say what you want about Jim Morrison. Maybe you say he's a joke, maybe you say hes Dionysus
I sometimes feel either way. But watching a PBS documentary on the doors last night, i saw that he had a few beautiful things to say. A few things that if we look at what hes saying we can see we see the same things.

"Music is a pure expression of joy, a pure expression of beauty."
-jim morrison
an American Poet?

a little guide to the story.

My hope is that the work will speak for itself but, i understand it might be a little ambiguous but here are a few things to look for.
Negative Capability this is major
Walter Pater's idea
Keats ideas
Mathew Arnold- a big part, especially when considering things like dover beach.
a little Don Quixote
some of the Poem
Anagogy- major

paper

The sun began to rise.

An old man wept.

As the day withdrew the nights wet, the puddles of sea water reduced to a white shale that crusted between the cobblestone and glazed the aging docks. The tears too began to dry in the cracks of the old man’s face. His wool sweater, though torn and patched, remained clean. His beard was now almost completely white, but his grey face muddled the image of purity. Most of the bartenders in town knew him as Atticus, his real name had long since been forgotten.

Portsmouth, like any New England shipyard, is forever draped in an inescapable sheath of the ocean. To some, the smell invites, it is rich in life, nourishment, and the rawness of humanity. To others, it is the smell of death and decay. It sickens. Atticus had taken on this aura. He had for many years lived off the sea and the port town. He ate very little besides what he could fish, his lungs took in the night sea breeze, they expelled the morning fog. Atticus often thought his blood must be more rich in salt than the average man. He had heard that most men are roughly seventy percent water, he did his own calculations and figured that in his case that number would probably be significantly lower, and the part that was water, he concluded, was probably swimming with allege, or perhaps had a few tiny krill floating around. It generally felt that way anyway.

Most days he would have been up for hours by now, but it was autumn, and the mornings were harder to bare. What little comfort his cardboard manor provided, it seemed a more pleasant place to be than on the cold pre-dawn street. Even though the sun had broken, he was the only life that could be seen around the docks. Usually, when boats were harbored there, the shore would be a busy scene. Since the surge of cod moving off the coast of Nova Scotia, almost every boat was out trying to bring in a killing. Every man on board would work sleeplessly during rushes like these in the hopes they would make enough to pay for bar tabs, alimony, holiday presents, sometimes a cheap ring or necklace for a new girlfriend. Most of the men had good looking girlfriends, but they, like the fish, would only be around a short while before the whole of it ate them up.

From time to time, Atticus actually made a few dollars writing love letters to some of the men’s girlfriends. His thirst, stronger than any, rendered his hand useless on deck of a ship. It was that same thirst however, though this time redirected, that made his hand crash down on paper like a ten foot seawall of a nor’easter storm. What he wrote was generally short, but it was always enough to make a few lonely girlfriends –or at least his throat- wet with its beauty.

Now awake, he shook his heavy arms from their slumber; his arms rose, stretched toward the sky, and then fell to his hips. He searched his pockets for bills, feeling no paper, he pulled out a hand full of cold coins. Pawing through the dull metal, tallying his day’s bankroll, Atticus came across freshly printed coin. It’s luster caught the morning rays and flashed his foggy eyes clean. Seeing now what he couldn’t before, Atticus noticed the edge of things. He noticed the edge of his sad home, wilting towards the ground, the edge of the docks that grew into the sea, and he noticed the edge of the sea bending into the nothing beyond. He noticed the end of things.

He noticed too, that the shiny quarter he found was Canadian. “Why the hell did they name it a Looney anyways?” he thought to himself, “well,” he said quietly, “I barely noticed, I don’t think anyone else will.”

He stuffed the coins back into his pocket and stretched some more. He ran his massive hands through his thick hair, and then down to his face. It felt cold. Rubbing color back into his cheeks, Atticus decided his primary need was nourishment, once he got that settled it would easier to face the day.

Most bars around the country don’t open until a certain hour and have to close at certain one too, due to legislation. Atticus knew this, he’d seen plenty, and he’d been most everywhere. But in Portsmouth, and in places like it, legislation is only recognized by the types that pass them. Sunrise, however, was a commonly understood and respected rule of order. If you’d been there all night and weren’t out by sunrise, you would be thrown out. If you’d been asleep all night and weren’t in by sunrise you’d be late for work.

Atticus sat down. The long bar was made of old ship masts, it had been coated with lacquer so many times that it looked as though it were housed in glass, or under several inches of impenetrable water. Down the long bar, sat a row of men, most in thick wool, none were in their usual bright orange slickers. Though he was friendly with them all, he took his seat next to his closest companion.

Mikko was tall and broad, most of them men were quite the same, but he was significantly taller. Though Atticus commonly –but falsely- called him a Kraut, Mikko was from a long line of Finnish settlers that made more money fishing in New England then they ever could have back home. He certainly looked the part. His fine hair was so blonde it looked almost white, which made his pink, sun-burnt face stand out all the more.

“What’s the deal here?” asked Atticus

“What do you mean?” responded Mikko

“Well, when I woke up, none of the boats were around. And I get here and you’re all here, how’d you get back so soon?” Atticus asked.

“Oh, we got back yesterday old man. I mean, I think a couple of the crews are still out getting at it, but we hit it so quick that we had to unload up in Maine.” Said Mikko

“Well,” said Atticus slowly, “where’s your boat then?”

“Oh, well captain had us dock up in Bar Harbor, there were a couple problems with some of the radios and we tore one of our trollers. Its all getting worked on up there, we gotta go back up in a few days. A couple of the kids in town up there gave us all a ride down yesterday. They’d drive us back up when we needed it. I think they were bored. I don’t know what they expected to be going on down here,” Mikko paused to place his breakfast order, “but we all got them wicked drunk yesterday. Where were you?”

“Sleeping,” Atticus said.

“And what would you like?” said the barmaid to Atticus

“Beer. A pint,” replied Atticus. Noticing her shift uncomfortably waiting for the rest of the order –she was new- Atticus continued, “Dark beer. Gotta have some protein right?”

“You were asleep?” Mikko asked, continuing where they had left off.

“Yes,” said Atticus

“When?” asked Mikko

“All day” he responed coolly

“Wow,” Mikko said, “heavy sleeper.”

“Something like that,” said Atticus letting out a sigh, holding back a yawn.

“You’re quite a mess you know,” said Mikko, “I mean I love having you around and all, but you’re a damn mess.” The silence was all that need to be said in response. “You know,” Mikko continued, “work out here isn’t that bad, I mean you bust ass for about a month, come home with full pockets, eat well, sleep well, get laid. It makes life all the more worth while.”

“Now look here kraut, your forgetting a few things,” said Atticus, clearing his throat, preparing for his soliloquy, “A, you’re a dumb-ass kid, smarten up. B, I have worked on a ship before, probably around the same time your Nazi father raped your poor Polish mother. D, I still do work. In fact if it hadn’t been for the work I do, you’d probably still be a virgin. And three, my life is just fine, always has been.”

“Sure it’s fine,” said Mikko, “but your kind of life ain’t worth while. I mean what does your day consist of honestly? You wake up with the sun. You drink. You write and tell these little stories, all of which are complete bullshit anyway, I mean I highly doubt you did any of the things you say, and then you’re usually so drunk by mid-afternoon you pass out before the sun does.”

Mikko stopped, he had started with great conviction, but stopped when he began to see Atticus’ eyes wither and moisten. He had expected to see him cry. He did cry. His tears did not fall on sad face however. Instead they fell into an open and wide smile. Atticus’ grin was so large it pushed others out of their barstools. It tapped the men at the jukebox on the shoulder and kissed the cheek of the waitress. Laughter boomed out of deep and unseen area of his broad frame, spraying the salted tears across the bar and into Mikko’s confounded face.

“You think I give a damn?” Atticus roared in between a barrage of “HE-HE” and “HAW-HAWS.”

“Yes, what you say is true,” said Atticus, his laughter slowly subsiding, “but Mikko my boy, I just don’t give a damn. You see, I know-I know that I’m no a good bum, I know I’m a dirty old man, and probably a damned ugly one at that. But I don’t get swayed by things like that, in fact I don’t let life sway me at all, I let it run through me just as fast as I’m running through it. As a matter of fact, I’m probably dying right now, as we speak, but at least I’m dying to live. You and your life…you’re just livin’ to die my man, livin’ to die.”

Solace was restored to the bar, Atticus gazed upon Mikko with familiarity, he smiled back with disbelieving wonder. Their meals were served: Mikko with his steak and eggs, Atticus with his beer.

“Come,” Atticus said, “together as old friends, let us sit in peace, and break the night’s fast.”

“Zee-Deutch…” Atticus said, wagging his head in mock-European fashion, “…what a sorry lot.”

As the sun rose into a high fixed position, the bar emptied out and filled again. New faces, old faces, same-old faces. Whether it was the morning of heavy drinking or his old failing eyes, the faces looked all the same to him. And all the same faces looked to him. They looked to him with the same thirst that his eyes had while set upon the morning sun, sometimes the morning bottle. He was drunk now and the rapidness of his stories embodied this. In a matter of minutes he could have the entire bar in stitches with laughter. In just a few minutes more, he could have them weeping into their glasses, turning their beer into the sea for which they wept. For many hours he was the story he told. He was the woman they desired, beautiful and naked, beckoning with lust of a thousand wives. He was the father they hated, or the mother they missed. But as they day drew on, and the liquor ran forth, he became the liquor. His eyes grew wild, his skin receded into his bones, and he became a skeleton of himself. His great size shrank to a thin, frail frame. And he was ugly, and wicked and all together despised. The bartenders threw him out into the street. There he lay: inhuman, yet mortal.

The sun set.

An old man dreamt.

Atticus awoke, coughing and climbing to his feet, he staggered and had to brace himself against the wet brick wall. Tossing the hair out of his eyes, Atticus noticed the young man staring at him from across the street.

“What do you want?” Atticus barked. The young man said nothing, only looking more frightened now the before. “Now see here boy,” he continued “don’t give me that queer look or I’ll-”

“I’ve been watching you all night,” the boy interrupted, “not-not in a weird way.” He said recognizing the implications of his first statement.

“What the…boy I ought to give you one hell-of-a beating. You can’t just let an old man sleep? You got to creep around him and like a little freak?”

“No, you don’t understand. I…I thought you were going to die. You looked like you were dying. I’ve never seen anybody drink that much.” Said the boy, hesitant but his true voice had begun to come to him.

“Well then, you’ve never seen me, and never will again. Get the hell out of here,” said Atticus, collecting his things.

“I just wanted to help you, or rather I just wanted your help I mean,” said the boy, trying to sound defiant, but sounding all the more childish instead.

“Oh…oh yeah? Help with what?” inquired Atticus. Even though he was quite a bastard he wasn’t entirely cold-hearted. This showed in him from time to time, this being one of them.

“Well your tall friend there, the Finn, he told me what a good story-teller you were. How you’d write love letters for guys if they paid you. The whole ride down here that’s all he could talk about: you and your stories. I kept turning my head to ask him more questions I almost ran off the road. Finally he agreed to introduce me, we actually met last night, but I don’t think you remember,” said the boy, looking both ways, then crossing the street, “my names Miles,” he said holding out his hand as he hopped up onto the sidewalk.

“I remember,” said Atticus, “even if I forgot, I remember. Welp, if a love song is what your after you gotta pay me, and you can start by buying me a beer. As I said before I got nothing, ‘cept, let’s see…a pocket, two actually, full of empty, and a headache.”

They walked down the street, towards the sea. They both figured that another bar would be more appropriate due to last night’s show. The footsteps matched and mirrored the same hollow echo. It rattled back and forth, against the brick walls and the front windows of salt water taffy stores, bait shops and cold homes that lined the narrow street. The dual echo became one as it pinged on in front of them and found its way out to sea.

They walked for a few minutes and settled on a small bar called the Isle of Shoals, it was an expensive place, but the boy had promised to pay. The entrance was facing inland, but this allowed for the patrons to sit in grand view of the cold Atlantic. The great glass windows that comprised the eastern wall were still wet and frosted with sea mist. Even though the bar was empty they took a seat at a table in the far corner of the open room.

“Two beers and two lobster bisques,” Atticus called out across the empty floor, “don’t worry they got the best bisque in the whole town here.”

“Oh yeah, I trust you,” said Miles.

They sat facing the sea without speaking. The only thing making noise in the bar was the bartended in back igniting the stove, and sorting various pans and dishes. The sunlight that came through the window mirrored the sad grey overcast sky. It was the type of light that seemed to emphasize the ugliness of things. It started to depress them both.

“So what exactly is it that you want?” asked Atticus finally, “It’s not a common thing for me to do work for people I don’t know.”

“Oh,” said Miles his mind elsewhere as his thoughts slowly formulated.

“I’m not saying I won’t help you, I’m just saying it’s not everyday-”

“Well here’s the deal, I’m not very good with words, I’m not very good with women, and basically I need something that can help me with both,” said Miles.

“I can understand. I sympathize, not saying I’ve ever had problems with either, ‘specially not the women, but I can sympathize. So if you’re not got with words and you’re not good with women, then what are good at? Or should I say what good are you?”

“Ha,” Miles scoffed, “Well I’m good at plenty. I was good in school, great actually, a great athlete you know-”

“I meant in life,” interrupted Atticus, “not high school kid, what are you good at in life?”
“Well, well I guess I don’t really know. I know that’s just high school but that was a lot, I grew tired of it, and instead of going off to college I got a job on a boat and I’ve done that ever since. I guess I’m a pretty good worker, a good fisherman,” said Miles looking for approval.

“Yeah well that is something to be proud of,” said Atticus taking his beer and bisque from the bartender who had just walked over, “but there are a lot of good workers out there, and this town is full of good fisherman.” Atticus set his bowl down, spilling a little over his fingers. He licked them clean. “I told you it was some good bisque here.”

“Well if what I’ve done is so…minimal, then what is it that you do that makes you much more…mighty?” Miles said defensively.

“For starters, I see what you mean by having trouble with words...just kidding-lighten up. But I do plenty, I’ve done plenty more importantly,” Atticus said.

“Like what?” challenged Miles, looking him in the eye but laughing just a little.

“Like what? Ha, that’s a good one. Well let’s see: I’ve sailed around the world-twice. I’ve slept with the most beautiful women around the world…sometimes twice. I’ve run with the bulls in Pamplona, I’ve shot elephants in Africa, killed a few men. You know, things like that.”

“I don’t believe you.” Miles said simply

“Oh no? Check that out,” Atticus lived his sleeve to show massive scar that ran from his forearm on up to the sleeve and beyond, “it goes all the way over my shoulder and on to my back. Got that when I got thrown out of a moving train in the Yukon Territory. I was headed up to Alaska to marry me an Eskimo, lost a poker game and several of the men on board didn’t like that fact I had no way to pay’em.”

“Well what happened?” asked miles.

“That, my boy, is a long story.” Said Atticus, looking out again at the sea, rubbing along the length of his scar.

“I’m here the rest of the week. You clearly don’t have anything else to do. Besides its early, we just got breakfast,” pleaded Miles

“My point exactly, we just got breakfast, let me eat first then maybe I’ll tell you,” said Atticus directing his attention back to the table and down to his food.

They ate their soup and sipped casually at their beer. More people started to come in, they mumbled in corners, and draped themselves over the bar. Atticus began his story. He continually had to excuse himself and start the story over, from an earlier point in time in order to clarify all the events. He eventually started from his birth and began the story over once again. As he grew from infant to child and child to man, Atticus himself grew. He started the same withered and sorry man Miles had seen, sleeping in the gutter, and was now alive and quite large.

His story spanned the globe. He acted out scenes with his fingers and his hands. The morning sun finally broke the overcast clouds and cleared the windows of their dew. As his story progressed his actions became more animated. He would describe wild fights with gypsy beggars on the streets of Cairo. As he would describe the gypsy tossing him into a fruit stand, a breaker outside would crash on the rocks below. The force of water meeting land would shake the room, ringing wine glasses together as they hung above the bar.

The peripheral patrons soon became the people in his story, ambling about the busy London Underground, placing drink orders- waiting for their tickets. The waitresses, swooping in with plates full of glasses became the exotic belly dancers Atticus made love to in the inquitess dens and labyrinths of Constantinople’s underground. The dark wooden floor turned to the sea-stained deck of a ship. And the stools on which they sat were no longer stools, but the weary crow’s nests of an old Barbadian ship that struck aground and sent Atticus plummeting, nearly to his death, on the bare coral below.

The story went on, the days light did too, but even as the sun set, the room was still full of light. The bar was in fact so bright that ships out at sea mistook its glowing windows for a lighthouse that should have been twenty miles north. Atticus’ size at this point was enormous; his hands spanned the table top. His shoulders became the Italian Alps he once braved, his white hair: the loose snow caps that nearly killed him.

He cried lilies for the love that had left him. Atticus knuckles bleed, then his nose and mouth followed suit, for he spoke of fights lost and respect never regained. He began to shrink as he spoke about liquor, his breath smelled of it, though when Miles looked down he hadn’t finished his one beer. He soon was himself again, laughing deeply and wiping the sweat from his brow. The room, again, drew dark. The artificial light dimly showed Atticus’ smile. He sighed a happy and relieved sigh, he looked down at his beer but did not reach for it. It was completely dark out side so neither of them looked towards the sea. Instead, Atticus looked directly at the boy. Miles remained in a fixed gaze, though he was looking directly back, Atticus knew Miles was not looking at him, he was looking far beyond.

“How was that?” Atticus asked. Miles did not answer he was still looking at something far out of reach. “Yep,” said Atticus, “that was my life’s story. One of my life’s stories I should say. I got plenty more if you got the time.”

From the look on Miles face, it seemed that time had stood still, or that it was moving, decades by the second. It was a long time before he spoke:

“I don’t really know what to say. I mean that was beautiful. That was really, that was really something. I’m surprised you could even remember all that, all the detail. How did you remember all the detail from all those things?” Miles asked

“Oh, well I didn’t remember them. I just made that up. As I went along you know?” Atticus said, laughing a little at the boy’s gullibility.

“So you just lied to me?” said Miles, “you just lied to my face the whole time?”

“Well no,” said Atticus, “that was all real, I made it up but it was real. Truth is made you know. You didn’t just experience nothing, I didn’t just tell you a bunch of nothings.”

“Yes, you told me nothings. You told me lies,” said Miles tightly.

“You don’t seem to get it. That was all real. My stories are all real, I always tell the truth, even when I lie.”

Miles didn’t speak or look up from the table for several minutes. He appeared to be crushed, as if the whole thing had been taken away from him, a whole life had been reduced to nothing.

“So you’re not what you say you are, your not…anything besides a drunk. You ridicule me for having nothing, but what do you have? What do you really have? Nothing,” Miles said coldly.

Atticus’ eyes fell to the floor, “You’re right,” he said, “I don’t really have anything. It’s been a long time since I did. I’m just an old man, a drunk. I live in a fucking box for crying out loud. It’s been a really long time since I’ve had anything.”

“I used to have plenty. In fact I had everything, I really did have everything. You name it, but I couldn’t hold on to it. It didn’t seem at all real to me, it felt like it would disappear if I closed my eyes for too long. And it did. Too many nights out, too many nights I don’t remember, too much time with my eyes closed. Everything I had went away. Now how the fuck is that real if it can just end? My stories don’t really have much to do with me, if they did they would end too and I couldn’t go back to them because they would only lead here. Everyone I know is trying to be happy, they slave all day, they marry women they don’t love, or who don’t love them. But me, I can marry who ever I want, I can be anywhere I choose. I can live forever as long as I don’t tie myself to something. I drink because I want to forget this place. In a story I do forget this place, it doesn’t exists, it’s transformed. If I focuse or attach myself to these material things, whatever they are, I could never go beyond them. Life is an anchor, poetry is a sail. Sever the rope. Fly high. Live forever.”

Atticus, now soured, reached down for his beer. It was warm and flat. It had been sitting in front of him, half drunk, all day. He downed it in one motion, in another he ordered several more. He drank those too before Miles could lift his head. Wiping his mouth clean Atticus said:

“ ‘Preciate the beer, I’ll write your damned love letter- love song, whatever the hell it is. Mikko will give it you to when you give him a lift.” He rose and placed his empty glass on the table. He walked over to the door and turned, he wanted badly to go back to the table and apologize. He wanted to tell Miles everything, and anything he wanted to know. But his strength wouldn’t allow it. Instead he turned. He walked out leaving the door open.

Atticus knew that Miles was his son. He knew this the moment he first met him in the bar, that’s why he tried to erase him with whiskey. He knew Miles, his whole life, when he looked into his wide eyes that next day. He knew his whole life even if he’d never experienced much more then his birth. While he could see Miles clearly as his son, he could see Miles in no way saw him his father. This gave him the strength to leave; it gave him the strength to write the poem which he gave to Mikko very late that night.

The sea welcomed Atticus; it did not attempt to push him back towards the land, towards Miles. He did not panic, he did not remorse. He smiled. He was not killed. The sea became a story, Atticus became its hero.

The sun rose

An old man died.

When Miles went down to the docks to meet Mikko, the letter was tucked safely in his breast pocket.

“How’d you like him?” asked Mikko.

“I don’t know what to say,” responded Miles

“I don’t know if there is anything to say. Here,” Mikko said, handing him the letter, “that’s all he left me, that’s all that you need.”

It was a long time before Miles read the letter. He opened it and studied it before giving it to the girl so he could keep up the façade that he had written it. The letter worked. They read it together in bed that night.

The sun set

Two lovers became one, and together they became children once again, forever.

a bit about the poem

As i said in class, this poem was meant to compliment the story. But, and this is important. it is intentionally not included in the story, because i wanted the story to be absent of that type of conclusion.

The poem, while anyone can read it in varying ways, was supposed to express several of the points in class.
Most significantly Pater's idea that the wisest of us live in poetry and in song. He speaks that for the most part these are children, or at least adults resorting back to children. thats why it has that childish format and theme.

the lines "beyond living within" is supposed to signify anagogic phase

and though it is subtle, i say not to look to the stars because i view them as a form of science.
for the most part this poem is meant to incorporate many of the themse, though they may be hard to see, they are there. As well as just the basic form of a poem, expressing the quality of poetry... all that jazz.

Though autumn has taken from me all that I can offer

And though the days ahead will take all that I am.

Remember me for what I bore

Remember each word

as each is a blossom whose leaves will flower

each leaf a life, a life you can live in one hour.

Though my leaves have fallen

They shed for you

As you take them

We two shall become one

We never should grow too tall or old as I did.

For between us we have plenty of leaves

Leaves of lives to be lived.

We need not to look to the stars

For the stars will grow dim.

We need only live in the leaves

And look to the beyond living within.

Like everyone, i was extremely sad reading the end of Don Quixote. For well all know that he must die, but none of us want him to remorse, or change his ways.

I realize though, that in order to completely kill there character. It is essential that Cervantes kills the character completely.

As Cervantes says, "let the weary and crumbling bones of Don Quixote rest in the grave, and not attempt, contrary to all statutes of death, to carry them off to Castilla"

It is hard to accept Don Quixote's fate, but death was never meant to be an easy subject. And in death he must be completely dissolved, or he would never truly die. In this way were are prohibited from adding anymore to the story than there already is. As we said in class, we can't make something mean anything we want it to mean. And in Don Quixote's case, all that he means was stated by Cervantes-even though we can see many things in that text- we are not allowed to add anything. thus the complete destruction of Don Quixote.

mexicali blues

I've been reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, and its quickly becoming one of my favorite books. Its funny though, i've talked to a few people who have read it and they said things like "yeah it was a good book, but i just couldn't get into the whole magical side of it, to was too weird"-something unintelligent like that. But while i've been reading it, the magic or "magical realism" has been the most beautiful and meaning full passages from the story. There was one passage i read a while ago before going to bed, that i just had to stop reading all together after that, i had planned on killing a few more chapters but after reading this passage, (yet another touchstone) i just had to sit and think about its imagery, though i wanted to keep reading, i felt almost paralyzed, i felt like i had to slow down and just enjoy the work and not spoil it with my curiosity.
The passage comes when our first character Jose Arcadio Buendia passes away:
"Then they went into Jose Arcadio Buendia's room,
Shook hiim as hard as they could, shouted in his ear, put
a mirror n front of his nostrils, but they could not
awaken him. A short time later, when the carpenter was
taking measurements for the coffin, through the window
they saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling. They
fell on the town all through the night in a silent storym,
and they covered the roofs and blocked the doors and
smothered the animals who slept outdoors. So many
flowers fell from the sky that in the morning the streets
were carpeted with a compact cushion and they had to
clear them away with shovels and rakes so that the
funeral procession could pass by."

It was just a such a powerful point in the story i couldn't really let it get away from me. I've been told, and I've seen that this magical realism is prominent in lots of Spanish Works. I don't know if it can be really classified but i sometimes view Don Quixote in the same manner, while the towns people don't see any of it, or think it real, the magical qua lites of Don Quixote's and Sancho's adventures are just as alive there as in One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Interestingly enough, Don Quixote and One Hundred Years of Solitude, respectively hold the #1 and #2 spots of top selling Spanish Novels of all time.

shell silverstein is a pretty cool dude.

With all this focus directed back towards some things like Northrop Frye, or so to some of the other material that i have to study for other classes, i really forget sometimes how enjoyable it can be to read. I have a niece who's about three years old now more or less and every time i see her i give her a new book, the last one was a collection of Shell Silverstein's poetry. There one poem in there that i can remeber by heart. And now that i've been writing about childhood, about dreaming ( i read Kevin's blog about dreams too-wicked funny-) and it just seemed fitting, his poem i mean. And it was just a soothing piece of poetry for a time when i have loads and loads of work to be stressed out about. this is it:


Invitation

If you are a dreamer, come in

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,

A hope-er. a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...

If you're a pretender, come sit by the fire

For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

Come in!

Come in!

i love this poem. actually i feel that i should recite it, or that it should be printed on the first page of a work of fiction. maybe as a prologue or something.
that would be nice.

cool hand luke part II

From the class presentations we've had, each reading the work in their own way, i feel that cool hand luke can be done in the same fashion.
Marxist is this a story of the opression of the working class (prisoners) by the bourgeoisie (warden) and is luke's struggle representative of that revolt that Marx speaks of. For through his revolt we see the only change, the only way the man with the glasses can be defeated is through the fight against him.
psycho-analytical It is hard to see this as an entirely sexual piece but i am familiar that many psycho analysts could view God as this father figure thats clearly played out through the movie.
Reader-Response- Or is the whole religious view simply a readers response to the work?

What i think is even more interesting is to resort back to some of what Frye and Dante said about the different levels. You know, this could simply be viewed as a collections of words that are a collection of letters. Is it a series of images such as rebellion, death, that type of thing. Or is it on this mythic level, certainly it can be viewed as so. For the story of Jesus is found in all sorts of literature whether it be intentional or not it appears.
In Dante's Three levels the story can be viewed, the literal: A man named Luke was imprisoned, escaped, all these things happened to him and so on.
it can be seen as alegorical: that it is not simply the story of luke, but of man's struggle against oppression, perhaps it is the civil rights movement, perhaps it can be seen as the feminist movement and so on.
or as i have outlined it can be the moral level: on which it is a story about jesus, his deeds, his life all of these type of things.

I realized that when we broke off and began focusing on our assigned schools of criticism, I and it would appear that many of us sort of forgot, or at least didn't relate any of our schools to the theory of symbols or the theory of myth, or any of the things that we learned earlier this semester, in retrospect i now see a deep connectivity that i had previous overlooked...

critiquing cool hand luke

I have, for the longest time really been trying to look at Cool Hand Luke through some of the techniques and staregies that we have covered in class this semester. I have for even longer, absolutely loved this movie. I was devistated to hear of Paul Newman's death-truely one of America's greatest actors.

Now, this film has been scrutinized and analyzed thousands and thousands of times. Much of the information i want to talk about i myself have thought up, but a few things i was directed to see by others. I'm sure that many of these ideas are shared throughout the world so they are not entirely original, or that creative. But i still feel that this is a good movie that through it's many framing characteristics it can be seen as an absolutely great movie.

The major idea running through the film is that it is not only a story of Luke, but a story of Jesus.
There are many connecting themes for the sake of time i will only cover a few, and these don't really have a chronological order they simply just are.
A. In the beginning of the film, Luke is going around cutting off the heads of parking meters. Parking meters being a way of collecting taxes it can be viewed that this is symbolic of the biblical reference of the tax collectors as being sinners and jesus having quarrels with them.
B. Luke's mom's name is Arleta- possibly a mumbled country accent of Our Lady?
C. Luke mom speaks of his father in an ominous manner, and he replies that he would sure like to have met him, This is followed on numerous occasions of speaking to god in a familiar fashion, like referring to him as "old man"
D. Luke does the impossible, like jeus walking on water. luke does what no man can do: eat fifty eggs. After which he is sprawled out on the table in a crucifixion style manner.
E. he escapes and is beaten into submission, this could possibly be a metaphor for his initial death? because he is resurrected later when he steals the truck and so forth.
F. Dragline can be seen as a Judas character as he turns him in, an the other men can been seen as disciples, especially when they help him eat all the rice that he cannot finish, (body of christ) last supper type thing.
G. His name and prison number correlated to something in the directly to "nothing is impossible with god" but else where around that section of luke there is a passage about the "son of god" I think.
there are countless other example like temptations with the woman washing the car and so forth, too many to label. I just wanted to point out how this story could be read in different ways.

Today's groups

I have to say, that while i have enjoyed everyones presentations immensely. that today's groups have cleared the bar that was set and raised it off its posts. I love that we end our year in such fashion. I feel it is not only refreshing to see things such as these presentations but it is in many ways extremely effective learning tool, those that create the presentation clearly learn the material through and through, but seeing it performed is equally effective in teaching the class.

the psycho-analytic forum was amazing
and the Marxists presentation was quite possibly the funniest thing I've seen in a classroom.

telephone line.

In my last blog i used another painting of Norman Rockwell's to illustrate a point, and this one here came to mind the other day in class.
When the reader response group was presenting, we acted out a little game that was some what similar to this painting, where one person would hear something, try and repeat it to the next, and so on and so on.
I didn't really think of this in relation to Don Quixote, until just today. For today i just recently got back in touch with a girl with whom i stayed, while i was in France for about a month. Let's just say my French is a little rusty now compared to what it was before. She speaks perfect English, and is actually studying in England right now, but she is cute and i had a crush on her along with a relationship so i tried to impress her by using her native language... I have no idea if what i wrote made any sense, or if it made me at all any more impressive than if i had just wrote to her in English. She wrote me a lengthy letter back (in French) and like i said i could barely decipher it, so thinking i could cheat, i just plugged it into a French/English translator on the web and read it that way. I got the key points she was saying but the translator made some major mistakes and things just didn't look right, sentences ended up taking on different connotations even though i think i knew what she was saying.
I then thought about Don Quixote, and all of the other books i've read that have been translated. I know very well, that translators of these works operate in impeccable fashion-such is their job- And i doubt Edith Grossman (our translator of Don Q.) was at all incapable. But i still wonder what things might be omitted or misrepresented? It seems that much of this edition drafts the work into a relatively modern translation, which again makes me wonder. and then i think about things like Beowulf, again i understand that scholars are experts in what they do when they make these translations. But i would have to imagine that there are some things that simply just do not transfer, there are still things in modern French/Spanish/Italian that do not, so i would have to assume that 1600's Spanish might have some issues and certainly 11th century Gaelic or Old English would have some problems

imagine

Throughout the reading of Don Quixote part II, i am constantly feeling bad for Don Q and Sancho as they are over and over again belittled and ridiculed. It dawned on me then, that these two are not the ones to feel sorry for, instead i should be feeling sorry for those that insult them. For, the way i see it now, Don Quixote and Sancho, while they suffer constantly, are some of the happiest people there could be for one reason: they still have their imagination.

Now that its getting to be the holiday season, there are all sorts of old movies flying around, and old books and ideas come to mind. The major theme that is re-introduced during the holidays is the focus on children, on the "magic" of the holidays. There are countless stories of the children pushing for their parents to regain their imagination, it is always the grumpy dad that is unable, but something inevitably comes along to change that.

When ever i think of Christmas i always think of Norman Rockwell (this is why i chose the painting above) and when ever i see some of Rockwells work i am drawn back into my childhood, his work had an amazing quality of nostalgia (i suppose that is the pure appeal) but i can remeber quite vividly days just playing in the woods imagining all sorts of things. And to me they were as real as anything.

thats why when read the story of the wooden horse, i did not feel pity for Sancho or Don Q. despite that they were burned and all sorts of other bad things. Instead i envy them for possessing that power.

This brings to mind a school of Hinduism thats some what drastically different from the other schools: Carvaka. It is roughly the idea that the only true things, are what we experience first hand. The second we leave a room, the room no longer exists for us because there is no proof of it, there is no room once we have left it. roughly following the same line of logic, for Sancho and Don Q. the only reality is at the moment it exists.

this also can be correlated with Walter Pater's idea that, in life,"Some spend this interval in listlessness, some in high passions, the wisest, at least among "the children of this world," in art and song. For our one chance lies in expanding that interval, in getting as many pulsations as possible into the given time" I can read this as, while some, like the ones who criticize Don Quixote and Sancho live their lives to disprove. Or more depressingly they live their lives to criticize -the waste their time here, they waste the only life they have. While others like Sancho and Don Q. live their life in poetry, happily. (more or less). or as Pater goes on to say, "Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end."

there is a little poem from a Carvaka text, that while it may not comletely mesh with these ideas, it does a good qauint job at it. :

While life is yours, live joyously;

None can escape Death's searching eye:

When once this frame of ours they burn,

How shall it e'er again return?

Group presentations

I really have had a blast these past few days watching and performing in these presentations. I always have a blast in this class, but these past few days it has been nice to see what our peers can produce. It was curious however to see, and to contribute, that each has used significant amount of comedy and humor to get their point across. Why is this i wonder? are we all that insecure that we need to hide behind this mask of humor? its not really a bad thing i suppose, but what about drama? is that too venerable a means to express an idea? I'm not saying that anyone who has done this has in anyway done anything wrong. i myself used humor because it was easy and yes because it is a comfortable zone in which to operate. I am just curious, maybe Freud could come up with a psycho-analytical response. Maybe the class setting is just not the place for melancholy drama for group presentations. or maybe thats what its lacking.

Touchstone II

Although i stand by my first touchstone from Somtimes a Great Notion I find that there a hundreds of touchstones that i read, hear, dream every day. A couple years ago in another Class with Dr. Sexson we were asked to read Ovid's Metamorphoses. This entire book is a touchstone, as we discussed it is perhaps the golden touchstone. Admittingly, i have not read it in it's entirety but from time to time i pick it up and read a few of the stories here and there. My favorite however, still remains, as it did when i took the class a passage from the story of Pythagoras. it reads:
For all things change, but no thing dies.
The spirit wanders: here and there, at will,
the soul can journey from an animal
into a human body, and from us
to beasts; it occupies a body, but
it never perishes.

I really don't see how that can ever be topped.

This passage embodies almost everything that we have learned in class, almost everything that one can hope to learn in their ENTIRE LIVES. And i don't simply like it for its infinite didactic qualities, it is purely beauty. it is pure poetry.

in these few lines, there holds all. this is anagogy at its finest. Its hard to even discuss something so grand, but what Ovid says here, is the same thing that Frye talks about when he talks about myth. All things are all, they may take on different forms, different means of expression but they are all reincarnations of our previous world.

These lines alone are a defense of poetry. I feel that we can only attempt to say what is said here when we speak of the value of literature. In my defense i try to capture these sentiments, i feel that everyone does, and in a sense that is the point. poetry cannot exist devoid of life, for they are one in the same. each mirrors the other and in doing so they are forever connected. its hard for me to say more. i try to do so in my defense for more (well more of the same i should say, as everything is) look there.

lending books

- Following up on my last post. The other day i realized: i have no books. I did at one time have dozens, lots of them collecting dust, each one read, at least once. More importantly each one quite dear to me. All of them have been lent out to friends and so forth. And i'm quite happy that i've lent them, because i feel that i want everyone to read them. BUT, and i can't say this for sure because i don't really know the fate of most of my books, but, i never get any of them back. Which is ok if they are in continuous circulation -then i'm all the more happy- but if they are ruined, rotting, or just neglected then i'm quite hurt. I realize this on a deeper level than just the common courtesy. Instead i am hurt because each of these books represents a significant part of me, of who i am. each has shaped me and has contributed to my being. So if any of them have had poor treatment it as if parts of me, my being have been treated thusly.

A few old Notes: My book and Heart

Now that it's really down to the last few days of school, i am realizing that i am running out of time to complete all my blogs, for quite some time I've been taking down notes on things that i planned to blog about but have continually pushed them back. trading in my tomorrows for today- so to speak. but i don't really have any more tomorrows so today I'm going to start to get all the things i need to say typed and online so here we go...
Quite some time ago we were all invited to watch Dr. Sexson film My Book and Heart Shall Never Part. Needless to say (well not really otherwise i wouldn't say it-thats quite a dumb way to start a sentence) but i was amazed. What a great film, a great cast and...of course great narration. One of the major things i took away from this was that, throughout our lives the books we read teach us many things, while some of the examples in the film like getting crushed by carts appear to be a little over the top, it is important to recognize the significant roll books have all played in our lives.
Now this theory, whether it is supported by the film i cannot say for sure, seems to go against, at least in part to some of the things that Frye tells us. That one famous line, "if the reading the work makes you depressed, there is something wrong with the reader or the work itself" (something like that) well i understand his point, that we should not feel sad or angry because the book is living out the experience rather than us physically. Maybe I'm just soft or permeable but i can't deny that i have left a book feeling sad, or any of the vast array of human emotions. How can one not be? after reading Lonesome Dove, a book that i felt as much a part of as my every day life (due in part to its length) i was devastated and upset and the end. (why didn't he just tell him he was his dad? i dont get it...still). I dont see how Frye could see fault in that, a good piece of literature should make us feel. isn't that the point? like these children's books, the books i read now teach me many things, they shape the way i function in the world and the way the world functions for me. Is that wrong Northrop? is there something wrong with me? or did i just miss something from you?