Lit 110-04: A Final Thought

When I walked into class that first day I was surprised by what took place, the teacher spending the entire class period on attendance, memorizing names with faces. This was not what I had expected. I expected to walk into a room full of book snobs and freshman and was, for the most part, wrong and happily so. The theme of our class was retellings; every story is a retelling of another and there are no original stories. This claim, at first, both bothered and confused me. Is it possible that there are no original stories? is everything really rooted in something else, something that came before, something all to similar or even exactly the same? What I found throughout the course of the semester turned my world upside down. Everywhere I looked I saw bits and pieces of other stories and in some places I even found the exact same story just played out by different characters in different places. The reading list was also far more enjoyable than I had anticipated. I had expected to be bored to death but was pleasantly surprised by works which seemed to engulf me and take me into their world. The Brothers Karamazov, The Ones That Walked Away from Omelas, Antigone, The Cathedral, and Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? just to name a few. Overall I have had a positive experience and believe that I have learned some very valuable lessons which I will carry with me through the rest of my days. I would like to thank everyone for an interesting/entertaining semester and wish you all well. PEACE, I'm out!

To Know What I Think

"How do you know what you think til you see what you say?" is another one of the many questions posed by our professor. His answer; write it down. Is this implying that one cannot truly know what they think until they write it down? or is it simply suggesting that the best way to put forward ones thoughts is in writing? this seems more plausible. I, for one, am constantly consumed by thought, usually unable to clear my mind even when I wish it to be so. Can it be said that I know not what I truly think until I have written it down? I think not, for when I write my thoughts out I am always left with the resonating feeling that something got lost in translation. The translation from thought to written word. I know what I think before it is written down but that remains confined to my own thoughts, so instead what I think this statement is suggesting is that our thoughts can't be known to others without first being put into a common medium, written language in this case, spoken word in others. Your thoughts are always know to you, so long as you're conscious, but can't be known to others without first leaving your head translated into a medium which the masses can access.

Omelas: To Walk or Stay?

We were asked the question; if you could create a utopian society dependent only on the suffering of one innocent child would you do it? My answer, the answer, should be a resounding no. Not only do I believe that it is wrong to inflict suffering on any living thing but I also completely reject the idea that there could be a utopian society in a world charged by greed and intolerance. Even if it were possible why should one child be subjected to constant suffering so that the rest of us may be eternally blissful? What makes us more deserving of happiness than that child? Why should they know nothing but fear and pain for the entirety of their existence? Anyone who answers that they would subject someone else to this torture for their own comforts is either saying so only circumstantially (being that this is all a hypothetical thought experiment) or they are just plain bad people, lacking any compassion for others and caring only of their own insignificant existence. I would not simply walk away from Omelas, I would destroy it, freeing the tortured child and condemning all whom had stayed to death. This may seem harsh but the reality of the situation is that those who stayed knew the secret of their utopia and chose their happiness over the life of a child. They are then, by association, guilty. As guilty as anyone whom actually tortures for they knew and did nothing, they deserve not the life they have been given and should be cast out of Omelas and into an eternal sleep. Hypothetically speaking.

Eavesdropping

Sitting in the SUB one afternoon while it was fairly empty a group of approximately 5-6 people came and took over a table near my own. I had remembered Sexson's saying to listen in on a random conversation, so I began listening. The table was about 50/50 men/women and they were discussing the catering portion of a wedding. The decision was made by the party to have a whole pig served, from there the conversation moved to what sort of pig, deboned or bone-in? from there it moved to cost; deboned was apparently significantly more expensive than bone-in and so the idea of a deboned pig was quickly dismissed. Then the conversation went to whether or not there was the option of an organically raised pig, this option was discussed for some time until it was decided that that too was a bit pricey for the couple. From there drink options were spoken of and an open bar was decided upon (a good choice in this eavesdroppers opinion). After that they started discussing how to fit everything in the apparently very small kitchen area of the venue they were renting and something about a truck and a smoker was mentioned and I lost interest.

The Tragic Sense of Life

In class we have spoken of tragedies and the tragic sense of life. I have examined my own life and will in this post give exerpts from my personal experiences with tragedy. What follows is pretty heavy in places so read on with discretion.
When I was 7 years old my mother married my stepfather and I was ripped away from my known, comfortable existence as an only child in a loving home raised by his single mother and grandparents, to a Cinderella-esque situation having 3 step siblings with whom I did not get along. This was a terrible experience for me, at first, it has since gotten much better.
When I was in 8th grade my Papa, whom was more of a father to me than either of my actual fathers (biological, step), was diagnosed with two different types of cancer one of which being Mesothelioma caused by esbestos. I watched the man I looked up to most slowly deteriorate in front of my eyes wating away to what was, at the end, not much more than a thin layer of flesh drapped loosely over bone. By the end he was so weak he couldn't speak or move on his own. I spent nearly every free, waking hour by his side. I watched my hero die and to this day am still deeply effected by what happened. Not only did this leave me without a hero, it left my Nana without the love of her life, the man with whom she'd had 6 children and spent everyday of her life from a young age. I cannot think of a greater loss.
The summer after I had graduated from high school a good friend of mine, and teammate, died in a drunk driving accident, the night before I had been partying and hanging out with him and other friends and this kid frequently drove innebriated. I certainly didn't approve but I kept my mouth shut, something I wish I hadn't done. The following day I received a text that read: Matt is dead. That's all it said, no more, no less, just; Matt is dead. Imagine getting that text at 9:00 a.m. I didn't even believe it, I chalked it up to a cruel joke, it was anything but, it was all too real. To this day I can't help but wonder if things may have been different had I been there, but I can't allow myself to dwell on that because what happened can't be changed, so instead I redirect my thoughts to the memories and good times.
This past summer I recieved a message telling me that a friend of 12 years had passed away. He overdosed on prescription drugs and hard liqour and died in a pool of his own vomit at only 19 years old. If this isn't tragic in the most basic sense of the word than I don't know what is.

Boring: Books or People?

Sexson made the statement early in the semester that there are "no boring books, just boring people" and I have spent the entire semester rolling this thought around in my head but am not sure that I have made a decision as to where I stand on that. I see books that I know are of no interest to me, books that will bore me, but is it I that am boring? Take, for example, an engineering structures manual, I know without a doubt that this book will bore me, most likely to the point of tears. Is itsimply because I am not aninteresting person enough to find this exciting? In this case it seems that, because I am not an engineer or an engineering student, or someone who knows anything about structures, there is the distinct possibility that I am the boring one and not the book, boring for not diversifying myself and learning the ways of structures and/or engineers. At the same time I pick up a book on Phenomonology (a part of philosophy) and am completely consumed by everything it has to tell me, that is to say, deeply interested by it. Someone who has not interest in philosophy or philosophical notions would most likely deem the book on Phenomonology boring and possibly unreadable. Is it because they themselves are not interesting enough to care for deep, abstract thought and philosophical notions? I would say yes, they are the boring ones and not the book. However when I see a cheesey romance novel, such as a Danielle Steele, I can't help but think that no matter how interesting one is those books could, in themselves, be boring as hell. The story is usually predictable and, well to be honest, crap. It seems to me that people read these books (if one wishes to call them that) to experience the sensations of lust, love, and, I suppose, joy and at times sadness but there is nothing of intellectual value in these stories, no real thought involved in their reading, and no deeper meanings to be had. So why not just watch television? It is such stories that I believe can be, and usually are, quite boring and not the people whom read them. However I suppose that can be said to be a biased viewpoint and that the matter of boring books or boring people is one of absolute subjectivity and as such is a matter which must be decided by each on their own.

Green Dress

Inhale this breath before you take then next
Oh how sweet do you look in that green dress
All your problems shall for now be vexed
But on my lap your head you must not rest

Our love must remain in secrecy, yes
They do not understand our sweet embrace
But oh how sweet you look in that green dress
Come they will chase, but for love we must race

When I taste your lips on mine; sweet, divine
You breathe life into my soul; heal, console
When we're caught, locked away, confined
But tis you I forever long to hold

So against adversity we shall be bold
Forever refusing to do as we're told

Final Paper

My final paper dealt with Sexson's claim that "there are no original stories". Upon first hearing this statement I was confused, slightly aggitated, and a bit unsettled. How could there be no original stories? So I went on a mission, a mission to find originality in the stories which surround my everyday life (television, life, music, books, etc.). What I found only furthered my frustration; there was no genuine originality that I could see, everything around me was either bits and pieces of other stories embodied in a different manner or exact retellings (mostly through television/movies). However is it not foolish, and even naive, to think that in a world where human beings have been roaming the planet for several hundred-thousand years that there could be a story that was not a retelling of a prior one, or an event that hasn't previously occurred in a very similar manner but with some differences? I think that it is not the human condition to accept life as a retelling though, but that there is a neccessity people today seek in originality to console themselves and feel like more than just a number in a system or a dot on the map. So we search for this originality, never allowing ourselves to accept its falsity, or simply being ingnorant of it. However I believe that seeing our stories as retellings or similarities can actually be of more use to us; we can take solice in knowing that others have gone before us, that our stuggle is not ours alone, at times these links between stories can even serve as a source of laughter, and they can always serve as a source of learning. So, don't fret knowing that you're not completely original, but take comfort in it.

Dukkha

The First Nobel Truth of Buddhism; Dukkha. Dukkha= all life is, or leads to, suffering. I believe that suffering is a major part of life and without suffering we could never truly experience the same kind of highs that come from a joyous experience.
In my life I have certainly experienced suffering. I first really experienced it when I was six and my cat Spot died. I experienced suffering once again when my Papa, the man whom I admired as a role model and father figure, wasted away slowly and agonizingly in front of my young eyes. The person I looked up to most was ripped away from me by ravenous cancer at a time in my life when I could have used him most. A few years later, the summer after I graduated High School, one of my good friends and teammates wrecked his car while driving intoxicated and lost his life. Yet more tragedy occurred when last year a friend of over 10 years overdosed on prescription medicine and alcohol and never woke up. These are merely the major occurrences of suffering in my life, there are many more (mostly dealing with members of the opposite sex), and the degrees of the suffering varies, but such is life.

found poem

This came from a prescription drug information sheet, I just twisted the words a little.

DO NOT SHARE
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
DO NOT SHARE

KEEP THIS MEDICINE
DO NOT SHARE
DO NOT SHARE

USE THIS MEDICINE
USE THIS MEDICINE
KEEP THIS MEDICINE

KEEP THIS MEDICINE
for whom it was not prescribed
USE THIS MEDICINE

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

living life and books

The statement that one whom reads without doing is missing out on life is, to me, profoundly absurd. There are many things which I have done in my life, of that there is no doubt. I've gone all across the country in a car, I have climbed the mountain with the highest recorded wind speed from a surface station (Mount Washington, NH), I have experimented with mind-altering substances, I have driven a train and soared 75ft through the air with no more than a hi-tech piece of wood strapped to my feet. However, none of this exceeds the experiences I've had in books. I have lived in worlds where people are created in test tubes with varying levels of brain function to keep them satisfied in their social situations and they don't know romantic love, where the population is kept at bay via a drug induced emotional coma (Brave New World, Aldous Huxley). I have thumbed my way 'cross country with Sal Paradise and met some very interesting people along the way (On the Road, Jack Kerouac). My point is that while the things one may experience in "real" life are tangible, physical occurrences of their being- those achieved in literature can be richer. Richer in the sense that I will probably never get to thumb my way across country and I am most certain that I will never know the oddities of residing in a land where love is seen as madness and people are bred to certain mental capacities. Books are our portals to different worlds, they are an escape from "real" life, and are, therefore, that much better.

Sweet Dreams

The dream I am writing about is a reoccurring one which went on every now and then between 6th and 7th grade. The dream would start out with me walking down a street and coming upon a graveyard. Once I arrive at the graveyard I would immediately begin walking through it with hedge stones passing on both sides of me and then, quite suddenly, the ghost of a wretched looking old woman would begin chasing me. She floated through the air growing ever closer to me until after running for a while I could see a house in the distance. It was an old sort of run down looking house with a fairly large front porch and every time I had this dream I would make it to the bottom of the steps to the porch and trip. As I lay on the ground the wretched old woman grabs my ankle and begins dragging me backward to the graveyard. Finally as I clawed at the ground trying to get away I would then awaken quite abruptly in my bed.

Big Wheelin' It

My memory tends to be a bit patchy but for as much as I can remember my earliest memory takes place when I was about four and a half years old in my hometown of Marlboro, MA on the street that ran in front of my house. I was playing out front of my house in the street on my Big Wheel tricycle (it wasn't a very heavily traveled street at the time) with my Papa and my mother when I decided to go to the end of the road (it was a culdesac) to see what was down there. When I got to the end I met a little girl, around the same age as me I'd guess, so I stopped my Big Wheel, to say hi or whatever a four year old does, and she ran up to me and kissed me! So, being a four year old boy I turned that Big Wheel around as fast as I could and booked it toward home, traumatized. Needless to say I no longer run from (most) girls that try to kiss me.

dream walking through a waking world

While some may mourn and others weep,
still thoughts of you in my head I keep,
together dancing in the street,
the sky's a limit we shall never reach,
Sunday mornings they can be heard to preach,
talk of peace before we feast,
run forever on these feet,
satisfaction being all we seek,
while judging those who find it freaks,
broken dreams lay in guttered streets,
and I find you only in my sleep.