Strange Little Stories

Story Number 1

There was once a young boy who always got everything he wanted, and nothing he needed. He knew exactly the way he should gripe and complain to manipulate his very rich parents into giving him the things he felt it was important for him to own. Because he was never denied the things he asked for, he had begun to ask for bigger and bigger treasures, which were more and more difficult for his parents to supply.

“I want a horse,” he would say. And his mother would say, “You’re not big enough for a horse,” and he would say, “It is true that I am not tall enough but I am conscientious enough to know that in our fast paced society full of cars and business schedules, it is important that we go back to watch nature and let it teach us about how to be quiet and still. I think the presence of a horse would be good for me as I am growing up in this age.” So his mother would go and buy him a horse.

Then perhaps he would say “I want a car,” and not just any car. He would say “I want that big, red convertible that was up on a pedestal at the showcase last week. To which his father would say “You’re not old enough for a car,” and he would say, “yes I am too young, but it is important for me to grow accustomed to having my car around so that when I am old enough to drive it, the excitement of a new car won’t force me to drive to quickly or recklessly and cause an accident.” So his father would take him out to the auto-dealer and buy him the car he wanted.

“And then perhaps he would say “I’m thinking of investing in art,” to which his mother would say “do you know anything about art dear,” and the boy would say, “no, but my father and you have been so very bad at representing our family as cultured members of society that I have been bullied at school and ostracized as being the son of greedy parents.” And then his mother would take him to an auction, and he would bid whatever amount of money on whatever he thought was good.

And then later he would say, “father I would like a big and brand new chain saw,” and his father would say “why do you want such a thing as that?” and he would say, “I have learned that some of the art I have purchased isn’t very good and I would like to recreate it.”

And so life went on in this way for the boy for a very long time. Each time he found some way to make his parents believe that the things he wanted were for his own good, and he enjoyed them until he saw something else he wanted. Because nothing was ever denied him, his demands became more and more ridiculous, and it became more and more difficult for his parents to use money to bring these gifts into their son’s possession.

One day, when the selfish boy had become a very selfish young man, who was too old to be the friendless miser that he had become, he was struck by the realization that no one in the world really loved him, and even his parents little understood love more than seeing it as a way people manipulate each other to get the things they want. He became angry at his parents for establishing such poor relationships in his life, and he drove his car – but not the red one he had convinced his father to buy, because it was, by this time too old to use, and the son had convinced the father it could be dangerous – into the city to look for love.

He stumbled into a shopping mall and looked around him until, at a record store; he saw a girl who he thought was very pretty and a worthwhile person to make him feel like miserly and lonely. He drove his car home and told his parents what he wanted. His parents told him it was very difficult for him to buy things like people – especially when one wanted them to really show love – and that they didn’t think it could be done. To which the son replied. “Mother, father, you have ruined me. You have shown me all my life that money was the best and easiest solution to all of my problems. I have become a two-dimensional personality, who sees this as his only means of finding the things that are good in life. If you cannot get this for me by money now, I am sure that you will have destroyed any chance of happiness in my life by giving me a means of getting what I want that doesn’t actually find me happiness.” This worried his mother and father very much and they kissed his rings and told him they would work very hard to show that they had not made him into a bad person.

So they went to the record store and they enquired after the name of the girl from the manager, who provided all of her personal information for a very small fee. The parents of the rich boy then went to the parents of the girl who turned out to be quite poor, and offered them a great deal of money if their daughter would go out for a night and entertain their son. The parents of the girl refused and refused until a very great sum of money was offered to them. Then they went to the girl and told her that the young man that she was seeing already was terrible and that she would support her family better than she had done by working at the record store, by going to spend time with this miserable, rich young man.

Of course, the girl disagreed and cried very much over this, but finally her parents impressed upon her how much it was a matter of duty that she do this, and she went to see the boy in his big house in the country where he had no friends. At first the boy thought she was very interesting, and he gave her rings and showed her all of the things that he owned which he had almost forgotten, and she hated him very quietly for his selfishness and manipulation. And he also grew tired of her, as he grew tired of most of the things he owned. But he was not used to having the things he no longer wanted not want him either, and that encouraged him to force the girl to remain close to him, even if he didn’t enjoy her company very much. His parents continued to pay very large sums of money to the parents of the girl, who were soon becoming much less poor than they were, and had even promised to buy their daughter a new car if she only brought in enough money, hoping this would bring her around to their point of view.

Finally, the young man, finding very little else that would please him, and seeing a very good opportunity to control the girl he had forced to be his friend, said, “I think we should get married.” The girl believed this was an absolutely terrible idea and told him so. The young man disagreed, saying “I think you see how important it is for your parents that we get married. You would be a continuous source of income for your family, who need the money so desperately. I think you cannot be so selfish and think only of yourself in this situation.” He pushed this point further and further, and still she managed to disagree with him, though he unsettled her very much and she disagreed with him through many tears. So the young man, never seeing his manipulation serve him so poorly before, struck the girl to show her how important this was for him. She turned and ran out of his big house, got into her old car and drove away. She wanted to go home, but the young man had been so persuasive in making her believe she was doing wrong to her parents in not wanting to marry him that she felt she couldn’t go home, so she stopped her car on the side of the road and ran into the old woods that grew between the houses of the rich families and the people in the city.

She ran deeper and deeper into the woods until she had lost her way, and had nothing to do but sit down and lament the shape her life was in. It was here that she was approached by some of the people that live in the woods. A very young fairy child had walked off from her home and found the girl crying.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

The girl who was not a fairy looked up from her tears and told her that she was lost.

“Well I don’t know the way to where you want to go, but my mother might be able to help you. I live just around a corner here.”

So following the fairy child, the girl was led to a place that people normally do not find – a village of wooden huts built for the fairies. The fairy child’s mother was about to scold her for bringing a person to the village, but she saw how pitiable and unhappy the girl was, and instead asked her what was the matter. Beyond being lost, the girl shared her entire story with the fairy child and her mother, who both thought the story, was very sad, and the young boy was very evil. The fairy mother promised not only that she would help the girl leave the forest, but that she would help her take care of the selfish young man.

The next day, the girl returned to the home of the young man and told him that she had to refuse his offer again. But this time she told him something that his mind could better understand. She said that it was because another young man had made her a similar offer of marriage, and had given her something better than the boy ever could to win her affections. She produced a small chest, about half a metre long. It was made of a strange and rich red wood, and was embossed with gold and a strange kind of shimmering green.  She said that this other young man, of whom the rich boy had previously heard nothing, had given her this chest which would, when opened, provide a person with all the deepest desires of their heart. As a test, she had the boy’s mother and father open the chest, and sure enough, because they were rich and shallow, a great deal of money spilled out of the chest when it was opened. She took the chest and left the boy in a rage.

He went to his mother and father and said “I think I must have that chest,” and the parents said “it is the only one we have ever seen.” But the boy insisted again, so his parents were forced to pay a thief to steal it for him. The boy’s parents were quite taken aback, having done many strange and illegal things through their business; they had never enjoyed doing anything that was so obviously and bluntly against the law. They spent a great deal of money finding an internationally acclaimed theif to carry out their son’s wishes. The thief, who had flown in from Austria, was actually quite surprised to find the girl’s window open and the box sitting neatly on the window sill for him to take away. He considered the job far too easy, but still charged his regular price.

Having it in his possession, the boy opened it greedily, hoping to find gold and diamonds and all sorts of things he desired. But he found no such thing. For the deepest desires of the boys heart were for no object or person. Years of wanting and demanding so many things without any reason had taken away any real love for the gifts he had been given. The only thing left in his heart was a black need to consume everything he saw, to take everything he could. So when he opened up the box, out of it came many evil serpents and wolves and terrible monsters, which quickly jumped out from the box, tore the boy to pieces and devoured him completely.

Story Number 2

                There is a certain age that young people reach when they are, each and every one, blessed to come to a period in their lives where they are strongest, fittest, and most beautiful. It is at this time that they go out to seek other beautiful people and spend their days in the company only of those who appeal to their lofty standards. Of course, when this beauty fades, and people who are no longer so young are not admitted into the company of the beautiful people, they become filled with a terrible fear and anger, and go to whatever lengths they can to remain beautiful. They rub dung on their faces, or eat bugs, or wear clothing that pinches and pushes parts of their bodies into places where people can’t see them.

When a good man of some small wealth lost his wife – a very good lady who operated a community kitchen and facilitated a shelter for the homeless – he became devastated. He tried very hard to show affection to his only daughter, but found that his melancholy was obvious even to her. He also was sure that she was having a very difficult time dealing with her pain and that is why, sooner than he might have, he sought to marry again, to ease both his own grief and his daughter’s, and give her a companion.

Now this man, who was only old enough to be a little grey, but still felt far too old to go to the typical places looking to meet people, had a great deal of trouble finding the woman who would help him take care of his daughter. Late one night he was walking forlornly through the streets of the city when he saw a woman looking distressed and frightened. He asked her if he could help her at all. She wept and said that she had lost everything that was most dear to her, and was now alone and confused. The gentleman thought this story resonated quite well with his own situation. Had he known the woman at all, he would have known that she was exactly the type of woman who tries far too hard to stay beautiful, that what she meant when she said she had lost everything dear to her was that she was no longer so young and naturally pretty as she used to be, and when she said she was lost, she was complaining because she had just been thrown out of a bar two blocks away for breaking a bottle over another customer’s head.

Nevertheless, the kind father invited this woman out for dinner. At first she found him a tad old for her tastes, but when he suggested a very nice restaurant, she guessed that he must have had a great deal of money, and accepted his offer. Very soon they were engaged to be married, and soon afterwards, a small wedding was held to bring them together.

As soon as she was married, the lady began to spend as much money as she believed the kind man could afford. She became extravagant, buying dresses that didn’t fit her and all kinds of make-ups and creams to stop her aging. The man was hopeful that his daughter and her stepmother would become quick friends, and arranged for them to spend time together. But the older woman who was no longer as beautiful as she used to be was very angry with the daughter, for she just seemed to be coming towards that age where she might be beautiful (though she was still very young) and she was doing nothing to alter her appearance in the way the older woman valued. So on their first day out together, the woman took her stepdaughter to a salon, and paid a great deal of money for both of them to have their hair coloured and curled, and have their nails painted and their faces prodded and their noses plucked and their eyes pulled until the stepmother thought that they both looked like very striking young women, and the young girl thought she looked like a dog dressed up as a clown. When she went home, she quickly did everything to reverse her stepmother’s “anti-aging” process, saying she was quite happy to grow up as she pleased.

But the stepmother still needed to spend a great deal of time with her new daughter, seeing it as the best way to get an unlimited amount of money from her new husband. So she continued to try and bring the girl around to her view. She took her shopping to buy extravagant clothes and shoes and coats and hairpins and necklaces and rings and whatever else she wanted. She was always buying them expensive kinds of skin-cream and eye liner and perfume, and she was always very angry and cruel with the daughter when she did not want to participate in these activities. She told her that she was becoming uglier already, and began cutting the girl up for being unattractive if ever she refused one the stepmother’s gifts. Soon the girl became rather hurt and began to ask herself if she really was ugly. She hated this all the more because she had never had to ask herself the question until her stepmother arrived.

One day, when the stepmother was being particularly cruel – pinching the girls sides and telling her she needed to go on a diet with her, (this is because the stepmother had spent what she believed to be five painful days eating nothing but vinegar, chicken bones and brown avocados as a part of a new miracle diet) the girl slammed the door and went looking for somewhere to go that reminded her of her birth mother. She quickly went to the community kitchen, where her mother had often taken her to spend time with the guests. It was a very busy day, but the girl still found one or two people she knew, who were very welcoming when they saw her. In the corner was a very haggard looking man wearing a long brown coat and a toque that, from age and dirt, now stood up perfectly straight as a sort of pointed hat. He also wore a tattered red scarf, big winter boots, and an old hockey jersey. His name was Lewis and the young girl liked him well enough – though she was often drawn to the people that she believed were the most friendless. Lewis was glad for her company, and soon she was telling him the entire story of her new stepmother. Lewis assured the girl that she would one day probably be very pretty, but it really wasn’t worth thinking about at her age. He also told her that he believed he had something that might do the trick for the unhappy aging lady who wanted so much to be beautiful.

He asked the girl if she would come walking with him. He raised himself slowly from his chair and hobbled out into the street with the girl going behind him. They went out into a park, where Lewis said he lived. It was a very large park, and Lewis lived in an obscure corner of it that was mostly forest. There in a clearing of trees he had built a little home out of sticks and mud. Looking inside, the young girl thought he owned a lot of strange things, especially for a man who had no money. There were strange bottles full of coloured liquids, large mixing pots, one large caldron and a host of strange natural and unnatural ingredients – rats tails and birds wings and aging kinds of cheese – lying about the tables and shelves and on the floor. She didn’t know that Lewis was an alchemist – someone trying to make gold. He had obviously not done so yet, having no fortune to his name, but as was the way with most alchemists, he had, in his experiments, come across many other exciting and interesting things which he may have even been able to use to his advantage if he were not so obsessed with finding gold.

Lewis rummaged about in his little home and came out with a small vial of yellow cream. He told the girl to replace one of the creams on her stepmother’s counter with this, and see what might happen. He assured the girl that this would make her stepmother beautiful and the girl believed that if her stepmother could only be as beautiful as she wanted, she might be able to move on and think about other things, and maybe not be so very tormenting. So she agreed to take the vial.

Coming home, the girl looked for her stepmother’s most expensive cream; the one she used most often. There were probably about 300 of them altogether, but one was set up on a special stand, and this one seemed to be right. It also looked enough like the new cream in the bottle for the girl to believe that her stepmother would be fooled.

The next morning, the stepmother applied the cream to her face without a second thought. She used too many creams each morning to notice that one might not be exactly the same colour and texture as It once was. That night she went out alone to the bar where the girl’s father had first found her. The man did not like that she went, but she insisted upon it, because she wanted to show all of her old friends how pretty she had become. Most of them were completely disinterested; she had broken bottles over the heads of more than one patron there, but people knew that if she had her ego stroked, she would sometimes buy everyone around her a drink, and people saw this as enough of a reason to invite her back as often as possible.

On the way to the bar, the woman became quite angry. For some reason she could not understand, no taxi or bus would stop to pick her up, and she had to walk all the way to the bar in her ridiculously high heels, which for some reason were giving her more trouble than usual. She began feeling heavy and tired, and her head hung low. When she finally arrived at the bar, she swung open the door and prepared to step in dramatically, but when she tried to get into the door, she could not fit, and fell onto the ground in a heap. Everyone who saw her looked shocked and frightened. The woman stood up angrily, and was about to make a second attempt at the door when she saw her reflection in a window. She looked mostly the same as she ever did, except for a large pair of antlers that had grown out of her head. She quickly ran home, stumbling under the weight of her heavy new headwear. Going into the garage, she picked up a large electric saw and quite dangerously shaved the antlers off her head, leaving her only with stubs of bone coming out of her temple, like cattle that have had their horns shaved. The next day she ferociously rubbed as many creams and ointments and concoctions all over her body as she could, in hopes of somehow compensating for this new ugliness. She stayed at home all day, afraid to go out, and much to her dismay, found before long that she was growing a long, rich, furry, golden tail. She shrieked and pulled on it and twisted it and turned it, but it was as real as any other part of her.

The next week, the woman remained inside, still trying to look beautiful, still hoping that all of her expensive clothes and make up would cover up her new found ugliness. But the more she applied her new skin cream, the more it worked its strange power. One day she woke up with a large pair of wings. The next day, her hands had changed into paws. Soon a thick fur, patterned with all sorts of interesting stripes and spots, began to grow all over her body. Obviously, the girl’s father was shocked, but he promised that he would take care of her, and do everything he could to reverse the effects, no matter how much it cost. The wicked stepmother screamed at him and told him that if she looked as ridiculous as this she might as well die. But soon her screaming could no longer be heard. Her mouth was replaced by a long furry muzzle, bearded like a goat’s. Now there was no part of her that looked human at all. In fear and rage, the strange stepmother creature ran out of the house, breaking down the door, and charged off. The girl’s father never saw her again, and decided after a while that there really were worse things for his daughter than to be raised by him alone, as long as he was careful to be attentive to her needs, and tell her that she was wonderful and beautiful no matter what anybody else thought of her.

The girl also did not see her stepmother for a very long time, until she went to thank Lewis for the gift he had given her. She found him at his home but, to her surprise, she also found her stepmother. The antlers had grown back in and now she looked like a complete creature of the wild – wings, paws, tail, horns, fur, muzzle and all.

“She must be very sad in there” said the girl, “she tried so hard to be beautiful.”

“She is beautiful now,” said Lewis. “Look at this animal – its wings and antlers and patterned fur. Why this is one of the most beautiful animals anyone has ever seen. That was your stepmother’s problem. She was so concerned with one small kind of beauty, and made it so much more important than anything else, that she forgot how many different kinds of beauty there really are in the world. Why I would insist, and I think you might agree, that she looks more beautiful now than she ever has in her life.”

After some time the girl agreed, and left Lewis with his new companion, though she often came back to feed her stepmother, pet her, and tell her that she looked very beautiful.

Selections of Poetry written in summer ’11

How good to be, the sophist said

Alive and well in one’s own head

A complex world in one’s own bed

A complete life as good as dead

 

The Shadow Queen

The great ideal, the shadow queen

Is real to me and near to me

I can’t escape her leering gaze

Which governs and looms over me

And all the earth compared to this

It’s natures firm, its loves and dreams

Fall short and seem a solid mist

Compared to this, my shadow queen

And if I find to hold on to

A living love for creatures real

It must become or else destroy

The shadow queen, the great ideal

 

Boys and Girls

Boys and girls come out to play

Boys and girls enjoy the day

Boys and girls will run about

And cry and scream and shout

Boys and girls chase round the bend

Boys and girls pull at the ends

Boys and girls will soon fall down

And roll upon the ground

Boys and girls play look and show

Boys and girls do lines of blow

Boys and girls will close the door

And roll upon the floor

Boys and girls enjoy the night

Boys and girls turn out the light

Boys and girls will soon fade out

And cry and scream and shout

 

The War to End all Wars

They lined up like a pair of walls

Rolled forward like approaching waves

One overcomes the other falls

Upon the land, down into graves

They’re black and white and white and black

And soon only a mess of gray

Each friend an enemy attacks

The friends of enemies to slay

A line ‘tween good and evil drawn

But on which side does evil dwell

Which dead rise to a higher lawn

Which dead are taken down to hell

And when the victor is proclaimed

A crown to claim where good resides

Has evil finally been tamed

Will the next war at last decide

They line up line appraching waves

And more are sent into their graves.

 

The House of Habsburg

http://radio3.cbc.ca/#/bands/House-of-Habsburg

This is the link to the CBC Radio 3 page for my music. It’s hiding under the band name “House of Habsburg.” Please feel free to check it out and let me know what you think. I’ll post a permeanant link to it in the links page as well.
Peace and Love

Descartes and I and God

This is a post I wrote some time ago but left unfinished. When asked about the issue recently, I went back to this post for reference and, in my interest, finished it. I decided that  I might as well publish it, which is why it represents the first published post in some time.

—

Descartes seemed to dislike circular reasoning. I expect that was to his benefit as a philosopher. Despite this, in my classroom analysis of Descartes Meditations, Descartes is himself guilty of the type of reasoning that he vocally rejects. I won’t go into details on the meticulous nature of his argument, but he attempts to prove that God exists based on clear and distinct ideas of perfection that could not have begun in the mind. After Descartes famously decides that he is a thinking being, he tries to prove God exists based on the notion that the ideas of God could not have originated in his own thought. And how does he know that he is not being deceived? (as he noted was possible earlier in the same work) He knows this because within those clear and distinct ideas of God is the notion that God is not a deceiver.

This is the most in depth review of Descartes Meditations that I have yet been given in class, but it is not the first time I have studied it. Each time I am given Descartes (in high school, in Bible College and in a significant number of my classes now) I am given his work with a more in depth analysis, and each time he is analyzed, he goes all to pieces over his attempt to prove God exists, marred by his wretched circular reasoning.

It is out of this same vein of criticism that St. Anselms’s famous Ontological argument is criticized, (though the conclusion of the argument is based on different principles, and is an argument which I find far more enjoyable and reasonable than Descartes) Anselm  makes our conception of God a pointer towards the existence of an actual God, and in that, I feel, we find a basis for, or at least an agreement with, many theological ideas of revelation. As God exists, so he is shown to exist in us. We must be careful not to mold this thought into “as God exists in us, so he exists,” not only because this may give birth to false Gods, but also because it in no way proves that God exists.

Now I want to come to a point, or a problem that I have. This problem comes up for me whenever I look at Descartes, or particularly his third meditation, in which he works to prove God exists. What we find specifically in Descartes argument, but in other forms of the ontological argument as well, is a lovely explanation of what God might have done, without any proof of what God did do. To place your proof of God in the hands of human cognition, a priori or not, is practically absurd.

Hopefully the force of this problem shows as much as I want it to, for it is the main reason that I find Descartes’ argument troubling. Descartes and Anslem want me to imagine a quality that can be carried into its extreme. It is in seeing this extreme as an infinite that I see that I have a concept of infinity. It is in this concept of infinity that I see the level of reality the idea holds, and in understanding that level of reality, I see that God must have imprinted it onto my mind.

My problem begins with a problem that I believe Descartes and Anselm could respond to.  I might say “well what about perfect evil?” They might respond out of Augustine’s reasoning, that evil is a lack. So it becomes a sort of anti-perfection – a complete lack of the goodness that, if shown in its perfection, proves God’s work in our minds.  But now I want to shift to more neutral concepts – opposing positives. If good is positive and evil is negative, what about red and blue. Positives and opposites. Blue and Red cannot both exist in perfection in the same place and moment, but the complete absence of one is not the completeness of the other.

Did that sound confusing? Maybe. But I feel that this problem rests at the heart of any trouble people have over this argument.  Let me try and talk more honestly about God. I think God, as God is a perfection of perfections, exists as a perfection of both the male and female type. I don’t think God is male or female. This is an aspect of God which must, to my understanding, be contradictory in my perspective. Similarly God must be omnipotent, but God must also allow us to have free will. God, as God exists to my mind as a character full of contradiction. But that contradiction is a key part of the way I relate to God – it puts me in my place and God in his, and it reminds me that if God does exist, he will come into my time/space existence in such a way that is contradictory, by the sheer force of his mind being the mind of God and mine not being so.

So I can say again – maybe the ontological argument shows us how God might really reveal himself to us, but it does not necessitate that he do so in this way.

To close, I want to briefly address what it even means to argue for the existence of God reasonably. God created reason, so it seems to me that we can meet Him reasonably, but the contradictions I have shown suggest that the entire project of trying to explain God’s existence with reason will fail due, in part, to who God actually is. God encompasses reason, but reason cannot encompass God. I have learned that my greatest proof for God’s existence is to show that the world in all it’s complexities, involving reason and emotion and experience, falls into a system which makes God important. The sphere of the world which I create with God in it is more whole than one that does not include Him. This means that philosophical arguments like the ontological argument, or the argument for a first cause may fit in to what I believe about God, showing how complete his universe is, but they cannot create God for me. God is not so small as that.

Bad Art

This is an short piece from the infamous third draft of my little book. The narrator, Tuesday has been invited to an art exhibit of the central character, Alan. The exhibit is called War and Pieces, based on a painting being exhibited of the same name. The novel is tentatively called Bad Art, because that’s simple and I have nothing else to call it.

————

“So tell me what this one means,” she said, ruffling up the feathers on her neck like those birds trying to get a date on Saturday. “I would like an artist’s perspective.”

Alan stared blankly at the painting. The canvas was almost yellow – completely, a thin band of red separated a blue stripe from the yellow mass. I was there when Alan painted it. We were watching Seinfeld. He lathered the canvas in yellow, then tossed the two bars on top before lying down on the couch. He hadn’t given it a though then. I could see his wheels turning now. The ‘artist’s perspective,’ was being developed as the old crone waited in dripping anticipation.

“You see the yellow, yes?” Alan began slowly, giving her a sort of look that seemed to genuinely wonder if she could see the yellow on the canvas. She was given time to nod. “Well, I’ve always seen yellow as a sort of bright light. If blue – the dark blue shown here, is a night time colour, a darkness colour, then the yellow is the day, the light. The red band, we see, is an offensive barrier, preserving the darkness, preserving the night in the face of glowing light. I believe that this thin band was once thick and strong. That’s why the thickness of the red line varies as it moves across the canvas. I want to ask those who see this painting: Will the red hold on forever, or will the light finally break through.”

Interesting. I tried very hard to look at the painting the way Alan had described it. I tried to feel the colour. I reached out and saw it. I really saw it. And as I stared into it, it began to move. The yellow began to sink. It pushed into the red, stretching the band out lower and lower until it snapped, and the sea of yellow spilled out all over my eyeline. But it wasn’t bright to me. I couldn’t see the illuminating light Alan had been describing. It was putrid and vile. It looked like vomit. My beautiful world was being covered in vomit and that thin red line which had been trying to protect the blue stripe had ultimately failed to stem the tide of yellow – horrid, putrid yellow. The red barrier was a fallen hero. The blue was innocent. The yellow destroyed everything.

“No, no, no. That’s not right at all.” I said this to myself, of course, and maybe to the yellow. But Alan was still going on about his bright lights, and this interjection interrupted his monologue.”

“What’s that, Tuesday,” Alan said with some urgency. His voiced slipped in such a way as to say – not now. I do believe I picked up on that bit of tone at the time, but I was too appalled and too lost in myself.

“The yellow. There’s no light in there. I’m sorry.”

I wanted to leave. I turned away from the yellow canvas, and only heard a muffled response from Alan. I turned toward the gallery, and saw the other paintings, and though I couldn’t help it, I began to reach out to them, and they began to reach back. A sea of green, crowned by a large blue spot began to shake, and the spot began to quiver and grow and try and swallow me whole. A twisted sort of orange quadrangle began to shift and shake and cause a heavy wind. And in the corner, the villainous War and Pieces began to cry – the colours themselves cried out – in pain. I heard them crying. They had no soul. They so desperately wanted one, but the artist had forgotten to paint one in. They had no life. For all of their movement they had no life, and they so desperately wanted to live – to be art. The crying and the wind finally enveloped my mind. I screamed, and hid myself away from it, and that was the last time I was ever invited to one of Alan’s exhibits.

Almost True to Life

I have had trouble writing. I have taken all of my large pieces and written and rewritten beginnings and drafts I don’t enjoy. Here’s something small that I don’t necessarily share for the writing. It’s interesting, and it shows me something interesting about the way I notice the world, and try to write it.

I am terrified of penning down real situations as I experience them. I feel like writing them down true to life makes me an invader. I have taken something in the moment, which was not meant to be studied and memorized and I have frozen it and picked it to pieces. I know it’s not offensive to the subject but I’m still afraid of offending them.

This little bit of writing reflects a very real life situation I experienced from close by. But this is not that situation. This is as close to life as I was willing to come. Hopefully you understand why the situation struck me, but even now I am afraid of those involved in the real situation somehow travelling across the internet to find me. Strange things. I know.

THE IMP AND HIS MOTHER

He crouched, crooked and low; making himself into an impish sort of figure beneath the large woman, who seemed always to be growing and trying to fill up the room. The small figure handed her a white sheet of paper, creased and ripped at the edges. Upon it he had smeared different coloured paints – red, blue, yellow – twisted about in messy lines that met in brown mixtures and splotches. He eagerly wrung his fingers, which showed the colours of his masterpiece on them still, and looked up at her with his large dog-eyes, waiting for her to respond. The large woman crumpled up her brow and gave her head a sort of twist to the side in thought. Her hand gripped the paper tightly, crumpling it at the corner. Finally she gave out a sort of shudder and belch, and swung the paper back down to the eager hands of the imp.

“Another weak presentation, Reginald.” she gurgled to the small man. “After the amount of energy I have speant teaching you the proper tecniques of artistic presentation and method, after the amount of time I have put into your education. After all the effort I have expended towards your becoming a proper artist, you are still handing me garbage. I’m afraid this is just another failure – another failure, Reginald. Must I show you again, Reginald. Must I show you yet again. She took the imp by the wrist, as a sign of her disgust for his dirty fingers, and attempted to drag him towards the wall. He hopped and bumped as he tried to keep up with her large body and long arms. She stood him up staring at the wall, where a large canvas was framed, lopsided, in an elaborate gold frame.

“Are you looking at this, Reginald. Do you see this? Look at my tecnique. Look at my form. Look at my fluid presentation. Again, Reginald. Do this. Why can you not simply do this? Why am I still getting such rubbish from you when you have my standard of presentaiton so available to you.”

The imp lowered the large dog eyes that were shakily eying the canvas. “I understand mother,” it whispered. “I am trying mother. You know that my fingers do shake so.”

“Shake so you say. Calm them down, then. I do not understand this obsession of yours with keeping your work so small and pathetic.”

She took him by the arm again and brought him back to a low table where a mess of sheets and paints were strewn about. She picked up the colours and thumped them onto the table in a neat bumdle, causing paint to fleck out and colour the face and eyes of the imp. He sloshed his hand across them like a child wiping away tears, and looked down at the clean sheet that was set before him.

“I swear that this time I will surely give up on you, Reginald. I am tired of helping you. You have seen my standard, you know what is expected of you, now I want you to improve upon your most recent failure. And I suggest that this time you stop thinking only of yourself and consider the thoughts of your mother.”

“Yes mother. I do understand how important this is to you.”

“If you do, your work is a poor refleciton of it.”

The large woman – the mother – carried herself out of the room and closed the door. The imp turned to watch her go. He looked at the canvases on the wall. He looked at the blank page, then he turned to me.

“Mother really does try with me. I am glad that she has continued to help me when so many others would have given up. She understands things; art, life, things, so well. She really is excellent… with things.”

Reaching out his hand he dipped his fingers into the paints, and began sloshing them about on the page again. But he was painting blindly. His eyes were, all the while, watching the paintings on the wall, framed in gold. In the elaborate frames on the wall, the messy splotched finger paints looked far more hideous than any the imp had created.

“Mother says she will give up on me if this next piece is a failure. I must be more diligent.” From the next room came the loud clapping and mumbling sound of the television, playing daytime talk shows and soap operas.

Caligula

The emperor Caligula is a wonderful little case study into human pride and power. A Roman emperor suceeding Tiberius, who followed Augustus, Caligula reigned only three years. After a promising start as Emperor, some sort of illness brought him to madness, characterized by his illusion that he was the great god Jove. (In Greek, Jupiter) His insanity was marked by strange events. At one point, he sent forth the Roman legions to the north to literally charge the sea and attack it, as he believed the sea god was against him. Here is a short piece of writing from Caligula’s perspective. I think we can be surprised at how pride can make actions that are obviously insane seem great to us. Self absorption can cause lovely little delusions. In line with what I’ve said lately about mythologies, this one is certainly interesting. (Note, Roman names for Gods are used here. Pluto is Hades, Neptune is Posiden and Apollo is as he always was)

Caligula

How petty are the ways of men. How often they go off to fight other men. No more significant are  they than ants, doing battle with other ants. The conflict belongs only to insects, the world is unaffected.

                But I have not been a man for some time. A god need not limit his gaze to the conflicts of men. Men may sort out their own affairs. Men are toads. I am wind and air. I am the light of the morning. If the sun rises, it is because I have called it. If it sets, it does so because I have commanded it to bow. Jove has no concern for men. He is their lord. They are not worthy of being called his enemies. They are his tools. And I shall put them to use if a greater enemy than they sees fit to challenge me.

                What do you say, Pluto. Is the land of the dead shut today? I shall tear open the gates with my own hands. What of you, Apollo? Is there no music to play? I shall dance all song and joy into being myself. And Neptune – would you, in your wet hole, dare to believe that the sea has no master? I shall tell you when the tides are to come in.

                Yes, my enemies are not mere men. But the sea, I shall trash and beat and pierce with my wrath until it knows its master. And if the stars rebel I shall realign them according to my design. And if the trees whither I shall sing them forth into flowering. The world cannot fear Jove’s control. Who can know the ways of a god? Even the sea could not predict the might of my legions of servants.

                Fear me, natural world. Fear me, heaven. I am Caesar. I am Jove, himself. And I will not be contested.

Perceptions and Illusions: Formal Reality vs. Poetry

The very first post I showed on this blog, filling up the space before I went to Europe, was a poem called “Searching for the Real.” This post is somewhat about that poem, and about the post I wrote before this one called, “Personal Mythologies.” There is a  reason I chose the title of this blog (Originally “responding to perceptions and reflecting on illusions”) and there is a reason why I have posted a photograph below it of myself mirrored with a Chimera.

Our personal mythologies make it difficult for us to distinguish our fact from our fiction, which is not overly important. Both are essential parts of who we are as human beings. The line between the perceptions of our being and the illusions of our being are difficult to make out.

“Formal Reality” is a term Descartes used to describe what we might call “Objective Reality,” something which is actually real apart from our human experience. A little bit of time in the history of philosophy will tell you that formal reality is far from certain, and there is little hope that anyone will ever set their finger on anything real.

You may feel that you have no problem with that. You’re almost glad that you need not worry about the meaningfulness of reality. But I would remind you here that your perspective necessitates an idea of reality. You may say you do not believe it, but I would challenge you and say that in your perspective you will always interact with a real world.  But here I must take a step backwards, for I already said that the illusion of ourselves, the imagined self, is as much a part of our reality as the “formal reality” or the real facts of who we are. 

So we are lost. We know that we interact with reality, and we know that we interact with our illusions. Both are necessary to our experience. When I write journals about my trip to Europe, or I write a treatise on theology, my attention is directed towards reality. When I write poetry, my attention is generally directed towards my illusions. But these are both a part of who I am.

The photograph beneath the title is of my self, mirrored with a Chimera. (the dragons we set up as gargoyles on the edge of churches) The Chimera is significant not only as a myth, but as an idea. Philosophers will use the term Chimera to describe something that we have created. We may believe it to be real, but in the end it is only an illusion. And yet, the flesh and bone which is myself is barely more certain than the existence of the chimera.

The image of the chimera is also important in its association with evil. We put it on churches to scare away the demons. So on some level it communicates with demons.  It is nearly a demon itself. The photograph of myself as flesh and blood is something I might like to believe represents what is good about myself. It is my humanity. In the holistic view of a person it is perhaps even a part of my soul.  But is the chimera not also a part of me. Is the evil of my being less real than the purity of my soul? Are they not both a part of who I am? The tear between body and soul, between good and evil, has always been interesting to me in trying to understand the “self” of a being – of a person. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the nature (particularly the metaphysical nature) of the distinction, but I think all my attempts leave me with the dichotomy shown in the picture – between the man and the chimera, asking which one is more genuine and which is an illusion. 

                What does the soul look like? Is it a man or a chimera? What do I look like? Am I a man or a chimera? Am I all mythology or am I all facticity? (to borrow the term from Semone de Bouvoir) Am I facticity at all? Am I touching reality when I write about ideas and perceptions? Am I touching reality when I write poetry about illusions? These distinctions may never be properly sorted out, but I can at least understand that the world is most clear when I am writing it. When my poems consider what I barely understand, I feel like I am bringing the confusion of the world, and the adventure of finding it, into clarity. When I write about my ideas, I am digging away at the layers of nonsense that sit between me and truth – I am rolling perceptions and illusions up into a ball and catching it up as I throw it into the air.

                Somewhere in this confusion of contradictions and dichotomies is the reason I love to write. Perceptions and Illusions are a necessity to existence. Understanding them – or loving my lack of understanding, is my joy. I think this post, like the first poem I published here, is really about joy.

Personal Mythologies

                My parents tell me a long intricate story about how they met and were married. It starts at a home for the mentally handicapped, involves heart wrenching break-ups, emotional periods of growth and a five day trip to communist Kiev. By and large it’s a true story, but no doubt parts of it are embellished, even, perhaps, in the minds of my parents. My grandmother says that my great grandmother was a cousin (or perhaps a second cousin) to Mark Twain. This isn’t impossible, as her last name was Clemens. My Nona tells me that my great grandmother who immigrated to Newfoundland from Ireland is descended from Irish pirates and that I am, in turn, descended from Irish pirates. I have no way of verifying this fact. Someone might hear the story of how my parents met, or my relation to Mark Twain, or my relation to pirates and say that these associations are worthless until they are verified. However, I think I should say that the fact of these statements is irrelevant to their contribution to me as a person. This is the idea of mythology. My personal mythology is an essential part of who I am. I am necessarily the descendant of Irish pirates. That is a part of my makeup, and is a part of who I am. The fact of these Irish pirates is irrelevant to my behaviour as their descendant.  The existence of the gods on Olympus was irrelevant to the Greeks existence as people ruled by those Gods. Arthur is a necessary part of England, and Odin belongs to the Norse. You could write my biography and barely involve a word of fact, because the mythologies which are a necessary part of my character sketch me just as well as my natural roots.

                The facts of your history and nature are clouded at best. Perhaps I can know that I have my great-grandfather’s chin and my great-aunt’s eyelashes. These things can not fill in the holes which account for my character, my person, and my personal legacy. That legacy is dependent upon our mythologies, and it is in the context of those mythologies that we share ourselves with other people.

                But can we write our own mythologies? Sometimes we do, though we are unaware of it. We take hold of something which may or may not be a part of ourselves already and we weave it into who we are and, more significantly, into whom we are becoming. However, I want to give caution to the ambitious person who wishes to go out and write their own mythology. Unless you exist in a hole, a mythology cannot exist as a part of yourself unless it can be shared with your community. If I wish to be a marine biologist, and I wish it so dearly without studying any marine biology that I begin to introduce myself as a marine biologist, then I have created a mythology in which others cannot share. I know nothing about the genetic make-up of dolphins. I don’t know what plankton looks like. I wear t-shirts with whales on them and change my computer wallpaper to a picture of Spongebob Squarepants. Still, no one believes I am a marine biologist, and I have not a mythology, but an illusion. Mythologies rely upon their being shared by the community. If not, we are faced with a crisis of self.

                There is panic in Ancient Greece. Someone has climbed mount Olympus. They have treaded upon sacred ground, and what is worse, they have taken a camera with them. They return to the base of the mountain to inform the Greeks – with photographic evidence – that they have climbed the great mountain and found nothing atop but rocks and wind. The Greeks are now faced with an essential crisis of self. They are now only their facts, their mythology has been challenged. A mid-life crisis, in effect, is a fifty year old man realizing that he is not the buff, brilliant, talented womanizer that he was able to say he was when he was twenty. His mythology has met a crisis. If I am given a family tree, showing me that I am, in fact, not a descendant of Irish pirates, i can no longer burn CDs with confidence in my sense of purpose and meaning.

                Do not disregard your mythology, embrace your mythology. Accept that it has already made you who you are, and it will be a significant part of where you are going. You will continue to develop your mythology, to expand it, to write it as you write yourself. The crisis is at times inescapable, though I feel it is only the presumptuous, who hope that they can cut and paste themselves out of the mythologies which they find most impressive, who will inevitably meet the most horrific crises. But understand, ultimately, that mythologies are not pasted onto our selves. As long as they are genuinely shared by our community they are an essential part of our selves, as much so as our eyes and nose. I am descended from Irish pirates. I cannot escape it – nor shall I try.

-Special Thanks to Karl Barthes and Luke Hill

Folk

This is better with a mandolin. But after my discussion on art, given below, I thought it was fitting to share a poem. This is something like a love song, and I’m not particularly good at love songs. So this is rather important to me. I enjoy singing it. So here it is in print.

I was born a son of fortune /  I was born a sun of earth / Through the miles I sought my portion / Through the years I begged for mirth/

All the while you called out to me / All the while you called my name / Upon the wind your voice ran through me / I will come to you again

I have watched the mountains growing / I have sang the forests’s song / I have watched the sailors rowing / I have loved you all along

I have set my feet on pathways / I have walked through years alone / Still I wait to pass the doorway /  That will lead to you and home