Requiescat MJ

"No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o'clock—until long after there was any one to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn't believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was on the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees."

Not making any claims of analogy or interpretation, only that this is one of many things I thought of last Friday morning.

I think what is so sad about the whole business is the way it foregrounds the essential sadness of the man's life, makes it seem to us that each glittering and wretched move was all the time arranged around some unfulfilled yearning, some lost or never-had thing. It's painfully easy now to see the child forced to be a man, the man so calculating and yet dumbly earnest in his presentation of a child. And, somewhere in there, an astonishing, god-bestowed gift that was somehow swallowed up and made to serve when it should have been served. It becomes pathetic in every sense, and certainly there is pathos here.

But here's what else I'm thinking. I'm thinking that lust comes in myriad forms and not all of them bad. I'm thinking of the shame and joy of the body, of its plasticity. Of horrible, thoughtless jokes I heard in fourth grade and laughed unthinkingly at. Of sheen. That zoos can work two ways and that fatherhood is a sacred charge not to be fucked with. That the American self is a bizarre and fluid and frail construct. Of sweat and ingenuity, of the meaning of the word "synthesizer." That self-love and -loathing can appear so alike as to be impossible to separate. That longing can take many forms. For example: a fedora, a chimp, a blinding white glove. That time really is a function of space. Of flashing legs and neon pavement, of an elastic miracle of a voice, a bassline and a shove. And above all of a human body in perpetual spin, dip, shuck, and jive, at once liquid and mechanical, a cold, coruscating flame alive and still weirdly false with the bliss and, yes, thrill of motion.

A Renascence

Conceptual Art Idea: A bookcase full of pages. Ideally the pages are bound in little narrow hardback volumes, but the idea of just a bunch of loose pages has a certain aesthetic appeal, too. These pages contain the sections of books that are commonly cut or removed from "abridged" or children's editions of the same. Call it "The Unnecessary Library." The variety would be fascinating: the boring and the grotesque would both be here, passages alike only in their alleged superfluity. You could organize it by country or by chronology, see what different cultures have considered extraneous. Some of the cuttings would be simple fragments, a few sentences and paragraphs, side observations. Others would be whole stories in their own right, entire characters and plot lines plucked up like root systems. If you wanted to get hamfisted, you could focus on pages edited out by the censors of one dictatorial government or another, though I think that might be a little silly and Cold Warrish, itself unnecessary.

Hello again (still the problem of who I'm addressing). Things have been dormant here lately, for which I take exactly one half of the blame. More to come.

Geoff Manaugh keeps his head

In honor of Ben's and my "defending the overdog" habit, I wanted to link to this post from BLDGBLOG, in which Geoff very sensibly and thoroughly cuts the legs off of several cultural commentators' high horses re the Twitter fuss. Excellent stuff.

conundrum

I do want to respond to Ben's last post (and I must say that though it can look dangerously like neglect, I really like the leisurely pace of conversation on this blog), but in the meantime, here is a poser:

At eighteen I can drive and smoke and vote, but I am almost certainly not an adult. At nineteen, I am much the same. Ditto for twenty. At twenty-one, perhaps I have an off-campus place; I pay rent, I pay bills, I cook, albeit haltingly; perhaps I have even developed a talent for sex. I am Into Wine and foreign films; I read The Economist. Now am I an adult? Or have I just become better at pretending? Now I am twenty-three, I have graduated, have a job, am living with friends and am really paying taxes and earning my keep and am starting to less secretly fight the fact that I want to go home, that I am waiting for summer vacation. Am I an adult now? What about at twenty-five? Thirty? When I'm married? When I'm divorced?

Not saying I subscribe to this mindset, and I'm as sick as anyone of cultural commentators griping about "extended adolescence," but I do see this as a salient concern among (white, financially stable, well-educated)* folks in our generation. And it's a bit different from "extended adolescence," the self-indulgent nostalgia of the baby boomers, because it isn't that we (and I use the collective first person solely for rhetoric's sake) don't want to grow up, it's that we don't know how. It may be that because our parents willfully avoided maturity, we lack its vocabulary, its motions, and so we're kind of circling an idea, trying to work with signifiers (enter alcohol**). It's a sort of feeling of adrift-ness.

Now, this is nothing new. Sartre and Wordsworth, among others, spoke of a similar feeling, though theirs is, if I read them right, a bit more founded in some spiritual/metaphysical Angst. And, while I am sympathetic, I don't totally condone these feelings in young people. (Listen to me: "young people." Who am I kidding!) After all, they're responsible for Garden State. Then again, they're also why we have the National, so it's not all bad.

I don't know, I'm just kicking all this around in my head. Am I right? I hope that there are those who graduate or grow up and actually take a kind of joy in maturing; I've seen it in some of my friends, come to think of it.

*though it may be more prevalent than that

**or, at Wheaton, marriage

(sorry for the lame DFW imitation, but I do like how footnotes allow for side conversations and something like comic timing)

5,4,3,2, and...ACTION!!!

It has been too long since I've posted, methinks -
what can I say, confluences (of thought) come when they will, and they go away...
that said: still have no idea quite what Mark's getting at in his Odyssean reflections. Other than this: perhaps he/you (again, the problem of who are we addressing in this blog) are pointing to two contrasting pictures of the ontological nature of art - we do not know which in any piece being made, but hopefully it's the 'around-the-tree' kind? and the tree is God?
yep, that's about all I got on that -time for some of my own:

So, I've been thinking about this idea of 'direction'. Direction in the sense of how the word is used in the theater. Now, there are good directors and then there are bad "directors". What differentiates the two is whether they are giving directions, or whether they are giving destinations - two very different things: A destination is where an actor is supposed to be (physically or emotionally) in a given scene, sadly, many people in the role of director only know how to give these - "be angry", "you love her", "stand further away", etc. Things that, if realized, may very well make a scene more theatrically compelling, but statements that leave an actor somewhat paralyzed. How can one 'be angry'? Sure I can pretend, and that is one vaild way of approaching a certain type of presentational theater, but if it is a realist drama (life-like, and so of import to this thought) - it's not very helpful. Compare this with actual 'directions' which, like when driving a car, are steps one takes to get to where one needs to be (Turn Left, go 3 miles, etc.): "Intimidate him!", "stay as far away as possible", "pretend he has a gun in his back pocket", etc. Statements like these can actually guide an actor into action (interesting what the words reveal - actor, not be-er) and that action can facilitate a certain emotional response or real relationship.
An example of where such principles apply in the real world:
On occasion I have been told, "you are a good man". When this happens, I become uncomfortable, because it is not helpful. If they had said "that was a good deed", changing the verb from 'to be' to 'to do', then I would politely say thank you, but as it stands, what can I say? My pauline understanding of selfhood does not allow me to believe that I am an inherantly 'good' man. Furthermore, even if I believe what others might say about me to be true, and not my own dogma, I am not certain that it would lead me to more good acts, so if goodness was what they wanted to encourage they would then have failed. I know that what you call someone determines how they act - the classic example of the child who is told they are stupid and consequently does poorly in school, despite standard intelligence. However, I think this naming-forming language is only really efficacious in childhood, it is after all developmental psychology. As an adult, i think to be affirmed as good, would lead to a contentment, a resting on the laurels, analgous to what catharsis in the theater might accomplish - satisfaction of emotional compulsion disipating impetus for action (Brecht).
In this example specifically, I think 'goodness' is unattainable (again, protestant theology infuses my thoughts here, but this doesn't nullify their validity, Mark, plus it's nice and po-mo to speak of the unattainability of things, so don't even thing about challenging this point), since it is not a static thing - it looks different in every different situation in every moment. Thus it is always something to be strived for. Plus, If I do not have a platonic view of a metaphysically grounded self, I am left only with a self defined by my actions. Therefore, only if next time I am presented with a chance to do good and I do it can I be called 'good', but then there will be another 'next time' (ad infinitum).

I guess i am just interested in leaving the people I am communicating with possibilites of action - Not to confine them to a set course, not to tell them to change, or stay the same - a richer and more varied affirmation of humanity.

A question

How often are foreign films retranslated? Is it a big deal when they are? Who are the Peavear/Volokhonskys of the film world, and who are its Constance Garnetts? Why is it that though I am picky and opinionated about translations of Rilke, Homer, or the Bible, I simply accept that I'm getting "correct" versions of Bergman, Jeunet, or Godard?

On a parenthetical note, this may be the most pretentious thing I've ever posted here.

Chagall Mosaic

It might be a New Jerusalem—
These folks shimmer and laugh, scratch
The sky with fiddle tunes;

But what of that bird-woman, the baby wedged in her breasts?
What of that monstrous leviathan tail
Sinking under the dharma sun?

As the tree that grew from your spine uncoils,
You watch the boats list on the fiery lake.

The works of loom and adze

In Ben's last post, he clarified the difference between 'arcadian' and 'utopian,' as defined by Dr. Jacobs in our Auden class last year. It reminded me of another dichotomy from that class, the idea that the Aeneid, as opposed to the Odyssey, is the true Christian epic. The pattern of the Odyssey is circular—the object is to return home, to restore things as they were. The Aeneid, on the other hand, is linear and nonrepetitive, we are going somewhere new. The idea is that as devastating as our losses may be, something immeasurably better can be gained: Troy was sacked that Rome might be founded. Ben is right, it's not "behold, I make all things just like they were," but "I make all things new." A classic Protestant euphemism for "died" is "called home" or some such phrase, but it should really be "called forth."

All true, but nonetheless I have for years held an affinity for the Odyssey that I still haven't really figured out. I think part of it is due to the fact that I'm a sucker for the idea of going home (e.g. I tear up every time I read "when you have to go there, they have to take you in" in Frost's "Death of the Hired Man"). I've been thinking a lot about the end of the Odyssey lately, specifically about the two works of art we encounter there.

The first is Penelope's infamous shroud, which she tells a disguised Odysseus about in Book XIX (from Robert Fagles' unparalleled translation):

I yearn for Odysseus, always, my heart pines away.
They rush the marriage on, and I spin out my wiles.
A god from the blue it was inspired me first
to set up a great loom in our royal halls
and I began to weave, and the weaving finespun,
the yarns endless, and I would lead them on: "Young men,
my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more,
go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until
I can finish off this web,
so my weaving won't all fray and come to nothing"....

So by day I'd weave at my great and growing web—
by night, by the light of the torches set beside me,
I would unravel all I'd done.

This is a cyclical, potentially endless enterprise, and one all too familiar to me, to all of us. We are constantly having to undo things we've done or redo what has come unraveled. It reminds me of Laura Miller's appreciation of DFW in Salon, where she speaks of "the discipline and of the abrading, daily labor" that true humility requires. Penelope's shroud mirrors the way we must continually fight back our own instincts toward self-aggrandizement, how we strive to actually be caring and sincere rather than merely appearing to be. But it might also be the cycle of sin and penance or any number of things. The point is that there is no end in sight to this work, it is as regular as doing the dishes.

Moreover, Penelope has no idea why she's doing this, to what end. She doesn't know whether her husband will be back, doesn't know if these suitors will ever leave. She's hoping they'll get bored, that she can wait them out, but who knows? She weaves, I think, to distract her mind and her hands, to give herself something to do. As good a reason as any, but one that seems kind of hollow and pointless, a constant suspension.

But then there's the other piece of handiwork. To set the scene: in Book XXIII, after Odysseus has mercilessly butchered the suitors and revealed his true identity to his wife, Penelope (grown understandably skeptical in twenty years) puts him to the test. She asks a servant to move their marriage bed out for them, at which point Odysseus gets pissed. By way of explanation, he tells this story:

There was a branching olive-tree inside our court,
grown to its full prime, the bole like a column, thickset.
Around it I built my bedroom, finished off the walls
with good tight stonework, roofed it over soundly
and added doors, hung well and snugly wedged.
Then I lopped the leafy crown of the olive,
clean-cutting the stump bare from roots up,
planing it round with a bronze smoothing-adze—
I had the skill—I shaped into plumb to the line to make
my bedpost, bored the holes it needed with an auger.
Working from there I built my bed, start to finish...
That's our secret sign, I tell you, our life story!
Does the bed, my lady, still stand planted firm?"

This knowledge is the couple's shibboleth, the way in which Odysseus and Penelope know that the long strands of their respective stories have finally rejoined. The trunk of the olive tree runs through the center of their house, their marriage, and, by extension, the whole poem. It is the great immovable pole around which Odysseus revolved through all his wanderings. And its rootedness stands in contrast to Penelope's "great and growing web."

What the bedpost stands for, I don't know. But if the shroud is real, perhaps the bedpost is as well—a great unassailable Something that anchors what we do. I haven't yet wrapped my head around the enormous implications of this—though they are both thrilling and frightening—but, as they did for Penelope, they allow me to continue my daily weaving and unweaving with a renewed vigor and hope.

quite simply...

...magisterial.

While usually I save my non-critical feedback for a 'comment' , I feel compelled to concede publicly.

Mark, you are absolutely right.

I took up my defense of K. primarily out of my sympathy for easy targets and under-dogs (although numbers-wise, I suppose he's sort of an over-dog, but that's beside the point). Now though, I completely agree with Mark, on both points. 1) Kinkade's work is not actually arcadian
[quick side note, so we're using the same language: I was using the arcadian/utopian split given to us by Jacobs & the Horae, arcadian = harkening back to Eden, utopian = visionary for a new, as-yet-unknown future. You used 'utopian' but I am pretty sure you meant arcadian, correct me if I am wrong. I just disctionary.com'd that shit though, and arcadian actually 'means' rural, rustic, but let's just go with my initial understanding for coherance's sake.]
& 2) Yeh, why the hell do we need arcadian art?

The insight into Kinkade's gnosticism is spot on, out of my desire to defend I was blind to the fact that K's world is ABSOLUTELY NOT EDEN. Because in Eden, there would be no shame over the carnality (in wheaton-buzzwords, 'embodiment') of existence. Sex, nakedness, feasting, BBQ sauce on fingers and chins, placentas, hugs and the ashes from last night's fire would be embraced and celebrated. I cannot believe I hadn't noticed the lack of figures. Jeez. I am just repeating your points. Take it as a compliment.

And now, truly, lets never talk or think about him again. Gag.

on 2)
Yeh, obviously I used to think that we need art with edenic vision - to remind us. And I think I was taking this from the school of theology that explicates Christ's coming/work as a restoration of original creation. I don't know nearly enough historical theology to know if this is totally true: but I think this is primarily a 20th century take on our Lord. Interesting, given the 20th century and some of the ensuing resurgences of gnosticism. Jesus himself certainly did not use such language. He was about (among other things) restoration. "Behold, I make all things just like they were" No. He makes all things new! So the art that does this, the art you were mentioning (Inferno, et al.), is the art that joins in the work of Christ, in his gospel. It is a forwards-looking vision. Nevermind the fact that it's impossible to imagine life pre-sin, since we are always already immersed in it.
Since your post, I am now convinced that the story of something taken and transformed has a much better chance of being true.

Thank you.

I hereby rename this blog: 'Ben comes up with narrow, semi-douchy thoughts and Mark rejoins with the truth and beauty of the gospel'...

And memory insists on pining...

All right, Ben. I am nearly in complete agreement with you here. We do need utopian art, art that serves as a signpost showing how far we have fallen and how it might have been. But I jump off this train at the point of calling Thomas Kinkade such an artist.

Putting aside Kinkade's unethical business practices and manipulative, temple merchant co-option of Christianity, even ignoring the fact that he's a world-class schmuck and an obnoxiously saccharine artist, I still find something reprehensible in his work. He doesn't "hold up a picture of a world without sin or evil," he just lies. The world as he shows it to us has never existed, never might have existed. It's a gnostic fantasia, sanitized of everything bodily, everything human. There is no sex in Kinkade, no community, nor any of the thousand little anomalies that make human life interesting. There's no death, either. There aren't even any people—note how rarely the human figure makes an appearance in Kinkade, and when one does it is one-dimensional, a travesty of a parody of a caricature meant to make us long for something that never was. (Insert here your preferred version of the standard Wheaton anti-gnostic spiel if you wish.) Kinkade's is not "a world as it would be seen if we could see the glorious beauty hidden in all things." He isn't revealing anything hidden, he's only slathering on something more, drenching the things of this world in a beauty of his own making. It reminds me of how in Klimt's art, that rich glow doesn't emanate from the women, but rather is something he gives to them, patronizingly, because they please him as objects. It's disgusting. And unlike Klimt, Kinkade doesn't even have aesthetics going for him.

Kinkade simply isn't interested in the substance of things. His own self-appellation, "painter of light," indicates that much. If he can be said to have any kind of "artistic vision," it is a hamfisted gnosticism, involving paving over the physical world, steamrolling it with light. This is a pet peeve of mine: so many artists and even more "artsy" types are obsessed with light—the play of it, how it strikes the eye. It's become an aesthetic cheap shot. Do a flickr search for "sunset" or "clouds" and see what I mean. I wonder if light is one of the few things of this world which catches the gnostic eye, since it is so insubstantial yet so clearly essential (see also: wind, fire). But what matters is where the light falls, and what it falls on.

A much better alternative, I think, who really does represent what Ben is talking about is Norman Rockwell (see my Dave Hickey quote down there). But actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I have to ask myself: what really is the point of utopian art? Why point at where we might have been? What use could that possibly have other than to drown us in remorse and nostalgia? The art of the might-have-been seems to me to be at best a distraction, and at worst nihilistic. Think of Jay Gatsby. Quentin Compson. "Summer Storm." The better art addresses where we are now, and projects where we might be; it speaks of redemption. We look at Kinkade and see nothing recognizable, nothing of ourselves; his scenes are as alien as if he'd painted the surface of the moon. But with a work of redemption—The Divine Comedy, The Winter's Tale, Horae Canonicae—we watch as something flawed is elevated and transfigured, and recognize the real possibility of such a thing happening to us. Utopian art is crying over spilt milk; redemptive art is dynamic in the best sense of the word. More importantly, redemptive art does not commit that cardinal sin of being boring: utopia is static, redemption has a plot.

And I am reminded now of a magnificent passage by John Updike (whose recent passing I want to talk more about here some other time) near the end of Rabbit, Run:

"He has no taste for the dark, tangled, visceral aspect of Christianity, the going through quality of it, the passage into death and suffering that redeems and inverts these things, like an umbrella blowing inside out. He lacks the mindful will to walk the straight line of a paradox. His eyes turn toward the light however it glances his retina." (Updike's italics)

We must, must deal with those dark, tangled, visceral things. I agree with Ben that there is perhaps not enough Edenic hope in art today, and I too am a bit tired of the "here's a tiny bit of hope in a fucked-up world" movie.* But to simply lie, to pulverize anything real under a dripping ton of sentimentality, is utterly irresponsible. Plus, y'know, it's hideous.

I don't ever want to think this much about that man again.

*I'll talk sometime about how the scummy-sublime aesthetic (e.g. Magnolia, Fight Club, etc.) has developed its own prettiness (as opposed to beauty), throwing out signifiers without earning them and expecting the audience to follow. Which, ultimately, places its practitioners in the Kinkadian camp.

You just posted that to upset me...

Ok, MC. You know I can't let this one go unchallenged.
This an old idea of mine, which I probably have expressed to you before, but for the good of the world I shall textualize here:

We need art like Thomas Kinkade's.

There. I said it.
Don't get me wrong, I find almost all of it as saccharine and eerie as the next guy, but I think it serves a necessary purpose.
Thomas Kinkade holds up a picture of a world without sin or evil or meanness. A world where a weekend away at a cottage doesn't involve awkward lack of conversation with estranged family members. A world where the countryside isn't dull. A world as it would be seen if we could see the glorious beauty hidden in all things (hidden in the things themselves, or hidden from our marred visions, i am not sure. Probably both).
These days we have plenty of art that shows us the ravages of the world ('Guernica'), the horrors of being human (DeKooning), even the beauty amidst the brokenness of the world (PT Anderson), etc. This art all shows the world how it is. And the best of it hints at how it might be. But I think there is a place for Art that shows how it might have been, how it IS (in a 'weight of glory' revealed sense). So I do pity the soul who only admires Kinkade and no-one else, they are impoverished and living in a false world. They are not human. But, after seeing scores of films lately whose theme is, 'Look how fucked up our world is -but look, sometimes there might be something a little good'. I am thankful for pictures like Kinkade's. (This juxtaposition of film/paintings reveals something about Kinkade's medium, too - in a film you can contrast bad/good in two different scenes, but in painting you have to pick one or the other. Unless you want to mix them, as Mark suggested, but I think this is nothing more than raining on the Kinkade parade - since the bad would obviously overshadow the good (pointing to the frailty of the Acadian/Kinkadian vision). )

So stop being such a hater.

p.s. had a horrible flu for the last week - hence the lack of posting and possible incoherance of this one.

I mean, that shit is right up your alley, isn't it?

Idea: An art project where someone paints stroke-perfect copies of Thomas Kinkade tableaux, but with a sordid element: a BDSM scene through the window of a cozy cottage, a drunk splayed across the cobblestone street, a child run down by the Clydesdale-drawn carriage. All done in that soft-edged style and drenched in that freakishly dappled light, natch. Am I the only one who thinks that would be hilarious?

Thinking about that, I'm reminded of Komar and Melamid's People's Choice project, where they conducted a poll to determine the Most Wanted and Least Wanted paintings of several countries. In America, for example, they found that a majority of people desired paintings that featured realistic depictions, natural scenes, families, or historical figures, which K. & M. subsequently combined to create the theoretically Most Wanted Painting. Incidentally, they later conducted a similar survey to determine America's Most and Least Wanted Songs, which must be heard to be believed.

On the subject of much-maligned artists, I also wanted to share this passage from Air Guitar, Dave Hickey's brilliant, paradigm-inverting essay collection, on Norman Rockwell:

The people who hate Rockwell, however—the preachers, professors, social critics, and radical sectarians—inevitably mistake the artist's profession for their own. They accuse him of imposing norms and passing judgments, which he never does. Nor could he ever, since far from being a fascist manipulator, Rockwell is always giving as much as he can to the world he sees....
People are regularly out of sync with the world in Rockwell's pictures, but it is not the end of the world....But the pictures always rhyme—and the faces rhyme and the bodies rhyme as well, in compositions so exquisitely tuned they seem to have always been there—as a good song seems to have been written forever. The implication, of course, is that these domestic disasters are redeemed by the internal rhymes of civil society and signify the privilege of living in it, which they most certainly do.

I would not apply a similarly gracious reading to T.K.'s work—it is too crass and false (and not in the Warhol way)—but Hickey gives us a beautiful reminder of what art can be and a challenge to crawl out of our dark caves and make something big and openhearted and democratic in the best way.

Two quick inauguration thoughts:

1) I'm amazed at how unprofessional every single television announcer sounded today. Their remarks consisted of the same dozen one-from-column-A observations—"This truly is a great day in our nation's history" or "he has an enormous task ahead of him" or "such a gifted public speaker"—repeated ad nauseam. Even this eventually degenerated into childish gaping: "There's Bill Clinton," "There's Air Force One," "There's the Washington Monument," "Lincoln Lincoln Lincoln." I began to suspect that the commentators had little idea what was going on, like the guy who can only say "yep" and "mm-hmm" while the mechanic is explaining what's wrong with the engine. Now, I don't know that I could have done any better, and I do admittedly love the way it humanizes them, but these people's job is (ostensibly) to interpret history for us as it happens, to act as a kind of filter through which raw events become something like comprehensible. And yet in the face of actual history they become babblers like the rest of us, cluttering up the event rather than elucidating it. Please, news anchors of America, don't be afraid of dead air. Shut up once in a while. That said, all the inept commentary was kind of a nice reminder that events actually happen. I know that sounds like a stoner epiphany, but hear me out. The news is so often given to us in a sanitized, packaged form, and at times it is hard to remember that this slickly narrated, neatly organized story is actually part of the messy real world, with no easily discernible beginning or finish, the world we experience ourselves every day. To hear the announcers fumble for words was refreshing in a way, a sort of aural equivalent to removing the forest of on-screen graphics (which I think are called bugs) that attend all news shows (which, by the way, would be amazing).

2) Our new president will get most of the press today, and rightfully so, but I think the moment that most affected me this morning was seeing George W. and Laura Bush board the helicopter that would take them away from Washington. I generally agree with those who call his presidency one of the most destructive of recent years, but I couldn't help feeling for the guy, thinking about the cavalcade of emotions he must have felt—relief, sadness, pride, regret—while watching the city, whose center he had been just a few hours ago, now receding beneath him, a physical reminder of how quickly things can change.

If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao...

What Ben decries below is at least a half-truth: rebellion is necessarily defined by its opposition to the thing being rebelled against, that opposition determines the terms of the rebellion. It's related to the old Thomist (?) idea that evil is merely the absence of good, with no positive presence of its own (not that rebellion is evil, but it's a helpful metaphor). Thus, rebellion contains an implicit acknowledgment of the reality/success of the opposite—to rebel against an authority, we must admit that it is an authority, or is at least perceived as one. And Zizek is right, cynicism is indeed a commodity these days—look at any 'hip' tv show, for instance. Or take a trip to Hot Topic, for that matter. Once again, Cat and Girl comes through for me here.

That said, that doesn't totally invalidate it—the king's head is in the basket, no matter how you look at it. And it is true that if we give too much credence to the idea of rebellion as conservative, we can incapacitate ourselves into an existential mess (which is a good part of the story of 19th and 20th century philosophy). I don't think that's the point of recognizing that, though—rather, it is a warning about how we wield power: in violently declaiming our enslavement to one idea, we may retreat into the clutches of another master whose chains have an ugly familiarity. As Dylan says, "You gotta serve somebody." A real life example might be seen the actions of our own government—in an ostensible attempt to protect our precious freedoms (whatever that means) from the actions of terrorists, we ended up with the Patriot Act and the concomitant culture of censorship, surveillance, and, well, terror (see also: every political revolution ever). It's also a call to vigilance. Rebellion thrives off of generalizations, and inevitably reacts to a caricature, not the thing itself, which can keep us from seeing it when it crops up again:

"You must see to it that you pull up regularly all the baobabs, at the very first moment when they can be distinguished from the rosebushes which they resemble so closely in their earliest youth. It is tedious work," the little prince added, "but very easy."

There is a real danger in saying "Well, I'm glad we're through with that" and forgetting about the supposedly vanquished idea, only to have it creep in through the back door. This is perhaps why there are so few old radicals—people's ideals temper with age, and they often come to embrace even the shortcomings of what they once derided (e.g. the later Wordsworth).

Moreover, there is a kind of authority-endorsed fake rebellion that ultimately affirms the status quo. We can watch The Office and chuckle with smug superiority at the absurdity and drudgery of office life, but we still end up in our cubicle the next morning, having successfully blown off the steam that might eventually drive us to quit. It's Carnival: a safe, bounded reversal of the social hierarchy that reinforces it in the long run. I think this is what Zizek is really getting at in that quote, and he is right to decry it.

As a side note, I take issue with Ben's comment that "no one has ended up lusting after a nun." Really? What about your own obsession with "the veil"? (Which is admittedly not lust, but still.) Consider the now-cliche movie plot about the hunky guy accepting a dare to turn the frumpy, bookish girl into the prom queen—she turns out to be gorgeous, and he falls in love. Is this not a variation on the seduce-a-nun fantasy? Also, on a purely logical note, be careful about making a claim and then dismissing everything outside its bounds as "deviance," Freud. :)

I suspect that this whole topic is connected at some deep level to Bloom's "anxiety of influence" which I wrote about at length for my senior seminar paper (B+, by the way). Perhaps I'll try to ferret that connection out in a later post. Also, who's proud of me for not relating the issue to hipster-ism? Me, that's who.

we gotta take the power back!

It is a common (po-mo/po-co) academic trope to insist that if something is a reaction to something else before it, the reaction is merely a product of the something before it, not something actually new, and therefore suffers the same flaws as the very thing it is a reaction against.
To give some specific examples:
"Romanticism is still functioning within an Enlightenment framework",
"Children who rebel against their parents are still being controlled by their parents' values",
"The extremely modest garb worn by nuns ends up over-emphasizing the importance of their bodies in the same way as those who would lust after them do",
and lastly - this really gets my goat - are the myriad ideas that 'seem' to be anti-capitalistic but as a matter of fact only reify the structures of capitalism. Zizek tends to be toward the head of this train:
The postmodern cultural artifact—the "critique," the "incredulity"—is itself merely a symptom/commodity/fetish. Thus has capital commodified even the cynicism that purports to unmask its "reality," to "emancipate."
-taken from wikipedia, but everything I've ever read by Zizek, which is admittedly not a great deal, sounds just like this

This sort of thinking may seem to be quite smart, and indeed seems to find its impetus in the desired freedom of the oppressed by pitching the necessity of some third, new way to break their chains.
But I don't think any of this is the case. If anything - such thoughts seem to affirm the oppressor's hold on the oppressed:
If the kid who chooses the opposite of what his parents chose is led to believe that his actions reveal his current subservience, he is then trapped in the knowledge that nothing he can do can release him, and the mental hold his parents have is regained.
I'm sorry but rebellion is rebellion, not submission.
Modesty is modesty; no one (bar maybe the deviant) has ended up lusting after a nun. Mission accomplished! Romanticism championed the Enlightenment; they were using the language/mindset given to them, as we all do, but they wanted the opposite, and that is what they got.
Now, I agree that if reactions are only knee-jerk reactions, then yes, they are in some way less 'free', but 1) reacting conversely can be a choice, and 2) knees do that for a reason.

Things can be fought - it is only the Big Dog who would want us to think other wise. Let's not give him (male pronoun intentional) the power back with our academic ramblings, and let's call a molotov cocktail a molotov cocktail.

Some footnotes

So here we get into classic Ben/Mark conversation mode. As usual, I don't think Ben disagrees with any of this—I guess I'm just writing my own footnotes to his posts.

On evangelism:

The first thing I thought of reading that post: isn't sin the primary reason 'evangelism' exists today? But I get it—so many religions muddy the water (spoil the broth?). And I like Ben's* point. Relationship is fundamental to the Godhead, and so we ought to reach out—though I am not entirely clear on what other religions have to do with that. Aren't we reaching out to everyone, be they of another faith or none at all? (And, stepping into Stereotypical Arrogant Evangelical character for a moment, isn't everyone else really believing in nothing anyway?)

What I really wanted to say, though, is this: I think the multiplicity of religions is also an act of grace. God has granted that truth is not an either/or in this world, not the exclusive province of Christians, but rather that it comes in shades that can be grasped at different depths by different people--what we call general revelation, I suppose. That God would allow everyone some kind of access to truth, right where they are, should be a cause for a) celebration and b) humility in ourselves. How wonderful it is not to shoulder the whole burden of the truth, and how often must I remind myself that this is the case!

On bumper stickers:

There is certainly a point here about bumper sticker ethics, the idea that if you say you support/believe something, then you do. Which is silly, of course—it's sound and fury, signifying nothing. Thoreau would be livid. If we are going to hold convictions, especially if we are going to shout them at others, we ought to be prepared to live them out.

Two things, though. First, we shouldn't deny the power of speech, place it in opposition to "real protest," i.e. action. Certainly political speech (or any kind of speech) is most effective when paired with action, but it is still an extraordinarily powerful tool in itself, as "the man" knows. Why else would so many writers and artists have been called before the infamous House Un-American Activities Committee? Bumper stickers are obnoxious, but I wonder if they aren't also vital. Second, and more importantly, why judge the Beetle owner? Perhaps they do in fact give a sizable portion of their income to the causes whose blazons they bear. Perhaps they have chosen to splurge on a sensible, safe car for the sake of their children. Perhaps they feel a bit sheepish about owning it and are considering trading it in. As David Foster Wallace said about a similar situation, "None of this is likely, but it's also not impossible. It just depends what you want to consider."

And finally, conversations like this one are tailor-made for a Cat and Girl cartoon.


Real post coming.

*To whom are these posts of mine addressed? Ben? A general, anonymous reader? My friends? Myself? There may be some pronoun juggling until I figure this out.

and zeesz is vy Hamerica...

So as I was walking to the grocery store today, I saw another VW Bug (the new one, not the old one) with a couple of bumper stickers proclaiming the driver's disdain of the Iraq war and avid support of 'the environment'. Since it is was a (expensive) Beetle with these stickers, it is exemplar of two cultural trends:The strong correlation between affluence and education (the richer you are, the more likely it is that you have had a better education). And, the likewise strong correlation between education and 'liberal' sentiments:anti-war, eco-friendly, etc.
And I realized there is something interesting in this:
Regradless of what their bumper stickers say, the rich Beetle driver is actually supporting the War more than anyone - Monetarily. The rich pay more to Uncle Sam than any of us, and regardless of their words, their actions show their unflinching support. I do fear then, that the right to free speech that we are guaranteed in this country is so whole-hearetedly supported by the man (it is what we're fighting for'over there') because it placates the desire for real protest - protest that actually changes things. If you really don't like the war, don't pay taxes. Serving jail time will probably be the end result of this exercise of free 'speech' and so it would be fair to argue that voicing (bumper-sitckering) one's complaints about the government is the only feasible route.
Maybe so, but I think that Americans should start putting their money where their mouth is if they are going to talk so much.

evangelism!

So, at the risk of sounding a little LaFitte-ian:
Status quo:
the fact that there are religions other than Christianity in the world is one of the primary reasons that 'evangelism' exists today.
My response:
This is a little bit annoying. Why not have made just one religion, God? People could then either follow or not follow, so free-will would still exist, and the religious situation of the world would be so much less confusing/violent/befuddled?
and then it struck me:
perhaps the reason Christians are only a few, rather than everybody, is because then we
can be more like God -
It is at the the heart of the Godhead's nature to reach out to others: In relationship to other members of the trinity, and in revelation to Humans - most fully in the Incarnation of the Son. So, If the role of the Christian is to ultimately be transformed into the likeness of Christ, then we must be put in a place where we are able to reach out, to extend ourselves towards others. To seek 'the Lost'. So, awkward and annoying though evangelism is - it is a key part of our theosis, and is (maybe) why God has allowed for so many religions to exist in the world.

[cough]