Four Quartets

I have developed a new habit as of late involving reading a quartet a night to a boy who I recently started courting. It has been a few weeks and if I am not available, I will read to him over Skype. I have now read the Four Quartets in totality approximately four times, excluding reading it at the beginning of the semester. But, listening to Gerrit read it to the class, I gained more understanding in that one reading than I have in the past month of reading it myself.

Gerrit, wonderful job. I hope that by now this boy has a far deeper understanding than I, as he has listened to me reading to him every day for a month.

Birkerts and Dragonflies

http://www.aeonmagazine.com/oceanic-feeling/sven-birkerts-the-art-of-attention/

This story of Birkerts resonated so strongly with me.

From the first glace of the picture at the top of the page, before reading a single word Birkerts had written, my mind slipped into the world of dragonflies. Odonates. My favorite of insects. Even just this photo of a zipper pull (which I did not recognize as a zipper pull upon first glace, and saw only a dragonfly), evoked such flood of memories of my own times forced to absorb myself in thought.

For four summers, I worked observing rare dragonfly species on the Connecticut river in Western Massachusetts for a hydro power plant. I measured the water level every ten minutes to see how the power plant effected water levels, I recorded boat wakes, and I watched for larval or juvenile dragonflies as they emerged from the river. It was an hour commute to the river, and another hour commute by kayak once in the river to reach my designated site. I had to be set up and ready to record before the sun rose each day, and could not leave the sites until after the sun set each evening.

My first year working with dragonflies, I was constantly bored. I brought with me any form of entertainment that I could; a book, ipod, journals for writing, notepads for sketching, my phone, a large lunch, crosswords, sudokus, everything. I hated my job. I could not stand the monotony of the task I was assigned to do: sit for 14 hours on a log, a look up at a stick in the water every ten minutes. Theoretically, there were larval dragonflies that I could watch emerge from the water and eclose, a long process of shedding the exuvial casing and unfolding its wet and teneral wings. Though I found many empty casings along the shore, I never once saw a larval dragonfly eclose during that first summer.

My second year recording dragonflies begun much the same as the previous year had been. I made sure to distract myself as much as possible, as I had equated distractions with happiness during work. One day, I decided to make a rule for myself, one that would forever change the way that I live my life. I decided that the time would pass quicker if I did not allow myself to multitask. Multitasking is valued in our society today, seen as a virtue if you can successfully do many things at the same time. But there are many more subtle ways that we all multitask that we do not ever think of, unless of course we force ourselves to. If I were listening to music, I would close my eyes and sit down. If I were eating my lunch, I would turn off my music. If I were pacing on my 100 ft plot of riverfront, I would not simultaneously be talking on the phone. Each activity I partook it, no matter how familiar, I would devote all of my attention towards that one activity. Now, this is much much harder to do than it sounds. as Birkerts says "to pay attention, to attend. To be present, not merely in body - it is an action of the spirit".

Eventually, over the next few years of single-tasking, I slowly weeded out the distractions that I so heavily depended on for entertainment. I started to leave my journals and sketch pads at home. Next went the crosswords, and sudokus, my ipod, and eventually my book. As the distractions in my life faded away, the dragonflies appeared. Larval dragonflies treacherously made the trek from deep in the river to the banks by my side to start the 4-8 hour process of eclosure; hopefully without mortality due to raising water levels, predation, or boat wakes. And I not only had the privilege of watching, but I was able to participate.

I learned to bring nothing with me in my kayak each morning. I sat entranced by the stillness at sunrise, meditated with the ripples of the afternoon. I sat each day, completely naked and steeped in my surroundings. I fasted from sunrise to sunset, as food too became a distraction so great that to sacrifice eating in order to remain present in my environment was essential. I sat for 14 hours a day, absorbed in my thoughts, and the river, and the dragonflies. I studied the raspberry bushes that enveloped the beach; each ovary on the perfect fruit bearing life. I took note of when the fish took their meals and what insects they ate. I watched the birds nesting in the erroding banks across the river. "We have no sense of the clock-face; we are fully absorbed by out thoughts, images, and scenarios". I became so in tuned with my surrounds that a once a chipmunk ran over to me and sat on my foot. I had successfully camouflaged myself. I was the earth.

"There is a big difference between our attempting to pay attention to something and having our attention captured - arrested - by something. The capture is what interests me."

One day during my final summer on the river, I sat in peace watching the river ebb and flow. The day drifting by before my eyes. I saw a stir at the edge of the river, and watched with curiosity as a larval common green darner dragonfly walked slowly from the river. It had spent probably two years beneath the surface. As a part of my duties for work, I was required to stay and watch the dragonfly from the moment it broke the surface of the river, to when it fully eclosed and flew away. This process can take upwards of 8 hours. And yes, I was to stay and accompany this insect even if it meant staying long beyond sunset and the required hours. I observed the dragonfly as is crawled gracelessly onto the rough sands, and struggled over twigs and leaf matter. It walked up a blade of thick grass, that sagged with its weight. The process began, in which the casing breaks open along the back. And slowly, over the course of hours the wet and teneral dragonfly emerges from its own exuvie which has held it for years. It takes the shape of what anybody could recognize as a dragonfly. It stands upon the empty shell that reaches out with thin white threads that yearn for life again. The teneral insect spreads its wings, soft and wet and vulnerable. And it waits. It waits for its wings to dry so it can finally break free of this earthly world. It had been about six hours, and I had not yet torn my eyes away from this transformation.

The dragonfly broke free. It spread its wings and flew for the very first time. Within seconds, a bird swooped from the sky and ate the dragonfly I had become so invested in. Before my eyes I saw life taken away, so unceremoniously. What I could never have predicted was the visceral reaction that followed. I vomited, and everything went black. For the first time, I saw a window into the realm of the Forms. A realm of essences and truths. I awoke afraid, alone, vomit covering my naked breasts. The sun was setting and nobody had noticed the death of this beautiful being. Nobody had seen life snatched from the air. Nobody had seen my transcendence into an other-wordly realm.

Birkerts and I both found truth in our monotony. We both learned what it meant to be attentive.

"...Though recognitions often come during these trances, when the mind is so susceptible."

Explication of my Mythic Coat

A Reminder of Our Shared Story

“The general principle is that the higher up we are, the more clearly we can see the bottom action as a demonic parody of the top” (Frye, 52). Throughout the course of the semester, the underlying theme is how the past possesses the present. Frye takes this concept a step further. I interpret this quote as meaning that the further each of us is from an event in our own lives, we can see more and more clearly that the present is merely a twisted displacement of previous episodes in our lives. This theme has been alluded to in every text we have read, “In my beginning is my end” (Eliot).

As I thought about this idea introduced most poignantly by Frye, I could not shake the idea that we, each individual human, is carrying with them a metaphorical coat. We carry a coat of all the shared stories of our earth, and of our ancestors, and stories from every corner of the globe. Similarly, we wear our own personal coats. Coats that mimic these shared stories of our collective past. We can now, being higher up, see our actions as parodies of those stories before, and below. Our coats reflect our personal histories, and how they are embroidered upon us, reminding us that we are indeed reliving a demonic parody. The coat that I have chosen to make is representative of our shared stories. But, is equally a my own story, as the way I have chosen to express these stories so clearly shows influences from my own life.

I have always been interested in fiber arts and textiles, and this manifests itself in a variety of ways including sewing, quilting, knitting, felting, spinning yarn, and weaving, just to name a few. The history of textiles is rich, and integrally connected to myths and stories from all over the world. The English word “text” comes from the Latin word for weaving, texare. This explains common phrases such as “weaving a story”. Though there are countless stories involving fiber, I will name only a few. Neith was an Egyptian goddess of weaving, and also the mighty aid of war. Penelope wove by day, and unraveled her beautiful work by night as to avoid marrying one of the suitors. Saule was the life-affirming Baltic sun goddess, who spun sunbeams with the spinning wheel. Working with fiber has been a part of myth throughout time, and from all over the world. By creating my own coat, I wove myself into the larger story.

Though an insignificant piece of the puzzle, I have taken my role in a tale much bigger than my own. And, each story of each weaver is indeed a displacement of those that came before.

The coat itself appears to be jumbled, or lacking in consistent theme. This was intentional, as it is not the plot or storyline of each of these myths that tie them together. Rather, the theme of how they each story has been displaced in various examples discussed in class. We have read in class a different demonic parody of each of these stories, many of which have been displaced multiple times, by many different authors. It is not the story that binds the coat together, but rather the displacements of these stories.

I will not discuss in detail each of the images depicted on the coat, as I am assuming that each member of the class is familiar with these myths. The hood of the jacket is covered in snakes, just as on the head of the feared Medusa. On the rear of the coat I have shown Icarus, flying too close to the sun. His feathers lay strewn across the coat. Below his remains, a quince tree dominates the back of the jacket. (Quinces have appeared in high frequencies in my life as of late. As noted above, though this coat shows the communal stories, it also serves as my own story as told through those of the past.) The tree can be interpreted as that of the Garden of Eden, or the tree of life, and is easily appropriated to a number of stories. The Tree is what bridges the higher to the lower, the living to the dead, the earth and the underworld. The underworld is shown on the front side of the coat. Here I have placed the lyre of Orpheus, and the pomegranate of Persephone.

We are displacement. We are the demonic parody. And we must carry coats to remind us as such. We wear the shared stories, and through them, we are reminded that our stories are not really our own.

Dream #4

I will omit the details for your sake. 

I had a dream last night in which I was walking along the beach and found a mummified person washed up ashore. I unwrapped her gauze and was startled to find a living breathing girl beneath the bandages. She was a nameless porn-star who became my best friend and lover. Long story short: we lived happily ever after. 

The end.  

Coincidence

I had found myself in a daze, time had slipped beyond my grasp. I was unsure how long I had been in these woods, these familiar woods. The snowy mountains towered around me, yet the sun warmed the rocks and soil beneath my hammock. The smell of opium hung thick in the air; a blanket of perfumed smoke. Had I been here for days, or weeks, or months? I could not muster the care to wonder.

Moses had found me when I needed him most. Looking up at his tall slender figure, I attempted to deduce whether or not he was the prophet Moses. He looked exactly the way I would have expected the prophet Moses to have looked. A tall, skinny, Iranian man. His tangled mat of hair graces his skinny waist, and his formidable beard must have been more than a foot long. I later learned that he had not bathed in over ten years. Moses found me, he slipped his hand into mine. He spoke in Farsi, sweet and dark. I let him into my hammock, and he sucked me into his hole. A hole where the tea was bitter with poppy seeds, and the beautiful blur of Farsi whirling thorough my ears. 

Eventually, my vision cleared. It had indeed been weeks. I had to leave, to not come back. I had let myself get lost in this alternate world; a world where my troubles were left behind as soon as I found myself in these woods. The paradox of extreme introspection, juxtaposed with the complete ignorance of my own life. I had no connection to these people. I had no phone, no way of using the Internet, no method of bridging my life with that of Moses again. 

Home was about a 16 hours drive from those woods where I had left Moses about a month prior. My life had returned to the typical monotony familiar to me. But, walking down a street one day, in a city of approximately 20 million people, I literally ran into him. I saw Moses. His lanky legs, his dready hair, his deep dark eyes and prominent nose. And once again, I found myself sucked into his hole. 

What a coincidence.

P.s.

I later found that these men were all involved in the Iranian mafia. They were traveling with fake passports; transporting benzene oil from Iran to Pakistan, and bringing opium from Pakistan back to Iran. 

Dream #3

I was planning on going to the library tomorrow morning, though, like many mornings I turned off my alarm and went back to sleep.

But, after returning to sleep I had a dream that I woke up in order to take a shower. I walked out of my bedroom and saw a shower of something. I tried to turn on the kitchen light, and then the living room lights; they would not turn on. In the dark and creepy corners of my kitchen, I saw something lurking. It took the shape of a bird. The bird flew to me, flapping in my face. It pecked me hard in the back of my head. Suddenly, there were tons of birds, flapping all around me and pecking at my head. Rain slapped against the dreary windows. And, with one heavy peck on the head, I awoke. 

Expunged of personhood and knit back together again

We were asked in class to attempt to assemble and reassemble ourselves. relieve ourselves of all of our beliefs.

This complete disassembly of my beliefs happened to me in a profound manner whilst experimenting with the powerful hallucinogen DMT. These things are incredibly difficult to put into words. When one gains access to the realm of the forms, even if it is only glancing through this analogical window, it is not an experience easily verbalized. 

I was stripped of myself. Momentarily relieved of all memories, all scraps of Sally that I hold onto when defining what it is to be myself. And then, slowly and rather painfully, as if I were chewing on tinfoil, my own self image creeped back into myself. But it was different. And yet exactly the same. The best way to describe my reassembly is as if an interior designer had entered my mind and completely redesigned my insides, but using only the materials that were already at hand. All of the contents were the same, and yet the room they resided in looked completely different. I had been disassembled and reassembled myself. I had been temporarily relieved of all of my beliefs, not only about myself but about everything else as well. I lay paralyzed, attempting to comprehend my restructured interior. 

It has been two years since my interiors were disassembled, redesigned by some outside source, and assembled back again in a way almost recognizable from the original... And yet exactly the same. And, after two years, I have gained no further access or explanation to what the implications of this dissasembly were.