My Hair

Pictures of my hair will come soon. For now I like to pretend I look like Janet Munro. So here are some pictures of her.

I need to learn more about her. I think I like her. Yep.

Buttons and Bows

http://www.aiga.org/resources/content/5/2/0/4/images/AIGA-Gluck-collages.jpg

Lately, I have been returning to my love of collages. Particularly, right now, my fascination seems to be with the use of music as a material for collage. There's something about highlighting the visual aspect of music, and also adding some phantom audio experience to a visual piece. This was originally inspired by a sweet blog I follow.

Also. I find myself intrigued by buttons and bows. My feminine side finally creeping out? I don't know. But if I could dress up all bedazzled in buttons and bows... buttons down my sleeves and bows in my hair preferably... and pull off that cutesy look. I would.

I do know that buttons seem so decadent to me. So simple and shiny. Often sewn on where they don't need to be. Bows seem so cute and feminine to me. And once again truly decadent.

Or take this for example. Why exactly is that so appealing to me? I don't know.

I do know why collage appeals to me so much, I think. Bringing together different worlds into one coherent and beautiful whole. The texture. The colour. The tangibility of what was broken and taken out of its original context now incorporated and beautiful. Something like that.

Random starling obsessions revealed.

The Thought I Once Thought Was Brilliant

The further away I get from the first realization of the brilliant inspiration that I am finally going to make a cheap representation of, the more like utter and obvious crap it does seem. But, I promised a reproduction, however cheap, and I like to think I keep my promises... eventually.

Of course part of the reason it seemed brilliant, as I explained before, is that I was just waking up in the warm sunshine, and just falling back to sleep. That is a marvelous state of being and one I would wish for anybody. But much like being drunk it does have a tendency to make one think that all of their ideas are sublime.

And maybe, really, this idea isn't so bad after all, and it is only the fact that I have already chewed all the flavor out of it in my own mind that makes it seem less satisfactory. Maybe I shouldn't be overloading the reader with my own biases before presenting the idea itself. Maybe if I had presented it as a brilliant ideas, you my dear readers would all go off basking in it. But now that I have expressed some doubts, surely you will not waste your time.

Maybe I am never really going to tell you the idea at all, but just keep alluding to it. Since the idea is not really the important part, but rather the fact that the idea inspired to continue my own self-education. Ah, well.

My idea was that somehow academia had been this kind of white rabbitish creature. I had been chasing deadlines and seeking approval from professor after professor for a good number of years. Then finally, no more rabbit. By this time, in pursuit of the rabbit, I had dug myself quite the Kafkaesque burrow.

I enjoyed my burrow. I enjoyed knowing how much to procrastinate and which assignments were the tastiest variety and which I should just kind of slump through. I enjoyed thinking that somehow the burrow didn't matter but only the rabbit. Only the approval or disapproval of a few select few. I enjoyed the chase a lot. Other people complained about school or academia in general. Sometimes I would complain a lot too. But secretly, deep down and all over, I loved it.

I loved the thrill of digging and running. I loved cornering the rabbit, getting so close to capturing him, and then letting him get away. I loved knowing that there was one area in my life that I always knew clearly what was expected of me, performed accordingly, and was rewarded accordingly. Many a happy hour was spent building nests, and stockpiling squirrels and other tasty morsels, and always chasing knowledge. Then one day it all stopped.

The rabbit had escaped. The people telling me how well I was doing, went away, or rather I left them. The burrow was dry and quiet. I felt for the first time, really truly claustrophobic. The rabbit hadn't escaped, I just couldn't see him any more, and now he was dangerous. I didn't know how to pursue him or what to do about him at all. Nobody was telling me how. Everywhere I turned, I found that I was afraid of him. I had to get out.

But then I realized I was already out. That was the whole problem. I froze behind Kafka's bush. I sat listening and waiting, my heart was pounding. I could hear noises from the tunnel... just a few feet away. I could go back!

But then I didn't. I just hopped away. There was whole new world to explore. I could evaluate myself. I could pursue other creatures. I didn't need the burrow or the white rabbit.

The End, sort of.

The World May Never Know

What goes on in my mind and life these days?

I am sneezing. A lot. Sneezing isn't entirely unpleasant.

I have an itch in my lower-left spleen. It's about a diameter from the egocenter of it's right-winged ventricle. What this means surmounts to an acute cake of wanderlust.

Paths will appear, as paths tend to do. I will follow one of them, or several of them, and that will make all the difference I am capable of making. Except, if I want to go offroading, which off course wouldst be strictly inadvertisable.

I'm also tired of listening to Jiminy Cricket, the flag, my Mom, and apple pie. Very tired.

Ambrose Bierce Thanksgiving Fable

An Invitation

---

A PIOUS Person who had overcharged his paunch with dead bird by way of attesting his gratitude for escaping the many calamities which Heaven had sent upon others, fell asleep at table and dreamed. He thought he lived in a country where turkeys were the ruling class, and every year they held a feast to manifest their sense of Heaven's goodness in sparing their lives to kill them later. One day, about a week before one of these feasts, he met the Supreme Gobbler, who said:

"You will please get yourself into good condition for the Thanksgiving dinner."

"Yes, your Excellency," replied the Pious Person, delighted, "I shall come hungry, I assure you. It is no small privilege to dine with your Excellency."

The Supreme Gobbler eyed him for a moment in silence; then he said:

"As one of the lower domestic animals, you cannot be expected to know much, but you might know something. Since you do not, you will permit me to point out that being asked to dinner is one thing; being asked to dine is another and a different thing."

With this significant remark the Supreme Gobbler left him, and thenceforward the Pious Person dreamed of himself as white meat and dark until rudely awakened by decapitation.

Fantastic Fables

Something you should know about me.... I absolutely am in love with this guy. I most especially love reading his fables in the snobbiest British accent I can muster, while looking down my nose at the rest of the world.

http://www.americanliterature.com/FF/FFINDX.HTML

The Moral Sentiment

---

A PUGILIST met the Moral Sentiment of the Community, who was carrying a hat-box. "What have you in the hat-box, my friend?" inquired the Pugilist.

"A new frown," was the answer. "I am bringing it from the frownery - the one over there with the gilded steeple."

"And what are you going to do with the nice new frown?" the Pugilist asked.

"Put down pugilism - if I have to wear it night and day," said the Moral Sentiment of the Community, sternly.

"That's right," said the Pugilist, "that is right, my good friend; if pugilism had been put down yesterday, I wouldn't have this kind of Nose to-day. I had a rattling hot fight last evening with - "

"Is that so?" cried the Moral Sentiment of the Community, with sudden animation. "Which licked? Sit down here on the hat-box and tell me all about it!"

Other interesting Versions

The original Greek Version

http://mythfolklore.net/aesopica/chambry/60.htm

The original Latin Version

http://mythfolklore.net/aesopica/avianus/29.htm

The First English Version

http://mythfolklore.net/aesopica/caxton/722.htm

Our translation/version has been misplaced. When I find it I will put it up...

Conclusion

The generic “Man” of recent versions, or the simple “Peasant” of the paintings, was originally a traveler in the Greek and Roman. The archetype of the traveler, still present in our literature today, is hybrid by nature, being both inside and outside of society. The first English version has the Man as a Pilgrim or Palmer, a traveler who has gone on a holy journey. The story bears a strong resemblance to folklore about meeting Beelzebub in the forest. It was Christian demonization of sensuality that resulted in the Satyr becoming a representation of Satan.

Fables, like all art, are changed significantly by the societal contexts they are found in. Translations sometimes improve upon older versions and gain more meaning, other times I feel we let ourselves down. By not exploring the original context, artists are unable to create better versions within their own contexts. Recreating ethics, instead of blindly following what previous generations have passed down, involves exploration of exactly what those ethics are and were about.

Fables are dangerous not only because of their glossy morals handed down to us from the Victorian era, but because of their deceptive simplicity that makes us forget that retelling them is participation in making deep statements on ethics and reality. Simplicity is also a gift, if we return to the original context of creating snapshots of the world’s complexity in order to inspire ethical debates. In other words, I think we could learn from the Ancient Greek’s serious handling of fables.

Since a fable is capable of adaptation and of exciting the imagination, it is no wonder the histories of fable and poetry have been so intertwined. I believe the most amazing aspect of a fable is its dual ability to be a simple children’s story while also containing a serious ethical debate. Writing a fable, brushing past characters, setting, and events, and honing in on the agon (or conflict) of the story is a treasure trove for any poet.

Johann Liss

http://www.jssgallery.org/Other_Artists/Liss_Johann/SatyrPeasant.html

Johann Liss’ painting also sets the Satyr in the man’s house; the Peasant has invited the Satyr in out of gratitude for his guidance through the storm. However, Liss’ painting involves fewer characters. It is even more obvious that the Satyr’s interest is in the Peasant’s wife, and not in the Peasant. The Peasant has a beautiful wife, and a family, while the Satyr has his charm. Not only does the wife seem charmed, but so does the infant. The dark figure in the background is even looking over his or her shoulder to view the Satyr. As in the Jordaen painting, the Peasant is busy eating, and keeping a close eye on the Satyr. In fact in both paintings all eyes are on the Satyr, who is foreign and bold.

Both paintings contrast with the most common versions of the story. The paintings included with these stories range from portraying the Satyr as a mischievous looking Faun to a dark looking monster of a Satyr, and everything in between.

Jacob Jordaens

Some Northern European painters have translated the story into painting, portraying the Satyr visiting the Man’s house. In this way they translate the original concept of strangeness and distrust inherent in a meal shared between Satyr and Man to modern audiences. The Satyr looks foreign, and fearsome, holding particular sway over the female members of the Man’s household.

Jordaen’s painting portrays the Satyr as nearly naked and wild, and yet he is the one speaking while everyone else, especially the women, are paying close attention. Visually he is a part of the circle of animals, but also a part of the line of humans. He looks intimidating, with his height and his sneer. The Peasant’s wealth, the many animals he surrounds himself with, contrast with the Satyr’s poverty. The Peasant’s family and society is represented by a wide variety of age groups. Jordaen recognized the moral of the story as the duality of humanity. The painting is of the moment when the Satyr denounces the man, but he does not look afraid as much as proud.

More on Air

Today air is understandably associated with speaking; if we say someone is “full of hot air” we mean they are being untruthful or bragging. The current interpretation of the fable has to do with being consistent in your speech. However, this has always seemed an unfair interpretation of the fable to me. The Man has not lied to or even falsely flattered the Satyr. The Satyr seems cruel, under this translation, and the Man unjustly accused. Of all the ways to show Man’s hybrid nature, why would the Greeks choose air? One of the reasons is that it was a great mystery being explored by the most respected poets, scientists, and philosophers of the time.

The pre-Socratic philosophers were concerned with determining one substance from which everything was made. Anaximenes believed everything was made of air, "when it is thinned it becomes fire, while when it is condensed it becomes wind, then cloud, when still more condensed it becomes water, then earth, then stones. Everything else comes from these." Not much of Anaximenes’ writing has survived; it is through later philosophers that his theories remain accessible.

Aristotle discusses Anaximenes’ answer to the puzzle of cold and hot breath:

According to Anaximenes…the compressed and the condensed state of matter is cold, while the rarefied and relaxed (a word he himself uses) state of it is heat. Whence he says it is not strange that men breathe hot and cold out of the mouth; for the breath is cooled as it is compressed and condensed by the lips, but when the mouth is relaxed, it comes out warm by reason of its rarefaction.

Originally, those familiar with the fable were familiar with the scientific puzzle and many were familiar with Anaximenes.

The first readers of the fable would not have received it as a children’s story. The Man, placed within the framework of this prominent scientific issue, would have been revered and further contrasted with the Satyr, who in the Greek view was typically fascinated with knowledge but also feared it. Originally, the Satyr is merely being a Satyr, and the Man is misfortunate that the only help offered could not be trusted.

In the fable’s original context, nobody has to be morally culpable; the story is a snapshot of the differences between Man and Satyr and the relationship between them. The complex truth about reality is that Man is conflicted, dual in nature, and mysterious, as is the Satyr. The Man is superior because he is not afraid of this duality, and instead explores its implications. In the original Greek and Roman versions of the fable the Satyr is afraid of the Man; it is only when the fable is first translated into English that the Man begins to be described as afraid of the Satyr a tradition which continues to today with rare exceptions.

One lesson from the original fable is not to trust the sensuality and chaos that a Satyr and the Forest represent. This fable can probably be classified as a friendship fable, meaning it was meant to establish Satyr as an enemy to Man, and to explain the distrust that must exist between them. When the moral is uttered at the end of the story, it is an ironic one. The last line was quite possibly viewed with humor, as many of the original fables were; it is laughable that the Satyr who is a hybrid is accusing the Man of being dual.

Other aspects have been changed in translations across generations. The setting started as a Greek pit, became a cave in Rome, and then the Satyr’s house (usually portrayed as a hut or cottage). The setting has remained rural and rustic throughout these transformations. This may be why the original offering of the wine was transformed to soup, porridge, or hot water. Wine has taken on a sophisticated and urban symbolism, whereas soup and porridge are distinctly rustic and homey as a symbol.

About Brigit Pegeen Kelly

The Satyr in Kelly’s poem is stone and separate from the reproducing flowers surrounding him, but somehow he takes on the heart of the garden. As the poem progresses the Satyr is headless, he doesn’t have a heart. And yet, the poem is meant to reveal his heart. There is the contrast of the world quickly changing and the stillness of the statue. There is the wind “fingering” the twigs, when the wind does not have fingers. One line sets up the expectation of hearing the bird’s sound, and the next line falls on the bird “crying”. The contrast between the smell of the fruit and the smell of the coins, the sweetness and sadness of the earth, are held within the Satyr’s heart. Kelly focuses on the Satyr as both a part of nature, surrounded by nature, and yet also separate from it.

This is close to the original idea that the Greeks would have had about the Satyr. As part animal, he was part of nature and what the Greeks would have considered chaos. The Man’s world is the world of order. The Satyr might have been considered the guardian of the forest, and yet that did not mean he made the forest a friendlier or less chaotic place.

A Satyr often embodied the nature of which he was a part. The forest originally seemed to offer the traveler a path, but then the weather changed and the forest betrayed and endangered him. As part human the Satyr is separate from nature. Therefore, the Satyr is conflicted. He offers help to the Man, but he is so afraid of what he does not understand that he withdraws that help. Both the forest and the Satyr interact with the Man in the same way, and the Satyr is only slightly more morally culpable for this than the forest is. The fable explains what Man can expect from Satyrs, they will be as chaotic as the nature they embody.

Brigit Pegeen Kelly

The Satyr's Heart (excerpt)

Now I rest my head on the satyr's carved chest,

The hollow where the heart would have been, if sandstone

Had a heart, if a headless goat man could have a heart.

His neck rises to a dull point, points upward

To something long gone, elusive, and at his feet

The small flowers swarm, earnest and sweet, a clamor

Of white, a clamor of blue, and black the sweating soil

They breed in...If I sit without moving, how quickly

Things change, birds turning tricks in the trees,

Colorless birds and those with color, the wind fingering

The twigs, and the furred creatures doing whatever

Furred creatures do. So, and so.  There is the smell of fruit

And the smell of wet coins. There is the sound of a bird

Crying, and the sound of water that does not move...

If I pick the dead iris?  If I wave it above me

Like a flag, a blazoned flag?  My fanfare? Little fare

with which I buy my way, making things brave? The way

Now I bend over and with my foot turn up a stone,

And there they are: the armies of pale creatures who

Without cease or doubt sew the sweet sad earth.

About Matthea Harvey

Matthea Harvey’s poem focuses on the difference between poetry and actual experience, and also between poetry and prose. The poem itself is purposefully formed into a straightforward paragraph. Harvey’s point was that it is both and neither poetry and/or prose, just as the centaur is both horse and man, the mermaids are both women and fish, and the griffins are both lions and birds. The Berlin Wall too, separates two halves of a country which are both the same country and no longer the same country.

As the centaur sketches on his napkin, a “Wall” is something that saws in half, “you know this too” that each half of you is you and yet is not you without the other half. What one part of the reader may want, such as knowledge, the other half despises. The other half wants to be free of all knowledge, blissfully unaware, amid a mystical or ultimately real experience. The poem and the poet try to do both, and the poem and the poet are both hybrids.

Matthea Harvey

You Know This Too
 The bird on the gate and the goat nosing the grass below make a funny little fraction, 
thinks the centaur. He wonders if this thought is more human than horse, more poetry 
than prose. Sometimes it’s hard not to abandon the whole rigmarole of standing at the 
counter- using a knife and fork to politely eat his steak and peas- to go outside and put his 
head in the grass. But what his stomach wants, his tongue won’t touch; what his mouth 
wants, his stomach recoils from. Through the restaurant window he sees flashes of silver
 and pink in the river. It’s so clogged with mermaids and mermen, there’s no room for 
fish. And under the bridge, a group of extremist griffins, intent on their graffiti- Long 
Live the Berlin…The spray paint runs out and while they’re shaking the next can in their 
clenched claws, the centaur spells out Wall on his napkin, and sketches next to it a girl in 
sequins getting sawed in half. 

More Lecture

This fable follows its form perfectly, it places it in time and scene, tells who the protagonist and antagonist are, and then gets right down to what happens between them. However, this particular fable bothered me from a young age, because I could not accept the moral explained to me, nor could I puzzle out a fitting moral for it on my own. So eventually I dropped the matter thinking I would understand when I got older. I still didn't understand when I got older, so I found myself on this train of thought again.

I think this fable focuses both on the mysterious nature of the world and how man interacts with it, and on the double nature of man who is constantly inventing hybrids because he himself would like to be half animal and half something else. While most Fables involve animals, this fable includes a mythical creature that is half human and half animal. Brigit Pegeen Kelly and Matthea Harvey are contemporary poets, who deal with duality in poems involving hybrid creatures.

Contrasting Version

Now I would like to follow that with Laura Gibb’s translation. I like this translation because it combines aspects of the original Greek and Roman texts. She keeps much of the imagery and detail of the original versions. The difference between this and the more widespread versions is obvious.

Aesop's Fables, translated by Laura Gibbs (2002)

368. THE SATYR AND HIS GUEST
As winter grew rough with heavy frost and every field stiffened as the ice grew hard, a traveler was brought to a halt by thickening fog. He could no longer see the trail in front of him, making it impossible to go on. A satyr, one of the guardians of the woods, is said to have taken pity on the man and offered him shelter in his cave. This child of the fields was then amazed by the man and terrified by his prodigious powers. First, in order to restore his frozen limbs to life's activities, the man thawed his hands by blowing hot air on them from his mouth. Then, when the man had begun to get warm and was eager to enjoy his host's extravagant hospitality (for the satyr wanted to show the man how country folk lived, offering him the forest's finest products), he brought out a full bowl of warm wine whose heat could spread throughout the man's body and dispel the winter's chill. But the man hesitated to touch the steaming cup with his lips and this time his mouth emitted a cooling breath. The man's host shook with terror, dumbfounded at this double portent. The satyr drove his guest out into the woods and ordered him to be on his way. 'Do not let any man ever come near my cave again,' said the satyr, 'if he can breathe in two different ways from the very same mouth!'

Note: Satyrs were mythical creatures who were part human and part animal. They were usually represented as men with the legs and tail of a goat, or sometimes the tail of a horse.

Basic Version of The Man and the Satyr

www.soupsong.com

A Man had lost his way in a wood one bitter winter's night. As he was roaming about, a Satyr came up to him, and finding that he had lost his way, promised to give him lodging for the night, and guide him out of the forest in the morning. As he went along to the Satyr's cell, the Man raised both his hands to his mouth and kept on blowing at them. "What do you do that for?" said the Satyr.

"My hands are numb with the cold," said the Man, "and my breath warms them."

After this they arrived at the Satyr's home, and soon the Satyr put a smoking dish of soup before him. But when the Man raised his spoon to his mouth he began blowing upon it. "And what do you do that for?" said the Satyr. "The soup is too hot, and my breath will cool it."

"Out you go," said the Satyr. "I will have nought to do with a man who can blow hot and cold with the same breath."

Intro

Fables & poetry share at least two traits, their use of imagery and their nature as snapshots of reality. Fables, like poetry, have traditionally contained word play and cultural allusions. Many fables have been put into verse, made into poetry, and many poets have written poems that are fables. In fact my Dictionary of Poetic Terms includes the term “Fable”:

(from Latin for “to talk, to discourse”) a short unadorned story, often using animals as characters who exemplify human morality or behavior. Fables, thought to have originated in the allegories of tribal societies, were orally

passed on and were often improved in the hands of skilled writers. Aesop, a sixth-century-B.C. Greek about whom very little is documented, is

renowned for his beast fables which offer lessons... The oldest known f. is

Hesiod's poem of the hawk and the nightingale (eight century B.C.)...

Fabulists throughout history, include... American 20^th-century poets such

as Marianne Moore and Russell Edson.

In Appendix 2, under figurative expressions, fable is included in a list of “figures of similarity and dissimilarity”, which includes allegory, metaphor, parable, and symbol among others. I think the Dictionary of Poetic Terms has accurately and efficiently got right to the center of why I think fable is so important and intertwined with poetry. Poetry and fable build reality out of symbolic terms. Both poetry and fable are self-aware because metaphors & symbols, the stuff of language, cannot reach the level of the real truths they are pointing to.

The more I research the more I am aware that fable has been important to poets from the earliest recorded poetry to the most recent, even those considered “avant-garde.” Several Greek poets after Aesop put his fables into verse, Socrates included. Possibly the oldest love poem known to us (4000 B.C.) works within myth and fable. Mysticism and surrealism are connected at their earliest roots to myth, fairy tale, and fable.

Though now associated with children, fables have long been the material of philosophers: Hesiod, Socrates, Leonardo DaVinci, and Emerson, just to name a few.

A fable after all is a story that cuts to the chase, slices right through to a sudden truth about reality. Though modern readers may consider this truth a neat little moral, the actual beauty of a fable is its ability to portray reality as it really is: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Instead of building characters, the fable calls upon archetypal images onto which a society already loads significant meaning.

Fables exist within a light-hearted world of fictional talking animals, which is largely why modern readers associate them with children. However, fables are talking serious philosophy; they are trying to show both the justice and the injustice of the world, and this is something our society sometimes misses.

On the other hand, does it? Folklore long thought of as the stuff of childhood is now being reinvented to contain the gravity it once represented. Fairy tales like “Pan’s Labyrinth” are set in the midst of dark historic circumstances, in this case a grisly Spanish Civil War. People question whether the Harry Potter series should even be classified as children’s literature. Mythically-minded super heroes are being considered on deep philosophical levels in both television shows like Heroes, and movies like the Dark Knight. And the heavily mythical works of JRR Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and George Pullman are being made into movies that are as theologically serious as they are magical.

I think each poet has a fable, a fairy tale, a myth that holds significant meaning for her or him. My calling is “The Man and the Satyr.” I would like to start out by reading a widespread version of this fable.

The Man and the Satyr: The Poet as Hybrid

To the Pisos the Art of Poetry: Notes for Aspiring Poets and Playwrights (excerpt)

Suppose some painter had the bright idea

of sticking a human head on a horse's neck

and covering human nether limbs up with 

assorted feathers so that a beautiful

woman uptop was an ugly fish below,

and you were invited in to take a look,

How could you possibly manage to keep a straight face?

Dear Pisos, dear friends, a poem's exactly like

such pictures as those, when the poet's fantasies

are like a sick man's raving dreams in which

you can't tell head from foot nor what it is

that they're attached to...

trans David Ferry

Shakespeare comes through for me again

SONNET 56
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Else call it winter, which being full of care
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd,
more rare.

Combining both the ideas of blind/seeing love and the ocean/sea theme.

This sonnet almost reads like a prayer for me.

Please Love, continue to change with the seasons. Continue to empower me to be free and to enslave me to the point of surrender. Continue to excite and comfort me. Continue to bring me joy and sweetbitter despair. Amen.

Coraline, Keats, and Suzanne

The movie Coraline, the poem "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," and the song Suzanne. All three appeal to me.

If I am honest it is not Coraline, the errant knight, or Suzanne's blind lover that I feel for. I relate to the beldam, the faery's child, Suzanne. This is partially because men have followed me blindly before, when I had no desire for them to do so.

I realize there is a twisted aspect to these characters, in other words. Not only do they fool others, but they also have their selves completely fooled. The heroes are not so different from the villains in these stories.

Keats, in his poem, seems to have been speaking about the poet's relationship to fantasy. I have often wondered if it is this ability toward fantasy that draws the victims to the villains.

These temptresses, especially Other Mother, can seem like they are capable of getting whatever they want. They can seem just as bad as the victims, as if they were only looking for their own happiness. But I can't help but project and wonder, if they are never getting the one thing that they actually want, someone to love them for who they really are. Because the temptresses realize that their worlds are fake, they want love to be real.

I mean doesn't anyone else feel that Coraline and the other children are really spoiled brats who don't care at all ever about the other mother or even their own parents but only want what the other mother can offer them? The ghost children admit they were given everything but wanted more.

The cat speculates about the reasons the other mother is the way she is. He first mentions that maybe she just wants to love and be loved. "She wants something to love, I think. Something that isn't her. Or, maybe she'd just love something to eat."

People strong in fantasy, strong people in general, have this way of making wills and circumstances bend their way. I think what the other mother is really attached to is the game. The cat also tells us she has a "thing" for them. It's a fun little game called "let's see who will actually try to get to know me, or at the very least manage to outwit me, instead of just walking into my trap like all the other idiots."

In Keat's poem I think the knight is a classic idiot. He follows a beautiful woman, he doesn't know who she is nor does he care, he gets what he gets.

Maybe what I am saying here is that I think blind love can only happen as an after effect of curious love. We must first approach another person with open mind, heart, and arms. Then we can close our eyes and take the extra blind leap of faith that love requires.

I have trouble believing that some brat that hates her own loving parents, and wouldn't even like me if she knew I am a spider, could ever love me. Coraline going to the other parents is never about loving them, it's all about Coraline. Likewise she doesn't take the time to see who her real parents are.

Likewise, I have trouble believing that the Knight took any time to see who the beautiful woman really was or even cared. Just so long as she is beautiful, and feeds him sweet things, and sings sweetly everything is fine.

I feel a bit more sympathy for Suzanne's lover. He seems to get her, and he seems to truly try to see who she is. He seems at the very least genuinely curious about her rather than what she can do for him. But even he accepts her tea and oranges, even though he feels he has no love to give her. The song doesn't absolutely doom him, though. I like to think he breaks the spell, that he gains insight into Suzanne, and actually loves her. (Note: Suzanne traps both heroes and children.)

As a woman who has been followed blindly, I know that the man following you has no idea who you are. You can say to their face, "look I have no love to give you." You can even admit that you have turned men into ghosts before, and yet that doesn't matter to them. These men think they're special, they're different, they could really have something. They could have your love, and eat your oranges, honey, and gravy from your gravy train. They could do all of this blind, thinking only of their selves, never trying to see or love who you really are, and somehow this could all end well.

Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be told you are loved by someone who it is obvious loves only self and what you can do for them?

It could turn you a little evil pretty easily. If these people are really only serving their selves, and there is no possibility of making them see who you really are, then it doesn't seem so bad to turn it around and use them.

Add to that the fact that each time it can feel like, maybe this time this knight/hero/child/ is different. Maybe this time they will open their eyes, see who I really am, and actually love me. You can trick your self into thinking, maybe it's okay to use others if they used me. Or maybe this time it isn't just a game, maybe I really care about this person. Certainly the Other Mother seems to have really tried to see who Coraline is and give her what she wanted.

When it comes to me, I find this game especially dangerous, because I really do want to make people happy and I really am trying to pay attention to who they actually are. But when I find out they were only after me for their own happiness, that they still don't know who I am or even care... I can turn into a bit of a monster.

It's hard to say whether I was a monster to begin with, or whether the fault lies with the victims. It's a dangerous cycle and it's hard to break. I like to think I am just looking for people to love. I know for sure I am not just looking for people to eat, as Coraline says "that's ridiculous". I only settle for "eating" people once I don't get what I really want.

But I wonder if what I am really looking for is somebody to love me. I wonder if that's what these other temptresses are looking for too. If we slowed down and allowed ourselves to pursue others with our own happiness in mind as well as theirs to begin with, in other words if we didn't trick ourselves from the start that we were really just concerned about others' happiness, then maybe we could break the cycle.

For the whole movie Coraline is so concerned about the fact that she is not being listened to, that she doesn't seem to realize she isn't listening to anyone else. It is only through confronting the Other Mother, that she learns there has to be some balance between being listened to and listening, between loving and being loved, between following blindly and opening your eyes in order to see people as they really are.

More on Apple Orchards

One of the first times I remember being full out depressed and realizing I needed to do something about it was during the autumn of my eighth grade year. We had just moved across town, and I was in a new school. I had been determined to remake myself through this move, to not be the shy kid any more, but I underestimated how scary this new school would be.

For 1-7 I had been in the same small private Catholic school. Most people were insanely nice and I known them all for at least two years some for seven. Long story short I spent my eighth grade year, in a bustling public school, making two friends I could talk to losing one of them within a month and speaking about two sentences to each of my other friends. It wasn't a bad year. I learned how to ride horses, played on the basketball team, enjoyed nearly all of my classes, and my family was financially secure for once.

However, it wasn't just the newness of the school, my failure to connect with people, and therefore my failure to face my fears and redefine myself that was depressing me. I was specifically depressed because I was noticing for the first time how circular everything is. The days, the weeks, the months, the seasons, the years. I was realizing how little changes and how little ever happened to me. Which was particularly annoying since I thought I should be feeling like everything had changed. After failed attempts at trying to get some kind of advice from my busy parents, I decided a counselor was my only option.

I had been going to counselors off an on since I was in first grade. My mother had been determined that somehow my father was f'ing up our childhoods. At the time I had no idea what she was talking about. I just sat and stared at the woman asking me questions, and waited patiently for it to be over. Later, maybe starting in fourth grade when I was actually starting to be depressed, I started talking. Usually it was about my mom, not my dad. By seventh grade the counselor had been trying to explain to my mom why she couldn't agree to host my thirteenth birthday party, then get mad at a few of the guests, and then yell at us and lock us all outside. It wouldn't be until high school that my mother would finally successfully convince me that somehow my problems at home were all about my dad yelling at me. It would be five years after that I would come back around and realize, my mom could make all our lives so dramatic I wasn't surprised my dad had yelled. There's more to this story, but it isn't really the story I set out to tell.

So I go to this school counselor, and he seems pretty depressed his self. And I could tell, even in my youth, that he didn't really know what to tell me... that this was something many adults struggled with... that there were no easy "i'm an adult you're a kid" answers for me to swallow. It was that kind of pause, and yes I am pretty good at reading people most of the time in most situations. Anyways. He pauses, leans back, puts his fingertips together, and sighs. Then he says. "Do you like going to the apple orchard? This time of year my family always goes to the apple orchard."

This strikes me as perhaps the best advice I have ever received, though I always thought of him as somewhat of a dope. Getting outside, breathing fresh air, participating in a family, getting outside of myself. These traditional things we do every season, I think this is what it's about, getting outside of ourselves. Instead of getting caught up in the drudgery of repetition, making it our own.

I told him we would. I asked my parents if we could go. They said yes. We never went.

It wouldn't have been what he envisioned anyways. My family, it's kind of hard to explain. Growing up we never did the traditional things, we acted them out. "Oh. Isn't it nice it's Christmas. Look at all these presents." Somebody would say overly loud and in a sickly sweet voice. "I got a doll! Mommy, mommy, I got a doll!" Somebody would exclaim, in an overly excited way that didn't suggest she had received the same thing for the past five Christmases. They even filmed a lot of our youth, that made the acting even worse. There were a lot of "look what I can do" moments, because both of my parents always seemed so involved in making sure the characteristics of a perfect tradition came about that they didn't ever seem to notice what was actually going on, who we actually were.

I'm not saying they didn't try. I'm saying they tried to hard and it meant too much to them. If anything went wrong, drama.

A few months after my big breakup, I came back for Christmas. I was finally reconnecting with my sister, swapping memories and catching up after the present opening, when all of the sudden my mother was yelling at us (not asking us) to come help with the dishes. We asked her to give us a while, we were right in the middle of a good conversation, but she couldn't wait. Therefore, I refused. She flipped out, grabbed the keys and left the house to drive away, yelling "Have a Fucking Merry Christmas" at us as she left.

Now I'm not saying my family is OCD or anything, it's never about the dishes just like opening presents is never about opening presents, we're so g'damned sensitive that our egos are pretty much constantly all we think about when we're together. I should admit here that it's been a lot better as we've all aged a bit. But my point is that traditions don't really serve what I perceive to be their function in my family.

But lately, I feel different. I've taken my ego off the line, and I like to get caught up in things now. I know I can sometimes get all upset over the littlest thing, some people rub me the wrong way, my temper fuse is a bit shorter than I'd like it to be, but for the most part I go about enjoying my life. Traditions have been reclaimed as fun and creative processes. I don't have to do the same thing as other families. I can enjoy planning instead of thinking of it as a chore. Because, in the end if everything goes not according to plan, that's okay. That's not a reflection of my self-quality.

Role Models and Growth

So. I've been thinking a lot about role models. I think growing up I only looked up to Big Bird, Cookie Monster, Widget the World Watcher and the Spice Girls. There might have been a few more in there, but nothing significant. It didn't occur to me until about a year ago that I don't really seem to have any role models. I mean, everyone has role models, right? It's just one of those things.

This ties into the second point I want to make here. Nobody is good enough for me. I'm not good enough for me, you're not good enough for me, and Jesus isn't good enough for me. What's up with that? I mean, good enough to like maybe. I am really good at liking people. I like most people. But... good enough to look up to? I think not.

I think part of this is I have always been a backward sort of looking person. I am bent on staying true to my original self and who she wanted to be.

Another issue I have been tackling this last week: exactly what do I not like about myself? This is a tough one. If I answer... "oh nothing I just want to get better in the areas I am feeling positive about" then I am left feeling like I am not doing quite enough toward self-improvement. However, if I start to find my flaws I am overwhelmed by them, and once I start finding the flaws I always keep finding flaws, until even the positive areas are so mixed up with the negative ones that they seem ruined for me.

But. I did my self-improvement homework, and I tried to come up with some role models this last year. This is not nearly a comprehensive list of what I've come up with, but these are the main ones I find myself coming back to again and again.

First there are intellectual role models: Nietzsche, C.S. Lewis, Kafka, and Gertrude Stein.

Then there are super hero role models: Batman and Wonder Woman primarily. Throw in Bettie Paige, she's a super hero, right?

Third there are my life models: Shannon Callan, Bob's Parents, My Grandma.

It's hard to say what all these people have in common. I think it is a passion for life and an eye for beauty. They are strong sorts of people in very different ways. They are intense, but not intense for the sake of intensity. Intense because that is who they are. Some of these people are downright quiet in their intensity, but it's still there.

In fact, most of my friends I would say are intense people.

However, I have established that intensity in and of itself is a faulty goal. I have a feeling I am already intense, and trying to be intense only leads to tension.

I think really it is in the application of intensity toward beauty and well-being that my future lies. Sometimes I am so much like who I want to be that I can almost taste it. But then, being more passionate, getting involved in the world, has its tough times too. There is rejection, fear of rejection, and general misunderstanding to be tackled.

My Blog's Continued Manifesto, Sort Of

But to begin, at one sort of a beginning, I must begin with some sad news. Though I consider myself to be a loyal person within reason, I have discovered that even I can be pushed too far.

I am accused of not knowing much about hobgoblins, and this I am freely willing to admit. These posts are about discovery for me, and self-discovery through discoveries. That is why I feel so free with this new blog. If I had meant to appear an expert about hobgoblins, I would have read more about them than wikipedia had to offer, and I would not have admitted that all of my knowledge came from that source.

The purpose of my previous blog originally constituted subjects I am an expert in: whining, complaining, and venting. The hope was that this would get me through a rough time.

Thankfully I did get through that rough time, and with its original purpose gone my old blog began to search around for its purpose. It became burdened down by skepticism, and by a desire on my part and sometimes others' that I be an expert about what I dared put forward as important. At one point, a "friend" of mine, did a lot to shake my enjoyment of my blog.

This "friend" took one of my posts very personally, and was somewhat hurt by it. I view this post as one of self-empowerment, and see much of what this friend did throughout our friendship as counteracting any possible self-empowerment. I would be lying if I said that he probably had nothing to do with my making this post. Since he was someone who, I felt, threatened my sense of self and self-worth around every corner, I am sure that images pertaining to him were lively in my conscious and sub-conscious as I posted this post.

Here is a link to that post, though I consider it old and past its prime, I feel it would be unfair on some level not to include it since I am referring to it so frequently here.

http://hoperston.blogspot.com/2008_02_01_archive.html

One of the main issues I had with this man, is that he was rapidly and daily choosing symbols for me that I felt no relation to at all. I am not, and rarely have identified with, the moon. Likewise, I am primarily Irish in heritage and everything else is really a Scandinavian mix, yet he insisted on identifying me with my Danish heritage at the expense of ignoring all the rest. This post was my attempt to choose my own image, the symbol I think I needed to identify with to progress at that time.

His response was to angrily identify with deer, and profess how strong and majestic they are. A fact I am well aware of, but which I doubt the lions give two thoughts to.

I think primarily that is what he does. He identifies with symbols. I think we all do to some extent, but he takes it to what I find an obnoxious extreme. Moreover, I believe there is a way to identify with a symbol that brings more truth about you to the surface, and I believe there is a way to identify with a symbol which treats it as something to hide behind. Of course I believe he does the latter. But if this was our only issue, I assure you I once found him a fascinating enough individual that it would not have stood in our way.

He instead chose to take my words out of context and turn his friends, all or most of whom had never met me, against me. For the record, no matter how much insanity I am willing to admit to, I think by any reasonable definition of insanity he would be considered more insane than I.

Then he did what I found most hurtful and unforgivable. He took my whole post and posted it on his online journal. I consider this complete blasphemy. No post should be viewed outside of the context of its original author's intent, if at all possible. And in this case, since my blog is a public blog, a link would have sufficed. If you bring a post into a context it was never meant to be in, and represent it through your own narrow lens to an audience that was never meant to be the primary audience, then I think you have committed a foul deed. Basically I accuse him of obscuring the truth, a thing that I feel, despite his paradoxical brilliance, he did at every turn.

Part of the problem is that I have my blogs automatically imported to facebook. I do this with the hope that more people will be aware that I post, and so that it will be perhaps easier and more compact to read my posts. However, this makes my posts feel less anonymous. I take them very personally, regardless, but even the pretext of anonymity that blogspot allows me serves as a safety blanket. And, too, facebook does take them out of their original context and exposes them to a somewhat wider audience.

From the beginning I have found some people to be strongly supportive of my blogs. Aside from that I have also always enjoyed the writing for its own sake.

I realized recently that blogging, for me, has always been about self-discovery. I learn things about myself, through this medium, that no other medium has to offer. And it was that morning that I also woke up realizing I no longer am an official student at any school. I no longer (at least temporarily) have someone other than my self to officially tell me when to do things, or how well I did at them.

This new blog was conceived as my own playground of "random half-thoughts" with the hope that these half-thoughts will be developed toward my own education. Selfish, I know, but if others can get something out of this too, and I think they can, then there is a strong unselfish side to it too, hopefully.

But already my previous nemesis was at it again, spreading doubts through my mind. Though I have rarely "un-friended" someone before, it was past time to do so. Even the interesting allure he had once held over me was considerably dimmed by this time. Anyone who cannot see that Emerson's real house and true grave are in his words and his ideas, anyone who curses a Earth that is so big and beautiful and cares not a fig for his poison, anyone who offers nothing in the way of support for months and months if not years and then comes in with this kind of negative mumbo jumbo, I find that there is nowhere in my heart for this one-time-friend.

It is a milestone in self-preservation that I realize this without guilt, and have taken measures to protect myself from psychosis guised as creativity.

All this to say. If you have questions, if you want to offer wisdom in the face of my ignorance, please do so. But please, I want to reassure you, that no expectation of consistency or expertness can be happily hoped for from this blog.

Pooka, Turnips, and Will-o-wisps

So. Through some of Mary's suggestions, I have discovered even more facts that I find interesting relating to hobgoblins. If you're tired of this nonsense by now, I suggest you skip this post. However, I find it most interesting.

Mary referred me to some articles having to do with Old Manse, a house where Hawthorne lived with Sophia right after they were married, and later Emerson lived there. Emerson wrote one of my favorite essays of his there. This essay, "Nature," holds many parallels to an essay by Nietzsche of the same subject. Since, Emerson and Nietzsche did correspond, and were fond of each other, I think this similarity makes sense.

So I went to look into this story by Hawthorne, and he too mentions hobgoblins.

"And, what was strangest,neither did our mirth seem to disturb the propriety of the solemn woods; although the hobgoblins of the old wilderness and the will-of-
the-wisps that glimmered in the marshy places might have come trooping
to share our table-talk and have added their shrill laughter to our merriment. It was the very spot in which to utter the extremest nonsense or the profoundest wisdom, or that ethereal product of the mind which partakes of both, and may become one or the other, in correspondence with the faith and insight of the auditor.

So, amid sunshine and shadow, rustling leaves and sighing waters, up
gushed our talk like the babble of a fountain."

(A beautiful feeling for the newlyweds.)

I have not finished this story yet, however my general feel is that Hawthorne as well did not attach too much fear to hobgoblins.

I then began to poke around trying to learn about will-of-the-wisps, remembering some harsh battles (which I always lost) with them in the game Oblivion. I have compiled a list of things I learned today as a result.

1) a. Will-o-wisps are lights that appear in marshes, and lead unsuspecting innocents to their deaths.

b. There are a few different stories explaining will-o-wisps. One is that an evil blacksmith was refused admittance to heaven by St. Peter, but given a second chance at life. However, he blew it. The devil too refused him admittance, but gave him one coal. Another version, the Irish version I am told, has a man sale his soul to the devil in order to pay off his tab at the pub. However, once the tab is paid off, he tricks the devil into going up a tree and the carves a cross on the trunk so that the devil cannot climb back down. In return for removing this cross, the devil gives up his claim on the man's soul. However, once again, both heaven and hell refuse to take him after death, so he runs around playing tricks on those lost in the marshes. He sees around by building a lantern out of a turnip, and then putting a light inside it.

c. Jack-o-lanterns and will-o-wisps descend from the same legends. From turnips to pumpkins, and from Will to Jack.

2) a. I learned that not only is Shakespeare's Puck a hobgoblin, but he is also a Pooka where he gets his namesake. (A Pooka, like a hobgoblin, is generally seen as a dishonest and mischievous character.)

b. Puck also shares characteristics of the will-o-wisp, however. Will-o-wisps also range from mischievous to malicious in legend. He is seen as a hobgoblin, who might do your chores and bring you luck if you don't cross him. And as a light that might guide you to safety or to doom.

c. Puck, however is also in the tradition of Robin Goodfellow. Robin Goodfellow is often portrayed a satyr. This in part because hobgoblins and will-o-wisps had evolved, culturally speaking, into malicious creatures and were often synonymous with Satan. Of course, you did not want to use his name so you said, Robin Goodfellow. I know from past research that the satyrs, once associated with lust and hedonism, were later portrayed as demons by the Church leading to representations of Satan as a satyr. Probably didn't help that the words are similar (or maybe followed from that?)

I don't know what all I am trying to say here. One thing is that I wish as I was exposed to Hawthorne and Shakespeare, I could have been exposed to more of the legends these two pulled their inspiration from.

Another thing is that I am constantly surprised by connections in the world.

Another thing I wonder, is why Hawthorne chose hobgoblins and will-o-wisps specifically. Obviously these must have been prominent legends in New England at the time. Probably why both Hawthorne and Emerson draw upon them. They both seem to rely on a mischievousness ranging from cute to dangerous. So much so that the two legends, plus the slightly different legend of the pooka, are all combined in the single character Puck.

Will-o-wisps seem to be more associated with the wilderness, especially marshes. Whereas hobgoblins, I don't think travel much. They seem to plague the home. However, Hawthorne identifies them with the "old wilderness". He doesn't seem to talk about them with much fear, regardless. He seems to think the magic of the spot holds its own sort of immunity, and even if they were to interact with the couple it seems that it would be in a friendly sort of way (sharing laughter with them). Of course, Hawthorne isn't making a wide reaching statement, his use of hobgoblins and will-o-wisps is meant to help describe how isolated and wild the Old Manse is. The wilderness does not disturb the newlyweds, and they do not disturb it.

However, you see a very different story in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Next stop, finishing Hawthorne's Old Manse story, rereading Sleepy Hollow since tis the season anyways, and then maybe rereading "Midsummer Night's Dream" after all these years.

(I also ordered a collection of Kipling's works including "Puck of Pook's Hill," which cost only $1, and sparked my interest)