That poor guy

I feel sorry for Prometheus. I mean the guy was just trying to help out a little and for that he gets his liver perpetually eaten every day?? i mean come on Zeus we all know that you are a tough guy but its that sort of abuse really necessary? I just wrote a paper about the novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and talked about how Victors ultimate achievement of knowledge is his downfall. Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it the humans. Victor, stole life from the gods and gave it to humans and for that, instead of having a perpetually picked liver he has to watch as his whole family is killed by his creation. such a powerful idea. If you follow too blindly in your aspirations you can end up hurting the people close to you. gives us all a lesson that we should never let our goals get in the way of the people we love. In the end, those people are all we have and you have to make an effort to hold on to them. I know it gets sappy and what not but seriously. You can take away everything i own, just don't take away the people i love and i think that translates to most peoples lives.

I love the concept of the Rose in The Golden Ass. Anything in the world could have turned him back into a human being but they picked the Rose. I did a little research, thats right i actually worked on my blog, and found that the Rose really played no hugely important role in greek mythology, which i thought i was interesting. you would think the key to his morphing back into a human would be significant! but a rose! to pick such a pure image as a bright red velvety flower seems perfect. With the rose too you can incorporate the idea of cycles and natures movement through the seasons. I just read shoni's blog about a flower going through the concrete. This reminded me of a favorite poem of mine by a well know and debatably dead warrior-poet, Tupac Shakur. it goes as follows....

"Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it learned
to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared."

so so sorry

Dr. Sexson, I feel bad. And I am not placing blame on any shoulders besides me own because that would be just plain unfair. I love your class. I love our readings and our discussions, i just feel guilty because I am honestly not a blogger. I feel at a disadvantage because I don't want this blog to show that i don't care, because i do. Yesterday I read The Absolutely True Diary of A Part Time Indian by Sherman Alexie. The young main character was trying to cope with the death of his grandmother, close family friend, and sister. and he just cant stop laughing. after his grandmother, a longtime respected member of the reservation is struck and killed by a drunk driver, after his closest family friend is shot in the face by his drunk best friend, and after his sister is too drunk to realize her trailor is on fire and burns alive....all he can do is laugh. hysterically laugh. He doesnt even cry when any of these horrible things happen as opposed to other parts in the book. when catharsis kicks in this boy can only laugh. When this young boy in the novel looks up grief his friend give him some useful advice. His friend gives him the play Medea by our favorite euripidies! He is trying to find joy in his life and preserve what happiness he still has left. Maybe if he murders his father and mother he will be able to save them....i really like that idea. not to say im gonna go kill anyone but the prospect of being able to free someone by death and not even looking at death as a bad thing. Its a door to open up to a world free of pain and suffereing. a peaceful world.

" But we are free after all. We are bound not by the laws of our nature but by the ways we can imagine ourselves breaking out of those laws without doing violence to our essential being. We are free to transcend ourselves. If we have the imagination for it." (pg. 67)

Starting out reading this book I kind of had a faint notion of what this book would be about. Alright, feral child alone in the wilderness and man tries to capture it. pretty fair guess in my opinion. Malouf starts talking about some really enticing ideas and travels so far away from the storyline that you just get lost in this sea of these huge philosophical and spiritual epiphanies. Whats so nice about it is you dont expect it coming but you dont really realize what is happening until your mid way through it. your just like hold on...what did he just say?? then you re-read it and its oh my god how does he just hop from subject to subject so fluently? fun reading.

Stadial Madness

Within the pink gooey substance that is my brain, there sits in the back of my head, a diminutive curious glow that is my memory. A smolder. This recollection of times passed tests my tolerance as if it were a toddler who refuses to stop howling. There is novelty inside our memory, and I believe that I knew more at my moment of conception than I do presently. In class we discussed the idea Anamnesis; Plato’s theory that you, right now, know everything there is to know, but…forgot it. We start from the top of the ladder and work our way down. Dr. Sexson believes the opposite; we start at the bottom climbing to the top, it is there at the closing stages, where we meet Sophia. Plato’s conjecture is more alluring. The suggestion of being born with absolute understanding of everything in the world is more mind-boggling than most ideas you encounter on the daily grind. The thought that as we progress through life, what we stumble upon does not enlighten us and nurture us, but rather harms us. In that moment of birth, we as infants have an immeasurable amount of knowledge that will only erode as we grow. crazyness.

Stadial Madness

Within the pink gooey substance that is my brain, there sits in the back of my head, a diminutive curious glow that is my memory. A smolder. This recollection of times passed tests my tolerance as if it were a toddler who refuses to stop howling. There is novelty inside our memory, and I believe that I knew more at my moment of conception than I do presently. In class we discussed the idea Anamnesis; Plato’s theory that you, right now, know everything there is to know, but…forgot it. We start from the top of the ladder and work our way down. Dr. Sexson believes the opposite; we start at the bottom climbing to the top, it is there at the closing stages, where we meet Sophia. Plato’s conjecture is more alluring. The suggestion of being born with absolute understanding of everything in the world is more mind-boggling than most ideas you encounter on the daily grind. The thought that as we progress through life, what we stumble upon does not enlighten us and nurture us, but rather harms us. In that moment of birth, we as infants have an immeasurable amount of knowledge that will only erode as we grow. crazyness.

Sparagmos

As the sun peeks over the southern mountains, it's attractive and gentle rays leisurely massage the morning mist from the sultry fingers of the lodge-pole pines in the western valley. A terse autumn morning in Montana is like nothing else on this planet. Everything seems stationary but alive at the same time; an inexpressible notion that only the truly auspicious get to start off their day with such vigor and beauty. The porch creeks as my right leg swings over the left simultaneously letting my shoulder fall to its resting spot upon the doorframe. Holding my coffee in my right hand with my elbow at almost a perfect right angle, I can smell the Folgers in my cup as I survey the limitless wilderness. Not the best coffee in the world, I know, but it gets the job done and it’s cheap. For these big long hunting trips, it’s important to balance taste with price to find the perfect equilibrium for your wallet, as well as your stomach.
The outfitting for these trips are often what I enjoy the most. The exhilaration of being at Costco with you list in hand, pushing your cart down each and every aisle making sure you haven’t forgotten anything. Then off to Sportsman’s Warehouse for ammo; maybe even a new dressing-knife or if im feeling spendy, but usually just the ammo. “Two boxes of the .300 Winchester’s please, im gonna bag myself a Buck.”
Then there’s the Cabin; the definition of separation and clarity. In the car for several hours you start to lose a corporeal tie to the land and your acuity of connectedness is severed by the sound of rubber against asphalt. Maybe you doze off for a few minutes or you concentrate on a magazine, but the moment your eyes wander away from the window you become entranced by the journey. You don’t know where you are, or what’s happening in the world around, but you know the destination and what waits there. Finally, rounding the last tree, there sits the deer cabin.
A few of my friends and I built the bastard when we were all back in college together, and it only cost us about 1500 bucks! (No pun intended.) No electricity, that’s a given. No refrigeration; but a nice wood stove that we discovered in the contiguous woods and cleaned up. One main room encompassed by bunk beds and a card table with a kerosene lamp as its centerpiece. No bathroom, and no out-house either; we squat in the woods at this deer camp. If you thought the interior was exciting, take 10 steps unswervingly away from the front door and spin 180 degrees. A spectacle that makes the heart drop with an unbounded echo; the small cabin appears dwarfed by the eastern mountains with two distinct peaks that give the roof of the cabin its own set of antlers. We named the two peaks Castor and Pollux. The mountains, which tower over our abode, seem to be kept at a distance by a vast sea of green that encompasses us, trees as far as the eye can see…
While the Folgers slowly crept into my nose then up into my brain, I could see that the dawn mist had almost completely faded. The orange-yellow glow created by the sun colliding with the mist had turned into green as the ground began to warm; I began to plan my hunt. I like to hunt alone; the feeling of one man against nature, the primordial idea of becoming a part of the environment, the knowledge that if the twig snaps and startles the stag, I know it will have been my foot, and not the step of an aloof friend.
I would head southwest towards the southern mountains, I know of a small lake that nestles against the foothills of the steep Alps, Lake Demeter. That is where I would find my trophy.


I set off from the cabin almost due south.
“You sure you don’t want me to come with?” as I faced the trail, I looked over my shoulder to see my good friend Max standing on the front steps.
“ I wasn’t born yesterday Max, relax, enjoy your hunt and I will see you tonight.” The words were promptly brushed away by the morning breeze. “Zues! Zues! Here boy!!” I called into the sky.
I could hear his thunderous paws slam the path behind me and soon my loyal dog was along side of me. I never bought Zeus or even wanted a dog for that matter, but he wanted me. I woke up 3 years ago to the hum of whimpers and claws upon my screen door, opening it to stumble upon my manifestation in a pair of beady black puppy eyes. From that moment we became a team. I took Zeus on his first hunt when he was about a year old and he was astonishing to observe. The hunt surged through his veins; as he pursued, his instincts conquered his intellect and his body became harmonized like an instrument to the melody of the innate order. The concentration and devotion he displayed to me was a clear-cut indication that this dog was a predator. Zeus understood how to function in the wilderness; a dexterity that astonishingly most dogs have become numb to. I have witnessed beauty in my life; but I have never seen anything so gorgeous as Zeus stalking prey through the forest. His body is on edge but wholly peaceful and every advance seems calculated, premeditated by an intellect that was not in his head. As soon as his nostrils flared with the aroma of living flesh, it is almost as if he is not my dog anymore, he is a wild animal. For Zeus, these hunts were his proudest moments, and it was not hard to tell. The instant my boots were laced I would lift my head up from my knee to be met by a big slobbery tongue bombarding my face and then a flash of black through the open door. I would emerge all geared up to find my four-legged friend watching patiently for my sign to begin the hunt.
I gave him the head nod, and we were off.

My interpretation

Today in class as we graded each others tests, Dr. Sexson said the exam grades are not as important as our blogging grades. Well shit, that doesn't leave much room for me; most of my blogs have nothing to do directly with the readings or discussions, rather interesting points or topics that hit me on a personal level. I mean, when the class first started I was under the impression that our blogs were OUR blogs and we could write what WE wanted. I am not saying I am not allowed to manage my blog at my own discretion, but rather that I might not recieve the same grades as someone who just does reading responses as opposed to short stories. We are both engaged in the material and are both trying to uncover a deeper meaning, but because mine seems more conceptual or creatively based I dont have as good as a blog? Well i got sour news for ya jack! it is as good! I feel engaged in the material and by my taking the ideas given in class and shaping them to a personal level, the story comes alive.

Generation Kill

As of lately, my past-time has not been filled with skiing, but rather the exact opposite...not skiing. In that enormous chunk of free-time that sits its fat ass right in the middle of the day, I have the unbelievable opportunity to explore the wonderful world of literature. In class, Mr. Sexson said, "We laugh to keep from crying....you are the murderer you have been looking for."

My past time has been occupied by the book Generation Kill by Evan Wright. Evan Wright is a reporter for the Rolling Stone Magazine and he accompanied the 1st Marine Recon Division during the intial invasion of Iraq. 1st Recon is the maines most elite force; the toughest and coldest killers in the entire military and were at the tip of the spear during America's push to Baghdad. Evans literary prowess and his ability to engulf the reader within the characters, builds a strong emotional bridge between the men who actually fought, and the reader. Evan focuses on the atrocities that breed from war, and how marines try to explain their actions. As i have been reading, i cant help but revert to the good ol' "All that is past possess the present."

In one point of the book, Wright adresses the Marines use of humor in extremely stressful situations. one of the marines said, "we laugh instead of crying." crazyness. Sexson said the same thing! I thought an interesting parrallel can also be seen within the psyche of the Marines. They are trained killers; but they are fighting and killing people and they have no idea why. THey say they are looking for WMD's or Sadam; but really they are just rolling through the countryside artillery blasting towns and shooting innocent people. In their quest to rid the world of evil; they bocome that evil.

I had an accident.

Alright Dr. Sexson, mission accomplished. My whole day wasn't bad, in fact it was actually pretty damn good, until that one drop. I woke up with my head proverbially split wide open from too much whiskey the night before to the knock of James. "Dude!! get up man, we gotta go skiing!" i thought for maybe a second, "N0 way jim, too much last night." As the door slammed shut i was now officially awake. "Dammit," i thought to myself, "decisions, decisions." to make a short story even shorter i soon found myself at the top of the ridge. Making good turns, loving life, breathing fresh air, what a great day to be alive then NOOOO!! what i thought would be a gentle roller ended up being a cliff. i landed the 15 foot drop only to have my right ski catch the snow and twist my knee violently. i felt a pop and a shiver around my the inside of my knee. ouch. just got it MRI'd today, a fractured upper tibia and a slightly torn ACL. so my day went from being really good to bad.

A beam of Hope

One moment in music history.....damn that's a tough one. Going through my head and thinking about my favorite musicians or venues I seem to have a re-occurring vision. Its me, with flowing golden hair down to my shoulders, shirtless, elbow-to-elbow in a sea of 400,00 people in the town of Bethel New York on Sunday, August 17th, 1969. The occasion? Woodstock. The particular moment? Gypsy Sun and The Rainbows playing our national tune. English please...? Jimi Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner on his guitar while almost half a million people stood in wonder. I chose this moment, A, because i believe Jimi Hendrix was one of the most influential musicians to set foot on this planet, B, because its Woodstock, C, because its Woodstock, and D, because this concert took place at a time when America was in disallusion. Our war in Vietman was beginning to turn against the country and people were losing faith in a Government that sent its troops to foriegn lands to fight for foriegn causes. This unbelievable rendition of our national anthem to me proves to be a shinning hope in the belief that no matter what race, national crisis, or wartime problems seem to be happening, we as americans can find a common bond through the beauty of music.

"Polla Te Deina"-Many Wonders, Many Terrors.

The souls of my New Balances squeaked upon the speckled linoleum floor as the door clicked shut behind me. Taking a moment, as I usually do every morning to survey the classroom; I found everything to be perfectly in order. The large rectangular room sustained geometrically sound formations of desks that stood barely at my hip, each with their colored-penciled name tags basking in the sun's rays. The walls, filled with colorful posters of whales and cursive techniques created an ambiance which in my opinion served as an aphrodesiac for knowledge.
Finally I strolled up to my desk. My fingers massaged my chin as I breathed in the sublimity of a quiet classroom. My desk, set at the head of the class was a gift given to me by a esteemed colleague who left the school a few years back. The day he was leaving, I came back from the teachers lounge to find this beautifully shaped piece of mahogany asserting its dominance over the rest of the trembling little desks. As I marveled at the parallel dark lines that striped the wood as if it were a Tiger, my eyes averted to a sticky-note which was posted on the crown of my computer. As I read the note my eyes ignited with passion and excitement, I FORGOT!!! today would be a great day!! Today was SHOW-AND-TELL DAY!!!
With my coffee perched under my nose, I flipped through the days agenda. 8 am-Cursive. 9 am-Arithmetic. 10 am-snack time. 11 am-nap time (I learned a little secret in the beginning of my teaching career always to place sleeping after apple juice and graham crackers). And finally 12 am-Show-and-Tell.
The morning seemed to pass in slow motion. Cursive which is usually the highlight of the morning for me seemed dull and tasteless. Jim, an intelligent red-haired young boy who is usually very good at cursive, spent the morning drawing a medieval stick figure battle in where the final scene depicted the mighty knight tearing the legs off of the then king. Finding the drawing and feeling somewhat estranged from the vivid violence depicted, I asked little Jimmy why he had drawn the battle. "Im preparing...." were the words that sprang from his baby tooth filled mouth. I sat for a moment in thought...."ahhhh I answered....show and tell." Jimmy shot me a quick banevolent smirk then returned diligently to his lower case F's.
Finally the moment of the day had arrived. "Gather around little ones, its time for Show-and-Tell!" Applause and laughter erupted from the crowd of half-links as the children frantically pulled items out of their desks and sprinted to the front of the room. We conformed to a ritualistic circle under the front blackboard, each child diligently sitting cross-legged and crazy-eyed ready for the festivities to spark. "Ill go first to break the ice." I reached in my pocket and pulled out a miniture sized golden trident. "ooohhhhh" reverberated from the crowd as i held up the pen sized object and twisted it between my thumb and pointer finger for everyone to see. "cool huh?!" i said, "does anyone know why i would bring this little golden fork to class?" Perplexity ambushed the little ones...a long pause broken by "because its show and tell day?" "CORRECT!!!" i roared. "i found it in my junk drawer, its shiny and cool looking, so i thought you all would like it!" i passed the fork around with multiple warnings to various students not to place the fork in or around their mouth or to attempt to prod any other classmate with it.
"Katy, your next." Katy, one of my favorite students, had, in my opinion, one hell of an imagination. sometimes i wondered if the drawings that she brought to show and tell were actually her ideas; or if they were product of some demonic entity that haunted this poor girls dreams. Katy reached into her folder and pulled out a recent sketch of hers. "Dear god"...the words barely made it out my mouth. In front of me sat a crayonic image of pure imagination mixed with some awful unknown force. A red saturn car was plowing through a field of children and pregnant women, leaving behind a wake of carnage and bloodshed. My mouth was wide open, you could have landed a 747 in there; but something inside me wanted to learn more about this horrid picture. "cool" and "awesome" were echoes that rang in my ears from fellow students, but i was not concerned with the mature content level or the blatant violence within this picture. i wanted to hear what she had to say. "Well lets see hewe. Dis is my mommies caw...its wed. Dis is my bruder undow da front of da caw and dis is ma udda bruder undow da back of da caw...". I stared in fear. I stared paralyzed by this image which was now burned into my retinas perminetly....holy shit. How could this 9-year old girl draw a picture of her mom plowing her mid-sized sedan through her own family? Why would she draw this? I realized then that i had been staring blankely at the picture while all the kids had been staring at me, and i snapped out of the trance. "sorry about that kids, Katy, please see me after class." Katy neatly placed the picture back in her folder and drew her attention attently to Kyle who was next in line. "Kyle buddy, your up." As soon as those words filled the air Kyle shot up reminicent of a spaceship leaving the earths atmosphere. Pure adrenaline flowed through his tiny body and the kid went from being half-asleep listening to Katy, to basically smoking a bunch of crack and going crazy. "Alright Kyle, calm yourself. What have you got to share?" "OOOHH OOOOHHHHH!!!! when i was wittle my mommy said she was dunk and dwopped me on my head!!" dear god i thought to myself as Kyle bent over frantically while parting his hair, excavating through his thick mop to reveal a scar that was about 2 inches long. "ooooohhhh" echoed from the crowd once more. "very cool kyle" i said, now sit down. kyle with a smile about as big as his head careened down to the classroom floor. "Danny, your next." A quiet shy boy with unprecedented self-reliance, Danny was a personal favorite of mine. He had the ability to make you smile when you least expected it. "I was goin to show u my plado.......but i ade it" were the words Danny announced as he sat back down. "Alllrrriight" I said as i re-adjusted my position to stretch out my knees. The rest of Show-and-Tell passed entirely too quickly for me to tell you what actually happened. Someone brought their blankie, another toted a doll, and the big finale was a box of colored pencils that were all the same color.
Before I knew it, the afternoon room was empty and the verberations of childrens voices had left my ear for one more night. I asked Katy on the way out how she thought of that picture she drew, and if she thought it was appropriate to bring it to class. The small girl contested with an answer that was borderline religious. " I dont kno wheya dis idea came fwom, but wheneva i feew happy or angwy i dwa wat i feew. I didnt mean fow it to be scawy o bawd, i just wanted udda peopo to feeo wat i feeo." I let Katy go but held onto the picture with the intent of unveiling it at parent teacher conferences, which i most certainly will. I dont know how such a young and beautiful girl could have such awful images in her head, and the more i fought with the problem the closer it pushed me towards myself. I remembered when i was in school. In college, I had this proffesor who daily had the capacity to enthrall me with the most random and arcane facts and stories about the past world. I thought of how with the simple use of objects or paintings, or pictures, one could delve down into a deeper meaning. I thought of katy, how this picture could be a proclimation of evil in her life. Maybe she was trying to show me something, mabye she wanted my help? Maybe she didnt. Maybe the drawings were just drawings. Ultimately I believe, some things in life have to remain a mystery in order for ourselves to solve our personal mysteries.

The Bunnie of my eternity.

Every so often once the dark shadow of my past sets its hand upon my shoulder, few memories prove invaluable, mmmm maybe even life saving. Yesterday i felt the hand of my shadow, it was cold. Driving my car down Willson ave. pondering the timeless mystery of the skies pigment when all of a sudden felt a rumble from under my right front wheel. As the trees passed in my side-view mirrors the horror of my folly had come full-swing. There in the middle of the street i watched the leg twitch of a flat, cute, fuzzy little pancake of joy that i had just smothered with my tire.WHY GOD WHY?!?! yes it was a rabbit. yes i had just killed it. great. as i watched its last little flint of energy kick out of its quivering leg, my shadow grabbed ahold. ( a harp plays and my vision ripples...)

The warm glow of my bedside lamp illuminates the room around me. I am nine years old, fresh out of the fifth grade and hungry for more. I sat on the edge of my bed, mentally preparing for the strenuous test that lay ahead, the test of summer camp. The light of the room created a warm blanket to comfort my fears and one simple creature which lay cupped in my arms expressed enough love and confidence in me to fill my heart with infinite joy. his name....Rudolph, his earthly form, a bunnie. I found rudolph with his head stuck under our air conditioner about 3 weeks prior to my departure and took it upon myself to become the little guys confidant...at least i think he was a guy. As the sun passed over head, the days were spent frolicking in the yard with my new best friend. I would teach him how to jump really high, or run away from me quickly; while he showed me the simply beauty of nibbling grass or basically just doing nothing but staring back at me. God he was so wise! Rudolph to me represented a gate into the unknown, a chance for me to explore the spiritual undercurrent of a world which i was still learning about...
Back in my room, a tear leaped from my eyelash to splatter upon rudolphs gray mis-shaped head. "why must i go?" i said. "I want to stay here with you forever." Rudolph with a rather annoyed stare now that i reflect on it, gave me a sign which i will never forget. At that moment Rudolph leaped from my arms and sailed throw the air as does a hawk riding the thermals over the ridgeline of the bridgers. Upon hitting the ground rudolph sprang with lightning quickness straight into a wall; adjusted himeslf, then shot out of my room. NOOOOO!!!!RUDOLPH!!!!!! i searched every square inch of that house and did not find my beloved friend. i left for camp....depressed, would be the better word. why had this happened to me? why would such a close and personal friend feel the need to tear my heart out of my chest and nibble it to peices?! what a jerk. my sorrow soon morphed to rage. screw rudolph, he was an idiot anyways! at camp i lost rudolph to new experiences and friends made through a summer filled with adventure. When i came home, i thought of rudolph almost instantly. was he still here? my mother had informed me that rudolph had nibbled through our fuse box while i was gone and shut off power to the house and electricuted himself in the process. that crazy rabbit i thought, always getting into trouble.........vision of present reality returns.......

"GET OUT OF THE FRIGGIN STREET YOU CRAZY ASSHOLE!!" this fuzzy little pancake lay at my feet. i didnt even pull my car over to the side of the road, i just parked it right in the middle. traffic was at a standstill. car horns filled the autum air. "Rudolph..." i whispered to myself, "what have i done?" "GET OUT OF THE GOD DAMN STREET!!!!" i drove away. i shouldnt have left him there all alone....and flat. I thought of my classical foundations of literature class, we talked about jesus being a bunny. great...i killed jesus.