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.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
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."
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.
Monday, December 2, 2013
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.
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