Dublin’s Architect, The Epic spectacular day:
I have Just have put down the Proteus chapter of Ulysses and am in a contemplative sort of mood that I had hoped and anticipated for this evening. I will cease to write in stream of thought; I am not a master of the literary arts like Joyce—I require grammar for people to read me and sometimes take me seriously. For those who are reading this I would like to note that I am not a James Joyce scholar so take this all for face value. I have read Dubliners, A Portrait, and thus far in Ulysses, so take this opinion as a novice writing about the mastery of Joyce.

The first line of the Proteus chapter that Dr. Sexson eloquently quoted this morning is as goes: “INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE VISIBLE: AT LEAST IF NO more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot”. The relevance of this quote to the question of orality and myth might not be at first very apparent, but thinking of the definition of the first words a bit more certainly helps: Ineluctable: not to be avoided changed or resisted, and Modality: the most frequent value of set culture. So from the perspective of Stephan Daedlus (Joyce’s alter ego) the reader has the expansive vision of a poet walking through Dublin—recreating it with an embellished stream of thought. Stephan’s wondering through Dublin work on many levels that relate to our class. firstly: I am of the belief that although the technology of writing has it’s fallacy’s: namely the loss of memory, the ability of people to control others worldview’s, and the praise of human society versus the earth via the agricultural revolution, I do strongly advocate Ong when he states that “Literacy…is absolutely necessary for the development not only of science but also of history, philosophy, explicative understanding of literature and any art”. Secondly: this form of writing is certainly not free of literacy, yet it is modeled as a free flowing narrative that Ong deems, “unlike human languages in that they do not grow out of the unconscious but directly out of the conscious. (So is Ulysses an extremely true novel then) yes and no. I have heard, that Joyce said that on the day Ulysses takes place, all of Dublin is captured in a vibrant picture frame that re-lives itself every time it is read. Kind of like that film ground hogs day—which brings me to some of my last points; the quote I read to the class in my shy reluctance is as follows: “And the ancient memories were trained by an art which reflected the art and ancient architecture of the ancient world, which could depend on faculties of intense visual memorization which we have lost.” To counter this point I say Joyce has memorized Dublin so well with lines such “His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star darkly they are behind this light darkness shining in brightness” that he not only embodied Dublin visually in his narrative, he is essential to modern Dublin and the spirit of the Irish.
How Joyce was able to complete this monumental task of human architecture is through his blatant disembodiment of the church, and the recreation of myth from his perspective. Sean Kane explains to the reader that all practical knowledge in a culture is taught through myth, and it’s relevance to culture in question. I have stated in an earlier blog that we as contemporizes live myth weather conscious of it or not; James Joyce had the rare ability to recreate and construct it to his own liking—thus creating mental a unique sense of freedom. Kane also explains that myth is interrelating, all encompassing, “for the knowledge of pattern is the beginning of every practical wisdom”. James Joyce with his versatile and innovative style as writer was not only able to display his love of philology and myth through this chapter and all of his prominent novels, he is also able to reinvent the myth, become part of the myth, and change readers minds in ways that they are not sure of yet, for “the whole world seems alive with relation we cannot see, except as they make their presence felt in other relationships we can see (Kane)”. So as far as James Joyce’s relevance in a class on Orality—it is completely relevant—as are most things.

Somewhere, in the first chapter of The Art of Memory Frances A. Yates mentions through her own notions, or through a paraphrase, or a quote, that childhood memories are easily accessible to personal recollection and introspections. Finding this quote word for word is irrelevant to the aims of this blog—I just wanted to write about my first memory.
So is this blog in essence an essay about life and the tribulations of adolescence— no, its “mnemonic persona” of the things I hold dear, and it is more fictitious than anything; essay’s tend to do this—blur the line between fiction and reality. Which presents a new question (which perhaps I will expound upon in a latter blog)—what is a real memory if images have to be embellished for the mind to remember. For the readers sake this thought will stop here…

The Day the Tree fell
Summer rain clouds gather quit frequently in Georgia. To the best of my knowledge—for I remember returning to visit every few summers, and watching black-grey clouds curl, and gather in fantastic motions, waltzing back forth like the flight of the fireflies we use to catch in mason jars, weeping as only children weep when their luminosity dimed, and all we had were the relics of legends that shone so bright in the falling night, and the terrifying rain. This was some years after the day the tree fell, and it was certainly a long time before the smell of firecrackers and trimmed summer grass permanently entered my consciousness. My first house I lived in was on the outskirts of Atlanta. It was steeped in the woods—that were being tarnished for the sake suburban progress—where all the houses look the same, and the franchises and strip malls irritate the long forgotten tune of folklore, and the old Indian spirits that cry at night in a desperate chant for the return of their land. Perhaps this was why my parents fled, and became ex-pats—they were disillusioned as any sane person should have been; that is why piecing together this memory is quite difficult. But here—(my father is reading a newspaper mumbling and occasionally glancing at my mother, “It has been raining for a whole goddamn month” my father said adding ambiance to the breakfast table, before gulping down a large draw of black coffee, “I just don’t understand” he said after quenching his thirst for grain and caffeine, “the one day it’s dry enough to go mountain biking I have fucking work”. My mother scolded him for such an inappropriate outburst, “Don, watch your mouth, Alex can hear you in the next room.” While they had a trivial argument in the kitchen, I sat quite in the living room that was made of wooden walls that merged into a green tacky carpet that stretched throughout most of the house. I was not alone at the moment; my friend Shannon a golden retriever let me rest my head upon her curly mane, while we both watched MR Rogers from a blinking blue television set. I was disinterested by the program at the moment…I lifted my head from Shannon, and sat up to gaze out the window onto a street of swirling spirals of steam that rose from the tarmac—and the impeding darkness in the sky that was for told by the weatherman—would not come today. I sat back down on the carpet with Shannon.
(Patting her on the head I laughed at her because she had a white face from the natural cycle)—my mother told me would happen to all of us. Shannon was like a mythic figure to me back then when I was so young—I remember playing with her in the yard, running in circles for hours until we both got tired, and I feel to the ground looking above at the beautiful golden dog that burst and glistened in the Georgia sunshine panting, and grinning above me when I was but four years old, and the only notions I had about importance: was a dog was brave enough, heroic enough, and important enough—and me and Shannon were the only things that mattered in the world of the back yard, and garden surrounded by think brown trees.
When it happened, it happened with a force that still rattles me too this day). Clouds gathered formed struck the tree Shannon jumped yelped my mommy swooped me up from the carpet dashing from the kitchen my father dropped his coffer cup on the floor staring out the window and the tree felled through the roof... later strong men came in a big red fire truck and told me you must have been a brave boy and Shannon licked one and I cried because my room was broken but my parents said I was very lucky.

Essence of Control, The Sequel, The cliché and the Epic Day:

Hello again to the reader, I am here writing again—in my apartment trying to construct a memory palace—I am coming short however on the construction, all I have is a memory shack, and a mind drunk off the literary tradition.
I have just put down Ong’s book—and I must say—I am more disillusioned then I was after putting it down yesterday. So to start back into my conversation I will revert back into my Orwellian argument of the power of words, and the power they have to constrict society into varying levels.
Where I left off yesterday was my contention that there is point’s of view in writing that reveal many walks of life, and contain the power to change, enrage and enlighten the reader. Have you ever heard someone announce this quote, “my education is getting in the way of my real education”, have you ever wondered what life would be without this rigorous structure that is based solely off myth. That’s right I said it—American life is the fulfillment of a Myth that is the culmination of various literary traditions that society has deemed over the years as necessary to the fulfillment of our notions of proper ethics. We thus have a class system that is based off the worship off greed and the ability to Interrupt Law—through arbitrary myths that we feel protect our virtues. I will not go off on a tangent about this because I realize this argument is blending into a political discussion. But I will make this last comment about my perspective about the power of written language in the context of this country. The one’s who have had power in any modern society have done so with the power of the word, and the ability to have people dedicate their lives to myth, Castro, Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, Karl Rove—Big Brother is always watching, remember ignorance is strength.
On a lighter note I wanted to say that human suffering at the hand of greedy oligarchs is not the only cliché I am going to talk about. With the invention of the written language, cliché’s however minute resurface, and their roots are surprisingly oral. In Ong’s book Orality and Literacy he does an outstanding job drawing attention to the fact that we hold a “typographic and chirographic bias (17)” when discussing oral traditions. Many must assume that cultures that exist without a written tradition are ignorant. To the contrary, they have memory palaces that are full of libraries that don’t need to contain books—but sensations that we call myth--that help recall specific knowledge—weather one is aware or not. For Example:
Have you ever considered why accents and dialects exist? It’s almost as if a person with a heavy accent is conscious of something you just don’t understand. There is a certain chill to a New Englanders accent, a warm openness that floats off southerner’s lips. They are American myth tellers. Back to my point: these accents are a culmination of collective thoughts that represent a geographic area. There is something that is so imbedded in these examples minds it escapes their breath orally and distinctively. Back to Ong’s and Clichés—on pg 21 Ong draws attention milmann’s discovery regarding Homer. It was his economy of words that distinguished his oral verse from modern literary verse’s—it emphasized the importance of memory and the directness of Homer--where as the written word can mean multitude of things.
P.S: I need to stop here in my next blog I will further discuss cliché.

The Essence of Control:

Why is it that literary people love words, what madness is it that drives us to read painfully difficult books, to stay up late, and write with all our mite—essay’s and revelations about words.

It’s as if words are playthings, sweets and spirits for the brain, odd little trinkets that recollect other odd trinkets, and if one doesn’t understand the fruits immediately of these trinkets—why there is a clever thing called a dictionary.

What I intend to do for this blog—for I can already tell that my brain—(the part that stores words) has run amuck—is to put into context some of Ong’s meditations of language, some of Plato’s thoughts on language, and yes—some of my thoughts on language. I will start with the latter. Literary people, like all people seek to control society, and the thoughts of other human beings. No offence to anyone, we are all secretive control freaks. To clarify this assumption a tidbit more, let us think of a few examples of where literature has a profound influence in life.

When we are young our brains are like a sponge; they have the ability to soak up vast amounts information, which produces a developing world view. To help direct were I am going with these examples I will paraphrase Ong’s text. Ong, on Pg 11 distinguishes between “Primary Orality” and “Secondary Orality”. “Primary Orality” is a culture that is without the technology of a written language system; because orality does not cease to exist with a written system he deems the latter as “Secondary Orality”. We are of course a culture of “Secondary Orality”. But think back though to when—you the reader were a child. You learnt language first by memory of objects and places; you did not learn the basics of this communicable language through the rules of grammar and spelling. We know for a fact that language does exist outside a literary realm. Why then do people obsess over books; sometimes in an erotic way—I won’t mention names. Literature is a collection of knowledge that enhances one’s ability to learn, but also enhances one’s ability to control knowledge. Ever since grade school, most of us in a culture of “Secondary Orality”, made the leap from spoken word, to written word, and what this leap, it has meant that we no longer associate words with merely just objects, we know associate words with written structure.

Structure is the essence of control. Since grade school most of us in Eng 337 have been indoctrinated with an American education that consists of words that are directed by contemporary trends. You here about these debates all the time on television—(another subject I have not begun to scratch the surface of)—about how student’s awful English teachers are trying to get their students to read inappropriate books. What are the parents afraid of, they are just word’s right—yet they are not just words—they are ideas, they are political and they have the ability to clarify, or reinterpret peoples opinions on matters that can potentially cause dissent and unrest intellectually or physically . Words are weapons, but they are also tools of order, disorder and chaos. Words are everything imaginable—especially when they adhere to language structure.

P.S on Blog: This blog will be serialized I am far from being done with this topic.

A Heavan warm enough:

A shadow of things past and old

Lay on a four-poster bed

Desperately knotting a wool blanket.

His last touch

Waned from his fingertips as the knot got tighter,

And the will of the pine stained attic silently stiffened.

He watched the last of the dust

Swirl through the boxes of his memories,

And the sun break through the windowpane

were the east rises

Never looking like

Things new and usual.

It brought on a striking light--

That broke through the cracked glass

Illuminating a path

of fadding memory

(A tree bristling, obscuring green in the garden--

The cobwebbed windowsill become alive with the spiders patterns)—

Where heaven is never warm enough,

were the shadows of leaves bend through the day

and were old men finally fall asleep.

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly, Asleep on the black trunk, blowing like a leaf in green shadow. Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon. To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year's horses Blaze up into golden stones. I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on. A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. I have wasted my life.  James Wright If forgetfulness is the (virtue/vice) of a culture that embraces literature--then I am happy in a paradoxical way.    Literature is the immortal song of poets and muses that breathe a breath in the nooks, cranny’s and the alleyways of our souls.        To clarify what I wrote this morning--for I can see now that it was extremely vague--literature is a written tradition that immortalizes the writer, the work itself, and finally the reader--who becomens emottionally apart of the work in question. Personally--I become attached to words and their denotations, their conations and the feeling of sound rolling off my tongue--tasting like blossom blackberries and the sweetest wine.  Literature becomes us--or rather--we become the literature we read and write--if only for a moment--gazing out like James Wright on the setting sun.

Parting Shadows--and The Wrath of a New Semester.

Here I am admits a wave of self scrutiny looking for something to write about—but what—characters are vanishing things. So are the memories that try to rekindle life via the word.
I do remember a few things however—that kid freshmen year who cloaked himself in leather—face white like a ghost, scraggly facial hair and lonely eyes without a single tinge of color in his iris. It was said seeing him just sitting there in the cold Montana night exhaling the worlds troubles in spiraling debris of tar, nicotine and whatever the hell else is labeled as dangerous on those palm sized cigarette packs—but why—why was it so hard to realize a more honest reality at the time? He was like a festering sore that was visible, but would only be disinfected by the apathy of others, and the loathsome shit talking from the few women that came into contact with him. He was really a sorry son-of-a-bitch—that I never got to know—except the minor sketches I have assembled tonight. I suppose he happens to be easier to write about because of the vagueness that looms his character, which affords me the luxury to speculate out of imagination—(him, contemplating some devious sexual encounter—that will never happen—I, the author reflecting some of my faults onto him.) But there he is again wandering the fluorescent lit halls of the odd 11 story resident hall of my imagination—looking for sympathy, rejection, empathy—just some human emotion to reassure himself that he is there, and he does exists. Pardon, he did exist—so far he is just that distant object of a far way a place that I shall never return to except—in the blithering iron incrusted section of my soul that finds time for sympathy—when I do not.