Posted for another class, hope you enjoy

Concerning digressive thoughts

This blog post could easily [and quite literally] post for Professor Sexson's other oral traditions class, but some reason my sense of urge has me writing into this particular ocean of stories. This is so for the simple fact that I've learned a lot more about fantasy in this class than mastering your memory with a factual fortitude of creation--ironically being fantastical conjures constructed by the marriage of language (of the clearly communicable recollection...) and...living? (...within the continuum of experiences)--wherein my memory palaces. We're reading The Art of Memory by Frances Yates in our other class and after our first class ending at two o'clock I got to reading more of Yates prior to Ocean of Stories. In reading the first few pages of chapter 16, which focuses on correlations betwixt Shakespeare playwrights and the mnemonic systems of Fludd, Bruno, and Camillo [comparing The Globe Theatre with , then Walter walks through the door. He cordially waves while setting his stuff down. I salute him. We both have on our headphones.

The day before he said something that struck me--something along these lines so I'll paraphrase--, something that I can completely relate to,

"You're in The Ocean of Stories class? I didn't even know because I get our two classes mixed up. I'm reading one thing for three-thirty-seven and it applies moreso to something we're discussing in four-thirty-eight." I know how you feel, man; seeing as I'm going to now offer several quotes from Frances Yates book to mull over while they might seem completely frivolous, but consider my proposition beforehand--'Every aspect of the real world, from the societal to the natural, is playfully notioned, put in motion, and evidentally present in each of plays Shakespeare has written and henceforth been performed in The Globe Theatre--famous for it's variety of possible entrances, square stage, and circular hole in the ceiling (if I'm not mistaken, although no one else seems to be sure after reading Yates' historical research). One play, theoretically, contains a fair representation of the universe in and of it's prudential production.':

"...the Vitruvian figure inscribed in a square and a circle became a symbol of hte mathematical sympathy between microcosm and macrocosm. How could the relation of Man to god be better expressed...than by building the house of God in accordance with the fundamental geometry of square and circle?" (359)

"And the Globe...shows that the Shakespearean theatre was not imitation but an adaptation of Vitruvius...there was a basic change introduced by the multilevel stage. The old religious theatre showed a spiritual drama of the soul of man in relation to the levels of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise." (363)

""All the world's a stage."" (364)

Then something else comes to mind, something having recently occurred within the confines--if I may elegantly gloss--the pages of the washroom's literature. A book also referenced in my 337 blog (crap, how will I ever get around to my point for this class?), titled Quadrivium: The Four Classical Liberal Arts of Number, Geometry, Music, and Cosmology. On page 112 they talk about a triangular vesica-based--(in geometry it's like a trinity-venn diagram) influence on architecture, namely showing the floor plan of Winchester Cathedral (pictured above). From what I can gather, this is a church we see above is obviously a cross. The two short sides, which I'm assuming are facing east and west, are equal in volume so that there can be more room for the lead priest's stage (with a large backstage) and an even vaster space for a plentiful congregation to fill the pews. Look at a triangular vesica--when I did all I could think of was the rule of three and all it's derivatives; there's Father-Son-Holy Spirit--Heaven-Hell-Purgatory--Priest-Farmer-Warrior--A-B-C. Furthermore, on the offhand, I think that a preached sermon is as much a performance as a playwright itself--something I realized by watching my most recent, brilliantly persuasive, and rather--pardon my insensitivity--superficial minister of the Trinity Presbyterian Church. Nevermind that because too soon another Yates quote oncomes to mind reminding me of the short sides,

"When these 'heavens' cover the stage, we learn that the stage was at the east of the theatre, like the altar in the church." (364)

Anyways, reading the previous quote along with rummaging through Quadrivium this evening really got me thinking about the significance of geometry as well as drama, it's elements being tragedy and comedy, a dichotomy of genre instead of the genre quartet we addressed in class early this semester (Romance, Comedy, Irony, Tragedy). I'll be honest, this whole numbers game confuses me so by reasonably quantifying the concept of genre it makes it a whole lot easier for me to understand our classes main theme of "Romance."

Which again gets me thinking of something Walter said this afternoon before class--and I'll once again paraphrase--"The romance in people mostly goes unsaid. People think about what they're going to say--let's say it's to someone they really like or think is awful cute--and they give what they want to say a lot of thought. But we hardly ever say what we think, so people never quite can be defined as romantics if they don't speak it."

This thought rung to the tune of one of Frye's final declarations in The Secular Scripturewhen he says that "in our greatest romance that we begin to say that we have earned the right to silence." (188) Now let's think about this-- let's reflect with a 'moment of silence'.

Anyways, I guess my initial thought was that Romance is a derivation of Comedy because this is the realm of 'happy endings' as opposed to the tragic endings where like--the hero dies. Our final project is to present the 'perfect romance'--something our group has began to work on--and it's quickly turning into a comedy.

Now, let's look back one of the Yates quotes describing the difference between imitation and adaptation. This story we're developing seems like it's becoming an imitation of romance because it's turning into a comedy, but--by incorporating the essential elements of romance, yes?--that's fine. I've discovered that between the drama, the historical figures, my fellow classmates--on top of the rich teaching--and other thoughts at the tip of my tongue which creep into the back of my mind that, well shit I guess, that romance is an elementally supplementation itself. Simply, it's secondary.

My argument here goes back to Irony. A couple years back when I took Mythologies our final group presentation was an adaptation of the story of Oedipus--one of the the most amazing plots I've ever read. It's perfect, but what genre does it belong to? Tragedy! I say 'yeah, and romance. The fling between Oedipus and Jocasta happened out of love! But Oedipus doesn't end happily. Oedipus is probably a tragedy, but there is without dispute a romance in and of the play (engulfed in irony [thus, associated and undertoned with in comedy?])'

Well in celebration of this combination of Professor Sexson's classes I'll end with a couple of my favorite quote from Frye which apply directly to Oral Traditions:

"William Blake once said 'imagination has nothing to do with memory.'" (175)

"...all memory is selective, and the fact that it is selective is the starting point of creation." (175)

"...heaven and hell have been written but the great poem of earth has still to be written." (171)

Visual Aids

http://www.oldworks.org/Hole-by-Hole_0566b7c.html

Check out the link for my loci and their course layout.

Part of the Group

HERE'S THE SCRIPT FOR MY PART (MORE OR LESS). WHEN IN CHARACTER I WENT WITH WHAT I COULD REMEMBER (A SOME BULLET POINTS, TOO) FOR A MORE EXTEMPORANEOUS APPROACH AS IS DONE IN THE ORAL TRADITION. SO HERE YOU HAVE IT.

Warm, sweet streams throughout the land, The choice of mead and wine;

The people elegant, and without blemish, Conceived outside of lust or sin.

We see everyone, wherever they may be-No one sees us—The darkness

Of the world that fell with Adam—That is why we cannot be discerned.—Woman!

Megan, Brianna, and Spencer:

THE BLACKBIRD’S A BAD OMEN—WAH LET’S GET OUT OF HERE, THE WORLDS HAVE IMPINGED!

Shaker:

Advice! Hah! Sure, here’s some knowledge for you Raven—and since everyone else is here advisedly, listen carefully. Listen to the trees. That’s my number one piece. So you tourists really believe this ravin’ loony? Hah—and do our new guests even know what they’ve got themselves into with you in through the bor—door? Did you just get here, too? I’ve been in the thicket since coming here. But since everyone’s here you should know that you’re lost! We’re in the thicket out of bounds—otherwise known as cultural constraints—here and now! If you crossed the boundary

(POINT AT THE DOOR)

Then you might not leave for some time. I can’t explain it all, but what I’ve gathered from my other nomadic life is I learned to trust the road you’re given. That’s my second piece of advice! Trust the road, but I’ve seem to forgotten that.

(REMEMBER TO TELL THEM ABOUT THE POINT AND ABBEY’S PLANS COMING TO FRUITION)

But as for the actual point, the borderline place, well it’s a place…a special spot of symbolic significance where one goes to separate their state of being. So to speak, the boundary itself separates the states, like property that you can’t cross unless you find the secret chink in the fence and that’s where you start your passage, more like a pilgrimage, over the foreign property line where there’s a temporary sacrifice of consciousness, that part of the self for the pure and simple purpose of—communication—I suppose, and you gotta think as an animal because this is nature’s territory although there are remnants of culture everywhere, but there’s a fine line between the two just like there’s a fine line between a tour guide and a trickster!

(ABBEY IS OFFERING FRUIT TO TOURISTS AS SHAKER EMPHASIZES HER TROUBLESOME TENDENCIES)

Raven:

Who says I they can’t have a little?

Shaker:

I do! They might be stuck here.

Raven:

Is that why you haven’t found your way back?! How long have you been here?

Shaker:

That’s not important, it’s been a long time but you asked for advice and since we’re on the topic; Number three, please refrain from taking anything from the Otherworld, which usually includes accepting anything at all! It’s not a museum or an art gallery like in your big cities and artsy towns, things can be touched but there are limits. Bringing anything back from the boundary is forbidden, and you may be stuck there longer. Because it’s stealing and “there is a price to be paid for making nature’s thinking the property of man.” An old friend made that mistake some time ago, eating that damned fruit!, and she has been stuck in an otherworld’s underbelly ever since, and you don’t even want to get me started on the Adam and Eve debacle. But hey, people got to eat, especially people always on the move like me.

(KNOCK ON WOOD AND FOOD FOR THOUGHT)

However, this brings me to another point—some food for thought—whenever one is fortunate enough to breach the barrier beyond the boundary they should think of it as a new beginning, a starting point or a genesis of sorts and once you’ve entered that withheld realm you are changed beings. You’re here to search for the truth in yourself, that’s the soul, and because you’re looking then what you want is likewise working to reveal itself. But please with this supreme knowledge, which you’ll hold in your memory until the end of your journey, control the urge for the more and more of this world’s endless, indulgent offerings. Let me put it more simply—in being here we’re bearing witness to instances of extraordinary consciousness and with that there’s the consequence of excessive curiosity.

(SNIFF THE NORTH SIDE OF THE BOUND-TREE)

Raven:

No! This is silly dirty hippy, I’ve told you time and time again to not sniff too many trees! Let’s get back on the road like you said!

Shaker:

Also, remember that if you think like an animal then your thoughts and your words are very present and extremely powerful in this realm. The inappropriate use of them can add insult to injury and kill the spirit of the otherworld. I suppose I’ll tell you a story as we move on about someone I read about at a point in time. This man was a hunter who helped another out. In return the hunter was given a choice, as much gold as he could carry or knowledge of I think it was 70 languages which would give him access to conversations of birds, animals, fish, foreigners, whoever really. What do you think the hunter chose…..?

(START WALKING AWAY FOR STORY TIME)

The language, knowledge of the speech of the animals of course! It did him very well because, and here I’ll paraphrase what I remember of what is written and what was read, “The hunter is someone used to finding what he cannot see and there is a special power in tuning oneself to the singing of the forest.” My I love that story, didn’t you?! My mother always told the best stories, but ah—and lastly, in the Otherworld, things are done “contrariwise”, or backwards, marking the Otherness of the spirit world. This is something that can’t be explained quite as easily—you must figure it out for yourself—or maybe we can find some help around here from another mother!

Megan:

Everybody help! We need help. My daughters are too small and my belly too full. This way! There’s a huge problem!

Raven:

Oh my gosh it’s massive!

Shaker:

We’re going to need more people!

Fidgety:

Oh thank you all so much. It all happened so fast, I was just beached there…

Megan, Raven, Shaker together:

Beached!

Megan:

No wonder you’re here. What were you thinking doing a thing like that?

Shaker:

So you know about border points too then?

Megan:

I know a thing or two about this place. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember, it’s been awhile and I’ve forgotten anything about my history on the other side. But that’s not important, what is important is my family and what we’ve come to know as home, and the only place we know is this mythical place. Here meet my daughter, this one’s Clio, this one’s Calliope, and oh here’s Terpsichore!

Raven:

That’s enough we know their names!

Testin' my gangsta

I've done some deconstruction work on Kubla Khan. I counted every beat of limmerick, and the poet's rhyme scheme is very inventive and somehow consistent as well as elastic and playful. So here you have it:

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge; italicized words vary in syllables [according to my approach, acting as slant-rhymes] depending on dialectical articulation, and in the parentheses are the [approximately precise] number of syllables in each line, **notes are within asterisks**:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan (8)
A stately pleasure-dome decree: (8)
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran (8)
Through caverns measureless to man (8)
Down to a sunless sea. (6)
So twice five miles of fertile ground (8-9)
With walls and towers were girdled round: (8-9)
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, (11)
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; (10)
And here were forests ancient as the hills, (10)
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. (10)
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted (12) **This is where it gets interesting! See 'slanting'**
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! (11)
A savage place! as holy and enchanted (11)
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted (11)
By woman wailing for her demon-lover! (11)
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, (12)
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, (11)
A mighty fountain momently was forced: (10)
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst (10)
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, (10)
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: (10)
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever (11)
It flung up momently the sacred river. (11)
Five miles meandering* with a mazy motion (10-11)
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, (10)
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, (10)
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: (10-11) **this one's interesting--it's probably 11**
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far (10)
Ancestral voices prophesying war! (10)
The shadow of the dome of pleasure (9)
Floated midway on the waves; (7)
Where was heard the mingled measure (8)
From the fountain and the caves. (7)
It was a miracle of rare device, (9)
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! (10)
A damsel with a dulcimer (8)
In a vision once I saw: (7)
It was an Abyssinian maid, (7-8) **how fast can you say it?**
And on her dulcimer she played, (8) **the bolded word can be used in different form of slant-rhyme**
Singing of Mount Abora. (7)
Could I revive within me (7)
Her symphony and song, (6)
To such a deep delight 'twould win me (9)
That with music loud and long (7)
I would build that dome in air, (7)
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! (8)
And all who heard should see them there, (8)
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! (8)
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! (8)
Weave a circle round him thrice, (7)
And close your eyes with holy dread, (8)
For he on honey-dew hath fed (8)
And drunk the milk of Paradise. (8)

The longest lines, 12 beats [4 longer than how he begins and ends], are in the early-middle lines of the poem. It's like he's a mathematician solving his own equation, simultaneously and methodically following the steps set forth by each oncoming portion of the conflating problem...but what comes about is an eventual equation, a solution glinting itself from the convolution, panning out as a masterful creation. I love having my spirit poetically ignited, and after some deliberation and innovation (probably what some will call 'defacing' or 'degradation' or a 'malrepresentation' and 'porous interpretation' of such a highly touted piece of work) although nevertheless that's their issue and here's my first issue, a script of how I'll lay it down to y'all. It's 'chunked' into four or five sections, extended stanzas I'll attempt to spit-to-fit-a-lot-in. Let's just say I'll probably end up playing with rhyme scheme too much and purity of the poem's lyrics coming to my conclusions: (I'm not going to worry much about exactness of articulation because my augmented lines probably have all different numbers of voweled beats, extra long lines are in bold, possible slant-rhymes are in intalics, Bold and italicized words or phrases are my own ad lib, **notes are in asterisks**)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan—A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea—so twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round: And there
Were gardens bright with sinuous rills—where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

---

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted—down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted—As e'er beneath a waning moon was hanted,

Haunted, whatever whereby woman wailing for her demon-lover! **haunted does not rhyme with enchanted!! Does it?**

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething—As if this earth in fast thick pants were

A mighty fountain momently was forced—amid breathing whose swift half-intermitted burst.
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail—or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever it flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion—through wood and dale the sacred river ran, **'miles' will be ideally said differently here**
Then reached the caverns measureless to man—And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far—ancestral voices prophesying war!
------
The shadow of the dome of pleasure floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure from the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device—a sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
------
A damsel with a dulcimer in a vision once I saw: ** (colloq. pronun:dull-see-maa)**
It was an Abyssinian maid and on her dulcimer she played, **(articulating regularly: dull-sim-mer) **
Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me—Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me—That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air—That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there—And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!—Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread, His word! Care if my own word clarifies…?
That for he on honey-dew hath fed and drunk the milk of Paradise.

...More on this process later...

Another day, another reflection

It's coming down the wire here even if it's still snowing, and this is the time of year when things start to come together and future reveals itself in hints even if it's still snowing. Sorry, that was probably redundant. One of things that I've probably brought up in these blog posts all too often is Alchemy. The idea that has plagued me, in other words it's my obsession, over the course of this semester is Alchemy. I think the fact that really gets me thinking is that in actuality Alchemy is impossible, and still some people pursue to conquer the riddle 'that lead can turn into gold.' Because it can. And, if I may step up on my soapbox here, People my concern isn't you! My dear esoteric fellow, you're smart to be here and smart enough to take a class such as this, and consider yourselves fortunate to be here even if much of it doesn't make sense of it's pertinence. You are what you remember. It's all really quite simple, but people are incredibly difficult.

Which brings me back to alchemy, of which I'm still infatuated with, and another experience, last week, when I read The Alchemist. An awesome book. Read it if you can, it'll take you less than three hours. Anyways, you guys should read it because Yates, on page 378, addresses one of the main themes within Paulo Coelho's book. Yates says, "One of the preoccupations of the seventeenth century was the search for a universal language." At this point she's addressing Bacon, Bruno, Comenius, and a few others.

And, before I move further in The Alchemist, let me talk about Yates a little bit. I heard before I picked it up that it would be a dry read, and it wasn't as bad as I thought, but I found myself glossing it many times not because I wasn't interested but when Yates is referring to three other works that I haven't ever heard of then I can't help but move on. I've concluded, as have several other patrons, that Yates book is a historical book (no duh!). It's interesting that its inspired by factual evidence from past written records. Yates time and time again claims that she never could wrap her head around artists (being Bruno, Camillo, Lull, Simonides, Aquinas, etc.) who's art she's thoroughly researched. Along with being a historical account, The Art of Memory's genre falls right into pure non-fiction, dry to the truthful bone like a lab report. It was good, though. All things considered, " I am conscious as I look back of how little I have understood of the significance for whole tracts of history of the art which Simonides was supposed to have invented after that legendary disastrous banquet." (389) Please, and pardon my mental hiccup, can we talk about this in class because I feel like I missed a big chunk of Simonides story. What banquet?

Anyways, back to Coehlo. His main character in probably his most famed book is Santiago, a shepherd boy who has set out on a journey to the Egyptian pyramids in search of a universal language, although he's quite literally searching for treasure even if there's a fine line between searching for gold or soul. How fitting that he should look for it, and he finds it on a few occasions, too. For example at at one point in the book it is shown in a scene at the market that, "...one of them had spoken Arabic and the other Spanish.

And they had understood each other perfectly well.

There must be a language that doesn't depend on words, the boy thought. I've already had that experience with my sheep, and now it's happening with people."

This whole spiel goes back to memory because beings can communicate with one another even if they don't have language. We share five senses, most of us. The sixth sense we share is that of memory. We know who we are and we act out what we've come to know. It's true, if we improvised in front of the class and I got down on four legs and bark! or ruff! then you know what I am. I'm a dog, it's simple but then again I'm only changing my appearance. That's alchemy! For example, 'buxom' was my first word on my 51-word list but, as we've learned from Yates that "the active image impresses itself best on memory, and...that intellectual things are best remembered through sensible things," (372) in my mind I wasn't thinking 'buxom-adjective-(of a woman) healthy, plump, cheerful, and lively'. No, that's silly and difficult. Instead I pictured a block of action where 'I wake up and sitting on my forehead is a pudgy cherub binge drinking paint with an aged Charlie Brown.' Okay, so that covered buxom, churl, precocity, and tinge. But it's a concise action scene jam-packed with lots of information. Point is, I didn't say what I thought, and what I thought up I thought up with an alchemically-driven imagination. Alchemy is transformation, from words into thoughts and back into a recollection of those words. It's a practice of mindful metamorphoses. Get your thinking done on the run.

Sorry, I'm off topic. I really do commend Frances Yates for her fine piece of work even if I didn't completely understand it. I figure it must be difficult for a historian to not only retrace her own steps but the steps (the biggest contributions) of others as well. I thought that her writing was clear, but it was not in order which is fine. It works, it worked because of the fact that maybe she couldn't understand what she was talking about sometimes and moved on to another topic. I do it all the time, we all do. I think, maybe, sorry if you don't think that. Which brings me to my final thought concerning Marcel Proust and his In Search of Lost Timebecause from what I'm collecting from 337 and 438 is that Proust, the autobiographer, right?, believes that if you think backwards, even from this very point, as far as you can then you can remember everything. This autobiography already sounds like a complete work of fiction! That's exactly what fiction is though, turning simple events into wonderful stories; where everyday life is far more beneficial than commonplace. Telling of a simple event is never as memorable as the most marvelous of tall tales. Tall tales, those we've all invented impressed on our imaginations, are our mind's masterpieces of alchemy. Creating a new world from the 'boring' one we live in is the purpose of alchemy, and the artists of memory are fighting through it everyday one momentous memory at a time.

I'll end with this. This is something I wrote in class one day, probably in mid-February or so:

"The real world is most fantastic when you're seeing it for the first time, and experiencing these moments are when people, the esoteric and sophisticated, transcend into a greater being. They have no ties to ignorance, vulgarity, and naivety (the intelligence's competition) when they are experiencing something wonderfully new because everything's incomparably fresh. Case in point; Live your fantasy."