Good Bloggin' and my Intro Paragraph

To begin, blogs I have enjoyed a lot this semester are Rio's (always providing interesting stuff for me to look and think about) Kyle's (your dreams are very interesting, sir), and Sam's (keeping me straight on every thing Dr. Sexon says, has said, and will say).

My blogging might become a little more scarce in the coming weeks, because I am focusing all my creative energy on writing the final paper for the class. I think it might kill me. This is a rough start to what I'm going to be writing on, and I hope that I can write a paper worth reading.

“Youth cannot know how age thinks and reels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young” (Order of the Phoenix 826). While it might be strange to begin an scholarly essay with a quote from Harry Potter, the quote above draws an important parallel to the huge gap that grows every day in the realm of literary study: “high” vs. “low”, “old” vs. “new”, “vulgar” vs. “transcendent”. The distinction between various literatures is a hotly debated topic—a classification scheme which deems what should be read, and what is a waste of time is commonly touted—“We must read Hamlet, but stay away from that Stephanie Meyer!” The rhetorical questions abound: are “low” works derivative? Often. Do they simplify complex ideas and compress the aesthetic to a simple, easily marketable form? Frequently. Are they necessary, even as important, as the “high” literature they are derived from? Absolutely. A reader might be confused at this point. How is it that a work can be derivative, simple, lacking in aesthetic merit—and valid and important at the same time? If the view of literary scholarship is a linear one, in which the beginning is Everybody Poops, and the end is Finnegans Wake, then it would obviously make sense to jump right to the end and experience the best literature has to offer—rather than wasting time with the literal refuse at the beginning. While certain works are arguably more “important” than others, and there are thousands of generic pieces of literature about men fighting dragons and saving princesses that might/should be avoided, a reader does a great disservice to himself/herself when they forget that “lowbrow” literature is (returning to the quote above) a portal, not a road, to greater and more “intellectually stimulating” works—a portal that travels both ways—cyclically, rather than straight to the end! T.S. Eliot provides his insights: “In my beginning is my end” (Four Quartets 23 line 1).

Is there any evidence to back this claim? Through examinations of “high” and “low” narratives of morality, growth, kenosis, and dream, these very conventions will be challenged, reminding the reader that one does not become an adult by forgetting or moving on from what inspired or moved them as a child, nor can they remain mired in the past—childlike forever.

The Alchemist

So, maybe I'm one of those highbrews, looking snootily down upon all "lowbrow" literature, but I think I'm one of the most staunch defenders of the "lowbrow". I say this because I was not super impressed by The Alchemist.

Granted, it is a very tightly written novel, and it addresses the themes of the class almost perfectly, but I was slightly irritated by the obtuseness of the novel. I felt like I was being told about finding and discovering my personal destiny almost every page. For me personally, it kinda takes the fun out of a text like this when we are reminded on every page that the character is going to succeed. So I want someone to explain to me that I should love this book, because I feel like I should like it, as it seems like everyone else is a pretty big fan.

Anywho, I was thinking for my thesis (for the paper) that I was going to contrast several highbrow works in the class with some outside works, specifically Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys and The Graveyard Book, and the movies The Fall and Big Fish. I might throw in a bit of Harry Potter as well.

What is The Matrix? Does it Matter?

As I delve into the oft tread road of questioning the nature and meaning of "reality", I find this quote from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (is there anything not in Harry Potter?) to be particularly enlightening:

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that, Harry."

The character of Albus Dumbledore has just told the protagonist of the story to be wary of the Mirror of Erised (desire spelled backwards), a magical mirror that shows the viewer whatever the deepest desire of his/her heart might be. He reminds Harry that it is only illusion.

I will return to Mr. Dumbledore in a moment, but this interaction brings me back to questions I've had for a long time, which usually lead to the same conclusion: There is no conclusion, and I find myself sympathizing with the character of Cypher.

While I might be persuaded to argue that actual "reality" is better than a "reality" that has been created for me, I'm finding it hard to create a particularly compelling argument. Especially when I run up against this nagging little idea: what happens when you can't resist--can't change the reality you find yourself in? What happens when we don't know better? What happens when we are the characters in Waiting for Godot, waiting around for something to happen to us--rather than it being the other way around. Aren't our perceptions about the world around us an illusion, subjective viewpoints dependent on the viewer?

And what about all the people slumbering within the cave of the Matrix, oblivious? What do they want?

It is these questions that the movie ultimately fails to answer for me, attempting to drown out these questions with screams about a "reality" that is preferable to a "dream world", but it never specifies exactly what makes one reality better than the other (from a philosophical standpoint that is; of course, human beings being used like batteries is obviously not a desirable thing). Agent Smith raises this question in the final moments of the flawed (but ultimately rewarding) third film.

I think an answer, in part, is the one that Neo gives to this question--why does he continue to fight, struggle against inevitable defeat, desperately cling to the idea of "reality"?

Because he chooses to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3YC7TMi0l68

I believe that it is our reactions, our choices that define us, give us "freedom". We may not be able to choose the cards we are dealt, but we do get to choose HOW to face those cards.

And so, I return to Albus Dumbledore. Rather than choosing to fall into a crippled scholasticism, sitting around all day musing about the meaning of reality--wondering what makes an illusion worth living, I choose to live--lest I forget how to.

Stranger Than Fiction

I'm a big fan of Kurt Vonnegut, and there's this little speech he would give about drama that I think relates very well to the discussions we have in class, and Stranger Than Fiction.  You can read it here.

To paraphrase, people expect their lives to be similar to stories they read, and this gets us into all sorts of trouble. While, as Dr. Sexson has said, we are all stories (Harold Crick makes a journey of discovery to find out what story he is) we sometimes don't like the story that we find ourselves in.

This can lead to problems. We don't think our story is exciting enough, maybe it's too exciting, but for one reason or another, we can sometimes become very discontented with the place we find ourselves. Harold Crick experiences this, and when faced with his eminent demise, he begins to live "the life he always wanted".

It is rather unfortunate that some people spend their entire lives asleep, waiting for the big event, waiting for things to happen to them--waiting for that plot. We fail to realize, as Eliot says, that we "are the music while the music lasts".

But, as Harold learns in the end of the film, it is not the big things that save our lives--it isn't bulldozers destroying our apartments that make us fully conscious and aware of our existences--it's tiny little things that barely make a blip on our radars.

I am not presumptuous enough to say that I am tuned into the universe, or I am fully integrated into my own being, but I have a small list of things that save my life, almost every day:

Grover Bridge jumping, letters to Jules Feinberg, the word "poopbooger", chainsaws, toothpaste, peanut butter (from the jar), buck and rail fence, mustaches, the platypus, highlighters, post-it notes, hot dogs, giving blood, puppies and babies (in the same category), blue mold, poorly dubbed movies, daydreams, dust bunnies, funny hats, ties, newspaper clippings, calls to home, sunrises, sunsets, blue moons, wood-burning stoves, jalapenos, carrots, sushi, baseball, Woody Allen, riding a unicycle, burping loudly, frisbees, cooking, Star Trek, Neil Gaiman, cows, wheat fields, skyscrapers, bricks, accents, cookies, and a soaring heart.

That's just a few. I don't get too bored most of the time.