Yet for all his wishes, the boy remains trapped on the ground and in the dirt reminding one of “…beautiful weeds that cannot hide from the farmer.” Finally, one must remember the lesson of symbols: if something happens once it is accident, if it happens twice it is coincidence, if it happens three times then it is fate. Three phone calls later, fate has found its Icarus.

                The morality of this story inter-plays too heavily with its anagogical end to truly be able to do a separate reading of each. Thus, one sees the biblical references of “Isaac”, “Rebecca” and the “devil” placed alongside images of grief-stricken parents bringing their child a basket of bright fruits. What else can the mother be but the biblical Rebecca trying to protect her child, Isaac, from the devil that tortured him? How could one not see their “humiliating” exodus from Europe and not see the shame of Adam and Eve as they left the Gardens of Eden?

                The past is nothing but a mirror to the present in “Signs and Symbols”. Everything is represented not by itself but in reflection of something entirely different. The couple’s lives are nothing but shadows of what they used to be. While those same shadows whisper evils to their tortured son. Through their eyes, one is forced to bear witness to the immense power of the past: the power to enlighten as well as the power to absolutely destroy. It begs the question, what is the true place of the past in relation to the present? Should it be a shadow, a memory to every moment? Should it be ignored and risk a world of blindness? Perhaps it has to be both or perhaps we can only know the true meaning of the husband’s “ultimate truth” when we live in Nabokov’s world possessed of the past. 

His name was Charles. It used to be Charlie but now, just Charles. His rather pudgy frame was seen waddling up the sidewalk of Second Avenue as it has been known to do every morning on his way to work. The sun was just beginning its lazy ascent into the sky, the houses and businesses on Charles’ way were just waking with it. The heavily scuffed loafers made slight scraping noises as they shifted their way towards their destination in a sort of sleepy shuffle. Signs passed overhead until an old wooden one came into view, creaking on its rusted hinges: Teach’s Fine Footwear. Charles fished in his pocket looking for the correct key. Selecting it, he opened the door and entered the shop, a small bell announcing his arrival.

“….you are late, Charles”, came a snide, drawling voice from a corner. A sort of voice that held itself in too high of a regard for the very air it breathed. The visage of Edward Teach, store proprietor, rose from behind a desk and swept towards the unfortunate employee. Towering over Charles, the great, black beard an inch from his face, Mr. Teach continued, “What is the meaning of this tardiness?”

“I..I. am sorry sir,” stuttered Charles, “but the store does not open for another half hou”

“Save it! This laziness will be deducted from today’s rates. Now, continue with your job.” Mr. Teaches words cut through the air as if to hook one’s thoughts and drag them, mercilessly, into his folds.

“Of course, sir, m my…my apologizes sir.” With that, Charles shuffled off to grab a broom and began sweeping out the store. It was not exactly a glamorous job and certainly not a thankful job yet it kept him out of his mother’s house. Her voice echoed around in his head, as it constantly did even when she was not around. “Why do you insist on shuffling around like a lazy, good-for-nothing lump? Take some pride in yourself and do something with your life!...When will you settle down and marry a nice girl? I am getting far too old and with no grandchildren, you just insist on causing me heartache don’t you? You know I worry so about you…” Every day it was the same, one disappointment after another with no end in sight. No matter what Charles did he could never rise above her standards it seemed. He just kind of accepted his lot in life now which explained the sleepy shuffle of his gait. Mr. Teach, however horrible he treated Charles, at least paid him and got him out of his mother’s cramped apartment. Charles was grateful for that.

Midmorning found Charles behind the counter, busily counting the till for what seemed like the twentieth time this today (If one cent is missing from that till at the end of the day, it will be coming out of your pay!). Suddenly, the morning quiet was shattered by the sounds of running and laughter. Outside the front windows, a group of small boys came running into view. Each face was lit with a fierce smile and their laughter cascaded before them. They could not have been very old yet they were a common sight in this neighborhood, always running around, laughing and causing mischief. Mr. Teach sneered at them as they passed, “damn hooligans…” slid out the corner of his mouth. He went back to his bookings. Charles watched them go with a sense of longing and something close to…amusement. He continued with his counting; was he at 47 or 48?..

The sun continued to rise high into the sky. The small neighborhood kept to its quiet and cloistered habits. Leaves found their way into the store, following the heels of the couple customers that came to browse. Each time, Mr. Teach took the foliage’s invasion as a personal insult (Charles!! Get this filth out of my store! If I wished to work in a pig’s pen I would set up shop in your mother’s apartment!). Other than that there was no other excitement until just before closing time. The bell clapped out in its exuberance, it did not often get to use its voice. Charles looked up towards the door, just in time to see six small heads dashing through the aisles of shoes, laughter following everywhere.

“HOOLIGANS!”, came the bellow from the back corner. “OUT! OUT! GET THESE DAMN MISFITS OUT OF MY STORE!” The boys took no notice of Mr. Teach’s anger, instead they continued to dash through the aisles, grabbing shoe boxes and switching them with other boxes or throwing handfuls of bright leaves into the air like confetti. Charles waddled after them with a broom, trying to shoo them out the door but with little luck (or was it effort?). Finally, the boys grew tired of dodging between aisles and ducking out of the reach of Mr. Teach’s grasp. Their laughter slowly dissipated as they dashed out the front door and tore down the street. Mr. Teach ran out after them shouting obscenities and spitting in his fury. When he finally reentered his mood had not improved. “I will get those little bastards locked up if it is the last thing I do! How dare they come into my place of business like that! You, Charles, could not even succeed in keeping small hooligans out of my store! Now you will clean and reorganize the entire store without pay, even it takes you all night! Get to work!!!!”

“Ye..yea…yes sir, right away sir…” Charles trembled before his employer, not daring to say another word. He grabbed a broom and sighed as he saw the mess before him.

Hours later, Charles was seen to still be sweeping in the store. Mr. Teach had long since gone home but not before threatening to fire Charles if one speck of dirt was left in his shop by morning. The sun had even given up on Charles, sinking below the horizon without the courtesy of a good night. All was quiet and still, except the slow scratch of the broom on the clean tiles. Then, the sound of laughter caused Charles to glance up from his task as the same group of boys ran past the window again. This time one of them stopped to look into the store. His bright eyes and flashing smile swept through the aisles until he spotted Charles. His smile grew even wider (if that was possible) and he waved enthusiastically before sprinting off again. Charles glanced nervously around to confirm Mr. Teach was not lurking behind him before giving a little wave back. He returned to his sweeping but this time with a small smile on his lips, the memory of laughter ringing in his head. 

Chasing my tale.

I started with a dream, continued with my pursuit of a single moment and now I am staring into the face of what I can only assume must be the bridge between those two islands. Fog. It has to be fog. I stare at this story "Symbols and Signs", the words are opaquely apparent yet their meanings are veiled. I hope I am not the only one lost in this pursuit. I can choose a word and walk into the fog but how would I find my way back to the outside if I chose the wrong path? Maybe I will be lost forever...maybe, but Dr. Sexson said march so I begin my descent, or ascent, or charge. My eyes search the misty pages for any trace of a light or sign (pun intended) and suddenly there is one. An old inkling of recognition surfaces under a word, then another and another and another and another. Soon, my hand is running over the pages, all thoughts of bread crumbs and caution thrown to the wind in my now fevered excitement. Could I have found the right path? Am I on my way to the place where truth exists between dream and moment? Perhaps!

The fog seems to thinning, I am almost there...I am so close, my heart is pounding...I. AM. right back where I started. Staring at a page, lost in a day dream, distilled in a moment. Frustration begins to grip my mind as I finish the story, only to flip back to the beginning and find the same wall of fog. My search could continue again and again, a thousand times over (which I have to assume is what happened to the person that wrote an entire book on this short story) yet I know that, in the end, I will still end up exactly where I started. Chasing my tale.

Maybe that is not such a bad place to be though. I see the island of my dreams, yet I cannot reach it since I cannot touch or control my dreams. I also see the island of my moment, that immersive place where warm sand on a beach is continually between my toes and the last rays of a sunset never quite withdraw their warm embrace. However, my eyes see what my body cannot find. A moment can only be a moment. Surrounding and connecting all is that eternal fog. What the fog is, I do not know. Maybe it is simply the fog of questions and pursuits. One can ask and pursue til heart's content or heart's end yet it may always be a circular journey, or at least it seems that way to me. Dr. Sexson said that all literature is retold myth and to me myth is the retelling of questions and pursuits. A circle that shows itself a sphere; infinite faces and reflections but truly only one line that connects over and over.

Now do I sit here and stand idle the rest of my life or, perhaps, head off on this foolish errand made significant by my realization of its foolishness? I haven't a clue but until I figure that out I think I will dip back into the swim. I see a light house has appeared ahead and truly,

who can resist investigating a light house...

distraction from Distraction...

A question is brought up, seemingly over and over again. It floats through the back of my mind while I sit in another roasting classroom, another voice thrums through the air like radio in the background. Change scene, same plot. Another classroom, another chair, another voice. Then my thoughts are being read out for the whole class to comprehend: "What is the Point?" I blink my eyes to make sure I had not been lost in another day dream, but no, the words are repeated. Why are we here, in this classroom? A question one must have the privilege of asking themselves at least once a day if not once an hour. It is one that commands my presence in every activity and scenario. It summons my attention and stops my wanderings. That attention, as reviewed by Sven Birkerts in his story "The Art of Attention", is the center-most theme discussed with an almost complete reverence. "To pay attention, to attend. To be present, not merely in body--it is an action of the spirit." Clearer words have never spoken more to me. To be fully immersed gives me a feeling all my own. Whether that activity is an early morning 3 mile run with the rising sun at my back or reading a book at 1 in the morning because I simply cannot put it down, I am in those activities and become those activities. We discussed what T.S. Elliot might have meant when he said "...distraction from Distraction by distractions..." In my mind, that discussion became one of deep sentimentality and spirituality. I believe what Elliot meant, and what Birkerts supported, was that Distraction is not finding a small, winding path on the road of life and momentarily getting lost on it before scrambling to find your way back. Instead, it is realizing that that little pathway is the road of life. Do not misunderstand me, I am not excusing or justifying laziness. Just the opposite actually for truly following Distraction and immersion is to follow an almost religious practice. It is to follow God as "God is the moment". That line comes from a song entitled "Hold Your Head Up" by Macklemore and is the lyric that has continually popped up in my head during our class discussions. It all traces back to that root question: What is the point? For Elliot, it was to be distracted. For Birkerts, it is to pay attention. For Macklemore, it is to be in the moment. For me, it is to do each and every one of those things as they are all the same commandment. Live in a book. Live in an activity. Live in the moment, for there is where one finds their "God".