January 13, 2013
In regard to those behind the curtain, I have the sense that one of my professors fancies herself a wizard. She seems to take pride in being a sorceress, an inherently evil wizard at that. She speaks fear into her audience and expects them to flee. I will not flee in fear. I will wait for the dog to come along and unveil her true identity. If her sorceress identity is steadfast, then I will flee.
I expect there is a myth that drives her, a precedent behind her actions. One can achieve obedience through love or fear. I'm interested in discovering why it is fear that she chooses.
January 14, 2013
On this bone chilling night, I was summoned by a temptress to The Cannery. Sitting in the warmth of my house, contemplating "the call to adventure" and all that it entails--the journey into the unknown, the initiation that inevitably involves pain, and the eventual metamorphosis-- I armed myself against the cold and resolved to set out.
The road was slick and treacherous, but one traveled by many before me. My lights, glistening on the crystalline path, illuminated the way. Forward-- the only direction I can go. There is a inescapable truth associated with this specific call to adventure;call it a prophecy. It is this: one lured to an establishment to consume spirits will undoubtedly give him/herself over to Dionysus, to Regret, to Epimetheus. On this particular night, I encountered Dionysus. I still await the other two.
Upon returning home, rich with wine and festivity, I observed an interesting omen which, at the time, I had not the faculties to interpret. Shrouded in darkness, Sleep's breath lulled me to unconsciousness until I was suddenly startled from my heavy slumber. My dog heaved, the sound hauntingly gutteral as if her insides were being wrenched from her body. Out came meat and bile and breath and life. Thrice my dog performed the ritual, staining my carpet with sallow fluid. What was the message? Was she possessed by the gods? And what were they trying to tell me with this purge? Even now, I contemplate the significance of this omen.
January 16, 2013
Let us talk about my origin and how it is that I find myself in Bozeman, Montana. I was here for a year prior to my current stay, but it is of little importance. Most important is my departure and my return.
The night I was setting out, driving away from Bozeman, destined for California, a stag leapt out in front of my vehicle. Mesmerized, he fixed his eyes not on the headlights, but on me. This stag, sent by Artemis, was offering me a challenge, a call to the hunt, a call to adventure. My mythic detective skills were not nearly as adept as they now are, so I simply slammed the brakes and thought nothing as the stag stood motionless, fixated on me until I came to a halt mere feet from disaster. I can hear Artemis now, "Fine. Proceed with your journey. But you will return."
December came and the call to adventure re-surfaced. My best friend, a messenger of the gods, asked me the simple question, "Where do you need to be in order to be happy?" I answered with my return, and here I am. I accepted the call. I am in Bozeman. I am finishing school. Now commences the initiation.
January 17, 2013
Today I eat venison, and I believe it to be the very meat of the stag sent to prevent my departure. There is something important about me gaining nourishment from this stag. And here I am listening to La Dispute, a band I admire, when I hear lyrics that struck me only moments ago as I read The Metamorphoses.
Sisyphus-- the name it crawled into my ear and this is what followed:
("Six," by La Dispute)
The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain,
Whence the stone would fall back of its own weight.
They had thought with some reason
that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld.
Myths are made for the imagination.
As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort
of a body straining to raise the huge stone
To roll it and push it up a slope a hundred times over;
One sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone,
The wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands.
At the very end of his long effort, the purpose is achieved.
Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments
Toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit.
He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me.
A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself.
I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step
Toward the torment of which he will never know the end.
That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering,
That is the hour of consciousness.
At each of those moments when he leaves the heights
And gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods,
He is superior to his fate.
He is stronger than his rock.
The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks,
And his fate is no less absurd.
But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious.
Sisyphus knows the whole extent of his wretched condition:
It is what he thinks of during his descent.
There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow,
It can also take place in joy.
When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory,
It happens that melancholy arises in man's heart:
This is the rock's victory.
But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.
Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it.
But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins.
Yet at the same moment, he realizes that the only bond
linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl.
Then a tremendous remark rings out:
"Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age
And the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well."
"I conclude that all is well," says Edipus.
And that remark is sacred.
It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man.
It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted.
All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein.
His fate belongs to him.
The rock is still rolling.
January 14, 2013
On this bone chilling night, I was summoned by a temptress to The Cannery. Sitting in the warmth of my house, contemplating "the call to adventure" and all that it entails--the journey into the unknown, the initiation that inevitably involves pain, and the eventual metamorphosis-- I armed myself against the cold and resolved to set out.
The road was slick and treacherous, but one traveled by many before me. My lights, glistening on the crystalline path, illuminated the way. Forward-- the only direction I can go. There is a inescapable truth associated with this specific call to adventure;call it a prophecy. It is this: one lured to an establishment to consume spirits will undoubtedly give him/herself over to Dionysus, to Regret, to Epimetheus. On this particular night, I encountered Dionysus. I still await the other two.
Upon returning home, rich with wine and festivity, I observed an interesting omen which, at the time, I had not the faculties to interpret. Shrouded in darkness, Sleep's breath lulled me to unconsciousness until I was suddenly startled from my heavy slumber. My dog heaved, the sound hauntingly gutteral as if her insides were being wrenched from her body. Out came meat and bile and breath and life. Thrice my dog performed the ritual, staining my carpet with sallow fluid. What was the message? Was she possessed by the gods? And what were they trying to tell me with this purge? Even now, I contemplate the significance of this omen.
January 16, 2013
Let us talk about my origin and how it is that I find myself in Bozeman, Montana. I was here for a year prior to my current stay, but it is of little importance. Most important is my departure and my return.
The night I was setting out, driving away from Bozeman, destined for California, a stag leapt out in front of my vehicle. Mesmerized, he fixed his eyes not on the headlights, but on me. This stag, sent by Artemis, was offering me a challenge, a call to the hunt, a call to adventure. My mythic detective skills were not nearly as adept as they now are, so I simply slammed the brakes and thought nothing as the stag stood motionless, fixated on me until I came to a halt mere feet from disaster. I can hear Artemis now, "Fine. Proceed with your journey. But you will return."
December came and the call to adventure re-surfaced. My best friend, a messenger of the gods, asked me the simple question, "Where do you need to be in order to be happy?" I answered with my return, and here I am. I accepted the call. I am in Bozeman. I am finishing school. Now commences the initiation.
January 17, 2013
Today I eat venison, and I believe it to be the very meat of the stag sent to prevent my departure. There is something important about me gaining nourishment from this stag. And here I am listening to La Dispute, a band I admire, when I hear lyrics that struck me only moments ago as I read The Metamorphoses.
Sisyphus-- the name it crawled into my ear and this is what followed:
("Six," by La Dispute)
The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain,
Whence the stone would fall back of its own weight.
They had thought with some reason
that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld.
Myths are made for the imagination.
As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort
of a body straining to raise the huge stone
To roll it and push it up a slope a hundred times over;
One sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone,
The wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands.
At the very end of his long effort, the purpose is achieved.
Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments
Toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit.
He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me.
A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself.
I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step
Toward the torment of which he will never know the end.
That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering,
That is the hour of consciousness.
At each of those moments when he leaves the heights
And gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods,
He is superior to his fate.
He is stronger than his rock.
The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks,
And his fate is no less absurd.
But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious.
Sisyphus knows the whole extent of his wretched condition:
It is what he thinks of during his descent.
There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow,
It can also take place in joy.
When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory,
It happens that melancholy arises in man's heart:
This is the rock's victory.
But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.
Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it.
But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins.
Yet at the same moment, he realizes that the only bond
linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl.
Then a tremendous remark rings out:
"Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age
And the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well."
"I conclude that all is well," says Edipus.
And that remark is sacred.
It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man.
It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted.
All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein.
His fate belongs to him.
The rock is still rolling.
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