Dreams and visions of the afterlife

I had a dream last night rich in complexity and detail.  It sounds like the setup for a Brandon Sanderson story.

The dream began with my arrival in a deep, dark cave.  The cave was filled with unearthly sounds - subhuman grunts and wicked laughter.  There was no light, save a distant gap far above.

This was the place I would come to call The Cave.

I spent only a moment in the cave when a massive train, larger by far than any train of my past experience, caught me up and pushed me forward.  One did not board this train, it simply picked people up somehow if they should be on it.  It was as though I was seeing through the front of the train, where the headlights would be if this were an earthly vehicle.  The train surged upward, impossibly defying gravity as it swiftly approached that distant point of light.  As we came close, I saw that the hole was massive, larger still than the enormous vehicle beneath me, of whose size and composition I was remarkably aware.

The train came to the surface, revealing a dry, parched landscape, filled with crags and crevices, though none so large as the hole through which I passed.  There was no desert sand nor fertile soil, only barren rock as far as the eye could see.

The only other thing visible beneath and cloudless sky was the long, sinuous train track, bearing the train along with immeasurable speed.  Thus, within the space of a thought, I found the train coming to rest in a crack in the base of a large hill or mountain.  The crack seemed narrow from the perspective of the train, with barely an inch of clearance on either side.  The top of crack was lost in darkness far above.

The inside of the crack itself was filled with people who bustled about with a great sense of purpose.  Goods had been deposited for the train and people were watching expectantly to see who might emerge.  I separated from the train and was greeted warmly by the dust-covered men who called this crack The Cove.

Among the men, I found an old friend whom I had not seen for many years.  I spotted him quickly as his clothing bore a redder hue than the dirt-brown jackets of those around me.  I realize now that he must have been sent to watch for me, to help me understand my circumstances.

We were all dead.  This was some form of afterlife.  The Spirit Train bore souls and cargo to where they were needed.  The Cave, the central hole from which I first emerged, was a sort of Grand Central Station to which and from which all tracks led.  Every soul entering this world whose name I did not learn during my visit began in The Cave just as I did.  All those with whom I spoke told a story similar to mine of awaking in The Cave and being conveyed out by the Spirit Train.

You could only board the Spirit Train if you were meant to do so.  The religious among the men said that God controlled the train and decided if you needed to be on board.  Call it God or Fate or whatever you would, there was no escaping the beckoning whistle of the Spirit Train for long.

I saw no women in The Cove, but I supposed that people lived deeper in the cracks of the mountain and sent their men to the train platform as needed.  Either that or they were in another Cove of their own.  There were, in fact, many Coves scattered throughout this rocky terrain, each with their own population.  No one explained to me how it was that a fractured tunnel through a hill came to be referred to as a Cove, despite such being a nautical term.

As I talked with my friend and as the dust from the train's passage began to settle, I noticed that the reddish hue was not confined solely to his clothing but rested also on his skin, emanating from everywhere except his eyes.  He explained to me that every soul becomes aligned with a certain element or combination of the elements, generally depending on the disposal of their bodies.  Those cremated, for example, would become aligned with fire.  Those buried in earth would be aligned with earth.  Those buried at sea would be aligned with water.  While those who dwelt in The Cove seemed to know about those aligned with air - both their origin and their existence - they never spoke of them in more than whispers, and certainly not to me.

Some, like my friend, were aligned with multiple elements.  He was of both fire and earth, allowing him to be comfortable in either environment.  The Coves were where those aligned with Earth came to dwell.  I did not learn during my brief visit about my friend's other home, where it might be or how one might come to be there.  My own element or combination had not yet fully manifested.  Such things took time but I was most likely at least partially aligned with earth.

This elemental alignment came with more than a change in the tone of one's skin.  It bore with it both certain powers beyond those of mortal men and certain burdens.  I learned that those aligned with fire, for example, ran the risk of "burning out", causing their bodies to vanish in a puff of smoke and flame.  My conscious mind imagines that this is how they return to their other home amid the flames, though it is apparently quite painful.

This entire conversation, in the way of dreams, happened in the blink of an eye, but in a very different way from that of the train's passage.  While as in any dream, many details are skipped over but you somehow know what happened, the train literally traveled at the speed of thought when one was on board.

While one could easily leave The Cove on foot, there was little enough to do on most of the barren landscape.  Following the tracks one way led to The Cave.  The men, smiling gently between themselves, encouraged me to follow the tracks the other way to see what I could see.

When I did so, I found myself lying in a little wooden church, listening to a conversation between the local priest and a man who, it seemed, had come to visit the graveyard which lay beyond the window.  They were discussing the location of the grave of the man's grandmother, "beneath the distant willow tree."  As I listened, I realized that they were speaking of a woman not yet buried but who soon would be.  Finally, the priest gestured in my direction and assured the man that they would take good care of her.  I then understood that I was observing the scene through the senses of his grandmother's corpse which was awaiting burial.

When I emerged from this vision, I found myself at a spot on the tracks only a short distance from The Cove.  It was beginning to push an enormous white-wrapped cylinder longer even than the train itself through the crack in the mountainside towards The Cave.  What might be in the cylinder?  I never learned the answer to that question.

I returned to the Cove and was told by the Men of Earth, with an edge of compassion in their tone, that my friend had "burned out" while I was gone.

Here, the dream ended as my daughter came to wake me up for the day.

Sapphire Sting vs. the Pestinator

When a new threat arises, a hero must emerge to combat it. After several years of quiet retirement, I, Sapphire Sting, have returned to active duty to combat the menace of the Pestinator.

It started small, as many such things do. A few ants here, a few there, never a conspicuous quantity. Little did the citizens of this tiny town suspect that these were but the advance scouts of an invasion force. The Pestinator had genetically engineered these ants for increased fecundity and resistance to most known toxins. They also bore a custom-built pheromone designed to drive humans mad. The Pestinator had nothing less in mind than total domination.

As the swarm hit, fumigators tried to hold back the rising tide of black trespassers but to no avail. Heroes across the city were left stymied as their powers - flame, ice, and even my radiation failed to have a significant impact against their sheer numbers.

A solution had to be found, and quickly. The invasion was so wide-spread that, even if a defense were devised, distribution might take too long to be effective. I realized, as I began assembling ingredients in my lab, that the ants had invaded there as well! Since they were unfazed by the chemicals and potions I had assembled, I knew they would be useless and, for a moment, I despaired of finding an answer.

I fled my lab and returned to my home, hoping to least protect my wife from the insect interlopers and found her in heated combat with them in our kitchen, holding them back with every ounce of her flaming fury.

Suddenly, my cybernetically enhanced eyes spotted something unusual which proved to be the key to our salvation. While they swarmed over the counters and table, I realized that there were two places they were avoiding - the spice rack and the pantry! I knew there was accessible food in the pantry and wondered why none had invaded there. I realized that the answer was right there in my own kitchen, but I had to act quickly to close off their access points.

I took several of the most pungent spices from the rack and hastily dumped them together in a super-sized bowl, then seized the baking soda from the pantry and added it to the mixture. The ants began to distance themselves from the bowl, but not far; the combined scent still wasn't strong enough! Remembering my chemistry, I reached into the pantry again, grasping the bottle of vinegar and slopped it into the bowl, producing a chemical reaction which carried the scent of the concoction through the house with the vapors of carbon dioxide.

The ants began to flee in an expanding circle, their tiny olfactory organs overpowered by the spicy stench of my stew. Now, the dilemma was to close off their access points before they could develop a resistance and return. Looking again into the bowl, I realized that my powder had become a sticky paste, which could be applied to the crevices, cracks and crannies they crawled through. I flew through the house, slapping the sticky solution wherever the ants were coming through. The flood of ants soon became a trickle, then there were none at all.

I knew I couldn't fly through the city in time to patch every home before the ants took over, but I realized that since the miraculous mixture was made of common household supplies, it could be quickly mixed in large quantities by everyone! I hailed my allies and we spread the word by all possible means and eventually, the city was won. His evil scheme foiled, the Pestinator was quickly apprehended and will now be spending a long time in a cell with a faint scent of cinnamon.

In case your home is still infested, use this recipe to antagonize the ant assailants:

Combine roughly equal parts black pepper, chili powder and cinnamon (can go a little heavy on the cinnamon to give it a more pleasing scent for humans). Add a little vinegar - enough to make a decent liquid suspension - then thicken with baking soda until pasty/sticky, though make sure to add that baking soda very gradually so it doesn't bubble over and make a mess. Water can be used instead of vinegar for a less potent brew.

Baby News!

We've been relatively quiet about our baby. It's been a long road getting here; 5 years of trying and suffering many things of many doctors in Utah and Connecticut. Through the miracle of In Vitro, our baby has been growing in Emilee since the end of March. While things were a little touch-and-go at the beginning, Baby has been a constant reminder of God's love for us since.

With In Vitro, you start getting pictures of your baby earlier than most people . . . A LOT earlier:

This photo, taken March 28th, shows our baby (plus one) at 3 days after conception. We're not sure which of the two is our baby, since both were transferred back that afternoon and only one has grown, but we're happy either way.

At 7 weeks, 5 days, Baby was little more than a nugget with a heartbeat, but oh, what a blessing it was to hear that heartbeat!

At 12 weeks (June 6), Baby was beginning to show a lot more features. The doctor complimented Baby's nose bone and said everything was looking good.

These pictures were taken today (almost 24 weeks) and Baby has some beautiful bones. Here are presented a spine, a leg, an arm and a view of the back of Baby's head. We also found out today that my hunch was right, we have a girl! The biggest indicator to me that we were having a girl is that we had a very easy time picking a girl's name (chosen before baby was even conceived) but were having a very hard time settling on a boy's name. Her name shall be:

Alanna Virginia Watson

In our first musings on nomenclature, we hit on the name Alanna Jade over 2 years ago (while we were still driving the Cadillac) but we realized when we started thinking about it more seriously (January or February) that Alanna Jade sounded too much like something out of Dungeons and Dragons. We still liked Alanna and as we considered further, my dear Great-Aunt Virginia came to mind (the one who gave us the Cadillac) and we realized that the names flowed together beautifully. I cannot think of a woman I'd like her to be grow up to be like, except perhaps for my wife.

Thank you to all of you who have offered prayers and support through this time, as we have had our rough spots along the way. With a mid-December due date, we've still got a while before we officially welcome her to the world but it's nice to have a pronoun and a name to call her.

On the subject of tolerance

After some recent discussions I've had with family and friends, I've felt the need to jot down and share some thoughts I've had with regard to the term "tolerance" and its application in today's society.

There are many today who, espousing a particular viewpoint or belief, will declare that those who disagree with them are "intolerant," quickly followed by accusations of hatred. Yet, by what definition is a person declared to be "intolerant?"

I must suppose, to begin, with the assumption that everyone believes that their personal beliefs have some degree of merit or, in other words, that they are in some way "right" in feeling or thinking the way that they do. Drawing upon an easy example, conservatives feel that conservative ideas have merit and liberals believe that liberal ideas have merit and each one feels that they are right and that the other is, by default, wrong.

Does this inherently imply that one side is intolerant of the other? While I do my best to try and see the logical basis behind any argument no matter how much I may disagree with it and while I am familiar with the idea that "A is right for me and B is right for you," many such ideas and beliefs are directly contradictory and I cannot conceive of a rational human being accepting all ideas presented to him/her as being correct and incorporating them into their philosophy.

I am, for example, a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, more commonly known as Mormon. As such, I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and the Savior of mankind. I also believe that God still speaks to mankind through a prophet, just as in ancient times. I believe the Holy Bible to be the word of God inasmuch as it is translated and preserved correctly. I also believe the Book of Mormon, written by ancient prophets on the American continent and revealed to a modern-day prophet, Joseph Smith, to be the word of God. These beliefs separate me ideologically from all but about 14 million of Earth's inhabitants which, compared with a little under 7 billion or so people on earth, is a fairly small group.

I am hardly immune from the right vs. wrong paradigm. Yes, I believe that I'm right. This implies that, while I believe that a lot of other faiths have valuable truths in their creeds, I believe that everyone else, at some point, is wrong. Does this make me intolerant? If so, does that automatically make me a hater and, thus, mean that I hate nearly 7 billion people?

By no means! One of the basic foundations of Christ's gospel, as I've discussed elsewhere in this blog, is to love everyone. EVERYONE. Think about that for a moment. I can wait.

While I cannot honestly state that I have achieved this perfect love of all mankind, I think I can honestly state that I don't currently hate anyone. Thus, in my case at the very least (and I believe that this extends to the rest of humanity as well), disagreeing with someone does not mean hating them, nor does it mean that one is "intolerant."

After all this, how do I define tolerance and, by extension, intolerance? To my way of thinking, it boils down to how we feel about and treat those who disagree with us. Do we attach a derogatory label to them by default, like one of my professors at BYU who, when it comes to politics, seems to automatically assume that anyone who disagrees with him is an idiot and, ergo, not worth his time nor a shred of politeness? This, to me, seems the very height of intolerance. As another real-life example, I recently heard of a friend of mine who had been labelled intolerant by a group of his peers because he disagreed with them on a particularly touchy political subject. A member of this group decided to buy cupcakes for everyone except my friend. Remind me, who's being intolerant here?

By contrast, getting back to the principle of loving all mankind, I believe that tolerance means loving and respecting everyone, whether they agree with you or not. As I once told a friend of mine while discussing another friend who had made what I believed to be a less-than-appropriate life choice, if I limited my circle of friends to those who strictly follow God's law according to *my* interpretation of it, I couldn't even be my own friend. The same applies for politics: If I only made friends with those who think the same way I do, I would have had VERY few friends in Connecticut. Thus, I still consider that previously mentioned BYU professor my friend (which is why he remains nameless here).

I leave you tonight with a scripture taken from the words of Christ which, while it never uses the word "tolerance," demonstrates my point well.

Matthew 5:43-48

⁴³Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.

⁴⁴But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;

⁴⁵That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

⁴⁶For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same?

⁴⁷And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so?

⁴⁸Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.

Hypothetical future epic novel

For quite some time now, I've had an idea for an epic novel floating around in my head. I have to confess that I don't believe I have either the talent or the time to write it well but it's an idea that I'd love to sell to someone one of these days. The central idea of the book is an exploration of meta-fiction. The main character, Tom (my prologue currently gives him an Homeric epithet, Thomas the Unbound) knows that he is a fictional character.

Furthermore, he knows that he is a main character which means that he is practically invincible, since an author will only kill his main character if it serves some higher, symbolic or poetic purpose (e.g. self-sacrifice) or if the author introduces someone or something more interesting than the main character with which to replace him. The author (to whom I have been referring as Arthur) basically tells him to find his own destiny in the fictional world and provides a guide to help him in his journey - Don Quixote de la Mancha.

Don Quixote is a powerful literary figure in that his belief shapes his reality. In the first part of Don Quixote, the fictions his madness invents are only in his own head but, by the second part, they begin to transform the world around him. Thus, centuries later, he has perfected to a degree the ability to travel between fictional worlds at will. His vision, however, is limited to books of chivalry and perhaps the bible (since a good knight is also a good Christian). Tom knows no such limits.

Tom begins travelling through the world of Fiction, gaining power as he learns more control. At some point, he analyzes his own text as though from an outside perspective, unsettling Arthur no end. He decides that he wants to be truly immortal. To achieve this end, he decides two things:

1. He must be the most interesting person imaginable and do many amazing things so that Arthur cannot invent anything more interesting.

2. He must be selfish - since self-sacrifice is a vulnerability - yet he must not become completely evil or risk the hand of poetic justice smiting him. He decides that being power-hungry is a reasonable balance between the two.

To gain in power, he begins placing himself in situations in which Arthur must grant him additional power in order to preserve him. In my great, climactic example, he travels to the biblical depiction of the 2nd temptation of Christ and flings himself from the temple heights. Since, in a biblical context, Arthur cannot send angels to support someone who isn't worthy of their protection, he must instead grant him the power of flight.

By the conclusion of the tale, Tom has gained enormous power. His control of the fictional world is virtually absolute. A massive storm builds behind him as he attempts to merge all fictional dimensions into a single, great kingdom, threatening to tear apart the very fabric of Fiction as we know it.

Arthur suddenly realizes that there is only one thing to be done to stop Tom once and for all. He writes himself into the novel and traps himself in it, knowing that a genuinely all-powerful author is the only thing more potentially interesting than a virtually all-powerful character. He destroys his creation, restoring balance to the fictional universe but now cannot leave.

Here's what I have written so far - it's only bits and pieces but I'd love to have the chance to make it more. One meta-fictional twist to it is that "I" shifts between Arthur and Tom as they struggle for power.

Prologue:  

Sing to me, Muse, of Thomas the Unbound, of his glory and power that transcend understanding.  Speak to me that I may write his tale and do justice and honor to his name.  Fill me, oh Muses of Fiction and Fantasy with the power of pen to create new life.  Oh patron saints of madmen, artists and inventors, grant me thy gifts and bless me with the talent to bring him to life, to give him a voice and a will.  

I set pen to paper and began to write.  "Thomas was a perfectly ordinary name, one that would fit well in almost any book.  This is precisely why it was a perfect name for the moat extraordinary figure ever created on a page." 

Yes, that's a good start...   

Chapter one:  the birth of a legend  

I blinked open my eyes as if awaking from a long sleep which I knew I could not have had since I had never slept.  I looked around me, expecting nothing since nothing was precisely the sum total of my experience up until that moment and thus, nothing is exactly what I saw.   

Nothing is quite so difficult to describe as nothing.  Except perhaps for eternity.  You may imagine, if it comforts you to do so, a field of white, glowing haze, a dark abyss or a simple, flat, gray plane but each of those is still something.  They have a color and a shape and so cannot be considered nothing.   

I knew, though, that I could not be blind and that I ought to see something - even in the darkest chamber one can perceive the dark.  With that thought, I saw Him.  Arthur, His name came to me, was my creator, perhaps something akin to a father except with no possibility of a mother. 

 *****  

"What I'm telling you," replied Arthur calmly, "is that your destiny is completely your own.  As a fictional character, you have the freedom to do anything you can imagine."  

"I haven't exactly had a lot of experience with imagining anything yet," I answered.  "How am I supposed to know what to do with my life without any experience to draw on?  I know nothing beyond my immediate context and those gifts of language you've given me."  

"While I wish I could be your guide on your journey of self-discovery," said Arthur as he shook his head softly, "I am rather Ill-equipped for the task.  My life's experiences are those of a student, a writer and a simple father of a small family.  However, while I, myself, can only be your chronicler, I know the perfect guide to help you to find your own voice and lead you the rest of the way."  

With that, Arthur bent once again over his notebook and began writing with his original furvor.  An admittedly overused (though no less impressive for that fact) swirling blue and purple vortex appeared providing a convenient image to accompany the appearance of a new figure onto the scene.  

What first appeared through the portal was the head of an old, grey nag, well past its prime, whose decrepit body soon followed, bone by protruding bone.  Atop the horse sat a tall, gaunt figure dressed in a dirty, rusted suit of armor cobbled together, it seemed, from old kitchenware and a dingy yellow wash basin for a helmet.  For a moment, I doubted Arthur sanity as the weatherbeaten tail of the old gluepot passed into existence through the portal.  This was to be my guide?    

My doubts were quickly put to rest, however, when the figure atop the horse raised his visor and said,"¿Quienes sois vosotros que me paréis aquí?". He glanced then at Arthur and inclined his head, his tone softening.  "O Sabio Encantador, escritor de la historia de mis hechos y aventuras en la Mancha, ¿que requiere vuesa merced de mi?"  

I turned slowly to Arthur, certain now he had, indeed, lost his grip on reality or, rather, what passed for reality in a fictional context.  He returned my glance with a look of confusion.  He snapped his fingers as realization dawned on him.  "Of course, you don't understand Spanish.  Yet.". This last was added with a rueful grin and a quick scribble.

Heroes in a Colorful World

Hi, everyone. It's been an exceptionally long time since my last post but I felt as though I had to stand up and say something today about racism. In a recent discussion, one of my colleagues, believing himself to be surrounded by fellow liberals (I am beginning to believe that I am the only conservative in the state of Connecticut) declared that those from the Right ignore racism and pretend that it no longer exists in our society.

At least in my case, this is most definitely a false perception of conservatives. I think the problem here, though, is one of how we define success in this area. Liberals, in general, seem to be very concerned with tracking numbers and percentages. "This percentage of CEOs are white males," they declare, for example, or "This percentage of black kids drop out of school compared to this percentage of white kids. And let's not forget the Hispanic kids, Asian kids and (more recently) homosexual kids," stating that this must change. The way they decide to change it is by fiat - the government declares, "thou shalt have no fewer than X percentage of employees be of Y racial background or thou shalt lose much money." Colleges are praised for their ethnic diversity and racially-based scholarships abound. If you can prove that you have Native American ancestry, even if your family is otherwise like every other family in your local corner of suburbia, you are presented with a cornucopia of opportunities unavailable to your Caucasian neighbor. Thus, for the liberal idealist, a perfectly racism-free society would have those numbers balance perfectly - if 15% of the population is *fill-in-ethnic-backgound* then they'll be happy when they count that at least 15% of CEOs, managers, politicians and major league baseball team owners are *fill-in-ethnic-background.*

I remember a time when I was blissfully unaware of the issue of race or racism. I was a middle-class kid attending a private school in Los Angeles. One day, I noticed a girl in my 1st grade class who I thought was cute which, predictably, instantly made me uncomfortable talking to her. Noticing my discomfort, she declared, "Well, you just don't like me because I'm black." My mind was completely blown. First off, I *did* like her - that was precisely my problem. Secondly, and this is the part I expressed, "What does that [being black] have to do with anything?"

That day, this girl taught me 2 lessons I wished I had never learned with that simple statement. First, she taught me that there was some sort of fundamental difference between black people and white people. I hadn't even considered breaking people up by their skin tone before that moment. People were people, end of story, right? Apparently, this little girl thought otherwise.

The second lesson of that brief exchange, even more damning than the first, was that being black was a reason to not like someone. Now, it's important to note here that this message was not being touted by a white supremacist or a redneck but by a 7 year old black girl. Obviously, our social programming starts very early and happens on both sides of the "tolerance" line.

The next year, we moved to Santa Barbara. A new school brought new friends and new, interesting social situations. My first best friend in Santa Barbara was a kid by the name of Paul Gosh (I apologize for not remembering how to spell that last name). I would come home and tell my parents about what I had done with Paul today at recess or what have you. Then one day he came over. My parents were somewhat surprised to find that my friend was quite dark-skinned, a fact which I had never once mentioned even though I spoke of him frequently. Despite my paradigm shift from the year before, I was still pretty darn colorblind with regards to race.

Over the next couple of years, though, a particular ethnic group started getting my attention. While I should stress that this is a viewpoint I no longer hold, I decided at that time that I had a problem with Mexicans (to use the overly generalized concept graspable by a 9-10 year old). Why, you may ask, would I develop that kind of prejudice? The answer is quite simple. While I tried to be a friend to as many people as were willing to be my friend (which were, admittedly, not very many people), they consistently traveled together as an exclusive and unapproachable gang around the playground. They set themselves apart from everyone else and made it clear in no uncertain terms that they really didn't want or need anyone from outside of their racial profile. This was my first encounter with "*Fill-in-the-minority-or-ethnic-group* Pride" and I. Really. Didn't. Get it. I still don't! Why, I thought, would you ONLY want to make friends with people with the same racial background and exclude everyone else? I was being taught segregation in reverse - rather than keeping *them* separate from *us,* they kept their *us* separate from all of *them* (their Them being our Us - if that makes any sense which it probably doesn't).

Fast-forward through the years a bit and you'll find all of the race-specific clubs, assorted "Pride" groups and a really frustrated/frustrating Mexican Spanish teacher who hated white guys (it's documented, folks!) reinforcing this idea that we are not all the same and that the difference between races is more than skin-deep.

Even as a missionary in Guatemala, I found various kinds of racism all around me. Among them, while the way the Ladino was viewed by Latino society was a shock, the most striking to me was that same paradigm I had encountered in elementary school being repeated among my fellow missionaries. While we were often placed in multi-racial companionships (I actually had more Latino companions than Gringos), there were always the zone meetings where all the missionaries from a large area got together for training and, usually, pizza. During the social pizza-consumption portion of the program, I realized to my dismay that, every time, all the Gringos would gather together in one room and all the Latinos would gather in another room, usually with the Gringos staying in the room with the pizza and the Latinos filtering out. It's obviously hard to point fingers in this situation as to who is at fault - I really felt as though this minor xenophobia was some kind of "natural" (in the sense that the natural man is an enemy to God) process that I had somehow missed out on. Of course the English speakers want to hang out with English speakers if only so they can get a break from Spanish, right?

I made my choice then. When groups started separating, I always followed the Latinos. Even if I stuck out, even if I maybe even made someone uncomfortable by my presence, even though my grasp of the language wasn't all that great, I refused to be party to segregation, no matter how voluntary. I believe that any advantage I have/had in Spanish over my fellow Gringos is due, at least in part, to that choice. While I once hated the Spanish language because I associated it with those kids who ganged up on me in dodgeball and that Señora with her issues, I came to embrace it as a means of bridging the gap, of crossing into the space of "the other" and becoming one with them. While I have instructors here at UConn who dismissively decline to so much as comment on the idea (raised by my classmates) that we Gringos in the masters' program might be part of Latinoamerica, by choice rather than by birth, I truly feel that part of my heart is Latino. Okay, specifically Chapín but that's another story.

Boiling all this back down and bringing it back to my original point, my experiences have led me to a quite different conclusion regarding how we can measure success in combating racism. Instead of changing numbers it involves a change of heart - truly loving all people equally as God has commanded us. If you love your neighbor as yourself, you won't care what color they are, what their ethnic background is. You'll support them, share with them, raise your children together in harmony, not "in spite of" racial differences but because they really, honestly don't matter to either of you. If you truly love all of God's children the way we should, there will be no *us* and *them.*

It involves parents not teaching their children hate, but love, and I'm talking about both ends of the equation here. While I know that there are many white supremacist groups out there teaching their kids a gospel of hate - and that clearly needs to come to an end - I have to ask where that 7-year old girl learned that white people wouldn't like her because she was black? She certainly didn't learn it in school and she didn't learn it from me. Combating racism is a struggle for every home, every parent and every child. Once a parent has taught their child to hate or that they will be a victim of hate at the hands of white oppressors, as soon as a parent teaches their child a dichotomy between *us* and *them* along those lines no governmental edict or fiat will change their heart. Teach the parents to teach their children that love.

This change of heart won't be something you can measure, count or calculate percentages on precisely because that would defeat the purpose. As soon as you start thinking in terms of race, of comparing and contrasting along racial or ethnic lines, you are perpetuating the problem.

In my heart, I stand together tonight with Dr. King: I have a dream that one day all of God's children will be as equal in each others' sight as we are in His. I have a dream that every man will love his neighbor. I have a dream that we can start working towards that today. To quote Dr. King:

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that my . . . children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

Four Years and Six Flags

For our anniversary, Emilee and I decided to go to Six Flags, New England and check it out. It just barely opened for the season a short time ago so we knew there would be few crowds, making it an ideal time to test-drive a new theme park. While there were some disappointments, we decided at the end of the day that we had had enough fun to upgrade our 1-day tickets to season passes.

When we first got there, the coaster name that was blared at us from all sides was Bizarro. This mammoth purple contraption had guests streaming towards the back of the park and looked like a lot of fun. We zipped through what little line there was at that point, secured our loose articles (not doing to can result in being ejected from the park - trying to take a picture or use a cell phone on a ride can get you banned for 5 years) and climbed aboard - only to find that the ride's restraints were insufficient for my girth. Even having lost somewhere between 40 and 45 pounds since August, the seatbelt didn't simply not fit, it was several inches away from it. Even Emilee, far slenderer than I, just barely squeezed into the restraint. We were encouraged to try "another, less restrictive ride, like Batman" by the ride attendant who helped me out of the restraints I had managed to get on.

After this quite disappointing beginning, we tried another ride - Thunderbolt, oldest coaster still in operation at the park. After squeezing my hindquarters into the seat, I found that this belt, at least, was quite accommodating. While the squeeze was a tight one, I quite enjoyed this ride, helping to lift the dark mood, especially when Emilee helped me realize that I might not have been able to ride it 45 pounds ago. "We've earned a coaster!" became the rallying cry. At this point, Emilee recalled that a list of girth-restrictive rides was available at Guest Relations, so we headed there. I asked for that list, which prompted several minutes of searching in various cupboards and drawers, after which the young woman helping me simply jotted down the rides she hears a lot about - these were Bizarro, Tomahawk, Twister and Scream, the latter three of which weren't that interesting to us anyway. She mentioned that "Any ride with a shoulder harness might be a problem, but some of them, like Batman, have a modified belt in the middle so they're less restrictive."

We began wandering at random at that point and found Houdini's Great Escape, which turned out to be a very fun little thrillusion to which we returned at the end of our stay. Further description of the ride would spoil the surprise for anyone interested in going but it's a lot of fun. Pandemonium was also fun, a fairly standard small coaster setup but with spinning seats, adding a fascinating element of unpredictability to the ride.

Cyclone also turned out to be a very tight fit. A VERY tight fit, requiring some help from the ride attendant to get buckled. It was kind of a rough ride and a bit of a stomach turner. What really made us decide to take a break, though, was Flashback, a shoulder-harnessed ride that spins you around first going forward then going backward. My shoulder harness loosened just a click on the way up the inertia-gathering slope, causing just a bit of sheer terror as I clung to it, just in case. After returning from our lunch break, we rode a teacups ride quite similar to that at Disneyland and Catwoman's Whip, a gentler coaster which served as a good transition back into action.

From here, we headed to Mind Eraser, a dangly, twisty ride. Noting that there would be shoulder harnesses, I asked a line worker what my odds were of fitting on the ride. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "I'm sure you'll be fine." I clambered up the ride, slipped into the seat, pulled down the harness and pulled up on the belt which buckles into the harness. . . and discovered that it was several inches too short. Noting that the general statement about shoulder harnesses was true, I asked the ride operators about these rides more generally and was told that Batman had a few seats with a different belt system. Are we noticing a running theme here?

I was also too big for Batman.

Admittedly, the ride DID have a couple of more accommodating seats. If they had been about one inch more accommodating, I would have been just dandy. Ah, well. We got away from that part of town and found Splash Water Falls, a ring-shaped raft ride. A lack of seat belts made this one an attractive choice, so we got in line. We found ourselves behind a VERY dorky group of high schoolers who kept chanting random phrases and screaming at their friends who were on the ride. It was about the time they started randomly singing, "We are the champions" that I prayed for deliverance. My prayer was rapidly answered as the line worker asked for a party of two, one of several times that our nature as a small family came in handy. This ride made us dizzier than any other but it was a lot of fun.

At Emilee's suggestion, we then got on the bumper cars for a quick bout before repeating Houdini. As we began heading to that section of town, we noticed that some fellow travelers were wet, leading us to discover that Blizzard River, which had been closed when we arrived at the park, had beenre opened. Having just had a great time on a raft ride, we clambered aboard - only to find that the curse of the seat belts had come calling again. Thankfully, with the ride operator's help, we were able to bridge the gap and got on our way. The chilling mist on this ride, in addition to being a welcome change from the heat of the afternoon, was a great special effect to go with the penguins and fake ice floes. Neither Emilee nor I were the direct recipients of the waterfalls on the ride but we still felt nicely damp when we got off.

All in all, even with the number of rides we had to cross off as inaccessible, we had a really good time. It being an anniversary trip, I reflected that it really was a good synopsis of married life - there are disappointments and trials but sticking through it together makes it all worthwhile. Just as we got season tickets in anticipation of future visits, we look forward to many more years of happy married life.

Part of Your World: The Little Mermaid as a post-colonial text.

My Literary Analysis professor has decided that, instead of a final exam, we can opt to write a 5-7ish page paper on the text of our choice - we just have to clear it with him first. He's really into film so I think this idea has a shot, but in case it doesn't, I wanted to jot down my notes for a possible future topic. Plus, they're bouncing around in my head and won't let me sleep. Rather than writing the entire paper here (and being up until 5:00 AM at least doing it), I'll restrict myself to a basic outline.

Basic ideas of post-colonial lit included here: The subaltern (oppressed and voiceless) and transnationalism (border societies, border crossings).

1. Merfolk are, by nature, a transnational group: Being half human and half fish, they have the ability to exist between these two worlds but never quite be an integral part of either one. King Triton has rejected the human aspect of his origins and commands his followers to do the same. While they have many fishy friends, they are not truly fish but are seen as something greater, as demonstrated by the deference shown them by (most of) the creatures of the deep. Thus, they have set up their own nation, Atlantica, within the ocean realm.

2. Ariel's grotto as a transnational space: Ariel, in opposition to her father, actively seeks out her human origins. Long before Prince Eric enters the picture, her curiosity about the human world leads her to intensive study including the collection of artifacts and anecdotes via her transnational contact, Scuttle. (see 2.5 below) It is within her transnational space, embracing both her aquatic and human roots, that she feels "at home."

2.5 Scuttle as a self-deluded transnational figure: He believes he understands the human world through his observations but really has no clue. Living proof that living somewhere doesn't make you an expert.

3. Part of your world: Ariel recognizes that, study as she might, she can never truly understand the human world without living among humans. While she has clearly learned a great deal of their language ("What's that word again? Street!"), she recognizes that something is missing, saying "I want more." She is not speaking of adding more thingamabobs or dinglehoppers to her collection but of gaining intimate understanding of the human world. This desire becomes even more keen with the entrance of Prince Eric and her ensuing infatuation.

4. Ariel in exile: King Triton learns of Ariel's treasure(d) grotto and misunderstands it as a subversive space rather than one of expression and exploration. As any number of colonizing and governmental forces have done through the ages, Triton destroys Ariel's transnational home, forcing her to choose between her origins. Having just been betrayed by all that she associates with her aquatic roots and feeling that she has nothing left there, she chooses to cross the border.

4.5a Ursula as the Coyote: She facilitates Ariel's border crossing but, as many migrant smugglers, extorts a heavy, manipulative price.

4.5b "Don't underestimate the importance of 'body language'. . . Yes, on land it's much preferred for ladies not to say a word:" In addition to being an illegal immigrant (for whom the border patrol will come in 3 days unless she can get her green card), Ursula points out that Ariel is and will be subaltern in her position as a female in a "man's world." Being unable to speak (both figuratively and literally), Ursula proposes that Ariel's only potential for power and influence within a patriarchal human society is her sexuality.

5. Voiceless: Ariel may have felt powerless under Triton's rule, but she now finds herself across the border, truly subaltern and voiceless. By a stroke of good fortune, she finds herself being ushered into what Angel Rama called la Ciudad Letrada (the Lettered City) but it is quite obvious, mainly from her initial awkwardness with human society caused by her incomplete knowledge, that she doesn't really "belong" there. She is quite clearly a guest of this society, not a member.

6. Deportation: She begins to adapt quickly to rules of this new society but every moment she spends adapting brings the border patrol closer to her door. She is caught and deported before she can secure her green card. While she may have regained her voice, she certainly has lost any shred of influence she may have possessed in either of the two worlds, having sacrificed all she had to the Coyote.

7. My hero: Ariel, disenfranchised and powerless, lies at the bottom of the whirlpool. She can do nothing for herself but feebly attempt to survive. It is not she but Prince Eric, representative of the Lettered City, who holds the power to save the day, release her from her prison and the bonds into which she placed herself and restore order to the world.

8a. "Get everything you wanted. . .": In the end, Ariel is granted the opportunity to remain with her prince in the Lettered City. The use of the word granted is carefully chosen here as she does nothing to "earn" her place in this world but, rather, is gifted her desires by Prince Eric and King Triton, both patriarchal authority figures.

8b, ". . . lose what you had.": As Triton says, "There's just one problem left. . . how much I'm going to miss her." She gains her voice in her new nation but at a tremendous cost, perhaps even worse than that exacted by Ursula: She is forever cut off from her society of origin. As with any subaltern seeking to have a voice in the Lettered City, she must adapt to their discourse, their way of life, and sever her ties with her family and friends. She has her green card and her prince but is otherwise quite alone.

Note: Quote for 8a and 8b is from Princess and the Frog.

Semi-practical applications of what I'm studying!

One of the most crucial facets of the evolution of current literary criticism is the search for Meaning. During the study of it, the image comes to mind of a child asking, "Mommy, where does Meaning come from?" Not too very long ago, Meaning was thought to be tied in to the author's "intent." What the author meant to say with the text was what the text said.

Then came Barthes and said, similar to the declaration of Nietzsche, "The author is dead." According to Barthes and his contemporaries, a text, once written, is a separate entity from its author and the Meaning of the text must lie there, within the text itself, divorced from the author. While the author is alive, of course, they may write commentaries in an attempt to clarify the matter, but the text itself remains apart, as do each of the commentaries. This gave rise to the idea of the indeterminacy of Meaning, that a text can have many different Meanings embedded therein.

Following along those lines, in more recent years, the source of Meaning has been again transferred, this time to the reader. Reader Response Criticism (and other related schools of thought) state that it is the responsibility of the individual reader to, not simply find Meaning within a text but, rather, to place Meaning into the text in the process of reading it. The Meaning they find, of course, will depend upon their prejudices - not prejudices in the currently common negative sense, but with the idea of that which we are preconditioned to receive through our life experiences and the kind of person we are as a result of them.

With that out of the way, we get to the practical part of this blog entry. On a light-hearted note, Reader Response Criticism applies just as well to films and television as it does to printed media and Burton's production of Alice in Wonderland is a perfect example. Each of us comes into a theatre with certain prejudices - again, in the sense of a predisposition rather than one of bigotry, though such may be part of our prejudices - which color our viewing of the film. A person with a strong bias against fantasy films, Tim Burton, Disney or Johnny Depp is likely to find themselves disappointed. Some reviewers look to what they believe the author's intent to be, one saying "Lewis Carroll himself was not a writer but a mathematician [. . .] who liked the illogical, if that's how you wanted to approach the story then add in some of the illogical." One reviewer referred to it as "something like a post-modern tale of self-discovery." It could be interpreted as a feminist discourse as Alice becomes an independent woman freed from the shackles of her society. Emilee responded to it as a tale of courage as Alice finds the strength to be what she needs to be.

Personally, I discovered in Burton's rendition a striking lesson on the relationship between free will and divine foreordination. Alice arrives in Wonderland to find that her role has been foretold by a mystic scroll (I like that line - quite poetic, I think), an idea which she finds quite distasteful. She at first attempts to deny that role, stating, "This is my dream," and expresses a determination to reshape her destiny according to her own will. As the film progresses, however, through the guidance of the Mad Hatter and Absalom, the blue caterpillar, her determination to bend the world to her whims lessens. The White Queen's advice to her is, to my mind, the cornerstone of the message - she tells Alice that, if she is to serve in her role as the predestined hero of Underland, it must be her own choice to do so. A final push from Absalom commenting on metamorphosis and change brings her around to choose her predestined course.

We have been foreordained - predestined, if you wish - to that which God would have us do, but we always have a choice. We may choose to say, as Alice, "This is my life, and I'll do with it as I please." God's knowledge, however, is far greater than our own - His ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts than our thoughts, as Isaiah reveals. We must not seek to bend divine will to suit our own desires. We will find ourselves far happier if we learn to say, as Christ, "Not my will, but thine be done." Conforming our will to the will of the Father - making His path not only our foreordained one but also our chosen one - is the key to happiness, both in this life and in the world to come.

On that note, the Bible was a text (or, rather, a set of texts which were later compiled) which was/were written with a very specific intent, to lead people in a righteous path which would bring them back to our Father. The writings and actions of prophets and apostles contained therein demonstrated that the people, left to their own devices, found all sorts of Meanings in the text which strayed from the greater Author's intent. The leaders of God's flocks worked to give course correction through further correspondence and discourse and throughout their assorted journeys, all guided by the great Author.

But, just as Barthes said, the mortal authors of these texts are dead. Their works have been left open to interpretation and the proliferation of Christian churches and creeds which we see today are evidence of how many different Meanings can be found within that sacred text. People are ideologically tossed about by differing viewpoints and interpretations, all based on different individual understandings of the Bible. Reader Response Criticism put into practice produces a world of confusion about the Author's intent which, in the case of holy writ, is quite important, as stressed by its mortal authors.

Thus we may see the critical need, in today's world, for continued input from the Author of our souls to clarify the true Meaning of the sacred text. Thus the need for continuing revelation, of prophets and apostles "to guide us in these latter days." They provide, through their intimate revelatory connection with the Author, not simply *an* interpretation of scripture but *the* interpretation, the only one of divine origin.

Relating to my earlier point, God as our Author must be allowed to give continual input if we are to find true Meaning in our own lives. Through the guidance of the Holy Ghost, God can be not only our Author but our Authority, directing us in all things to our good. We must not simply rely on our own interpretation of the text of our lives but turn to Him and allow our story to unfold.

Reflections on the Looking Glass

Yesterday, Emilee and I went to see the Disney/Tim Burton production of Alice in Wonderland. When dealing with the surreal, dreamlike world presented by Lewis Carroll, one expects to find qualities both of dreams and of nightmares. For every Frumious Bandersnatch, there's a Vorpal Sword awaiting the hand of a hero. This film, as such, is neither the itty-bitty-friendly land of enchanted princesses we often associate with Disney nor the haunting and often haunted universe many associate with Tim Burton. The tone of the film is somewhat more akin to the Dungeons and Dragons modules based on the books - nothing is quite as it seems nor, perhaps, quite as you remember (or as Alice fails to remember) and it's hard to know whose side everyone is on - all presented with the flair, panache and spectacle (including great CGI effects) of Disney and Walden Media's first Chronicles of Narnia film.

While the CGI creatures are eye-popping (those of you who have seen the film will know exactly what I mean) and the backdrops breathtaking, the crew outdid themselves with Alice's wardrobe. With the various growing and shrinking that Alice does during the film, her dress is rarely quite up to the task, but she somehow (whether by magical means or through some help from the Hatter) finds herself in a new gown, each more glorious than the last a la Dr. Seuss's 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, all while exposing little flesh below the shoulders.

And, to any of my friends in Provo waiting for the dollar theatre, I suggest that you don't. This is a film which cries out for a theatre capable of making full use of a good theatre's sound system and 3D capabilities. The clearest example is Alice's high-speed tumble down the rabbit hole, where you hear objects approaching from the back of the theatre just before they whoosh past your/Alice's head.

In summary, hats (mad or otherwise) off to Disney, Burton and the rest.

Mental Meanderings in the Morning

It has long been said that when you can't sleep because you've got too much running through your head, the best thing to do is write it down to get it out of your head. So, here goes:

I'll be administering another quiz on Monday and I keep going over the quiz in my head: Is this question fair? Did I phrase that clearly? Did I make an embarrassing mistake?

Before the quiz, there's a review activity: Did I set it up right? Will it run smoothly? Will they enjoy it as much as I hope they do? Will it really be a good enough review to be worth it?

Then I get to more general worries about teaching: How am I going to cover All This material before Spring Break? I'm SO sick of giving instructions for an activity and hearing, "So, what are we doing?" or "So, we're doing X?" in English. When they work in pairs or groups, I hear a bunch of them asking their partners, in English, what they're supposed to be doing. PAY ATTENTION! I honestly do make the instructions clear if you'll just listen up!

My thoughts about teaching wouldn't be complete without my Sunday School class tomorrow (or, every other week, leading the music for Primary). Did I plan well enough? Will the students/kids get what they need to out of the lesson? Will I make some colossal blunder and lose the respect of student/kids and teachers/parents alike?

Of course, I've got my own schoolwork to worry about. I've got a short paper due on Tuesday for which I haven't gotten beyond the planning phase. There's ALWAYS more reading to do.

Then, to top it all off, one of my friends posted a Spanish (technically Castellano, but whatever) version of Hakuna Matata on Facebook and I've got the tune stuck in my head.

Finances play a part in there too, of course, but that's more of a consistent back-of-the-head concern.

So, there's my report. Wish me luck getting back to sleep!

Final Exam Prep - Part 5

Terry - Quevedo y el Concepto Metafisico

Stated purpose of article: "examinar algunas de las cuestiones planteadas por el término <>"

The next page criticizes other critics.

Two types of concepto: Ornamental y Orgánico

Ornamental, tambien llamado "meramente extravagante": Una obra de ingenio en sí misma completa, autosatisfecha, que no tiene ulterior propósito en su contexto."

Ejemplos:
Polifemo 109-112
Quevedo 67b

Organico: Ilumina un tema importante para, por lo menos, una gran parte del poema.

Example: Yellowness of gold (wealth) -> straw -> straw hut (poverty/el campo) -> death shroud (414a)
meaning: "el buen cristiano es feliz en su pobreza y acepta el hecho de que ha de morir." As the hut covers a poor christian in life, the shroud will cover him in death.

Metaphysical conceptos are a subset of organic conceptos. To be metaphysical, a concepto must contain tension - the constant reiteration of certain problems. Special emphasis on Constant - not just a one-time joining sino que "Los elementos de un concepto metafísico deben ser tales que integren una unión sólida y, al mismo tiempo, mantengan su separada y flagrante identidad."

Soneto 54b-55a of Quevedo:

Cabello connected to Leandro & Icaro -> mar & sol as sources of danger. Suffering for love is simply part of amor cortés and is in no way metaphysical - as a result, there's no tension, so it's an organic concepto, not a metaphysical one. Same thing with the idea of "tener y no tener" in the last tercet presented by Midas and Tántalo.

In the first tercet, however, "hay una distinción... entre razón y pasión. ¿Es una oposición metafísica genuina? No en sí misma; con todo, es una distinción (y por supuesto una fuente de tensión) que puede hacerse para remitir a una oposición de ese género. El poema trata, en efecto, de la eternidad del amor humano - es decir, de su aspecto espiritual... espíritu/sentidos... no es en sí una oposición metafísica. Pero puede llegar a serlo en la medida en que se ordene hacia el contraste eterno/temporal: 'el corazón actúa como el amor fuese eterno; la razón sabe que no lo es'... esta clase de contraste...reclama la metáfora para expresarse con plenitud."

The central contrast is presented as being between the heart and the phoenix. The joining 'concepto' is that they both burn but have a hope of rising again. The real contrast which overlays the entire poem is between "el corazón que cree que renacerá y la razón que sabe que ha de morir.

Another example of the same concept - soneto 63a: Good ol' "cerrar podrá mis ojos..." by the mix of llama y agua to demonstrate the same eternal/temporal principal.

Final Exam Prep - Part 4

Góngora's Polifemo: the Humor of Imitation.

Intro labels Góngora as an Erudite poet - those who "imitated the poets of Classical Antiquita and also the Italian Renaissance poets"

2 aspects of imitation: linguistic and poetic/thematic

Linguistic: "use of neologisms and Latinizing tendencies of his syntax."
"He is the poet who through imitation of the Latin language caused the balance to shift in favor of Spain in the debate between the ancients and the moderns."

Poetic/thematic aspect: "Góngora usually recalls specific lines of poetry, entire poems and the thematic material or topoi of Renaissance and Classical literature."
"Much of Góngora's poetry cannot be fully understood and appreciated if the context of the source is not borne in mind."

Goal of the chapter: "I would like to show how Góngora is using the literary principle of imitation as an important, if not a principal element in the narrative structure of the Polifemo."

"In its structure, Góngora's Polifemo consists of two principal parts, each of which has a different narrator. The narrator of the first part (80%) is Góngora, the poet, inspired by Talía... This second part is an imitation of the stanzas that have preceded it, and Góngora's final line before introducing the song of Polyphemus, "Referidlo, Piérides, os ruego" is intended rather humorously and with seeming exasperation to advise the reader that what follows are the words of a new narrator."

What follows is a LONG list of specific points in which Polyphemus's song is an imitation of Góngora - unfortunately, there really IS no way to boil that list down much. It pretty much goes line by line and says "This thing Polyphemus says is like this thing that Góngora says." Sorry.

Polyphemus imitates Garcilaso who, in turn, is imitating Ovid. Thus, Polyphemus is ALSO imitating Stigliani's overly wordy style at the climax.

"When one considers the Polifemo as the last, perhaps the most outstanding version in a long sequence of imitations, then Góngora's erudition comes into play and gives his thematic laitmotifs a complexity and depth that transcends the simpler process of reception and mutation."

Final Exam Prep - Part 3

Uses of Classical Mythology in the Soledades:

Explores the use of Ovidian mythology in Soledades - begins by mentioning last 4 lines "each of which is a periphrasis for a mythical character"

Góngora's predecesors - Theocritus, Virgil, Boccaccio, Sannazaro

At this point, the copy the professor has provided is missing 2 pages - hope there's nothing important in there!

Presence of graeco-roman religion in pastoral in Sannazaro and Góngora. Sannazaro's references are always explained, never obscure.

*** Major quote which sums up article*** "[Góngora] eschews the straightforward ornamental description of a mythological tableau. He certainly uses myth in his pastoral for atmospheric purposes, but more figuratively than directly. Allusions to mythology lie thick upon the ground in the Soledades, but they are intrinsic to his expression rather to his matter. They illustrate and emphasize his meaning but are not in themselves part of his subject."

"Thus Baco confuso, Vulcán coronado, tanta Ceres, Neptuno, Febo, Venus are mixed wine, shepherds round a fire, rich crops, the sea, sun, love respectively with no suggestion of divinity or worship."

"Góngora, following Renaissance tradition, humanizes the world of nature by using metaphors from man and his activities, because he often uses Ovid's stories in reverse

"In the matter of classical pastoral Góngora depends more upon Virgil than upon any other classical author."

Accusation of obscurity rests on:
"constant use of allusive metaphor, an erudite and neologistic vocabulary, and different syntax."

Recurrent images:
Land/sea antithesis indicative of mistrust of commerce.
Ganymede and Adonis as types of masculine beauty.
Castor & Pollux in sonnets (320, 379) = St. Elmo's fire = hope amid the storm.
Power of Orpheus' song
Plants and animals - Nature

Menosprecio de corte etc.:
Bienaventurado albergue (I, 94-135)

Inserts poem into mythical realm:
II 460-464
II 584-597
"Whereas the rest of the Soledades can be explained and accepted on the plane of realism, these two episodes, and the hymeneal invocation they already discussed, seem to destroy for a moment the poise of the poem between fantasy and the poetical expression of reality"

Why did Góngora leave the Soledad segunda unfinished?
"In the Soledad segunda, the four references to this story [of Proserpina] serve no apparent purpose than that of periphrasis, in spite of the potential emotional and symbological significances the story offers. This is a very noticable falling away from the variety, aptness and ingenuity of the earlier parts of the poem. It does seem to suggest that one reason why Góngora left it unfinished was that he found his inventiveness failing, his pen diverging from his original intention."

"the legend of the mares who are made pregnant by the wind... is taken up by Góngora and applied with local patriotism to the horses of Andalusia (II, 724-728). This is the unique instance of precise geographical location of the Soledades and it is yet another distinction between the latter part of the poem and the rest, and again shows how far Góngora had moved from his original careful poise of uncommittedness."

Other examples of mythology in text:
I 7-8
I 1028-34
II 418-20
II 612-625
Spring and stream -> Snake (II 320-27)
Ocean -> centaur (9-13)

Final Exam Prep - Part 2

Cap. 4 "The Greatest Love: Lisi.

First 2 pages are a discussion of why applying biography to Quevedo's poetry is a waste of time. So why did you waste our time talking about it?

Author dismisses the idea that the love for Lisi is platonic, citing references to Lisi's lap as a bed for a child and to touching (No. 477 - "Descansa en sueño, ¡oh tierno y dulce pecho!")

Bulls as a symbol of passion.
Love at first sight leads to (442)
Carpe Diem leads to
Desire for revenge for jilted love leads to (467)
Desperation/helpnessness in the face of impossible love - escarmiento (475, 478)
Deterrent to others (461)
Lisi "is the conventional 'belle dame sans merci'"

Author finally gets to the point!
*Imitation of Petrarch in this cycle of poems to Lisi* (starting on page 113 of article)

(491) declares 22 years since first encounter - Petrarch's love for Laura lasted 21 years.

Mythology:
452 uses Hercules
453 uses Jupiter

Conceptismo:
Love and death: 460 - also suggests persistance of love after death

Concern with death: (474, 475, 479, etc.)

"The passing of time and the consciousness of death are at the root of perhaps the profoundest and most elusive theme in Quevedo's love poetry, which has been variously defined as the 'ceniza enamorada' and 'amor constante' theme. It revolves around the assertion that the body, like the soul and its faculties, is eternal and as such retains its amatory significance even after death." (472)

Last few pages are about "Cerrar podrán mis ojos" and concludes with:
"In Lisi's poems, more than in any other collection of love poetry from the Spanish Golden Age, we have a poetic document of the fullness and complexity of human love."