Our Darkling Way

It must have been some time ago, before I grew old and started forgetting, that I sat down one night and listened to nothing. And I will tell you now that this was a very dangerous activity, because if you listen to silence long enough, you start to hear something. I say something rather than "some things" because it really is only one sort of sound. To me silence rumbles, almost like thunder. On that night and never since have I argued that it is a particularly clear sound, nor have I been able to determine if others can always hear it. As I said, listening to silence is a dangerous activity, it is a paradox after all. But perhaps the real danger lies in the fact that when the rumble makes itself present, you open yourself up to the plight of Princess Shahrazad. 


In listening to the rumble of silence, I doomed myself to the same trial Shahrazad endured, and I fear my dear classmates, that you've suffered the same fate. It was asked of us, at one point, to determine which myth we are snared in and while individuals in the class have their personal myths, it is with Sharazad we all follow. Our personal myths are simply swamped by the fact that by being students of the mythic, we've opened ourselves to the entirety of the mythic. A Thousand and One Nights utilizes the frame story, and it is the frame story in which we find ourselves trapped. 

To say the sun rises begs to retell the myth of Phaethon, and that in turns would require the myth of Phoebus and later on the myth of Jove's creation leading all the way back to the creation of the Universe. It is an exhausting endeavor to unroll the extent of everyday mythology, because everything has a story to tell, and a story behind that story and so on and so forth into infinity. By studying the mythological we've stumbled down the rabbit's hole, and it is a hole which simply refuses to end. Luckily the hole can be taken step by step, we need not fall so helplessly. By knowing a myth we can control our fall, and as Mircea Eliade explained, knowing the origin of something allows us that control. "For knowing the origin of an object, an animal, a plant, and so on is equivalent to acquiring a magical power over them by which they can be controlled, multiplied, or reproduced at will." Except in the case of listening to silence.


Perhaps I have beaten this topic to death, but to me silence represents something quite religious, and at times very holy. Because silence ultimately represents nothing, and nothingness preceded our universe, in silence there lies a bit of Logos. With nothing to listen to, no myth to remember, it is an overwhelming connection to cosmogony. The fall down the rabbit hole becomes so unchecked in the presence of absolute quiet that it invites the remembrance of every myth. Before any story was ever told, and any word ever invented, nay, before any sound was ever uttered, there was silence.It is as much a part of our origin as planetary accretion, and perhaps just as powerful.In silence, there begs the memory of every myth and every action ever done on this earth. Silence allows us that precious moment to see what came before life and even time, it allows us to see our Golden Age, our Eden. Therefore, I consider it to be the first myth and our direct connection to the bliss of the beginning. 

"As long as it persists, we can say that modern man preserves at least some residues of "mythological behavior." Traces of such a mythological behavior can also be deciphered in the desire to rediscover the intensity with which one experienced or knew something for the first time; and also in the desire to recover the distant past, the blissful period of "beginnings." A quote I've used before, but one that retains its importance. For the sublime first experience is one that is rarely repeated, though often not without trying. Mythology allows us to play at both finding and keeping our origins.Mircea Eliade along with Ovid and James Frazer were all caught up in Shahrazad's way of life as well. It was through their retelling, analyzing, and interpreting the endless and has helped sustain mythology. As so too do we now help sustain it, by looking past the many frames of the everyday myth, we continue to follow that curious white rabbit ever deeper into his hole, trying to move closer and closer to our wonderland. Perhaps it is a sad thing to say that we will never each it, for of course all ends are merely beginnings. 

As the class has run its course, so has my blog, I can continue in no further way that might inspire enlightenment or intrigue. In many respects I've failed to do as I should have in this course, and it is only through the valuable gifts of the class that I was actually able to get much of anywhere. When you spent more than a few hours trying to hear past the quiet in your childhood, you can become preoccupied with the simple things. And Mythology, (while powerful in its own simplicity) has a certain flare for the outlandish. So I would like to thank you, my classmates, for helping me to see more than simplicity in myth. You've all acted as wonderful teachers, and it has been an absolute pleasure learning alongside you. Ashley Arcel, Jon Orsi, Dustin Dallman, your blogs in particular were valuable learning tools. I both envy and appreciate your abilities to analyze, connect, and eloquently express the power of myth, thank you for sharing what you had to teach the class. Kari, MaryShaun, Mayan, and other wonderful notetakers, I thank you because of your jaw-dropping ability to summarize and intelligently display our various classroom adventures, with this class that takes an abnormal amount of talent. And finally to those of you like Sarah Knox, Steven Shepherd and Melinda Pierce, your quirky and engaging blogs always had a fresh perspective to add to any topic, the class would have been all the poorer without you. And finally I'd like to Thank Dr. Sexson, the white rabbit who led us all on this bizarre but ultimately sublime adventure. It shall be quite interesting to see where this rabbit hole goes in the coming years. 




And so, I do not say goodbye, for according to mythology we are all doomed to meet again, but rather I leave you with parting wave and a quote from one of my favorite movies.


"It is written among the limitless constellations of the celestial heavens, and in the depths of the emerald seas, and upon every grain of sand in the vast deserts, that the world which we see is an outward and visible dream of an inward and invisible reality." -Quote from Richard William's The Thief and The Cobbler

New (and slightly improved) Final Draft of the Henderson Paper

I know this is something of a repeat post, but seeing as I've not yet worked my heart and soul into a final blog, this will have to do. See y'all on the morrow.



The Eternal Henderson

When asked about the image of the mythic, what jars the mind is usually a breed of beauty, of eloquence and grace. Those stories which span the centuries speak to the modern generations of a past so romantic, it simply cannot be repeated. And so we weave the chaste mythic into our lives seamlessly; it paints frescos of nude lovers in the homes of our CEOs, it sits primly in the background of our novels, it whispers sweetly as sunsets and moonrises follow their unyielding cycles. To contrast our terrible reality we blind ourselves with the pristine tales of those long dead. Except….expect when the mythic escapes our gilded cage and breaks its careful conditioning.  The bloody, the lustful, the boorish, the erratic, the cataclysmic, the flaming, the American mythology. In living with the real beast of mythology, there is perhaps a prime victim, and he goes by the name Henderson. It is in Saul Bellow’s genius to give the public a novel whose protagonist is so unbearable that it is his duty to display the mythic in its true form. Henderson the Rain King is not simply the tale of a man who lived life too passionately; it is recapitulation of the all-encompassing myth of the Phoenix.

It should be stated first and foremost that Henderson embodies the nature of a ruler from the very start, and as such, he bears the weight of a kingdom‘s life cycle. As it so happens Henderson’s kingdom is in a state of want. Henderson, being king of first his own domestic domain, is a king who is slowly reaching the end of his days. The constant push to feed his starving heart has left Henderson’s home in a state of decay. Though he is well-off, a father of five, married twice, and a war veteran, Henderson desires more. “But the voice within me continued, I want, I want!”(Frazer 32), it is from this insatiable wanting that Henderson makes his first large step into the spirit of the phoenix. Leaving his decaying life behind him, Henderson begins to build his funeral pyre; he enters the realm of Adonis, and from there the domain of the Fisher King.

The likeness between Henderson and the mythical Adonis resides partially in love. According to James Frazer, author of The Golden Bough, Adonis was originally under the same tale as Tammuz and Ishtar. It is from the core of this tale that Henderson’s trip to Africa is spurred. “…but we gather from them that every Tammuz was believed to die, passing away from the cheerful earth to the gloomy subterranean world, and that every year his divine mistress(Ishtar)journeyed in quest of him..”(Frazer 392). How does this fit into Henderson’s journey? Looking at Henderson’s driving passion in life, his unbearable wanting, it can be said that Henderson is “dying” in a sense when he makes the journey to Africa. In an abandonment of his wife, children and beloved pigs, Henderson has shed himself of his former life in order to descend “into the underworld”, aka, Africa. As Pythagoras explained of the phoenix’s lifecycle, the bird first begins its death with the building of a funeral pyre. Henderson’s descent could be seen as a variation of this mythic preparation. And Henderson’s Aphrodite, his Ishtar? Henderson’s own wounded heart follows him to Africa. It is this bleeding aspect of his persona that further links Henderson to Adonis, the groin and the heart are far too easily exchanged in mythology. But in both respects the failure of the source of fertility has left the king with a barren land, as Aphrodite suffered at the death of Adonis, so Lily suffered at Henderson’s failing content with life.
“Am I responsible?” I said. “What’s the matter with you?”
“You and I have got to be together,” she said.
“Who says so?”
“We’ll die if we’re not,” she said. (Bellow 13)
Death upon separation from her loved one, Lily plays the role of Aphrodite and Istar, but it is not her journey into the underworld that need occur. Henderson’s salvation and rebirth lie with his journey into Africa, and his emulation of the tale of the Phoenix using the same route the Fisher King used. He must heal his failing land by seeking out a replacement to bring fertility back, the mythological purification and renewal has begun.

In entering Africa, Henderson has retreated to yet another mythological plane, he has engaged himself in cosmogony. The power in the return to beginnings plays a powerful role for our Phoenix; the purity and clarity of the origin is a crucial spark to the spice nest of the ailing Henderson. “I have a feeling from it. Hell, it looks like the original place. It must be older than the city of Ur.” Even the dust had a flavor of great age, I thought, and I said, “I have a hunch this spot is going to be very good for me.”(Bellow 47). The home of the Arnewi tribe offers Henderson a place to essentially rebirth himself. Stripped down to the origin, Henderson’s intense longing finally dissipates, and he is granted the potential for redemption and renewal through both the woman of Bittahness Willatale and Mtalba. With Willatale, Henderson is able to find some manner of the remedy he seeks, “Grun-tu-molani. Man want to live.”(Bellow 85). As revealed by Wiilatale Henderson seeks life, and when Mtalba offers herself as a wife for Henderson, hope for fertility is partially restored. Within the origin of the Arnewi’s home, Henderson has achieved some form of relief. However, as the task of excising the frogs draws near and staying true to his obnoxious, brutish, and arrogant behavior, Henderson allows his passion to override his sense. In blowing up the Arnewi’s reservoir,  his chance for redemption at the scene of the origin is doomed. Like so many kings before him, Henderson has allowed his own sense of power and egomaniacal tendencies to stall his quest. The mythology of destruction following the convivial beginnings requires little in the way of analyzing. Henderson must engage himself in the next stage of the Phoenix’s life if he is to complete his heart’s remedy.

Upon entering the land of the Wariri and meeting with King Dahfu, Henderson is allowed another chance at rebirth. Faced with a king who is as much a captive of his people, Henderson takes it upon himself to once more set the world right by his standards. In moving the statue of Mummah, Henderson exposes himself to the stage of rape in his relationship with the mythic. In becoming Sungo, the rain king, Henderson begins his process of burning. “My spirit was awake and it welcomed life anew. Damn the whole thing! Life anew!”(Bellow 193). In the process of Henderson’s renewal, Dahfu reveals a similar Phoenix-like cycle of metamorphoses; his cycle revolving around the lion of course.
The external soul presented as an animal is but another expression of the phoenix cycle; “The lad dies as a man and comes to life again as an animal, the animal’s soul is now in him, and his human soul is in the animal.”(Frazer 830). It is of some interest then to mention Henderson’s connection with his swine. Swine are well known for their ability to suffer with great exaggeration, they are noisome, and they protest quite avidly. Henderson bears a certain resemblance to the swine he keeps; one might suggest he embodies the spirit of the swine before his quest for renewal. It is Dahfu’s interest then to help to convert Henderson to embody the lion; “And he took me for an instance, and was determined that I should absorb lion qualities from his lion.”(Bellow 254). For with Henderson’s promotion to Sungo, Dahfu must look towards his potential successor. The ritualistic killing of the king in the face of impending weakness also serves to emulate the burning Phoenix, and it is a threat Dahfu takes quite seriously. But Henderson too has a need to be wary, should he take the king’s place, he will fall under the same mandate. Frazer expands on the subject of the ritualistic killing of the king, perhaps worse off is the Rain King himself; “The Khor-Adar Dinka told Dr. Seligman that when they have dug the grave for their rain-maker, they strangle him in his house…Even if a rain-maker is quite young he will be put to death should he seem likely to perish of disease.”(Frazer 326). Henderson’s lessons with Atti the lioness forward his own cycle of rebirth, in slow measures; this Tammuz is making his way out of the underworld.

As the Phoenix ends its existence in a fiery conflagration, so too does Henderson. Indeed, the spark given off from his disaster with the Arnewi people has grown ever so slightly. The near-constant reference to flames, burning or heat in the text supports Henderson’s immanent change. It is heat which provides the catalyst for change in Henderson’s time with King Dahfu, especially present is Henderson’s growing fever. At first a mild affliction, the fever has increased in severity and persistence by the time the hunt for Gmilo occurs. And it is the lion hunt which provides the all-consuming inferno that cocoons Henderson in his final change. Dahfu’s death as the result of the botched lion hunt propels Henderson into the fire. The very world he has come to integrate himself into has perished, and with the death of his “mentor” Henderson has no choice but to burn. As the Phoenix writhes in its sheaf of flames, so must Henderson in grief. The consuming fires do to Henderson what they did to Hercules, scorched by love the great hero succumbs to his pyre only to have the impurities of humanity burned away. What is left after such a conflagration? The makings of an Imago.
“…the fire is a fierce destructive power which blasts which blasts all the noxious elements, whether spiritual or material… According to one theory the fire is a stimulant, according to the other it is a disinfectant; on one view its virtue is positive, on the other it is negative.”(Frazer 771). The purifying qualities of fire lend themselves well to Henderson’s transformation. Like the Roman Hercules the endless wanting, the impurities, of Henderson have been done away with. When he is escorted back to the village, Henderson enters the stage of indifference with the mythical underworld he’s bound himself to. Isolation next to Dahfu’s body marks the period in the life-cycle of the Phoenix where none but ashes lay, after dying in the light of creation, the darker period of rebirth must commence.  The stirrings of life within Henderson’s nest of ash occur when he claims the lion cub; following Pythagoras’s teachings, Dahfu’s soul has transmigrated from man to maggot to lion. What can be assumed is that the lion cub actually represents Henderson’s rebirth, once a pig he has become a lion. From the ruins of a dying king, there issues forth life. And it is this new life which Henderson zealously protects and carries with him back to America.

The final image left near the end of Saul Bellow’s Henderson the Rain King is that of vitality and promise. The lion cub, child and even the image of Henderson prancing about at the novel’s end signal the completion of the Journey of Adonis, the emergence of Tammuz and the placement of Hercules among the stars. Henderson has brought fertility back to his kingdom, back to his heart which pleads and nags no more. The myth of the phoenix suits Henderson so well in the fact that death has no purchase. Life and death, cosmogony and eschatology, beginning a swine and emerging a lion, Henderson encapsulates the myth of the phoenix. And in the beauty of rebirth, the boorish American who suffered so exquisitely is able witness the wonder of the never-ending mythic. “Two smoothly gray eyes moved at me, greatly expanded into the whites-new to life altogether. They had that new luster. With it they had ancient power, too. You could never convince me that this was for the first time” (Bellow 339).








































Works Cited

Bellow, Saul. Henderson the Rain King. Harmondsworth, Middlesex, Eng.: Penguin, 1976. Print.


Frazer, James George. The Golden Bough. [Sioux Falls, SD]: Nuvision Publications, 2006. Print.

Rough Copy of Henderson Paper

The Eternal Henderson

When asked about the image of the mythic, what jars the mind is usually a breed of beauty, of eloquence and grace. Those stories which span the centuries speak to the modern generations of a past so romantic, it simply cannot be repeated. And so we weave the chaste mythic into our lives seamlessly; it paints frescoes of nude lovers in the homes of our CEOs, it sits primly in the background of our novels, it whispers sweetly as sunsets and moonrises follow their unyielding cycles. To contrast our terrible reality we blind ourselves with the pristine tales of those long dead. Except….expect when the mythic escapes our gilded cage and breaks its careful conditioning.  The bloody, the lustful, the boorish, the erratic, the cataclysmic, the flaming, the American mythology. In living with the real beast of mythology, there is perhaps a prime victim, and he goes by the name Henderson. It is in Saul Bellow’s genius to give the public a novel whose protagonist is so unbearable that it is his duty to display the mythic in its true form. Henderson the Rain King is not simply the tale of a man who lived life too passionately, it is recapitulation of the all-encompassing myth of the Phoenix.
It should be stated first and foremost that Henderson embodies the nature of a ruler from the very start, and as such, he bears the weight of a kingdom‘s life cycle. As it so happens Henderson’s kingdom is in a state of want. Henderson, being king of first his own domestic domain, is a king who is slowly reaching the end of his days. The constant push to feed his starving heart has left Henderson’s home in a state of decay. Though he is well-off, a father of five, married twice, and a war veteran, Henderson desires more. “But the voice within me continued, I want, I want!”(Frazer 32), it is from this insatiable wanting that Henderson makes his first large step into the spirit of the phoenix. Leaving his decaying life behind him, Henderson begins to build his funeral pyre; he enters the realm of Adonis, and from there the domain of the Fisher King.
The likeness between Henderson and the mythical Adonis resides partially in love. According to James Frazer, author of The Golden Bough, Adonis was originally under the same tale as Tammuz and Ishtar. It is from the core of this tale that Henderson’s trip to Africa is spurred. “…but we gather from them that every Tammuz was believed to die, passing away from the cheerful earth to the gloomy subterranean world, and that every year his divine mistress(Ishtar)journeyed in quest of him..”(Frazer 392). How does this fit into Henderson’s journey? Looking at Henderson’s driving passion in life, his unbearable wanting, it can be said that Henderson is “dying” in a sense when he makes the journey to Africa. In an abandonment of his wife, children and beloved pigs, Henderson has shed himself of his former life in order to descend “into the underworld”, aka, Africa. As Pythagoras explained of the phoenix’s life cycle, the bird first begins it’s death with the building of a funeral pyre. Henderson’s descent could be seen as a variation of this mythic preparation. And Henderson’s Aphrodite, his Ishtar? Henderson’s own wounded heart follows him to Africa. It is this bleeding aspect of his persona that further links Henderson to Adonis, the groin and the heart are far too easily exchanged in mythology. But in both respects the failure of the source of fertility has left the king with a barren land, as Aphrodite suffered at the death of Adonis, so Lily suffered at Henderson’s failing content with life.
“Am I responsible?” I said. “what’s the matter with you?”
“You and I have got to be together,” she said.
“Who says so?”
“we’ll die if we’re not,” she said.(Bellow 13)
Death upon separation from her loved one, Lily plays the role of Aphrodite, but it is not her journey into the underworld that need occur. Henderson’s salvation and rebirth lie with his journey into Africa, and his emulation of the tale of the Phoenix using the same route the Fisher King used.. He must heal his failing land by seeking out a replacement to bring fertility back , the mythological purification and renewal has begun.
In entering Africa, Henderson has retreated to yet another mythological plane, he has engaged himself in cosmogony. The power in the return to beginnings plays a powerful role for our Phoenix; the purity and clarity of the origin is a crucial spark to the spice nest of the ailing Henderson. “I have a feeling from it. Hell, it looks like the original place. It must be older than the city of Ur.” Even the dust had a flavor of great age, I thought, and I said, “I have a hunch this spot is going to be very good for me.”(Bellow 47). The home of the Arnewi tribe offers Henderson a place to essentially rebirth himself. Stripped down to the origin, Henderson’s intense longing finally dissipates, and he is granted the potential for redemption and renewal through both the woman of Bittahness Willatale and Mtalba. With Willatale, Henderson is able to find some manner of the remedy he seeks, “Grun-tu-molani. Man want to live.”(Bellow 85). As revealed by Wiilatale Henderson seeks life, and when Mtalbaegomaniacal tendencies to stall his quest. The mythology of destruction following the convivial beginnings requires little in the way of analyzing. Henderson must engage himself in the next stage of the Phoenix’s life  if he is to complete his heart’s remedy.

Upon entering the land of the Wariri and meeting with King Dahfu, Henderson is allowed another chance at rebirth. Faced with a king who is as much a captive of his people, Henderson takes it upon himself to once more set the world right by his standards. In moving the statue of Mummah, Henderson exposes himself to the stage of rape in his relationship with the mythic. In becoming Sungo, the rain king, Henderson begins his process of burning. “My spirit was awake and it welcomed life anew. Damn the whole thing! Life anew!”(Bellow 193). In the process of Henderson’s renewal, Dahfu reveals a similar Phoenix-like cycle of metamorphoses; his cycle revolving around the lion of course.
The external soul presented as an animal is but another expression of the phoenix cycle; “The lad dies as a man and comes to life again as an animal, the animal’s soul is now in him, and his human soul is in the animal.”(Frazer 830). It is of some interest then to mention Henderson’s connection with his swine. Swine are well known for their ability to suffer with great exaggeration, they are noisome, and they protest quite avidly. Henderson bears a certain resemblance to the swine he keeps, one might suggest he embodies the spirit of the swine before his quest for renewal. It is Dahfu’s interest then to help to convert Henderson to embody the lion; “And he took me for an instance, and was determined that I should absorb lion qualities from his lion.”(Bellow 254). For with Henderson’s promotion to sungo, Dahfu must look towards his potential successor. The ritualistic killing of the king in the face of impending weakness also serves to emulate the burning Phoenix, and it is a threat Dahfu takes quite seriously. But Henderson too has a need to be wary, should he take the king’s place, he will fall under the same mandate. Frazer expands on the subject of the ritualistic killing of the king, perhaps worse off is the Rain King himself; “The Khor -Adar Dinka told Dr. Seligman that when they have dug the grave for their rain-maker, they strangle him in his house…Even if a rain-maker is quite young he will be put to death should he seem likely to perish of disease.”(Frazer 326). Henderson’s lessons with Atti the lioness forward his own cycle of rebirth, in slow measures, this Tammuz is making his way out of the underworld.
As the Phoenix ends its existence in a fiery conflagration, so too does Henderson. Indeed, the spark given off from his disaster with the Arnewi people has grown ever so slightly. The near-constant reference to flames, burning or heat in the text supports Henderson’s immanent change. It is heat which provides the catalyst for change in Henderson’s time with King Dahfu, especially present is Henderson’s growing fever. At first a mild affliction, the fever  has increased in severity and persistence by the time the hunt for Gmilo occurs. And it is the lion hunt which provides the all-consuming inferno that cocoons Henderson in his final change. Dahfu’s death as the result of the botched lion hunt  propels Henderson into the fire. The very world he has come to integrate himself into has perished, and with the death of his “mentor” Henderson has no choice but to burn. As the Phoenix writhes in its sheaf of flames, so must Henderson in grief. The consuming fires do to Henderson what they did to Hercules, scorched by love the great hero succumbs to his pyre only to have the impurities of humanity burned away. What is left after such a conflagration? The makings of a god.

“…the fire is a fierce destructive power which blasts which blasts all the noxious elements , whether spiritual or material… According to one theory the fire is a stimulant , according to the other it is a disinfectant; on one view its virtue is positive, on the other it is negative.”(Frazer 771). The purifying qualities of fire lend themselves well to Henderson’s transformation. Like the Roman Hercules, the endless need, the impurities, of Henderson have been done away with. When he is escorted back to the village, Henderson enters the stage of indifference with the mythical underworld he’s bound himself to. Isolation next to Dahfu’s body marks the period in the life-cycle of the Phoenix where none but ashes lay, after dying in the light of creation, the darker period of rebirth must commence.  The stirrings of life within Henderson’s nest of ash occur when he claims the lion cub; following Pythagoras’s teachings, Dahfu;s soul has transmigrated from man to maggot to lion. What can be assumed is that the lion cub actually represents Henderson’s rebirth, once a pig he has become a lion. From the ruins of a dying king, there issues forth life. And it is this new life which Henderson zealously protects and carries with him back to America.
The final images left near the end of Saul Bellow’s Henderson the Rain King is that of vitality and promise. The lion cub, child and even the image of Henderson prancing about at the novel’s end signal the completion of the Journey of Adonis, the emergence of Tammuz and the placement of Hercules among the stars. Henderson has brought fertility back to his kingdom, back to his heart which pleads and nags no more. The myth of the phoenix suits Henderson so well in the fact that death has no purchase. Life and death, cosmogony and eschatology, retreating a swine and emerging a lion, Henderson encapsulates the myth of the phoenix. And in the beauty of rebirth, the boorish American who suffered so exquisitely is able witness the wonder of the never-ending mythic. “Two smoothly gray eyes moved at me, greatly expanded into the whites-new to life altogether. They had that new luster. With it they had ancient power, too. You could never convince me that this was for the first time”(Bellow 339)

Works Cited

Bellow, Saul. Henderson the Rain King. Harmondsworth, Middlesex, Eng.: Penguin, 1976. Print.


Frazer, James George. The Golden Bough. [Sioux Falls, SD]: Nuvision Publications, 2006. Print.

The Hungry Myth

"Hunger knows no friends but its feeder."-Aristophanes

This subject may be one we've beaten to death, but giving respect to the upcoming holiday, I think hunger needs its due via blog form.

Hunger, in its most basic form, represents the most basic of needs; it should come as little surprise then that over time it has come to take near-center stage in the mythic. The various forms hunger assumes range from its original physical manifestation to the symbolic and even to the obscure.

The physical form of hunger is easily observable in the Ovidian account of Erysichthon. The all-consuming hunger  he bears empties him of coin and house and eventually leads him to consume his own flesh. The consumption of human flesh has for most of history been considered a strict taboo, such as with the cases of Lycaon and Tereus. And there is a strict punishment for the consumption of human flesh, but in the case of Eryichthon the consumption of his own flesh only swerves to fulfill a punishment. This strange contradiction can be explained using Christianity.


 As a creation of the god(s), human flesh is sacred, having been formed by the divine. To Christanins, harming the flesh is akin to sinning against god, as the flesh was created by god; this is why suicide is considered a grave sin worthy of eternal damnation. To consume another's flesh is to take the creation of god away from the divine creator, it is also a perversion of the taking of Eucharist(this may not directly relate to poor Eryichthon's tale); and as most of us know, the gods do not like to be mocked. Therefore, cannibalism is traditionally taboo in order to prevent the wrath of the gods. But in the case of Erysichton, the self-cannibalism is all the more fitting, he not only falls prey to gluttony and loses all he has to own, he commits an even bigger fault by consuming his (sacred) flesh. His insult to himself is so large as to serve as an acceptable punishment in Demeter's eyes. He has been robbed of his his own flesh by his own hand. And therein lies the mythical power of physical hunger; it is a thief and a burden that leads to direct actions and punishments. 

The symbolic presence of hunger can be seen in fire. Fire could be seen as a mythical form of hunger due to its ability to consume endlessly, usually towards either the goal of destruction or recreation. For poor Phaethon, his hunger to assume the responsibilities of his father drove the very world to a fiery brink. The boy's greed thus led to his destruction by Jove. Fire can be seen here as the hunger that consumes those who disobey or ask too much, a scene often portrayed with most criminals and sinners from history. "Naturally enough the people who continued to burn his image came in time to identify it as the effigy of persons whom, on various grounds, they regarded with aversion, such as Judas Iscariot, Luther, and a witch."-page 781, The Burning of Effigies in a Fire. Fire consumes the wicked in a hunger parallel to the various acts of greed the wicked committed. But in the rare mythical case, fire serves to both destroy and create, such as with the case of Hercules. As he lay writhing on his funeral pyre, the flames from his shirt destroyed the mortal half of Hercules, but then allowed his divine half to take a place in the stars, allowing him to become a god. The flames also helped to destroy the mortal mistake of Deinera in her acceptance of Nessus's  venom-encrusted shirt. Her fault in her husband led to his death, a fault which the fire burned away. Fire is thus able to cleanse in its hunger as it is able to destroy. For physical proof of the mythical fire, simply look at today's volcanic eruptions and forest fires. Untold destruction followed by untold fertility.

I would very much like to continue this blog, but a helpful classmate has ever so kindly reminded me that I have a 10 a.m exam tomorrow, so until later, I shall have to forfeit the need to finish this blog and try to pick up the need to study. But some hungers don't come so easily...

Book VI of Ovid's Metamorphoses

Seeing as I haven't been keeping up with my Ovidian sentences, I thought it might be prudent to play a little catch-up today.

Book VI

Arachne: There's something to be said for humility in a craft.

Niobe: How many myths does it take for one to understand that braggarts rarely get anything but pain?

Marsyas: You want a piece of me?

Pelops: Unlike a certain modern-day vampire, Pelops really can claim to have skin of ivory...

Tereus, Procne, Philomela: How can you now say that a nightingale's song is soothing?

Refusing the Immortal

"Only in autumn days, as summer slowly faded, would their confidence again be dashed by doubts and misgivings at symptoms of decay, which told how vain were all their efforts to stave off for ever the approach of winter and of death."-The Myth of Adonis, page 390, James Frazer.


While enjoying the long weekend, I happened upon a copy of Pan's Labyrinth; having never seen the movie and having been told that it contained a wealth of mythology, I took it upon myself to give it a try, disturbing creatures and all. 


While entire tomes could be written about the material displayed in Pan's Labyrinth, what struck a particular cord with me was a Fairy Story Ofelia told to her unborn brother. The tale goes a little something like this:

Many, many years ago in a sad, faraway land, there was an enormous mountain made of rough, black stone. At sunset, on top of that mountain, a magic rose blossomed every night that made whoever plucked it immortal. But no one dared go near it because its thorns were full of poison. Men talked amongst themselves about their fear of death, and pain, but never about the promise of eternal life. And every day, the rose wilted, unable to bequeath its gift to anyone... forgotten and lost at the top of that cold, dark mountain, forever alone, until the end of time. 


How many times has mankind lamented death and aging, how many times have the poets and the artists portrayed a wasted life? In my estimation, the count would number in the thousands. And yet when given the chance to end pain, aging, and death; the journey is often met with fear. Refusing immortality is a theme I've found in both Ovid and Henderson the Rain King. Immortality is presented within an easy distance, but the person to whom it is presented refuses the gift or fails to reach it. This persistent failure to achieve immortality has a perplexing quality about it; what we yearn for most we can never acquire. But perhaps it is not that the desire for the gift of immortality is insufficient, but the poisonous thorns that surround it...

Often times, there is a price to pay for an endless, ageless life. Hercules gained his immortality only through a fiery rebirth, Ariadne suffered heartbreak for her place in the stars, and Callisto had to give up her very humanity to live in the heavens with her son. The Sybil of Cumae was granted her heart's desire, but in return lost her youth. Perhaps even more telling of the price of immortality are the stories where the gift fails to be received by its seeker. The Epic of Gilgamesh describes the intense need to remain in life, as so stated by the hero when he finds that his attempt to stay awake for 6 days and 7 nights has failed:
O woe! What do I do now, where do I go now?
Death has devoured my body,
Death dwells in my body,
Wherever I go, wherever I look, there stands Death!

Luckily for Gilgamesh, Utnapishtam takes pity and tells him where the plant of immortality resides, and yet, after his long and perilous journey, the plant is only stolen by a serpent. The great and heroic story of Gilgamesh thus ends with a lesson, one cannot defeat death. The great price of immortality would seem to be beyond the purchase of humanity. Certainly poor Henderson takes notice of the steep cost, here was a man with the potential to be a king, and thus have his name become immortal..and yet there is the fatal price to pay for such glory. It would seem that immortality cannot be reached without a most dire return. Which leads me to ponder the question of rules in respect to immortality.


It can be easily said that the gift of an eternal life requires an equal return, the question is why. What about the lonely rose sitting so prone at the top of the mountain demands life? Why must there be thorns on the rose? The answer is easily put; death. An immortal life suspends death, suspends the person or animal who attains the immortal from the normal cyclic motions of the universe. To look at it from Mircea Eliade's point of view, the cosmogonic cycle cannot be completed with death. Those rituals of renewal, of rebirth, cannot take place without the completion of the circle. Immortality thus breaks the strands of time and threatens the overall well-being of the universe. With no apocalypse, how can there be a new Eden? There is also the issue of suffering associated with Immortality, if the eternal subject is caught in a time of suffering, then they are doomed to continue in their suffering. Middles bring about misery, the full wrath of the stage of rape without any hope of moving forward to indifference or even returning to the stage of conviviality. The Sybil of Cumae has certainly found herself caught in this web, she continues her pain in her immortal life; she has broken with the normal cycles of the universe. but perhaps Henderson, the lucky fellow who so wisely refused immortality can sum up why the passage of time is necessary. 


"But maybe time was invented so that misery might have an end. So that it shouldn't last forever? There may be something to that."-page 314. As Henderson said, time keeps the cycles moving, and to be suspended from time to is prolong and dam the evolution of the cosmos. As Eliade states "...a true beginning can come only after a real end." Immortality denies ends and by doing so denies beginnings. So in truth, Immortality is less like eternal life, and more akin to eternal stasis, limbo in the great wake of time. This, then, is the reason for the poisoned thorns, if a life is to be put on eternal hold, there must be some sort of compensation for the break in time. The lonely rose of Ofelia's tale was meant to be so, the threat of death acted as a deterrent for the greater tragedy of Immortal life. 

 But do not fret the implications of achieving immortality, the rules that surround eternal life can be easily slipped past. While physical immortality is problematic, immortality within the arts is all too easily attained. Should you wish for your name to persist throughout the ages, simply turn to mythology. Ovid achieved his place in time, and so may anyone, if they have sense enough to write down their stories. When bodies lay in their graves, mythologies will prance around the headstones and dance along the roads, singing of immortality to anyone who listens. 

What's What in Chapter 4 of Myth and Reality

One had to cram all this stuff into one's mind for the examinations, whether one liked it or not. This coercion had such a deterring effect on me that, after I had passed the final examination, I found the consideration of any scientific problems dis”

Albert Einstein  I've read it, I've highlighted it, and now I'm here to summarize (and/or note important passages)it in convenient cram-style bullet points. Here's to the exam! The end of the world is not final, rather it is often the end of one human race, followed by the appearance of another. The end of the world in the past and that which is to take place in the future both represent the mythico-ritual system of the New Year festival projected on the macrocosmic scale and given an unusual amount of intensity. Andamanese language has no future tense The rarest myths among "primitives"  are those that do not mention the recreation of the world.  The punishment of sins usually means the subsequent creation of a new humanity. "I have devoured too many corpses, I am filled from it, and I am exhausted. Do make an end of it, my father!"-myth of the Guarani. The cycles of degradation prey on the universe as well, and as such, it requires renewal. Doctrine of the destruction of the world-Pralaya  Four ages of the world-Yugras, Indian culture "And then everything will begin over again-ad infinitum." The indian doctrine: man does not want eternal re-creation, his goal is to escape the cosmic cycle." "The end has no meaning except for the human condition; man can halt the process of transmigration in which he is blindly carried along." Aristotle-2 catastrophes occurred at 2 solstices, the conflagratio(summer) and the diluvium(winter). Judaeo-Christian belief: There is a judgement, a selection, and only the chosen will live in eternal bliss. The reign of an antichrist is in some sense equivalent  to a return to chaos. Nazism and Communism are loaded with eschatological elements.  Large millennialist movement-Melanesian "cargo-cult". Artists seek to return to chaos in order to pave the way for their own artwork. This is important work as artists encompass the largest percentage of their culture's creative force. Artists can at times anticipate what is to come a few generations down the line. The destruction of artistic languages has coincided with the rise of psychoanalysis.  Artists are healthier psychically than many modern men.  Artists understand that only true new beginnings can happen only after a real end.  Artists destroy their world so that man can live and dream and contemplate.  We can do it!

Parasites

"In ancient times infection by parasitic worms was common. The filarial worm Dracunculus medinensis aka "the fiery serpent", aka "the dragon of Medina" aka "the guinea worm" crawled around the victim's body, just under the skin. Physicians treated this infection by cutting a slit in the patient's skin, just in front of the worm's path. As the worm crawled out the cut, the physician carefully wound the pest around a stick until the entire animal had been removed. It is believed that because this type of infection was so common, physicians advertised their services by displaying a sign with the worm on a stick."-Keith Blayney, Independent Hawera General Practitioner 




Allow me to indulge in an extended metaphor, perhaps it may prove to be tenuous but as I said, indulge me. This might be a bit of a stranger blog...

Asclepius, son of Coronis and Apollo carried with him a rod with a snake wound about it. In and of itself, the rod is a harmless thing that has now become a world-wide symbol for the art of healing. However, as explained in the above quote, parasitic infections in ancient times were quite common and it is entirely plausible that the method used to rid one's body of Dracunculus medinensis evolved into the myth of Asclepius' rod. The snake being exchanged for a leg-dwelling nematode of course. The point I try to make here being the relationship between the mythic and the parasitic. I use the case of the nematode and the rod only as physical proof that the  mythological does indeed carry the characteristics of parasitic relationship with humanity.

Looking back on the three stages in our relationship with the Gods, I'll bring up the first stage; conviviality. The point at which the gods and humans lie with one another in peace. The Golden Age where balance is present and active. In respect to parasitic relations, optimum virulence is in effect. Host and parasite coincide peacefully. Lycaon has yet to offend the gods, and Jove hasn't eyeballed poor Io yet. In this stage of the "infestation"what is mythic serves only to enrich life. However, as Mircea Eliade tells us "Whatever endures wastes away, degenerates, and finally perishes." Alas, conviviality must yield to the second, far more violent stage.

It is the stage of Rape that perhaps offers the greatest look into the parasitic relationship the gods hold between themselves and humanity. It is this penetrating stage that the gods begin to demand prayer, sacrifice and open acknowledgment. They directly and often times painfully intrude themselves into the lives of mortals. Jove, for example, successfully forces himself upon a great number of humans and leaves with a wake of both physical aftershocks as well as emotional. Minerva doles out her rage against poor Arachne and also leaves a violent footprint. The stage of Rape allows the mythic to take on a "physical" presence within humanity. The twisting, squirming characteristics of myth burrow so close to humanity that they causes direct suffering. The mythical has achieved a life of its own and finds acknowledgment in daily life. As for the hosts, the mortals, life must be lived according to the parasite; prayer, sacrifice, ritual ect. The gods ride along with their hosts, be they daemon or demon. Is it any wonder then, that humanity would start to search for a "cure" to the mythic, start seeking the stick in which to draw the myth out; to have the shocking, living myth exorcised, and the stage of rape completed?

"Sometimes, instead of chasing the demon of disease from their homes, savages prefer to leave him in peaceful possession, while they themselves take flight and attempt to prevent him from following in their tracks"-Frazer, The Public Expulsion of Evils, pg. 660.  Much like the "savages" that Frazer mentions, modern day society has managed to expel the parasitic mythological. We live in the 3rd stage of indifference, where myth only interacts with those in a forceful way in the darker regions of the world, where science has yet to stake a hold. We've left the stage of Rape and prevented it's following us through science and logic. These are the sticks which draw the intrusive mythological from the world. Without the living myth writhing within popular society, it has continued on only as a background. Science allows us to say "Plagues are caused by bacteria and viruses. There are no angry deities that send forth misfortune and death. We are in control of our own lives." And without the need or drive to appease and give thanks to potentially volatile gods, we are content to look at Asclepius' rod and say that while it is a lovely story, it is not a true or relevant tale. The parasitic myth now lies cured.

There's a slight issue with curing a particularly old disease. Sometimes the body itself denies the fact that the disease is no more and launches into extreme measures whenever the slightest little bug is detected. See Chrohn's Disease for example; it just so happens to be a disease of the rich. Too much clean water has led the development of a chronic illness that causes a great deal of pain with no hope of a cure. In respect to the mythological, there's a similar issue with trying to "cure" it. Living with myths has flooded and nourished the creative souls of our many cultures over the millenniarises, trees whisper to one another, and artists constantly refer to their lazy muses.

Perhaps I was too harsh in saying that what is mythological is parasitic and painful; as I've learned to see in everyday life myths permeate every fiber of the life around us. The stage of indifference then, is more marked by a symbiotic relationship with myths. We take what we need of the mythic, and in return, myths get to live on inside of us. A quiet, but essential part of our humanity.

Imago

"The multitude being assembled, the priests solemnly incensed the girl who personated the goddess;then they drew her on her back on the heap of corn and seeds, cut off her head, caught the gushing blood in a tub, and sprinkled the blood on the wooden images of the goddess..."-Frazer, Killing the God in Mexico, page 709


The God of death lay still and silent upon the floor, sapphire eyes locked upwards towards the blue roof of his world. His enchanting limbs lying prone and listless, his flesh pale, his animated mouth still. In this tiny transparent world, the apocalypse had come. Shiva, Hindu God of Death, was gone. And it was with a heavy heart that the goddess of Shiva's own world flushed him down the dorm toilet. Just one of the many apocalypses that day.

"...the end of the world has already occurred, although it is to be repeated in a more or less distant future." States Mircea Eliade in chapter 4 of his Myth and Reality. I find this particular statement to be correct, the world has ended, and it continues to end each and every day. The apocalypse is a regular event in my own opinion, required for a normal and productive life.

World and Earth  have two very different meanings if viewed with the right perspective. Worlds are fragile, frighteningly insecure places we build around us. My world would be vastly different from anyone else's, and the world according to those whom are featured in Myth and Reality would be even more alien. But no matter what worlds we concern ourselves with, they routinely meet destruction and mayhem. As they are supposed to. However, when looking at Earth, I can only say it suffers minor changes. Tectonic plates move, the atmosphere changes, volcanoes erupt, but all in all the earth itself remains the same. I have yet to witness our Earth undergo an apocalypse and explode into flame while being sucked into the dark vortex that used to be our sun. That particular end is still some time off in the distant future.

But back to the subject of the everyday apocalypse, back to those spider-spin worlds we construct. Say your house burns down or your loved one leaves you, or even if your garden fails; apocalypse. Say your favorite jeans become so worn they must be thrown away, your cherished mug cracks and must be replaced, your grandmother fails to see you with her poor sight; apocalypse. Our tiny worlds so often and so daily meet their ends that I cannot help but agree with Eliade's statement. The end of the world has already been, and will soon again be. We build our Edens and we strike them down only to build them up again. And like the Phoenix Pythagoras describes, we rise new and young from the ashes of our worlds.The Apocalypse is merely change in some form or another. As Eliade tells us at the close of chapter 4 "They have understood that a true new beginning can come only after a real end.". Therefore, before change can enter, our worlds must meet their own apocalypses.

While destruction and change are never quite without pain, there is comfort at the end of the world. "For all things change, but no thing dies." says Pythagoras, the mythic is there to remind us of the comfort and safety at the world's end. Hercules nearly burned on his pyre, but he did not die; and Ariadne nearly lost her heart, but Bacchus offered her a place among the stars. No matter the brutality of the end, it is merely a change into another state. To look at Frazer's quote above, the Aztec corn-goddess(the girl impersonating her anyways) met with a particularly nasty end. And yet, in her end there is a beginning; "Lastly, the concluding act of the sacred drama, in which the body of the dead Maize Goddess was flayed and her skin worn, together with all her sacred insignia by a man who danced before the people in this grim attire, seems to be best explained on the hypothesis that it was intended to ensure that the divine death should be immediately followed by the divine resurrection."(Frazer 710). Only change here, only the usual end of the world so a new one might be brought in.

The ancient and the mythic bring us relief and respite in those times our worlds lie dying in their tiny glass cases. And those cases, like the cocoon Caterpillars must weave,offer a "little" death to become something greater. The apocalypse is simply change, the cliche transformation of worm to winged. Your fish dies, and your skin wrinkles. But in the end of the world, there can be only metamorphoses. And it will happen in the more or less distant future, again and again.

Into The Sublime

"Often the soul is conceived as a bird ready to take flight."-Frazer , The Perils of  the Soul page 218

I should not like to say that sublime experiences are rare, for I know that both myself and a small circle of friends experience the sublime many times a week, sometimes every day of the week. It is an experience that invites awe and disgust, wondrous joy and petrifying fear;  there are stunning landscapes with characters right out of the storybooks and buildings the imagination can only play at. The experience I speak of not only encompasses myth, but has surely aided in the creation of a great many myths. Yes indeed, the experience I speak of is that brief and terrible moment between sleep and awakening, that sublime moment where dreams just might be a reality.

No one is bereft of this sublime experience, every soul under the sun has had some memorable nightmare or dream. Hasn't everyone woke in a cold sweat thinking  that monster lying in wait under their bed was very much real? Hasn't everyone touched the mysterious and the vexing while in sleep, only to stir into wakefulness to find that the "real world" has no patience for their wonderlands? Most people I know have experienced such, and most will agree that the moment between dream and reality is indeed as frightening as it is supreme. 

What I find to be the most sublime part of that half minuet in bed is the possibility of the impossible. For just that awful, intoxicating moment, myth has free range. I can clearly see Europa being carried off by Jove into the waves, I can hear her soft pleas and reach out to drag her bag with my own hand, I can feel fear and concern for the poor girl as she disappears off to the horizon, and for the moment, it is all real. The demons and evils that plague my nightmares reside alongside the Gods and virtues that languidly roam my dreamscapes. And for that 30 second interval between dream and reality, the world becomes a richer place. 

"The soul of a sleeper is supposed to wander away from his body and actually visit the places, to see the persons, and to perform the acts of which he dreams."-Frazer, page 218. If what Frazer states above is true to any extent, then we need not concern ourselves with sorrow over the reduction of the mythic, for the mythic lives within us, emerging into the "real world" in that ever-so sublime moment when we come to wake to the day.   

Can there possibly be a more sublime experience then being caught between myth and reality? Where the "glitches in the matrix" need not be seen out of the corner of your eye,and where mythic clues are mythic tomes. 

Book V sentances

"When Basutos of the mountains have  killed a very brave foe, they immediately cut out the heart and eat it, because this is supposed to give them his courage and strength in battle." -Homeopathic Magic Of A Flesh Diet, Frazer-page 597

Proetus: All the arms of his conquest could not save poor Proteus from the gaze of a most "bewitching" lady.

Polydectes: Another skeptic struck still as a statue in the face of proof.

Minerva, The Muses, Pegasus: The Muses finally win a compliment from Minerva herself.

Pyreneus: A man who would dare to take the Muses by force aught to have his dreams "toppled".

Ceres & Proserpina: Though much can be said on this story, I would like to note the appearance of the very real phenomenon, the earthquake that drew Pluto out of his underground lair.

A few mythic clues and a very bad day...

Over the weekend and spilling into Monday, I kept my eyes peeled for the "glitch in the matrix". And I must say I did not need to look very far indeed....

The first mythic clue came to me in the form of my roommate. It was a Saturday night and a couple of friends and I were taking my roommate out for a bit of dancing, as it was her birthday. The moment we entered the dance hall my roommate was coated with male attention, and at first she very much enjoyed this, but as the night persisted, so did one particular young man. It came to the point where my roommate actually took flight in order to escape the young man's attentions, she ran out the dance hall and onto the street before my friends and I were able to catch up to her. What image came to my mind as we escorted my roommate back to the dorm was that of Apollo and Daphne, one poor girl running from a powerfully unwanted partner.

The second clue arrived in the form of a spider, not some feeble thing that lazed about on the wall, no, this was a spider to remember. The arachnid has poised itself in the corner of my dorm hall, a small web near my shoe as I walked past. I accidentally tore part of the web from the wall and the spider bolted for me. It was quite the large, angry creature, and very persistent in its pursuit of me. After a bit of swatting and foul language, the spider retreated to a higher corner of the wall and fixed its eyes on me in the most unnerving way. I have never seen, nor do I think I ever will again, such utter hatred displayed in a spider. Therefore, I came to think of this particular menace as one of Arachne's get; a furious little stub of her progeny that was angry with me for destroying all of its hard spinning.

The third clue came to me on Monday, which also happened to a very bad day...

I was walking back to my dorm at about 4 in the morning when I stopped to catch my breath quickly. It between my harried breaths and my footsteps that I came to notice how quiet it was. No dogs barking, no people talking, no bikes or longboards, not even the whisper of the wind. I think that perhaps this was the most important mythic clue I had encountered, the silence. When the din of modern society faded, all that was left was what was in Illo Tempore. Only the echo of the beginning could be heard, and in that soft resonating silence, I could hear every myth known to man.
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On another, more disgusting note, I bring you the tale of one very bad Monday....
It all began with a morning snack of beef jerky, (purchased at a gas station I might add) my roommates and I enjoyed those meaty tidbits up until around 11 in the morning, when our stomachs announced their displeasure. Lunch was forgone, and the afternoon was spent by all in a great deal of pain. Eventually the pain ceased and we moved on towards the Library in order to study. One roommate, let's call her "Wendy", was still in a bit of pain, and as we went out to hunt down a table, she complained that the pain was growing worse. When tears began to run down her eyes, I suggested we visit the ER. Wendy and "Kate" journeyed towards the dorm to fetch a few items whilst I fetched my car. When I got to the dorm Wendy was howling in pain and Kate was shoving her into my frontseat. I sped away only to find that Kate had not grabbed a GPS, I didn't know where the hospital was located, Wendy cursed my stupidity and commanded that I drive forward into the unknown. I eventually found my way to the hospital when Wendy began to scream into my ear and howl obscenities towards both myself and Kate, this must have upset her stomach for she emptied it on both my frontseat and myself. Stinking like a cur, I hauled Wendy into the ER and then left to park the car. Half an hour later, Wendy was situated in a stylish hospital gown and still screaming in the most foul language available. One more hour passed before Wendy was hooked up to a lovely IV full of morphine and was quieted.

We got to that hospital at 8:30 at night, and we didn't leave until 4 in the morning. I dropped Kate and Wendy(who was fine by now, having a body pumped full of painkillers) off at the door and left to park my fouled car. Of course there were no spots near the dorm, and of course I had to park on the opposite side of campus, coated in my friend's stomach acid. The smell of my car was nightmare-inducing, but what could be done? So I left it for another hour's concern and walked towards my dorm, alone, jacket-less, and smelling like I'd just enjoyed a long stay in the 2nd circle of Hell.

Reflections

Did you happen to know you are blind?
Did you happen to know you are deaf?
Did you happen to know that your precious tongue can't taste or that your wonderfully sensitive fingertips can't feel?

You don't believe me? But of course you don't, as you have full capacity of your senses.Though I must ask you, just how much faith do you put in your own perceptions?

• Rattlesnakes are able to detect heat signatures in the dead of night.
• Owls can see up to 150 yards by candlelight.
• Dolphins can hear sounds up to 100,000 HZ.
• Honeybees have iron oxide strips that help them to detect the Earth's magnetic fields,
• Crayfish have hairs that can detect movement up to.1 microns,
• Sharks have electrosensensing receptors along their bodies.
• Ants can see polarized light

In our last class lecture the subject of the "real world" was brought up, along with the frame stories we all live in. Ashley Arcel posted a highly enlightening blog that served to inspire this one, it is her perception of the "real world" that I find most intriguing and I would like to jump on her bandwagon(from a slightly differing perspective however). In her blog, Ashley stated the following:

“I think we need to learn to just let things be. Stop picking so much, stop trying to understand everything down to the last infinitesimal speck of matter. Stop taking things so literally. And most of all, stop entertaining the notion that there's a 'real' world out there that we need to become a part of. We're wrong, I think, to ever hold that idea - this is the real world, or at least - it's as real as it's ever going to get.”

The notion of the "real world" is indeed not something we can entertain. How can we dare to say the we, who's senses fall spectacularly short in the great order of organisms, understand and are able to construct the actual world around us? We squint with our poor eyes and fumble with our sticky, numb fingers for the truth in the universe. And with those half -seen hazy results, we declare that myths are child's folly, helpful to those primitive societies denied to scientific facts. Spiders do not count their origin to poor Arachne, Leda was never visited by a swan and the Laurel tree has no claim to romance.

And yet, what does the honeybee see when it nears a flower? What lies hidden in that spectrum of light we are not privy to? Who's to say the wolf didn't once try to serve the gods human flesh? What, I ask, lies in the half-light of our vision and consciousness?

The world, my friends, is one devoted to science, as it should. But myths cannot simply be relegated to childish rubbish. If the world finds truth in accurate perception, cannot dreams of the fantastic and stories of the mythic be real and truthful? Feel fear and it is real, bite back the sting of pain, and it is real, gaze lovingly towards the thing you care for, and it is real. So if myth and dream inspire those very real emotions, why can't there be truth and "real world" meaning to them?

So yes, as Ashley said; stop picking, stop trying to stop trying to understand everything down to the last infinitesimal speck of matter. "As long as it persists, we can say that modern man preserves at least some residues of "mythological behavior". Traces of such a mythological behavior can also be deciphered in the desire to rediscover the intensity with which one experienced something for the first time; and also in the desire to recover the distant past, the blissful period of "beginnings." -Mircea Eliade, page 193. Myth, then, according to Eliade, is in our scientific pursuits, in our very truths. See paleontologists, psychologists, teachers and lawyers, all in the business of truth.

To see myth, we need only to view life in a different light. The "real world" is only as real and as factual as we make it to be. So the next time you see that flicker in the corner of your eye, or hear a song on the wind, think, if only for a moment, what the honeybee would see.
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Believing what cannot be seen, I think they call this "faith" correct? So then, have faith in the mythic, I know I soon will.