So I went to the presentation on The King James Bible, and The Lotus-Sutra the other night, and something they said sort of reminded me of a quote from The Magus. I can't remember the exact phrasing, or even the approximate page number in the book, but it was something to the effect of (and mind you, I'm paraphrasing) Do you think the novel is dead as an art form? It was something that Nicholas used to joke about with his friends at university, and Conchis brought up the memory by saying he hated fiction, and had burned all of his novels. Anyway, one of the two gents presenting was talking about how it was the end of the printed era, and how the scripture was sort of having its super nova event, where it shines brightest just before it dies out. So I was thinking (and was considering asking the men), how is scripture any different from myth? In fact, I feel like it's probably pretty obvious to most people that scripture is mythology (whether you believe or not, it is in either  case, mythology, a true story). So if scripture is on its last leg, does that mean that all of mythology is? It was sort of a curious thing that this was brought up briefly in class today. But more importantly than simply recognizing that the age of the novel, of the written, printed story, is at an end, is identifying the reason. Why does nobody seem to want to buy books anymore? I think most of us will agree that sitting in front of a computer screen doing homework is no more enjoyable than reading a book. At any rate a book doesn't have that terrible back lighting that can give one headaches after a couple hours. And frankly, do you realize the number of books you would need to have on a kindle to see a return in your investment of $139.99? It's all a bit absurd, really. Anyway, this is more of a fuel for the fire entry, because I would love to hear some input on the decline of the printed text, if anyone cares to share, because I do find it to be an important issue. The loss of print as a media affects many areas of society, socioeconomically as well as aesthetically, so perhaps in class people will weigh in on the subject, or on their own blogs, but the important thing is to just think about it for yourself. I, personally, can think of very few things as comfortable as sitting down with a cup of coffee and a book on a cold, grey morning, so what the hell is everybody else doing while I'm reading? Also perhaps consider how a decline in the physical printed text could change the way people write/speak. Would there be a subsequent decline in all aspects of the language? Would there be any art left to it? certainly there would be people who wrote for the aesthetic purposes, despite the fact that it would no longer be a lucrative career in any way, but we could lose all ability to create new works of genius. How many people read a blog entry compared to the number that read a book? It could take a seriously Sci-Fi turn from there. I would assume it would be a long time before anything as crazy as that would happen, but even when I'm an old, old man, I would rather not see it be so.

            I feel I should also mention, with regards to the Deal/Beal presentation, that the whole thing was really quite interesting, and I would recommend going to the 400th "birthday party" for The King James Bible, and The Tempest. By the way, the mint brownies after the presentation were delicious.

Once upon a time, when I was but a third grader, still held securely under the impressions which society places on such young and malleable minds, I stumbled upon a realization that would ultimately disassemble, brick by brick, that foundation of blissful ignorance which had kept me so sheltered, so warm and unaware, up to that pivotal moment in time and space. I could beat around the bush for paragraph upon paragraph with flourishes of language, but to do such would be in vain, more so than in vogue. That is to say, to keep with what is current, it would more behoove me to be expedient in my explanation of the aforementioned event, than to drag out, with lofty language and a carefully crafted prose, that tale which I am about to unfold. For this reason alone, I will be sure to get right to the point.

The point is this; that one cannot properly tell a respectable story in a dull line of bare facts, any more than one can paint a respectable picture with only one colour. Rather one must lay down each word, like a brush stroke, with a naturalness, and yet, an exactness, in order to convey the true emotion of the artist. Eventually, what appears is a canvas, with all of the story displayed upon it, in the fashion of something much more ancient than that characteristic modern directness. An artistry that seems lost to the world, only because we lack the patience to craft it. In other words, sorry ladies and gents, I will not be the least bit forthright, as many of you might wish. I will attempt, to the best of my meager abilities, to tell you the story exactly how it happened, down to the minutest emotional truth; down to the very finest brush stroke. But I digress. If you wish simply to know how my world view was dissolve in a three sentence dialogue, have it your way, skip to the last paragraph, for those of you who have the time and patience to hear a story, read on.

Once upon a time, around the age of 9, I sat in my living room at midnight cradling a cup of hot chocolate in my  nervous hands. The trembling liquid was growing luke warm with my patience, and as luke warm as my patience. Why would these people not just go to bed? When the devil was Santa going to come, if all these adults would not dawn their evening attire, and hit the hay? My Cousin, of the same age, and same mindset as myself, sat enveloped in an arm chair right beside my own, fidgeting childishly with the buttons of his coat, and it was clear that we shared the same thought. We had just returned from mass, a traditional catholic service held at one of many local churches in Helena. It seemed almost a shame to me that we should waste our time in the rinky dink little Saint Mary's church, when we could've stood (albeit for twice as long) in the what meager admiration was humanly possible surrounded by the archaic grandeur of the St. Helena's Cathedral. But who was I, with attentiveness comparable to a gold fish, to complain about such things? At any rate, if we had attended the mass at the cathedral, like we used to, we should still have been there, and I would not have had those few paramount moments of genius, which would lead to an unraveling of faith that would overshadow even an archangel's fall from grace. As I mulled over my cup of cocoa, I realized something strange. I had gotten a type of video game (Pokemon gold version, coolest game ever) as a gift from an aunt earlier that evening, but I hadn't the means to play a Gameboy game, seeing as I did not have a Gameboy. What is one who has just returned from church to do in this situation? I prayed. I prayed to as a suppliant to a merciful God, that I may receive a Gameboy from the enigmatic Santa Clause, so that I may play my new game.

And thus was sowed the seed of faith, dropped in the path which was plowed by the fates, in vain, for the seed of reason. Religion is a curious thing, but the fates were not to turn their backs now, and not ever. A new field must simply be plowed, and my face forced into the light.

All that night I had mused over the game. Such a game, for such a boy as myself, was endless entertainment (so far quite literally endless, as I never caught all 150 available Pokemon from this version. as M.C. Escher said, "art (or in this case, Pokemon) is never finished, only abandoned.") I thought, and I thought, and when finally the sweet boon of sleep was shed over my heavy self, I dreamed, and I dreamed, and all these thoughts and dreams were about Pokemon. As was tradition, my cousin Ryan, and I woke up in the middle of the night, between three and four a.m., and we went to the top of the stairs, and we waited. We waited silently, and patiently at the peak of those stairs, and we did it every year, until at long last 7:00 a.m. rolled around, and we could go wake up the parents, and unwrap our gifts. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us, much more than wrapping paper would be undone this year. But that thought never crossed our minds as we waited, with a patience that can only be accredited to religion, to a faith that the time would come, when all would be revealed. With each tick, the second hand rode, swift and steady as a horseman, round the clock. Assuring that the dawn would be ushered in, and when the time was right, when all the clock's horsemen rode faithfully into their appointed places, the veil would be lifted. For us, that time was 7:00 a.m. Or so we thought.

The hours dragged on, each time we went to check the clock, it became more and more apparent that the horse must be riding with a broken leg. only 13 minutes had passed? But it felt like an hour! only 5 minutes? surely you must mean 25! But nothing speeds the flow of time. And soon enough, we grew weary, and fell asleep once more, there at the top of the stairs.

It was not until some years later that I learned to appreciate the cleverness of our parents. Somehow they managed, without waking us (and I am the epitome of a light sleeper) to bring all of the presents out in the short periods of time during which we slept, which were never more than 20 minutes a piece. And they apparently accomplished this in utter silence.

The morning approached, and well before dawn we were up making cups of hot chocolate, and all the while I had my game at hand. My poor, homeless game. 6:59 could not have been a longer minute. The agony of pulling teeth would have been preferred at that point, but finally 7 o'clock arrived! In a dash, we sprung upon our sleeping parents, and woke them with such a clatter as to be sure that our sisters in adjacent rooms had all woken up as well. We all filed into the living room, and proceeded with what has become the vain shell of a previously enchanting ritual. We began to open presents. Presents that had been flown on a flying sleigh from remote reaches of the Arctic Circle. Presents fashioned by mythical creatures under the haunting glow of the northern lights. Presents placed with love from an enigma which every child loves as though he is God himself, under a tree which overshadows all religious symbols in a child's mind. This was true religion. The passion, the fervor that enveloped the room; the palpable aura of mystified gratitude. Which is easier for a child to love: a faceless God he is taught to love through fear, a God who has drown the earth on a whim long ago; or a gentle old man in a quaint timeless cottage at the north pole, who has a taciturn compassion for all things great and small, and who brings gifts to people he's never met, simply out of kindness? Make no mistake, Santa Clause is the true God in the eyes of most young Americans. It is Santa who is born, and revived each Christmas season, to take away our sins, and replace them with gifts, and a sense of childish wonder. As I said before, religion is a curious thing. The bible says an eye for an eye, but how can one blind religion to the extent that it blinds us? My IQ is well above average, my skills of reasoning are anything but lacking, at this age of 9 I was already petitioning our school for better pizza! And yet the wonder of a God, of Santa Clause, had blinded me to all evidence of impossibility. But perhaps religion is doing us a favor, perhaps ignorance truly is bliss. And so, with all of these thought as far from my mind as ever, the presents were unwrapped, and sure enough, there it was. At the bottom of my stocking, hidden beneath two scratch lottery tickets, and caramel filled chocolate Santas was the Gameboy.

Needless to say, I was grateful beyond measure to my God, and I spent almost the entire day, lost in my fantastical odyssey. For the first time, invested entirely in the character, in the game, I was master of my own destiny! I played, and played until the real world began to look as pixilated a my fantasy world, and then it was time for dinner.

On the dining room table, a lovely solid oak table, with a history of family feast that nearly predates me, a feast was lain. Ryan and I looked at each other with eyes the size of dinner rolls, and we were lost. As all the family made merry round the family table, I had a small question, a a seemingly insignificant thought, which I asked on a careless whim. The fates were again overturning the fertile soil of my young mind. And this time, the seeds of reason would be sown. "Mom," I said, "where did you get my Gameboy from?" And as soon as I had asked it, I recalled the answer for myself, but it was too late.
 "Oh, just from WalMart." she replied, and all religion was undone.
"Oh, I thought Santa had brought it for me..." the clock struck 7:00, and even as the sun sunk further out of sight behind the jagged mountains, the veil was lifted, and the horsemen rode in, and the light was thrust upon my face. Sight, unhappy sight.

I just realized today, while I was listening to some music, that some of my favorite blues artists are as mythological as anything we've talked about in class all semester! If any of you listen to blues, you probably know at least one of the story I'm referring to: that of Robert Johnson. His story is very similar to that of the earlier Tommy Johnson, and intertwined with that of friend and mentor Ike Zimmerman. Much of the mystery behind the lives of these men surely has to do with the area in which they lived, that of the Mississippi delta. There is, and always has been, a touch of dark mystique surrounding the area, and the legends of the delta blues musicians that run from in ilo tempore all the way up to the 1940's emphasize this fact. We have these guy's voices recorded, we know they lived, and in an age when it was not too hard to keep one's records straight. After all, Robert Johnson was from the mid '30's; he was making music during the depression, we have plenty of history recorded during these times, plenty of logic and reason, if you will, and still there are myths that are as old as Hades and Persephone swirling around these men.

I suppose after saying this it is only appropriate for me to tell the story of at least one of them, so I'll tell that of Robert Johnson, so I can kill a few birds with one stone.
         A long time ago, back in the roaring '20's there was a young boy from down south. He was living near the delta in Mississippi, he grew up there in the river's mouth. He was a smart boy, and charming too, but he wasn't any musician yet. Sure, the boy could play a little back up for some of the real talented bluesmen that came into the bars, but he couldn't play guitar, not yet. After a while the boy grew tired of always playing the brides maid, so he set out to learn guitar. He lit out for a teacher, but he wasn't going have to go to far. He only had to turn his head, and talk to a man at the bar. The old man told him, and just maybe because he heard of Tommy Johnson having done it, but the old man told him "You just head down to the crossroads, 'round midnight, and you'll have all the talent you've ever wanted." So the boy headed down to the crossroads when it was late, and he came across a big old man. The man said "Hand me that guitar Bobby, and I'll tune it up, and put the blues in your hands." So the man took the guitar from young Robert Johnson, and tuned it up just so. And the devil played a couple songs he wrote, and said "Now look here Bobby, this guitar knows everything you want to know. and I'll give it back to you, boy, if you'll just let me have that soul." Young Robert Johnson he grew up a good religious kid, but even the church couldn't stop him from taking the devil's little deal. He took back his guitar, and shook hands, and left his soul to steal.

I suppose that's just one version of how it happened, one of the oldest versions at least. Another one I heard said Robert Johnson could only play harmonica, so he wanted to learn guitar, and he went to find a teacher. He fell asleep at the crossroads, waiting for a Greyhound, and woke up with a man looking down at him. The man told Robert Johnson that if he wanted to learn guitar, he just had to shake his hand, and promise his soul to the devil, and Robert Johnson could play the blues better than any other delta bluesman ever. So he did, and went back into the bar he had just left a couple hours ago, and played until the bar was supposed to close, but everybody was so amazed with his playing that nobody could leave until Robert got up and said he needed to get some sleep. The bar's regulars figured what had happened, because they knew that a few hours ago young Robert Johnson couldn't play "Hot Crossed Buns", and now he was a master of guitar. Robert Johnson has a song called Cross Road Blues, which I've posted up above, moral of the song being, when you go down to the cross roads, you're going to have to choose which way you want to go.

People also used to say that Ike Zimmerman learned to play the blues from the devil, while sitting on tombstones in a graveyard, and that he and the devil taught Robert Johnson the same way, in the same graveyard. (To dampen the aura of mystery a little bit, Ike Zimmerman, and Robert Johnson did practice in a graveyard, according to Zimmerman's daughter, because it was quiet, and nobody would disturb them in a graveyard).

Anyway, if you like blues or urban legends, check out Robert Johnson, Tommy Johnson, and Ike Zimmerman. You won't be disappointed.

I was thinking a bit more about the myth of the Bridger Whale after leaving class today, because my friends and I never looked away from it, but saluted it both on the way up and on the way down from the mountain. So I thought a bit about it, to try to recall any misfortunes which may have befallen us whilst up at Bridger (keep in mind I did not ski Bridger last season), and I could not recall any involving me. Then I thought a bit more, and realized that last year at Bridger, a few of my friends who also salute the whale on the way up as well as the way back, did have a couple of very unfortunate incidents which occurred, almost certainly due to their malpractice of the whale ritual (because if it was just bad luck, or if the cause was scientifically explicable, it would not be as mythological). Last year, there were a pair of injuries which befell my friends on Bridger, the first being a torn ACL. See, this poor friend of mine was skiing along very nonchalantly when suddenly, his left ski dug in to the snow for no apparent reason, and he was twisted out of his binding (ejected) and that twisting and pulling damaged his knee for the rest of the season. He has not returned to Bridger since. The second was much stranger in nature (there was a scientific explanation for this one, but we'll ignore it).  A fine young gentleman of the age of 19 was standing patiently in the lift line, have a good ol' time with his friends, when suddenly, his body went stiff, and his ski gear rang rattling round him, as he fell to the ground. He began to convulse at which point it was apparent that he was having a seizure! a bloody seizure! And all due to this infernal whale! But one must understand that it is not the whale which causes these things, but rather the neglect of the whale; of its significance; of its mystery. By performing incorrectly that ritual which secures skiers a safe and merry day on the slopes, woe was brought upon my beloved friends, and they were laid low (but not killed as it would mean in The Iliad) by the power of the mighty whale. So, as it turns out, it seems that there is some credibility to the version of the story told in class today. At any rate, you won't catch me looking at the thing on the way back up anymore.

I'm going to recommend what some may indeed consider a very strange type of book: "Shamanic Journeying" by Sandra Ingerman. I recommend this book for a couple of reasons; one because it is short, and interesting, even if you don't care to try shamanic journeying (I myself haven't yet, but I probably will eventually. Why not, yeah?); the second reason being that there are several references to myth, and how the experience of shamanic journeying is a very mythological one indeed. I thought to myself, whilst reading this book, what better way to get really involved in a mythology, than to have this type of mythical experience, while potentially meeting characters of myth, folk lore, and actual history (not to mention spirit animals, woohoo!) Essentially the book is a beginner's guide to taking shamanic journeys for one's self, (in fact the full title is "Shamanic Journeying: A Beginner's Guide"). It has some funny anecdotal stories, mixed in with some information about how, when, and why to "journey". It's only 84 small pages long, with some rather large font, so it's not any huge investment in time, but certainly one must invest their mind in the reading to truly garner the full experience of what the text is offering. It's doubtful that anybody will end up reading it, but if nothing else, I would at least recommend Googling it, or how to journey, just for mythology's sake.

Holy Guacamole, haven't had time to blog for weeks now, but I can finally get around to sharing a dream at least. Please, take some time to grab a cup of coffee and settle yourself in, because I have long, vivid dreams (or so I've been told).

It all starts with me, hanging out with a girl, who is dressed in some pretty elegant attire, considering the setting of my dream. That being said, I suppose The best place to start might be describing the setting. It's (for lack of a better term) shitty. Almost every building in sight has been reduced to heaps of metal and glass, broken, twisted, and morose. Those buildings which are not ruins, are perhaps even more dreary; probably at least 30 stories each, only a handful of wall-less sky scrapers are left to tower over the undead city. (No, no actual undead zombies, just a zombie-esque city). Only floors/ and ceilings and a few support beams make up the framework of each buildings, with the exterior walls all laying in mountains of broken concrete around the base of each building. In fact, the only walls still in tact are those surrounding the stairwell, and a those of a few fortunate rooms, which have managed to keep their structural integrity. There are several places in which even the floor/ceilings are breaking, which leaves large ramp-like slabs hanging down between floors.It's cloudy, and rains constantly (like London, or Seattle) but there is no thunder or lightning to provide excitement or stimulation for anyone surveying the scene. The Sky is grey. The buildings are grey. the people's clothes are grey.
But this girl's clothes are not grey. She's wearing a black dress, ordained with black sequens, and small beads of various metallic colors (small as in Indian bead work small). It looks a lot like a cocktail dress. She's 19 or 20 I'd say, and she's really a nice enough girl, but not too deep, just crazy good looking. Her dad is a well-to-do Persian looking fellow, dressed in a dark grey suit, with a dark blue paisley tie. Nice looking salt and pepper beard by the way. (Keep in mind, well-to-do in this dream means your room looks like a crappy apartment, with all the wall paper peeling, but the fact that it has four walls is a status symbol equivalent to owning a house where everything is marble inlaid with gold). So this hefty Persian man likes me quite a bit, and wants to help me out; make me a successful guy or what have you. I even have a room with three walls and a door; it;s only missing the wall facing out towards the nothingness that has become everything. (yes, i realize that line was lame). So this guy thinks I'm an asset to him in some way, so he invites me up to a loft type area (guarded by men in army clothes for some reason) and this place looks really nice, minus the no walls part. it has a balcony type deal in the middle of the room (dream logic). Anyway, before he gets there, his daughter (the girl with the dress) starts being a bit promiscuous, and he walks in while she is dancing, and he gets mad and has me exiled from the building.
Somehow I manage to walk from that city to a new one, without really walking anywhere (again, dream logic), and I'm three quarters of the way up this stair well (only thing I remember from the stairwell), and I see these army dressed mob lackies evicting a poor asian family from their room with walls, so that their boss can take it. Bummer, I suppose. Anyway, by this time, I've gone from wearing a nice button up shirt and tie, to wearing a big thick grey tweed jacket, and a grey hoodie, and some hobo gloves, also dark grey.  I realize that I look a bit like Clive Owen from the movie "Children of Men". So I reach the top floor of this sky scraper, and its drizzling as usual, and I feel all of these drops dripping on my exposed left cheek while i'm trying to lay down on this big slab of concrete that fell down from the roof, and I finally realize just how cold and foggy it really is, and I think to myself, "holy shit, I have to live in this frigid, damp, terrible shit for the rest of my life." So I decide instead to rally the troops (the other miserable tenants of the top floor) and try to start a fire. Unfortunately it's too wet out, and nobody has had a lighter in years anyway, so that was useless. So I resolved to try to think of some other plan after I got some sleep, and my dream ended with me looking down at my shoes, and seeing this dreary, lifeless city out of the corner of my eye thinking, "maybe I can make it a little bit better tomorrow..."

Clive Owen in "Children of Men"