"On the Johnny Carson Show, it always happens that when Carson or one of his guests mentions the name of an American city, there is applause from those audience members who live in this city. The applause is of a particular character, startled and immediate, as if the applauders cannot help themselves.
Such a response is understandable if one hails from a hamlet like Abita Springs, Louisiana, and Carson mentioned Abita Springs. But the applause also occurs at the mention of New York or Chicago.
Question: Do Chicagoans in Burbank, California, applaud at the mention of the word Chicago
A) Because they are proud of Chicago?
B) Because they are boosters, Chamber of Commerce types, who appreciate a plug, much as a toothpaste manufacturer would appreciate Carson mentioning Colgate?
C) Because a person, particularly a passive audience member who finds himself in Burbank, California, feels himself so dislocated, so detached from a particular coordinate in space and time, so ghostly, that the very mention of such a coordinate is enough to startle him into action?
(check one)
Thought Experiment: You are a native of New York City, you live in New York, work in New York, travel about the city with no particular emotion except a mild boredom, unease, exasperation, and a dislike especially for, say, Times Square and Brooklyn, and a longing for a Connecticut farmhouse. You make enough money and move to a Connecticut farmhouse. Later you become an astronaut and wander in space for years. You land on a strange, unexplored (you think) planet. There you find a road sign with an arrow, erected by a previous astronaut in the manner of GIs in World War II: "Brooklyn 9.6 light-years." Explain your emotion."
-Walker Percy, "Lost in the Cosmos: The Last Self-Help Book"
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
"I feel you oh so near
when morning doves appear..." -Sun Kil Moon
Well, I knew I hadn't updated my posts in a while, but I hadn't realized it had been two whole months...Man, how time flies.
The biggest news for me as of now is that I've officially accepted my Peace Corps invitation to teach English for two years in the former Soviet republic of Kyrgyzstan (also called the Kyrgyz Republic), beginning July 3rd, 2008. I'm very excited for this opportunity: I know that it will present many difficulties, and that those difficulties will be repaid with rich rewards. I will graduate on June 1st from Gustavus, and then have the month of June to relax, recap, and repack before I begin this new phase of my life, one that is to have quite an impact on the years that follow. I could not be more happy with my destined country: Kyrgyzstan has a rich, ancient culture; a people formerly of nomadic Turkish/Mongolian tribes who were mostly industrialized by the Soviets in the 20th Century. In Kyrgyzstan there is Islam, and there is Orthodox Christianity; there is eastern mysticism, and there is post-Soviet materialism co-existing. It will be an enriching culture experience for me, right in the vein of my interests and curiosities.
The Peace Corps ordeal will deserve a longer post in the near future. Right now I'm dedicated to enjoying my final weeks living on the hill at Gustavus in St. Peter. Biggest news in that vein is that I've begun to go for bike rides again. This was a big step for me, since I'd not biked since my debilitating accident last August when I broke my arm. My first ride was three weeks ago, and it was really hard to get back on that proverbial horse: for my first five miles I kept getting flashbacks of my crash, but after that I loosened up and remembered why I like biking so much: you get to see more and breathe more fresh air than running, and it offers such a sense of freedom. It's really hard to beat.
I took my bike on the Minnesota River Trail in Mankato, heading for 9 miles in one direction, and 9 on the return trip. It felt great. I did it all in an hour, which was even more thrilling. I had been doing some training in the athletic center here at Gustavus (most of all so that I'd be able to keep up with my dad on bike rides this summer), and it really paid off. The Mankato ride was great; cruising right along the river on one of the first beautiful spring days we had in April. I stopped off halfway to eat some dried fruit on the river bank, listened to the water flowing, and wondered how it could get much better. Oh yeah...maybe if my dad was there too.
Since then I've gone on a couple rides out West of campus on the country roads; they're well paved with little traffic. I'd say they're perfect for riding if it wasn't for the apocalyptic wind that comes blowing in off the plains at times. My first ride went smoothly; my second was brutal - 15 minutes to go six miles out, and 45 minutes to come back with a head wind. But it was worth it. After that ride I think I ate an entire half pound of Easter ham.
Since then they've been pretty normal rides; not too strong of a wind, just a little resistance here and there. But at this time of year, this part of Minnesota smells like dirt, the farmers tilling the earth, pitching the gutteral scent of mineral rich soil into the air to fill my nostrels. It also does not get much better than this.
That is all for now. This blog could become my official obligatory Peace Corps blog, so there could be some juicy bits to appear here soon. Until next time, be well, and God bless.
Слава Отцу и Сыну и Святому Духу, и ныне и присно и во веки веков. Амень.
J
when morning doves appear..." -Sun Kil Moon
Well, I knew I hadn't updated my posts in a while, but I hadn't realized it had been two whole months...Man, how time flies.
The biggest news for me as of now is that I've officially accepted my Peace Corps invitation to teach English for two years in the former Soviet republic of Kyrgyzstan (also called the Kyrgyz Republic), beginning July 3rd, 2008. I'm very excited for this opportunity: I know that it will present many difficulties, and that those difficulties will be repaid with rich rewards. I will graduate on June 1st from Gustavus, and then have the month of June to relax, recap, and repack before I begin this new phase of my life, one that is to have quite an impact on the years that follow. I could not be more happy with my destined country: Kyrgyzstan has a rich, ancient culture; a people formerly of nomadic Turkish/Mongolian tribes who were mostly industrialized by the Soviets in the 20th Century. In Kyrgyzstan there is Islam, and there is Orthodox Christianity; there is eastern mysticism, and there is post-Soviet materialism co-existing. It will be an enriching culture experience for me, right in the vein of my interests and curiosities.
The Peace Corps ordeal will deserve a longer post in the near future. Right now I'm dedicated to enjoying my final weeks living on the hill at Gustavus in St. Peter. Biggest news in that vein is that I've begun to go for bike rides again. This was a big step for me, since I'd not biked since my debilitating accident last August when I broke my arm. My first ride was three weeks ago, and it was really hard to get back on that proverbial horse: for my first five miles I kept getting flashbacks of my crash, but after that I loosened up and remembered why I like biking so much: you get to see more and breathe more fresh air than running, and it offers such a sense of freedom. It's really hard to beat.
I took my bike on the Minnesota River Trail in Mankato, heading for 9 miles in one direction, and 9 on the return trip. It felt great. I did it all in an hour, which was even more thrilling. I had been doing some training in the athletic center here at Gustavus (most of all so that I'd be able to keep up with my dad on bike rides this summer), and it really paid off. The Mankato ride was great; cruising right along the river on one of the first beautiful spring days we had in April. I stopped off halfway to eat some dried fruit on the river bank, listened to the water flowing, and wondered how it could get much better. Oh yeah...maybe if my dad was there too.
Since then I've gone on a couple rides out West of campus on the country roads; they're well paved with little traffic. I'd say they're perfect for riding if it wasn't for the apocalyptic wind that comes blowing in off the plains at times. My first ride went smoothly; my second was brutal - 15 minutes to go six miles out, and 45 minutes to come back with a head wind. But it was worth it. After that ride I think I ate an entire half pound of Easter ham.
Since then they've been pretty normal rides; not too strong of a wind, just a little resistance here and there. But at this time of year, this part of Minnesota smells like dirt, the farmers tilling the earth, pitching the gutteral scent of mineral rich soil into the air to fill my nostrels. It also does not get much better than this.
That is all for now. This blog could become my official obligatory Peace Corps blog, so there could be some juicy bits to appear here soon. Until next time, be well, and God bless.
Слава Отцу и Сыну и Святому Духу, и ныне и присно и во веки веков. Амень.
J
Friday, February 8, 2008
Russian Poetry
It's strange how during the semesters I seem to forget my natural tendencies when unoccupied. I imagine I can be just as productive as I am during school, though able to take time to relax. This never seems to work out exactly as I expect because my melancholy is given plenty of space to move in. This feels like a burden at first, until I realize that it's only when I have let the blues sink in a bit that my brain and my heart really come alive again. I won't describe this further, only as an explanation for the rest of this post. It takes a lot of time before I can get in the mood to write things that I've been thinking about fragmentedly for months. So below is a poem analysis I have been working on of a poem by the Russian Areseniy Tarkovsky, father of the filmmaker. I have no delusions that it will be interesting to anyone at all, but of course I figure it doesn't hurt to 'publish' it, rather than keep it all to myself. Besides, I should like to prove that I haven't spent the last few weeks solely eating pancakes and indulging in irreverant pop music.
Вот и лето прошло,
Словно и не бывало.
На пригреве тепло.
Только этого мало.
Всё, что сбыться могло,
Мне, как лист пятипалый,
Прямо в руки легло.
Только этого мало.
Понапрасну ни зло,
Ни добро не пропало,
Всё горело светло.
Только этого мало.
Жизнь брала под крыло,
Берегла и спасала.
Мне и вправду везло.
Только этого мало.
Листьев не обожгло,
Веток не обломало...
День промыт, как стекло.
Только этого мало.
Summer came and went,
Like it never happened.
It was warm in its nourishment.
Only that’s not enough.
Everything that could come to fruition,
Like a five-fingered leaf,
Was laid straight into my hand.
Only that’s not enough.
Not in vain did evil,
Nor good disappear,
Light burned everything away.
Only that’s not enough.
Life took me under wing,
Guarded me and redeemed me.
It was so lucky for me.
Only that’s not enough.
The foliage was not scourged,
The branch was unharmed…
The day was sluiced clean, like glass.
Only that’s not enough.
-Arseniy Tarkvosky
Before diving into an interpretation of this poem, as with other Russian poems we must first consider the surface matters of its form. It is comprised of five four-line stanzas, following the rhyme pattern ABAB consistently throughout (not in my translation, unfortunately, but in the Russian). The first and third lines of each stanza end in masculine rhymes, while the second and fourth in feminine.
Keeping this in mind we can delve into the paradox which the poem reveals to us, the unifying tension between form and content. For without the last line of each stanza, the rhyme scheme would be stilted and the repetitive “Only that’s not enough” (Только этого мало) would not be there to tie all five stanzas together, thus leaving us with a more fragmented set of verses. But let us for the moment read the poem once again without the final line of each stanza. What we have is, I think, a thematically mirrored poem. Stanzas one and two work together, stanza three takes a turn, and stanzas three and four echo the first two, though effected by the cathartic third stanza.
In the first stanza, we have a light, pastoral sentiment: summer was here, it nourished me, but it passed too quickly. Nature gives and takes away. So far Keats and Wordsworth would nod approvingly. The next stanza moves us into fall: everything that grew during summer now is harvested, is reaped for our benefit. The inclusion of «five fingered leaf» is very important, since this poem itself is five-fingered (five stanzas long), written on leaves of paper. We now are not simply talking about nature, but also the art of poetry. The first stanza is thus not only about nature's summer, but the summertime of the soul, of warmth and happiness. Autumn brings its melancholy, and by the loss of summer we are given fodder by the muse of poetry, words of longing and remembered bliss.
The third stanza is our peripeteia, our turn or reversal: something ineffably catastrophic has happened. We can suppose it is winter, but Tarkovsky avoids terms to make this association. Instead, good and evil have disappeared and everything has been burned away. Cataclism, or merely a personal catharsis, who knows? But everything in the first two stanzas has disappeared. We start afresh after this stanza, unsure of the line between the pastoral and the spiritual from this point on. The fourth stanza answers our question, at least for now. The author has been saved by «life». But does he mean the green, lush life of stanzas one and two, or living, breathing human life? Has he found some solace in a human spiritual awakening, or simply shelter from nature's tumult? I think that he implies the former, since the verb used here, from the Russian спасать, meaning to save or redeem, has specifically relgious connotations. But this connotation merely introduces a tension in meaning. It comes from the Old Church Slavonic noun спасение, meaning «salvation». You still hear it in their church music. This connotation, however, I think the author evokes on purpose, only to give it a more earthly meaning. Life has redeemed him. But in the next line, he is merely the recipient of luck, of good fortune «везло». Life has picked him out haphazardly, and he feels gratitude for its nourishment. This reminds us, of course, of what summer did for him in the first stanza.
In the final stanza we are returned solely to the natural world. The trees are still standing, untorched and unbroken, the day is clear «like glass». Evidently the author has gone through some transformation, only to end up where he was in the first stanza. However, something has changed: he has become awakened, subconsciously to a different reality, the reality of redemption: if he meant спасать in the earthly sense, he now also understands its heavenly connotation.
I believe this awareness of the spiritual life is what gives us the cadence of «only that's not enough» at the end of each stanza. They are added because the author has realized the vanity of everything natural, the vanity of fortune and of the seasons and human emotion. Without the repetitive line, we would have, in a sense, a complete poem, replete with movement and imagery: it would be exactly a «five fingered leaf» that falls into our hands. With the cadence, however, the entire poem is reversed. It forces us to look not at what is in the poem, but rather what is absent from the poem. This realization becomes integral to the poem, inseparable from the ABAB rhyme scheme. To neglect the fourth line is to miss the whole point. The poem's entire meaning now hangs on whatever is missing from it. Luck, summer, warmth, light, nature and even poetry cannot satiate this void which the poet feels. So what would be enough?
My answer is this: the human will. In this poem the author is merely a passive recipient. There are no verbs which he is the agent of. In the Russian he is relegated to a recipient of action in the dative of the personal pronoun «мне», never the Я or 'I' of action, agency and control. What the repeating line deprives is the poem's natural vivacity, and replaces it with veracity. The poet builds the poem, lines 1-3 throughout, only to destroy it with line 4: the poem's form itself is a catharsis.
The poem is beautiful, as is nature: it has movement, beginnings and conclusions. But evidently it is not the answer to life's problems. «Only that's not enough» turns us away from the poem and its content towards a different philosophy, a different perspective on earthly matters: fortune cannot save you, and happiness fixed to this world is ultimately a lack of something else. Fulness in one sense is emptiness in another. One must act with one's will for true salvation. It will not be placed into our hands like good memories, friends, summer, food and shelter. The genius of th epoem is that this act of the will heralds into one's life a mirroring of nature's cycle of life, death and rebirth, the cycle of the poem. When one can choose, freely, to give up the life of this world, there then awaits a salvation that can satiate us, a redemption that is enough.
Вот и лето прошло,
Словно и не бывало.
На пригреве тепло.
Только этого мало.
Всё, что сбыться могло,
Мне, как лист пятипалый,
Прямо в руки легло.
Только этого мало.
Понапрасну ни зло,
Ни добро не пропало,
Всё горело светло.
Только этого мало.
Жизнь брала под крыло,
Берегла и спасала.
Мне и вправду везло.
Только этого мало.
Листьев не обожгло,
Веток не обломало...
День промыт, как стекло.
Только этого мало.
Summer came and went,
Like it never happened.
It was warm in its nourishment.
Only that’s not enough.
Everything that could come to fruition,
Like a five-fingered leaf,
Was laid straight into my hand.
Only that’s not enough.
Not in vain did evil,
Nor good disappear,
Light burned everything away.
Only that’s not enough.
Life took me under wing,
Guarded me and redeemed me.
It was so lucky for me.
Only that’s not enough.
The foliage was not scourged,
The branch was unharmed…
The day was sluiced clean, like glass.
Only that’s not enough.
-Arseniy Tarkvosky
Before diving into an interpretation of this poem, as with other Russian poems we must first consider the surface matters of its form. It is comprised of five four-line stanzas, following the rhyme pattern ABAB consistently throughout (not in my translation, unfortunately, but in the Russian). The first and third lines of each stanza end in masculine rhymes, while the second and fourth in feminine.
Keeping this in mind we can delve into the paradox which the poem reveals to us, the unifying tension between form and content. For without the last line of each stanza, the rhyme scheme would be stilted and the repetitive “Only that’s not enough” (Только этого мало) would not be there to tie all five stanzas together, thus leaving us with a more fragmented set of verses. But let us for the moment read the poem once again without the final line of each stanza. What we have is, I think, a thematically mirrored poem. Stanzas one and two work together, stanza three takes a turn, and stanzas three and four echo the first two, though effected by the cathartic third stanza.
In the first stanza, we have a light, pastoral sentiment: summer was here, it nourished me, but it passed too quickly. Nature gives and takes away. So far Keats and Wordsworth would nod approvingly. The next stanza moves us into fall: everything that grew during summer now is harvested, is reaped for our benefit. The inclusion of «five fingered leaf» is very important, since this poem itself is five-fingered (five stanzas long), written on leaves of paper. We now are not simply talking about nature, but also the art of poetry. The first stanza is thus not only about nature's summer, but the summertime of the soul, of warmth and happiness. Autumn brings its melancholy, and by the loss of summer we are given fodder by the muse of poetry, words of longing and remembered bliss.
The third stanza is our peripeteia, our turn or reversal: something ineffably catastrophic has happened. We can suppose it is winter, but Tarkovsky avoids terms to make this association. Instead, good and evil have disappeared and everything has been burned away. Cataclism, or merely a personal catharsis, who knows? But everything in the first two stanzas has disappeared. We start afresh after this stanza, unsure of the line between the pastoral and the spiritual from this point on. The fourth stanza answers our question, at least for now. The author has been saved by «life». But does he mean the green, lush life of stanzas one and two, or living, breathing human life? Has he found some solace in a human spiritual awakening, or simply shelter from nature's tumult? I think that he implies the former, since the verb used here, from the Russian спасать, meaning to save or redeem, has specifically relgious connotations. But this connotation merely introduces a tension in meaning. It comes from the Old Church Slavonic noun спасение, meaning «salvation». You still hear it in their church music. This connotation, however, I think the author evokes on purpose, only to give it a more earthly meaning. Life has redeemed him. But in the next line, he is merely the recipient of luck, of good fortune «везло». Life has picked him out haphazardly, and he feels gratitude for its nourishment. This reminds us, of course, of what summer did for him in the first stanza.
In the final stanza we are returned solely to the natural world. The trees are still standing, untorched and unbroken, the day is clear «like glass». Evidently the author has gone through some transformation, only to end up where he was in the first stanza. However, something has changed: he has become awakened, subconsciously to a different reality, the reality of redemption: if he meant спасать in the earthly sense, he now also understands its heavenly connotation.
I believe this awareness of the spiritual life is what gives us the cadence of «only that's not enough» at the end of each stanza. They are added because the author has realized the vanity of everything natural, the vanity of fortune and of the seasons and human emotion. Without the repetitive line, we would have, in a sense, a complete poem, replete with movement and imagery: it would be exactly a «five fingered leaf» that falls into our hands. With the cadence, however, the entire poem is reversed. It forces us to look not at what is in the poem, but rather what is absent from the poem. This realization becomes integral to the poem, inseparable from the ABAB rhyme scheme. To neglect the fourth line is to miss the whole point. The poem's entire meaning now hangs on whatever is missing from it. Luck, summer, warmth, light, nature and even poetry cannot satiate this void which the poet feels. So what would be enough?
My answer is this: the human will. In this poem the author is merely a passive recipient. There are no verbs which he is the agent of. In the Russian he is relegated to a recipient of action in the dative of the personal pronoun «мне», never the Я or 'I' of action, agency and control. What the repeating line deprives is the poem's natural vivacity, and replaces it with veracity. The poet builds the poem, lines 1-3 throughout, only to destroy it with line 4: the poem's form itself is a catharsis.
The poem is beautiful, as is nature: it has movement, beginnings and conclusions. But evidently it is not the answer to life's problems. «Only that's not enough» turns us away from the poem and its content towards a different philosophy, a different perspective on earthly matters: fortune cannot save you, and happiness fixed to this world is ultimately a lack of something else. Fulness in one sense is emptiness in another. One must act with one's will for true salvation. It will not be placed into our hands like good memories, friends, summer, food and shelter. The genius of th epoem is that this act of the will heralds into one's life a mirroring of nature's cycle of life, death and rebirth, the cycle of the poem. When one can choose, freely, to give up the life of this world, there then awaits a salvation that can satiate us, a redemption that is enough.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
If the world's at large, why should I remain...
Well it has been a largely successful break between semesters for me so far. I've spent the last three and a half weeks working at Gustavus as a Latin tutor, but have not been taking a class, allowing time for more racquetball, time with friends and frequent naps. The only downsides to my break have been #1 Crashing my friend's snowmobile into a tree, totaling it, and all of the lingering guilt over it, and #2 becoming the closest to broke I've been in my life, forcing me to sell my plasma in Mankato twice a week to pay for textbooks and gas. The upsides, though, have outweighed the financial cons: spending a weekend with good friends at a cabin (and being fully introduced to the Iron Maiden canon there), falling asleep watching Scrubs on 45 most nights, re-watching Tarkovsky movies that I didn't understand from the first viewing, time for lots of reading (The Crossing, The Education of Little Tree, Silence of the Grave, Collected Works of Florovsky volumes 3 & 4, Opium Season, Desert Solitaire, Love in the Time of Cholera), eating pancakes every other morning, getting to sub-teach the Latin class for a day, extra trips to see friends and family, and the exceptional fratern/soror-ity occurring daily around campus. I think, come a week and a half, I'll be refreshed enough to feel prepared to hit the books once again.
A week ago I finished two applications for possible post-graduation opportunities. One is for a federal government sponsored Critical Language Scholarship, which is an all expenses paid two-month trip to Russia to study Russian intensively. I met the applicant qualifications, so I went ahead and tried to produce a shining portfolio to attest to my previous language study. If I am accepted, I will be notified at the end of March, and the trip itself is from early June through early August. And, if accepted, I would most likely need to defer my Peace Corps acceptance (which hasn't actually happened yet, pending one vaccination that I don't have money for, cf. supra, concerning plasma donation). The other application was for a two year M.A. program in Early Christian Studies at Notre Dame in Indiana. I will find out about that at the end of February.
At this point, having diverse options for after graduation seems more important than deciding on one thing only, though this constantly puts my patience into use and my future-minded stomach at unease. I know, no doubt, that I always have the option of staying in the cities for a year, working (perhaps as a substitute teacher). It may be not just a great fallback plan, but, depending on how in debt I am come June, a stellar route to go.
I might be alone in this, but I really, really like the new JimmyEatWorld disc.
J.A.P. out.
A week ago I finished two applications for possible post-graduation opportunities. One is for a federal government sponsored Critical Language Scholarship, which is an all expenses paid two-month trip to Russia to study Russian intensively. I met the applicant qualifications, so I went ahead and tried to produce a shining portfolio to attest to my previous language study. If I am accepted, I will be notified at the end of March, and the trip itself is from early June through early August. And, if accepted, I would most likely need to defer my Peace Corps acceptance (which hasn't actually happened yet, pending one vaccination that I don't have money for, cf. supra, concerning plasma donation). The other application was for a two year M.A. program in Early Christian Studies at Notre Dame in Indiana. I will find out about that at the end of February.
At this point, having diverse options for after graduation seems more important than deciding on one thing only, though this constantly puts my patience into use and my future-minded stomach at unease. I know, no doubt, that I always have the option of staying in the cities for a year, working (perhaps as a substitute teacher). It may be not just a great fallback plan, but, depending on how in debt I am come June, a stellar route to go.
I might be alone in this, but I really, really like the new JimmyEatWorld disc.
J.A.P. out.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Herodotus Parody
So over Thanksgiving break our Greek professor emailed us with a creative writing assignment: write a narrative about Thanksgiving in the style of Herodotus. At first I was angry that she would assign this, on short notice, over a holiday break, all the while we're supposed to be writing our research papers (due monday). So I finally sat down to do it the night before: and it was great. I never write creatively unless forced, but it turned to be quite fun, and it was quite a mind cleansing exercise. So, I'm posting my Herodotus parody below. For those of you not fimiliar with him, it may seem ridiculous (well, actually, it is ridiculous). But those who've at least read the opening of his histories or are at least familiar with his convoluted narrative chronology and ethnic stereotypes, you may get a kick or two. Enjoy!
----
Hence is the inquiry of Jonathanasius of Minneapoleos regarding the cause of how both the Thanksgiving turkey became small, and the Americans became fat. The tradition of eating turkey every year in celebration of wealth came as a result of the American’s European heritage. Many Americans who emigrated from Europe, particularly those due west of the Ural mountains, were descendents of those people who warred with the Turks, who later became known as the Ottomans. They left the ruined and destitute cities of their homeland for the promised paradise of the Northern part of the Americas. Upon arriving, they were disappointed to find that North America was already populated with many who resembled the Turks in customs and skin color. Some, μεν, of the newly arrived were determined to live in peace with the natives of the land; others, δε, slaughtered them in vast numbers, and laid waste their civilization.
Now these Americans, as I have observed, practice the custom of preparing a turkey dinner yearly during their month called November. They call this custom ‘Thanksgiving,’ since everyone before taking part in the turkey feast must express their thanks to the gods for their two-fold blessedness – that they both escaped the Turks of Turkey, and defeated the Turks of America. After the thanks-giving they eat a bird which they named ‘turkey’ to commemorate their superiority over the Turks. This bird, once wild, they domesticated and kept on their farms.
The turkey, as everyone knows, is the only animal in the world that does not have ears. The Americans also thought the name appropriate since Turks never understood their language.
Long after the first Europeans settled in America, their lifestyles changed, much due to their economic practices. Every American, at first, farmed and labored for their food. Later, they made their livings while sitting in chairs. Before long, these Americans began to grow large: their activeness faded, while their appetites for turkey remained unchanged. Those in charge of America sent messengers, electronically into their television sets and painted on large billboards, with the following message: “If thou continuest to eat the turkey as thou art accustomed, but keep in thy slothful ways and do not pay heed to the Surgeon General’s prophecy, surely wilt thou suffer great malignity.”
Obstinate in their sloth, and unwilling to part with their commemoration of victory over the Turks, the Americans dismissed the warning. Many years later, the Americans suffered the outcome of their folly. For many years earlier, the Americans had a great civil war, during which there were many casualties, and thus a need for healing magicians, whom they call doctors. After the war many doctors were unemployed because, compared to the years during the war, people were relatively unafflicted in their health. Unemployed and disgruntled, the doctors decided to instill a fear of death in the Americans, since before this Americans were unabashedly optimistic and unmoved by death. So these doctors sent messengers to the Americans with the following speech: “You all are going to die mercilessly if you do not come visit us and take our elixirs.”
The Americans, being awoken to this fear of death visited the doctors in abundant numbers. The doctors, however, were so greedy that they raised the price of their consultation. The Americans, driven by their fear of death and desire for immortality, could not resist the doctors’ aid. And due to the rising prices, they became disgruntled at the state of health care in their country. They were thus punished, due to their unwillingness to give up their sacramental Turkey feast, and to their obsessive anxiety over the afterlife, to pay ridiculous prices to maintain their health, while simultaneously cursed to forever mar their health by consuming large amounts of turkey smothered with copious dosages of gravy.
The turkey, it is said, can be prepared in a variety of ways. The most common recipe is to set the oven at 350 degrees, but before baking the turkey…[ed. note: This recipe unfortunately has not survived the manuscripts. While some Jonathanasian scholars conjecture that the author intended the recipe retrieved from the manuscript of “Joy Christian Fellowship Church Cookbook,” others argue that he surely meant the sumptuous “Raisin-Stuffing Turkey” recipe in Folio B from “Betty Crocker’s Complete Kitchen Extravaganza.” I, however, think it is undoubtedly the recipe newly recovered from extant text “Martha Stewart Living.”]
----
Hence is the inquiry of Jonathanasius of Minneapoleos regarding the cause of how both the Thanksgiving turkey became small, and the Americans became fat. The tradition of eating turkey every year in celebration of wealth came as a result of the American’s European heritage. Many Americans who emigrated from Europe, particularly those due west of the Ural mountains, were descendents of those people who warred with the Turks, who later became known as the Ottomans. They left the ruined and destitute cities of their homeland for the promised paradise of the Northern part of the Americas. Upon arriving, they were disappointed to find that North America was already populated with many who resembled the Turks in customs and skin color. Some, μεν, of the newly arrived were determined to live in peace with the natives of the land; others, δε, slaughtered them in vast numbers, and laid waste their civilization.
Now these Americans, as I have observed, practice the custom of preparing a turkey dinner yearly during their month called November. They call this custom ‘Thanksgiving,’ since everyone before taking part in the turkey feast must express their thanks to the gods for their two-fold blessedness – that they both escaped the Turks of Turkey, and defeated the Turks of America. After the thanks-giving they eat a bird which they named ‘turkey’ to commemorate their superiority over the Turks. This bird, once wild, they domesticated and kept on their farms.
The turkey, as everyone knows, is the only animal in the world that does not have ears. The Americans also thought the name appropriate since Turks never understood their language.
Long after the first Europeans settled in America, their lifestyles changed, much due to their economic practices. Every American, at first, farmed and labored for their food. Later, they made their livings while sitting in chairs. Before long, these Americans began to grow large: their activeness faded, while their appetites for turkey remained unchanged. Those in charge of America sent messengers, electronically into their television sets and painted on large billboards, with the following message: “If thou continuest to eat the turkey as thou art accustomed, but keep in thy slothful ways and do not pay heed to the Surgeon General’s prophecy, surely wilt thou suffer great malignity.”
Obstinate in their sloth, and unwilling to part with their commemoration of victory over the Turks, the Americans dismissed the warning. Many years later, the Americans suffered the outcome of their folly. For many years earlier, the Americans had a great civil war, during which there were many casualties, and thus a need for healing magicians, whom they call doctors. After the war many doctors were unemployed because, compared to the years during the war, people were relatively unafflicted in their health. Unemployed and disgruntled, the doctors decided to instill a fear of death in the Americans, since before this Americans were unabashedly optimistic and unmoved by death. So these doctors sent messengers to the Americans with the following speech: “You all are going to die mercilessly if you do not come visit us and take our elixirs.”
The Americans, being awoken to this fear of death visited the doctors in abundant numbers. The doctors, however, were so greedy that they raised the price of their consultation. The Americans, driven by their fear of death and desire for immortality, could not resist the doctors’ aid. And due to the rising prices, they became disgruntled at the state of health care in their country. They were thus punished, due to their unwillingness to give up their sacramental Turkey feast, and to their obsessive anxiety over the afterlife, to pay ridiculous prices to maintain their health, while simultaneously cursed to forever mar their health by consuming large amounts of turkey smothered with copious dosages of gravy.
The turkey, it is said, can be prepared in a variety of ways. The most common recipe is to set the oven at 350 degrees, but before baking the turkey…[ed. note: This recipe unfortunately has not survived the manuscripts. While some Jonathanasian scholars conjecture that the author intended the recipe retrieved from the manuscript of “Joy Christian Fellowship Church Cookbook,” others argue that he surely meant the sumptuous “Raisin-Stuffing Turkey” recipe in Folio B from “Betty Crocker’s Complete Kitchen Extravaganza.” I, however, think it is undoubtedly the recipe newly recovered from extant text “Martha Stewart Living.”]
Friday, November 23, 2007
post-Thanksgiving day
Well, I'm writing from my Grandpa's house in Sioux Falls, SD, still recuperating from a very pleasant thanksgiving day. Evidently I was tired since I went to bed last night at 12 and woke up at noon. I never used to sleep in that much, but these days I seem to be better at relenting when appropriate, and not pushing myself too hard. Good life lesson, I'm finding.
It was great to see the whole dad's side of the family, many of whom I hadn't seen since last spring. We had a graveside service in memoriam of my grandmother, killed in a car accident 13 years ago. Through some strange mishap, her ashes were never scattered by the funeral home as they were supposed to. It must have been a very bizarre phone call for my grandpa to receive just months ago -- "Yes, Mr. Peasley, we are calling to inform you that your wife's ashes have not been scattered and are sitting in a box on our storage shelves." So we had a "second," informal service, partly for the sake of the 6 grand kids who hadn't been born when she died. The air was cold and crisp, the sky cloudless and bright.
I've made my attempts at completing my 12 source annotated bibliography on King Lear, though have found my mind replete with distractions, the most prominent being the prospect of going into the Peace Corps after graduation, and how that provokes me to scour every blog I can dig up on web about the stories of others. Strongly considering that puts a lot of things into perspective.
Its been a family tradition to drive around during the holiday season an 'ooh' and 'aah' at Christmas lights around town. I used to hate it and think it was boring. Tonight I can't wait to go.
Jonathan
It was great to see the whole dad's side of the family, many of whom I hadn't seen since last spring. We had a graveside service in memoriam of my grandmother, killed in a car accident 13 years ago. Through some strange mishap, her ashes were never scattered by the funeral home as they were supposed to. It must have been a very bizarre phone call for my grandpa to receive just months ago -- "Yes, Mr. Peasley, we are calling to inform you that your wife's ashes have not been scattered and are sitting in a box on our storage shelves." So we had a "second," informal service, partly for the sake of the 6 grand kids who hadn't been born when she died. The air was cold and crisp, the sky cloudless and bright.
I've made my attempts at completing my 12 source annotated bibliography on King Lear, though have found my mind replete with distractions, the most prominent being the prospect of going into the Peace Corps after graduation, and how that provokes me to scour every blog I can dig up on web about the stories of others. Strongly considering that puts a lot of things into perspective.
Its been a family tradition to drive around during the holiday season an 'ooh' and 'aah' at Christmas lights around town. I used to hate it and think it was boring. Tonight I can't wait to go.
Jonathan
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Blog Justification and Art
So the thought of creating a blog has long been merely a fashionable one to me, until the musings of my two buddies (cf. Lew and Cloaks) have proven their communicative value. Plus, I've experienced (not just viewed or read) some great art this weekend, and I've taken the authoritative stance that my thoughts are bloggable (cf. "blog-worthy" -Merriam Webster). My blog will not follow MLA guidlines, however I do plan on attributing everything wonderful I post to other people.
Last night I sojourned to the cities to see the Coen Bros. new film "No country for Old Men," adapted to the screen from Cormac McCarthy's (my favorite living author, cf. future post) second most recent novel. There was a huge line outside the Uptown Theatre, and my first thought was that these people obviously didn't know what they were in for (cf. Peasley's pessimistic disposition). The film/book is about a young working class vietnam vet who stumbles onto a drug deal gone wrong in the desert, finds a bag of bills, and takes it for his own. Only too late does he realize the stupidity of his on-a-whim decision. The drug lord sends a host of men to retrieve it - including a homocidal stoic who flips coins to decide who he shoots in the face and who he lets alone. The main character with the least screen time, though in my opinion the character who fills out the real meaning of the film (cf. Film title and Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium"), is Sheriff Bell, played by Tommy Lee Jones, whose philanthropic motives of being a law man are shattered and he becomes disilusioned at the kind of violence and genus of criminals he is dealing with. The movie offers no poetic justice, only ruthless killings and the conclusion that even people's hopes are more than often too mortal. The crazy-killer-man rolls his eyes at those who think their fates could be otherwise. And, metatheatrically speaking, he (and McCarthy) roll their eyes at those of us who are discomforted by lack of positive resolution in our lives (or in the plots of our art). The movie, however, ends on an amazing note -- with Sheriff Bell's narrative of the dream of he has of his father, walking ahead of him on horseback, silent, carrying a fire in a horn, communicating a steadfastness of human meaning via the symbolic love implicit in familial relationships.
The hope this last scene gives is too mysterious for me to venture that people en masse will find it redemptive of the film as meaningless blood-bath. However, McCarthy seems to be showing us something entirely realistic: that here on earth justice is always delayed if not absent in our sufferings and the cruelty we witness in the world. He refuses to give a false hope that everything will be fine and dandy on this side of death. And he also neglects to give us any good reason to believe that there's better things on the other side. However, he shows us what truly is good about life, and the mystery of this in spite of the utterly ruthless nature of the universe. McCarthy like many good artists (Dostoevsky, Melville, Shakespeare) and biblical literature (cf. Job, Ecclesiastes, the book of Mark) refuses to allow us the notion that everything will be nice and fine when we most want them to be.
Art piece 2: I finished reading Shakespeare's King Lear just a few hours ago. It was my first read through, and I'm going to need some time to really process it. But I was so excited to read it since I'd read so much about it before hand. King Lear is selfish in the beginning, giving favor to his two wicked daughters and condemning to exile his one honest one. Shortly his two daughters turn on him, leaving him almost completely naked in the rain, and they vie with eachother and their husbands over power for the rest of the play. I don't really feel up for supplying the details right now (cf. I should reading Cicero's Pro Caelio this minute), but let us say he endures a terrible exile through which an inner-transformation seems to take place, which is exhibited explicitly in the final scene when he weeps over his dead daughter.
All this to say: I have long been quite disillusioned at how superficially Christians view and appreciate art. Too often the good books, movies and music have little to do with the actual Christian vision, and more to do with feeling comfortable. I will call this the Disney-ification of Christianity. As was reminded me earlier reading Kim Paffenroth (a great Catholic literature critic), the book of Mark originally did not end with the resurrection, only with the crucifixion. I assume the Church Fathers included this at a later point, and understandably so for the sake of unity of mind, or that the ending was tacked on through text transmission (which is common even as late as in Shakespeare manuscripts). However, imagine that this was so.
Thought experiment: Now imagine what Mark (who got much of his account from Peter and therefore knew of the resurrection) was thinking if he did not include the resurrection in his gospel.
Blogwell,
Peasley
Last night I sojourned to the cities to see the Coen Bros. new film "No country for Old Men," adapted to the screen from Cormac McCarthy's (my favorite living author, cf. future post) second most recent novel. There was a huge line outside the Uptown Theatre, and my first thought was that these people obviously didn't know what they were in for (cf. Peasley's pessimistic disposition). The film/book is about a young working class vietnam vet who stumbles onto a drug deal gone wrong in the desert, finds a bag of bills, and takes it for his own. Only too late does he realize the stupidity of his on-a-whim decision. The drug lord sends a host of men to retrieve it - including a homocidal stoic who flips coins to decide who he shoots in the face and who he lets alone. The main character with the least screen time, though in my opinion the character who fills out the real meaning of the film (cf. Film title and Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium"), is Sheriff Bell, played by Tommy Lee Jones, whose philanthropic motives of being a law man are shattered and he becomes disilusioned at the kind of violence and genus of criminals he is dealing with. The movie offers no poetic justice, only ruthless killings and the conclusion that even people's hopes are more than often too mortal. The crazy-killer-man rolls his eyes at those who think their fates could be otherwise. And, metatheatrically speaking, he (and McCarthy) roll their eyes at those of us who are discomforted by lack of positive resolution in our lives (or in the plots of our art). The movie, however, ends on an amazing note -- with Sheriff Bell's narrative of the dream of he has of his father, walking ahead of him on horseback, silent, carrying a fire in a horn, communicating a steadfastness of human meaning via the symbolic love implicit in familial relationships.
The hope this last scene gives is too mysterious for me to venture that people en masse will find it redemptive of the film as meaningless blood-bath. However, McCarthy seems to be showing us something entirely realistic: that here on earth justice is always delayed if not absent in our sufferings and the cruelty we witness in the world. He refuses to give a false hope that everything will be fine and dandy on this side of death. And he also neglects to give us any good reason to believe that there's better things on the other side. However, he shows us what truly is good about life, and the mystery of this in spite of the utterly ruthless nature of the universe. McCarthy like many good artists (Dostoevsky, Melville, Shakespeare) and biblical literature (cf. Job, Ecclesiastes, the book of Mark) refuses to allow us the notion that everything will be nice and fine when we most want them to be.
Art piece 2: I finished reading Shakespeare's King Lear just a few hours ago. It was my first read through, and I'm going to need some time to really process it. But I was so excited to read it since I'd read so much about it before hand. King Lear is selfish in the beginning, giving favor to his two wicked daughters and condemning to exile his one honest one. Shortly his two daughters turn on him, leaving him almost completely naked in the rain, and they vie with eachother and their husbands over power for the rest of the play. I don't really feel up for supplying the details right now (cf. I should reading Cicero's Pro Caelio this minute), but let us say he endures a terrible exile through which an inner-transformation seems to take place, which is exhibited explicitly in the final scene when he weeps over his dead daughter.
All this to say: I have long been quite disillusioned at how superficially Christians view and appreciate art. Too often the good books, movies and music have little to do with the actual Christian vision, and more to do with feeling comfortable. I will call this the Disney-ification of Christianity. As was reminded me earlier reading Kim Paffenroth (a great Catholic literature critic), the book of Mark originally did not end with the resurrection, only with the crucifixion. I assume the Church Fathers included this at a later point, and understandably so for the sake of unity of mind, or that the ending was tacked on through text transmission (which is common even as late as in Shakespeare manuscripts). However, imagine that this was so.
Thought experiment: Now imagine what Mark (who got much of his account from Peter and therefore knew of the resurrection) was thinking if he did not include the resurrection in his gospel.
Blogwell,
Peasley
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