Autumn

The old forest was nearing the time of talking.

Sap ran cold, and the first hints of color tinged the foliage. The tame trees in the field bore their fruit, and the men plucked the children from their reaching arms. Year after year, the future was lost. The cold hit the hearts of the tame trees, same as the others, but the tame trees said nothing, and died silently, without complaint.

The wild old trees, on the other hand, pumped their blood with hearts too slow for ears to hear, and awaited their voices.

Hush.

The first autumn breezes blew. The cold October gray smeared away the last of the green, and the ancient tongues began moving.

The oaks spoke first, in their solemn groans. Old men, they twitched their leaves and encouraged the young to whisper along. One by one, the others breathed the wind's breath and sang the wind's song. Maple, ash, birch, twitchy as crickets, and talking soft.

The great pine said nothing. His needles held nature's gold, fresh as July clippings. The other trees paid no mind and sang on.

A week passed, and the milky cotton of the sky turned sick and poured out rains. Leaves fell, and the voices became quieter.

Still, they talked. The nature of their words was changed. The impending sleep weighed heavy on their minds, and they began to envy the old pine for his immortality. They hissed questions to him, but his needles offered nothing, and their queries went unanswered.

The wind that had given them their voices was as steadily taking them away, plucking their leaves, their tongues, and burying them in time. The once full aspens that had quivered in ecstasy at the discovery of expression now shuddered, empty and afraid.

Days passed, each hour bringing deeper desperation. Leaf fluttered, broke, fluttered, fell.

The final minutes of speaking were disjointed and weary. Then the wind took back its gift, and the last tree fell silent.

The old pine sat alone, buried alive, caressed occasionally by an old corpse hand. His center ached, and his blood ran cold as all the others, but he found no rest. A bleary haze of loneliness descended.

The pine stirred at the sound of footsteps. Two men were picking their way through the graveyard. They drew near.

Swish-thunk, swish-thunk, the silver blade flashed. The survivor was too cold to feel at first, and the men swung their hatchets unhindered. Soon, they reached the tender core, and sap trickled more and more from each blow. The tree shuddered, but his needles gave no cry. He suffered in silence.

Swish, thunk, crack. The heart was pierced. The pine wheezed, shocked at his own sudden voice. He whimpered a moment, unsure.

And with one breaking groan of agony and relief, the old tree fell.



Fall does weird things to me. This was just some cathartic writing, not edited or anything. I wish I was more capable of expressing these feelings. They're really exquisite.

Update?

I feel like a crappy blog owner, because when I started this blog, I wanted to use it as a sort of e-journal thing. Because unless I feel particularly passionate, I don't usually write down my experiences. Lately, it seems to have become a dumping ground for all of my random whims and notions; half finished essays and semi-thought-out ramblings litter the "drafts" page. I'm not saying I'm upset about it. On the contrary - I'm quite pleased with the result of some of the stuff. I just feel that perhaps, once a month at least, I can actually come out and say what's going on in my life.

And so we go!

I work, and go to school, and sleep sometimes.

Wow . . . Now I remember why I focus on ambiguous metaphysical stuff. It's a heckuva lot more interesting.

People

"Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave; no one was saved."
-Paul McCartney, "Eleanor Rigby"

Ouch

Prof. Griggs ripped my draft apart. He said that I have a beautiful style, but that I can't quite control it. I think he also accused me of "logorrhea." He said that my first paragraph was full of crap statements that didn't really mean much (my words, not his). It wasn't all bad. He commended me on being literate, and told me that he was going to hold me to a higher standard than my colleagues, because I was obviously more capable. He fussed over a few phrases I had used, and challenged me to closely examine every word to make sure it has the feeling and definition that I need and want. He also jokingly said that I would be really good at writing really bad novels. :)

Thus, after two more hours of work and rewriting:

Trading Blood for Tears

Sorrow has long been one of mankind’s closest companions. Whether it sprang from a box, or trickled with the sweet juices of a tempting fruit, bitter sadness has plagued humanity for centuries. Because of this longstanding relationship between mortality and tragedy, sorrow is often a central theme in ancient writings. Homer’s Iliad – despite the fact that a large portion of it is devoted to records of violence and hostility – is not the quintessential “war epic” it first appears to be, but rather an astute commentary on the import of sorrow not only in mortal lives, but in immortal lives as well, and in the drawing together of the two.

The lives of the humans in The Iliad are much more complicated – and more importantly more sad – than is sometimes acknowledged. Two particular scenes leap out of the continuous stream of battles and bloodshed: the discussion between Hektor and Andromache, and Priam’s plea to Achilleus (Il. VI, XXIV).

The scene between Hektor and his family is one of the most moving displays of emotion in literature. Hektor’s dear wife, Andromache, entreats him not to go to war, as she fears for his life. She cries, “For me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief” (Il. VI:410-413). Hektor replies that he will not surrender his honor, and intends to fight (Il. VI:440-461). Homer then goes on to describe Andromache’s state after hearing her husband’s decision: “[She] mourned in his house over Hektor while he was living still, for [she] thought he would never again come back from the fighting alive” (Il. VI:500-502). And so the wife of Hektor spends the last few days of her husband’s life as if he has already passed on, living in a state of sorrow for what will come.

The second memorable scene from The Iliad involves two enemies. Priam, king of Troy, has lost his son Hektor to the warrior Achilleus. With the help of divinities who pity his sorrow, Priam approaches Achilleus to beg for his son’s body, that he may properly bury him (Il. XXIV:485-506). The true tragedy of the situation is summed up in one line: “The two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet of Achilleus and wept close for manslaughtering Hektor and Achilleus wept now for his own father, now again for Patroklos” (Il. XXIV:509-512). Two men, divided by a war, share the tears that are blind to such division. Together, they weep for what has already come to pass and cannot be undone.

These two examples portray the raw human pain that springs from the fury of war. While the audience is accosted with accounts of battle after battle, until they all run together into a mass of angry chaos, these two interludes are quite distinct (Griggs, class). Homer describes these sad scenes with a softer tone, and the gravity of such emotion is evident in its contrast to the repetitive feeling of the war passages. When tragic situations such as these arise, those same battle accounts that cause the sorrow seem to be nothing more than a tool to convey the emotion of the poet’s true concern: the utter consumption of mortal life by tragedy.

However, it is not only mortals who suffer in these old stories. Gods, too, are vulnerable to sorrow. In the very beginning of The Iliad, the mother of Achilleus shows surprising sympathy for her son’s grief and shame. We see the depth of her pain when Homer says, “Thetis answered him then letting the tears fall: ‘Ah me, my child. Your birth was bitterness’” (Il, I:413-414). Thetis, a goddess of Olympus, sits beside her mortal son and weeps for the pain he must endure.

This Greek story bears a semblance to the account of Enoch in Heaven. According to Moses, “it came to pass that the God of heaven looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept” (Moses 7:28). The great and powerful God of men sat and wept on behalf of all his children. One cannot read such a passage and remain unmoved. The pain of a deity, in whom we wholeheartedly believe, is incredibly poignant. It is relatable; as humans, we can read such passages and draw from our own experience to try to comprehend that divine mourning.

So what is the purpose of sorrow? What could possibly be the benefit of living such a tragic existence? Simply, we experience sorrow to relish the deific connection it creates. If mankind didn’t know sorrow, deities would have no need for pity; conversely, if gods knew no sadness, they would not understand humans, and man would be left alone. The role of sorrow is absolutely crucial.

As humans, our earthly endeavor is to please our gods, and ideally, become like them. We emulate our deities in every manner we can conceive. The race of men is a race of creators – albeit not yet functioning at a level of deific proficiency. Every experience we have is a step in the process to achieve divinity. We read histories of our gods, learn how they speak, and how they act. We lay out rules and guidelines for living in a manner agreeable to these higher beings, in the hopes that they will take pity on us, and that their sorrows will sympathize with our own. Thus, as our gods weep, so do we.

Unfortunately our mortality gets in the way, sometimes. Rather than seeking to emulate our gods through appreciation of divine joy in addition to sorrow, we may be tempted to settle for the sorrow alone. This pain, while as passionate as joy, will not suffice. Only by ending our search for new causes of sorrow, and acknowledging the divinity of sorrow itself can we hope to discover its opposite, and truly trade the lowly shedding of blood for the shedding of pure, divine tears of both sorrow and joy.

I think it reads much better now. Yay constructive criticism!

Liar

I'm a liar. I didn't post this dumb thing this morning. Rather, I spent the majority of the day screwing around with it myself, before actually getting it down in a form that other people can comprehend. Still, here it is, to read and enjoy.

Trading Blood for Tears

Sorrow has long been one of mankind’s closest companions. Whether it sprang from a box or trickled with the sweet juices of a tempting fruit, bitter sadness has plagued humanity for centuries. Oddly, though humans have lived with it for so long, the role of this sorrow is frequently downplayed. People tend to view it as nothing more than the result of a larger issue, the unimportant aftermath of a more noteworthy situation. Despite the fact that a large portion of ancient texts are devoted to records of war and hostility, sorrow itself is often the writer’s true focus.

Homer’s Iliad is a perfect example of this idea. While at first it appears to be the quintessential “war epic,” upon further examination of the story, concepts far beyond simple contention become apparent. The lives of the mortals in this epic are much more complicated – and more importantly more sad – than is generally acknowledged. Two particular scenes leap out of the continuous stream of battles and bloodshed: the discussion between Hektor and Andromache, and Priam’s plea to Achilleus.

The scene between Hektor and his family is one of the most moving displays of emotion in literature. Hektor’s dear wife, Andromache, entreats him not to go to war, as she fears for his life. She cries, “And for me it would be far better to sink into the earth when I have lost you, for there is no other consolation for me after you have gone to your destiny – only grief” (Il. VI:410-413). Hektor replies that he will not surrender his honor, and intends to fight (Il. VI:440-461). Homer then goes on to describe Andromache’s state after hearing her husband’s decision: “[She] mourned in his house over Hektor while he was living still, for [she] thought he would never again come back from the fighting alive” (Il. VI:500-502). And so the wife of Hektor spends the last few days of her husband’s life as if he has already passed on, living in a state of sorrow for what will come.

The second memorable scene from The Iliad involves two enemies. Priam, king of Troy, has lost his son Hektor to the warrior Achilleus. With an entirely broken heart, Priam approaches Achilleus to beg for his son’s body, that he may properly bury him (Il. XXIV:485-506). The true tragedy of the situation is summed up in one line: “The two remembered, as Priam sat huddled at the feet of Achilleus and wept close for manslaughtering Hektor and Achilleus wept now for his own father, now again for Patroklos” (Il. XXIV:509-512). Two men, divided by war, share the mutual tears that seep up from battlegrounds, born from the blood of the fallen.

These two scenes portray the raw human pain that springs from the fury of War. But when the audience is confronted with situations such as these, those same battle accounts that cause the sorrow seem to be nothing more than a tool to convey the emotion of the poet’s true concern: the utter consumption of mortal life by tragedy.

However, it is not only mortals who suffer in these old stories. Gods, too, are vulnerable to sorrow. In the very beginning of The Iliad, the mother of Achilleus shows surprising sympathy for her son’s grief and shame. We see the depth of her pain when Homer says, “Thetis answered him then letting the tears fall: ‘Ah me, my child. Your birth was bitterness’” (Il, I:413-414). Thetis, a goddess of Olympus, sits beside her mortal son and weeps for the pain he must endure.

This Greek story mirrors almost exactly the Christian account of Enoch in Heaven. According to Moses 7:28, “it came to pass that the God of heaven looked upon the residue of the people, and he wept.” The great and powerful God of all men sat and wept on our behalf. One cannot read such a passage and remain unmoved. The pain of a deity, of one in whom we wholeheartedly believe, is incredibly poignant. It is relatable; as humans, we can read such passages and draw from our own experience to try to comprehend that divine mourning.

But why is mankind doomed to sorrow? What could possibly be the benefit of living such a tragic existence? Simply, we experience sorrow to relish the deific connection it creates. As humans, our earthly endeavor is to please our gods, and ideally, become like them. We emulate our deities in every manner we can conceive. The race of men is a race of creators – albeit not yet functioning at a level of deific proficiency. Every experience we have is a step in a process to achieve divinity. We read histories of our gods, learn how they speak, and how they act. We lay out rules and guidelines for living in a manner agreeable to these higher beings, in the hopes that they will take pity on us and allow us to be raised up to more than we naturally are. Thus, as our gods weep, so do we.

Such a pursuit – to actualize our potential – is hardly of small import. Unfortunately, as humans, we are often overwhelmed by the intensity of our task. Rather than seeking to emulate our gods through divine joy in addition to sorrow, we settle for the tragedy alone. This pain, while equally as passionate as joy, will not suffice. Only by recognizing our mistake of searching for new causes of sorrow rather than appreciating the divinity of sorrow itself can we hope to discover its opposite, and truly trade the lowly shedding of blood for the shedding of pure, divine tears of both sorrow and joy.

Phoo. It's sort of ambiguous, no? Hopefully the teacher is into that sort of thing.

Overanalysis

I was driving home from work, thinkin' about my Civ paper and how I wanted to word different parts, when suddenly, Snow White popped into my head.

So then I was thinking about Snow White, and how the 7 dwarfs must be a metaphor for the 7 days it took God to create the world, and how the poison apple was a symbol for . . . well, duh. And then the whole "true love's kiss" was a representation of the love of Christ, and that His is the only way to salvation.

And then I remembered that Snow White is a Disney movie, and that I was really tired. Then I felt foolish.

Such are my thought processes on a daily basis.

P.S. My paper is due on Tuesday, but I'll hopefully have a finished draft on Monday morning, so comments and editing things are welcome. :)

Beatlemania

Over the past month, I have come to a realization that I feel will be a defining shift in my life:

I love the Beatles.

I've always liked them, but something just snapped and now I absolutely ADORE them.

Especially Paul McCartney. He's a lyrical god, and a vegetarian. How awesome is that?

Hard Days Night is now one of my favorite movies, and Help! wasn't bad either. The LRC folks think I'm a bit crazy, though, as in the past two days I have come in and rented two Beatles movies, and then sat at the desk laughing my butt off at the Fab Four's crazy antics.

Sure, I've missed the "real" Beatlemania by about 45 years, but what I lack in timing I intend to make up for with passion!