A Naturally Perfect Romance

"We said that in romance as a whole neither the waking world or the dream world is the real one, but that reality and illusion are both mixtures of the two (Frye, 55)."
"The decline of realism in our day has gone along with the rise of the film,with its unprecedented power of presenting symbolic action (Frye, 56)."
If the question is what is the greatest romance ever told and not the greatest romance ever written, then the answer is simply Natural Born Killers. This film was released in 1994 and its underlying theme is the tendency of modern culture to romanticize criminals, like Bonnie and Clyde, celebrating them as folk heroes instead of condemning their actions. In this film, writer Quentin Tarantino and director Oliver Stone utilize many of the elements discussed in Frye's Sacred  to the Secular as well as other techniques that make up the structure of romance.
From its opening scene the viewer descends (with the story itself) into a world of adventure, violence, chaos and love.  While warding off advances from a man who is not her lover Mallory incites a violent encounter in an effort to be chaste to her lover.  In order to bring about an end to the blood shed in the diner, Mickey and Mallory play a game with the remaining survivors to determine which one they will leave alive. Once the decision is rendered the lovers embrace and the wild ride through the trials of a great romance really begins.  "Now we notice that one recurring theme in romance is the theme of incest, very often of father and daughter(Frye, 44)." This is true of NBK, after the opening scene we are confronted with this concept, Mallory's father played by Rodney Dangerfield has carried on an incestuous relationship with Mallory for years.  Enter Mickey, the hero, sent by fate to rescue Mallory from her abusive home.  In their first encounter he asks Mallory if she believes in Fate; which is important to the romantic structure, as we saw in Abu Kasim's Slippers, and will be a recurring theme throughout the film. The two lovers run away but are soon caught and separated by Mickey's incarceration for auto theft. While visiting Mickey in jail Mallory reveals her father's plans to keep the lovers separated and his threats to kill Mickey.  The lovers swear oaths to one another and Mickey vows to again come rescue her and reassures her that they are "fate, and you can't stop fate, nobody can (NBK)."  Mickey's escape from prison is convenient and spectacular, everything we have come to expect from a great romance. Mickey keeps his promise and returns to Mallory, they kill her parents but let her brother go because "it would be perpetrating an infamous crime in killing...who was guilty of no wrong (Xenophon, 23)."  Now the lovers are free to shed the past and embark on their murderous journey as "fates messenger", they wed in a ritualistic, mythological way.  As they murder their way across the American southwest it is hard to determine who has more blood lust as these killers become folk heroes and the public and the media can't get enough of the murderous couple.
In the desert there is a brief summary of events when Mallory asks her lover "why'd you pick me up and take me out of my house and killed my parents with me? and you committed to me (NBK)." While in the desert they are taken in by an Indian. It is my opinion that, in relation to 20th century tales as well as stories taking place in North America, the Indian is the literary equivalent of the pirate. For modern and inland culture it is the Indian who takes captives and evokes separation; the Indian is the embodiment of freedom and fear. Rituals, visions, dreams, and the mixing of reality with illusion color the next few scenes which are indescribable; for they are pure visual art and raw energy culminating in Mickey killing the Indian as he wakes from a nightmare.  As the Indian, played by Russell Means, lay dying his last words are "twenty years ago, I saw a demon in my dreams. I was waiting for you (NBK)." The lovers are beside themselves. They did not want to kill the Indian and are frightened by what fate now has in store for them, they wander blindly out among the serpents and feel the very fear they had imposed on others. This and their arrest signal not only a turn in the action but the continuing of the story.  Again separated the lovers long for one another and Mallory again has to fight off advances to remain chaste for her lover.
"Even in the most realistic stories there is usually some trace of a plunge downward at the beginning and bounce upward at the end. This means that most romances exhibit a cyclical movement of descent into a night world and a return to the idyllic world, or some symbol of it (Frye, 54)."  If this plunge did not occur at the beginning of the story it begins now with M&M's incarceration. All of the scenes in the prison illustrate this descent and it is here that a "probable impossibility" occurs or what Mickey calls fate. There is a brief discussion of mutual suicide when things look their darkest but the lovers make their escape despite the odds. In the end M&M are free and start a family together, for all its darkness this film has the ideal and required happy ending of a great romance.  In the additional scenes of the directors cut there is an alternate ending in which M&M are murdered after their escape but Oliver Stone explains that he thought that this ending disrupted the films narrative qualities.
Natural Born Killers is a depiction of "the improbable, desiring, erotic, violent world of romance (Frye, 61),"   its use of classic literary romance structure and imagery is what, in my opinion, makes it the greatest romance ever told.

Fairies Wear Boots

Painted fall of 1999 in the science room at the Bridger Alternative Program.
Picture taken several years later after some light vandalism.

"The improbable, desiring, erotic, and violent world of romance reminds us that we are not awake when we have abolished the dream world:  we are awake only when we have absorbed it again (Frye, 61)."
We (my sister and I) were not allowed to be children. It wasn't really our parents fault, they weren't allowed to be children either so they lacked the skills to provide a healthy childhood to their offspring. The only time we were ever even referred to as children was when we were being reminded that 'children are seen and not heard'. My parents did not read us stories. When I was growing up all the great gatherings happened at our house.  Holidays, reunions, family and friends passing through town; our house was the center of all the goings on.  There was music, so much music from the radio, the tape deck, and even Mom's old 8track; country, soul, funk, and rock.  We had a pinball machine, billiard table, dart board, and even an arcade game.  Ah visitors would arrive and there would be food and games, but the most important part for me was the stories.  Even though my parents did not read us stories; they along with family and friends told stories all night, sometimes for days on end.  While the music played telling its stories, the adults told their stories and often a song would play and it would remind someone of another story.  The stories and the music flowed in and out of one another, which is probable why the two are forever linked in my head. Songs of naivety include the Supremes "Can't Hurry Love" and "Come See About Me", The Beach Boys "Little Deuce Coupe", and The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band "Fishin' in the Dark".  Many of the stories were true, some were the lies of drunk bikers.  Where are you going? Where have you been? Do you remember the time? What ever happened to? Great, wonderful, alive stories of travel, nature, growing up, partying--the stories of life (lives).  I listened with whatever naivety I possessed, I believed the lies and they fed my imagination.  I learned how to tell stories and what the elements of a good story are in both content and delivery.
At school I rarely had friends and those I did make always moved away. I was fat and everyone hated me. In the late 80's childhood obesity was a rarity and not the norm we see today. I was picked on relentlessly and learned rather young to not to trust people and how cruel the world can be when you just don't fit in.  My teachers and librarians introduced my to the wonderful world of books (have you hugged a librarian today or thanked a teacher?). Books were not an escape but they, much like the oral tradition I experienced at home, fed my imagination and created the off kilter world in which I still reside.  I also found that the other kids did't bother me when I was reading quietly by myself, it was as if it wasn't really my existence that bothered them so much as my trying to become a part of their existence that did. I loved the story of the ugly duckling and could not wait to be revealed as the swan.
My mother read silly modern Romance novels with Fabio on the cover and would always buy me books (Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, R.L. Stein, Garfield comics) when we went to Hastings. It was through these books that my imagination grew as my intellect developed.  I loved all stories true and false, light-hearted and frightening. I watched cartoons to the point of obsession and the only thing I remember truly despising was children's movies with real actors (this is still true today, what they did to the Smurfs is unforgivable). They were too real even when they dealt with the fantastic. Cartoons fed my imagination and love for happy endings (even though I do not require a happy ending, I love them), I remember all cartoons having a happy ending.  I mean, even though the Wile E. Coyote did not catch the Road Runner this was still a happy ending because the story continued.  You always knew who the evil characters were like Dick Dastardly and who the innocents were like the Smurfs. I loved and still do love the simplicity of it all. I remember playing by myself and talking to myself out loud, "and then" I would say during my fanciful monologues, (oh the friends of my imagination I must remember write them someday) my sister would yell at me to stop talking to myself.  She said I was weird and crazy, that I should grow up (I was 8).  Although I was never far from the harshness of reality, I kept my imagination, my romantic vision of being a hero or an undercover princess even closer than I kept Reality.
 When I was about 12 my rebel pride swelled to the point that it oozed out of my pores. Even though I was intellectually mature (and physically), I was tired of all the pressure to mature into what society said was proper. I had had enough. I didn't dress in the fashion I was supposed to and embrace the feminine roles I was being taught, I knew how the world really worked and the nature of humans. Why was it so important to cover up  blemishes and wear uncomfortable shoes? This had nothing to do with stories where beauty is natural and the foot wear fits the journey. All of the sudden everything was supposed to have a deeper meaning and it was immature to enjoy stories and to explore their influences, instead X+Y=Z.  I became angry that people were trying to shove their version of reality and maturity down my throat.  By this point I had discovered the beauty and in your face honesty of the darker aspects of life, literature, music, and art.  I wore pigtails and black make up, I dyed my hair blue,  I wore jeans that I wrote on and drew cartoons on rolled up to the knee to reveal my super awesome brightly colored striped socks of doom, it was 1994 and I swear I was the first person in Bozeman to have a Marilyn Manson t-shirt. Another dimension had been added to my imagination and I went back to explore it and ultimately live there.  Many people were afraid of me which I did not fully understand because I was merely an over grown child playing dress up and painting cartoon characters on the walls.
As an adult, despite my cynicism towards reality and love of the dark side, I am still very naive in my approach to literature, art, and sometimes life.  I am heavily tattooed and only 2 of them mean anything, the rest are just stories.  The only reason any of them mean anything at all is I knew those two in particular would be asked about quite often and that is what people want to know; what does it mean?  As if one can only illustrate their own personal story if it has profound depth or that body art is a way of wearing your soul on your skin. I hate this approach to the visual arts and to literature, I get pissed off on a deeper level when profundity is expected or exhaustively searched for.  I despise professors and intellectuals who again think that X+Y=Z, that stories are only great if they are revealing great truths, that a poem or a song has one fixed meaning, that feel it is silly and stupid to love or expect happy endings, or people who think that anything is truly 'new' (its all been done).
I loved An Ephesian Tale.  It is one of the most beautiful and deeply moving stories I have read in a long time.  I greatly appreciated the lovers vows of chastity and the great struggles they endured to keep their promises to one another, even when they feared the other might be dead.  This story of great adventure and unconditional love is a testament to the romantic nature of the human soul and the struggle that is love.  In our contemporary society we may scoff at these notions but I believe in this kind of love.  Real love, true love. The kind of love that world makes difficult and ultimately tries to destroy.  This story, with all its naivety, must have influenced many great tales of love. "He reflected that he would be perpetrating an infamous crime in killing a girl who was guilty of no wrong, and one so fair. Though he laid hold of the girl he could not kill her (Xenophon, 23)."  I saw Snow White forming from this tale, the jealousy over a young girl's great beauty and the girl being taken to the forest to be murdered as well as the would be murderer taking pity on the girl because of her great beauty.  Anthia herself is an amazing and pure character, even though her ego is being fed with advances and at times her heart believes her beloved to be dead she will not betray her vows.  It is this mixture of beauty and chastity; this purity of mind, heart, body, and soul that defines fairy tales. I think we all strive for a great love, a pure love like that of Habrocomes and Anthia.  I think in many ways this story speaks to us on a primal level, Habrocomes searching for his beloved thinking of her and no other, traveling far and wide take possession of his great treasure that has been taken from him.  Two lovers believing in nothing other than each other and love and death. If it is naive to love this story than I am guilty of being exceedingly naive.  If loving this story gets me kicked out of the intellectuals club and  brands me as silly or even stupid then so be it.  This story is my story, my ideal story of love.  I don't want  a love that comes easy, I never have, and maybe that is because of fairy tales. I want adventure and trials, for that is what all the great love stories are about and in the end I hope my life is a great story and that whatever love I am blessed with is real and has been proven real because it has been tested like the love of Habrocomes and Anthia.
"I am consecrated to two deities, Love and Death:  leave me free for my devotion to them (Xenophon, 31)."  These are two inevitable things in life and in stories.  You will always find Love and Death or is it Love and Death that always find you?  Although this story may seem to some highly sophisticated readers like a silly story that is trying to fit all the elements of a romantic tale (even the cheesey  and convenient elements) into one story.  I see it as a blue print for many great stories.  It takes me back to the oral tradition of my youth. It is similar to my dreams and fantasies not only as a child but as an adult. I guess you could say that instead of having and inner child, I am still very much a child.  Dreaming and remembering.  Having wild fantasies and seizing opportunities both in life and creativity to live them out.  I'm almost 30 now and 85% of my t.v. viewing is still cartoons.  I love stories, I love how stories flow in and out of all the humanities, how stories flow in and out of culture, and ourselves. At times in my life the magic of romance may have hid itself from my sight, but i have never lost it. Would you believe Ozzy if he told you that fairies wear boots?  Well I did and I still do.
"Yeah, fairies wear boots and you gotta believe me
Yeah I saw it, I saw it, I tell you no lies
Yeah Fairies wear boots and you gotta believe me
I saw it, I saw it with my own two eyes"
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A NOTE TO MY FELLOW SWIMMERS IN THE SEA OF STORIES:
Please stop apologizing for yourselves. Your thoughts, feelings, dreams, memories and stories are valid.  I don't think anyone here is judging you and if they are then they can fuck right off.  Bleed me an ocean 438 I want to read about it all.

Dionysus in the Desert

"And because the stories were held here in liquid form, they retained their ability to change, to become new versions of themselves, to join up with other stories and so become yet other stories; so that unlike a library of books, the Ocean of the Streams of Story was much more than a storeroom of yarns. It was not dead but alive (Rushdie, 72)."
It all started with a tattoo. Or was it a mythology class? It might have been the documentary that she watched (which brought Dionysus out of the shadows and made him accessible to mortals once more) during the course of the mythology class that happened to coincide with the time period in which the art was being put to flesh.  The streams of this story and the stories leading up to this story weave in and out of one another. They bleed into each other and upon themselves, blurring the edges until color is the only shape.
Jezebel stood in lobby of the shop, she proudly and excitedly roared to the artist "Your tattoo brings good juju! I will soon be making a pilgrimage to the desert to retrieve the sacred nectar of Dionysus and attend church for the fourth time!" The tattoo? Well that's another story...    Jezebel climbed upon the great winged mechanical beast and as she gazed at the land of blue and white below her she felt strangely that she was leaving reality behind and entering the realm of the mystical. The course was set for the land of the Phoenix, thick dense clouds separated the beast from the earth. Jezebel settled in and read another story...    After a while she decided to take a look around. What she saw was both amazing and alarming, she wondered if she had crossed over into another dimension.  The scene was that of the ocean on a cloudy day turned upside down. Above her head, the flat blue calm.  Below her, churning chaotic whiteness.  If you've ever seen the ocean on a cloudy day, you may recall that the sky is a flat grayish-white and ocean churns chaotic blue. As she neared the land of the Phoenix a break in the clouds below revealed an ocean of alien mystery.  She had entered the land of red and yellow, the Phoenix lay just ahead.
On the ground, but with her head still very much in the clouds, Jezebel was collected by her brother and they jumped excitedly into a great black shark. To the high desert, to seek out Dionysus in the desert hills.  As the shark whisked the pair away to a place that they were not even sure was real, Jezebel marveled at the warmth of the air, the cacti, and of course the colors.  But that is another story...     Upon their arrival in the town of Ghosts, the two nervous travelers decided to park the shark and walk among the spirits; for they did not know the exact location of the house of Caduceus, where Dionysus had given wine back to mere mortals, but were secretly confident that the spirits would lead the way.  They walked up a hill, rounded a corner and BAAAMMM!!!!!!!! There it was. The house of Caduceus.  'Could it really be as simple as all that?' she wondered.  But then again since wine had been given back to common folk, of course travelers in search of this place would be able to find it without much difficulty. Still, it was like taking a walk in the woods and stumbling upon Artemis stalking her quarry.
Inside the house of Caduceus the travelers were welcomed with much kindness and wine. They celebrated and tasted several vintages from the fledgling vineyard.  Jezebel decided on a very special bottle of wine for a very special occasion. After all, half of the reason she had left her cold home of blue and white to travel deep into the desert was to procure this very special bottle of wine.  As their journey had officially been blessed by Dionysus himself, the siblings spent the next several hours feasting and drinking in the town of Ghosts before heading to the land of the Two Suns where the great sermon would take place the next day.
On the day of the great sermon in the land of the Two Suns, the pair had many adventures leading up to the gathering that was to take place after both suns had set, but that is another story...    The arena was packed, pilgrims from all over the desert, even some from distant lands, filled the grand hall.  Ah there was much celebration.  There was food and drink; raucous laughter and the recounting of tales filled the arena. Jezebel was telling the interweaving tales of her previous experiences at the grand sermon to her brother who was attending for the first time when she noticed Dionysus.  There he was sitting high above the stage upon the lighting fixture, grinning with delight.  For he too had desired the best seats possible to witness the grand sermon of Orpheus and his musicians and was rather proud that he indeed had the best seat in the house. Suddenly everything went black and the crowd roared as the lights shone down on the poet and his musicians. Service had begun and the congregation opened their ears, minds, and hearts to the power of the great sermon; the power of Music.
The sermon began with a joke, or was it? Either way Jezebel found it terribly amusing. The band launched into a song in which the prophet reminds his audience that he and his cohorts are mortals themselves despite what you may see, hear, and feel over the next few hours "all you know about me is what I've sold you, dumb fuck. I sold out long before you'd ever even heard my name. I sold my soul to make a record. Dip shit, and you bought one. All you read and wear or see and hear on TV is a product. Begging for your fat-ass dirty dollar. Shut up and Buy, Buy, Buy my new record."
After the congregation had its hilarious little reality check, it was time for the journey to really begin. The minister led us down the path of understanding and unity. "You, my piece of mind, my all, my center, just trying to hold on one more day. Damn my eyes! 
If they should compromise the fulcrum: (If) wants and needs divide me Then I might as well be gone...
Shine on forever Shine on benevolent sun. Shine down upon the broken. Shine until the two become one. Divided, I'll wither away Shine down upon the many. Light our way, benevolent sun.
Breathe in union.  So, as one, survive Another day and season."
 Blessed was our journey, as a collective, into the music and into ourselves. Infinite stories whose commonality was this music, or this band, or this song were recited without words. These tales where told through body language and primitive excited guttural screams. The clergy acted as the choir and their voices became so loud that the minister had to sing increasingly louder to stay above them. "It's not enough, I need more. Nothing seems to satisfy. I don't want it. I just need it. To feel, to breath, to know I'm ALIVE!" And in that moment over 20,000 people were alive and not simply living. Demons had been summoned and were ready to be exorcised. "My shadow. Change is coming through my shadow. My shadow's shedding skin. I've been picking. My scabs again. I've been crawling on my belly. Clearing out what could've been. I've been wallowing in my own chaotic. And insecure delusions. I wanna feel the change consume me, Feel the outside turning in. I wanna feel the metamorphosis and Cleansing I've endured within. My shadow. Change is coming.
Now is my time. Listen to my muscle memory. Contemplate what I've been clinging to. Forty-six and two ahead of me. I choose to live and to Grow, take and give and to Move, learn and love and to Cry, kill and die and to Be paranoid and to Lie, hate and fear and to Do what it takes to move through. See my shadow changing, Stretching up and over me. Soften this old armor. Hoping I can clear the way. By stepping through my shadow, Coming out the other side. Step into the shadow."  Souls where freed and darkness was confronted; demons ran screaming from the arena. The crowd completely surrendered itself to the music, exhausted they screamed for more. The more energy the band put out the more they got back from their mesmerized followers. Jezebel felt a peace, a happiness, a connection to others that was almost alien. A feeling that many in the arena were feeling for the first time. Even though this was not Jezebel's first grand sermon she was always surprised by the intensity of the energy and always wanted more. "Feed my will to feel this moment urging me to cross the line. Reaching out to embrace the random. Reaching out to embrace whatever may come. I embrace my desire to feel the rhythm, to feel connected enough to step aside and weep like a widow. To feel inspired, to fathom the power, to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain, to swing on the spiral of our divinity and still be a human. With my feet upon the ground I lose myself between the sounds and open wide to suck it in, I feel it move across my skin. I'm reaching up and reaching out, I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me.
And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been.
We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been.
Spiral out. Keep going, going..." The band played and played the minister purged his soul before the congregation; his poetry an awakening, an exorcism, a sermon connecting and encouraging thousands of people in a single performance. No religious experience rooted in mythology would be complete without at least a brief discussion of the end. The poet and his musicians, masters of their craft, did not disappoint.


"Some say a comet will fall from the sky. Followed by meteor showers and tidal waves.
Followed by faultlines that cannot sit still. Followed by millions of dumbfounded dip shits.

Some say the end is near. Some say we'll see Armageddon soon. I certainly hope we will cuz. I sure could use a vacation from this
Silly shit, stupid shit...
One great big festering neon distraction, I've a suggestion to keep you all occupied.
Learn to swim.
Mom's gonna fix it all soon. Mom's comin' round to put it back the way it ought to be.
Learn to swim.
Cuz I'm praying for rain. And I'm praying for tidal waves. I wanna see the ground give way. I wanna watch it all go down. Mom please flush it all away. I wanna watch it go right in and down. I wanna watch it go right in.
Watch you flush it all away. Time to bring it down again. Don't just call me pessimist. Try and read between the lines. I can't imagine why you wouldn't. Welcome any change, my friend. I wanna see it all come down. suck it down. flush it down." 
After the great sermon the people fell upon the taverns of downtown Two Suns like swarms of locusts. Laughing, telling and re-telling the story of the event to one another; how it made them feel, their favorite song played, and whether or not their own personal favorite song was played.  But that is another story... Jezebel lived other stories and told other stories during her visit to Two Suns, but those are other stories...   On her way back to the land of blue and white, Jezebel re-lived her story through her memories and connected this story to other stories stored in the streams of her consciousness. She wondered, 'did this story really begin 14 years ago in the land of Ports?' But that, of course, is another story...   THE END
What the hell was that? I recently missed a few class meetings because I flew into Phoenix (cuz it's cheaper) to attend my fourth TOOL show in Tucson. While I was there we visited Jerome, a neat old mining town that boasts of being haunted, home to the Caduceus Cellars Tasting Room. Last semester I was in Dr. Sexson's Mythology class and I watched a documentary called Blood Into Wine which is about Merkin Vineyards in Arizona. Two of the themes of the course where 'myth is the precedent behind every action' and mythology in everyday life.  I wrote blog entries about both Merkin Vineyards and my first TOOL show in 1997. For those of you that have no idea what I'm taking about, Maynard James Keenan of TOOL moved to Arizona in the 90's and planted a vineyard. Merkin Vineyards produces both Caduceus and Arizona Stronghold brand wines.  I don't know much about wine, but I know a lot about music and the fan in me had to try this wine. When I found out that it cannot be shipped to Montana due to temperance laws, I jokingly remarked that one day I would go to Caduceus and get my damn bottle of wine straight from the source. A little background on myself, I've been concert going since 1990 (I started very young). In 1997 I saw TOOL for the first time and have had the pleasure of seeing them a handful of times over the years. The point being that I've stood before many great musicians, many times, in many states and TOOL's music is poetry in both lyric and sound. Of all the bands and all the shows in all my years of concert going, for me TOOL live is a religious experience. So it was extremely fitting that I find myself in another one of Dr. Sexson's classes about stories and how they flow into one another and then by chance (?) have the opportunity arise to both visit Caduceus and see TOOL again. Caduceus Cellars was great, had my first wine tasting and purchased a delicious bottle of rock star made wine. Jerome is an awesome little town filled with great shops, restaurants, and ghosts. I highly recommend visiting Jerome if you find yourself in the Scottsdale or Phoenix area (it's reasonably close to both).
Anyway, I started reading Haroun and the Sea of Stories on the plane and very early on saw that this story related in many was to my own story and seamlessly flowed into my journey as a whole. When Haroun becomes stuck on the number eleven I was immediately reminded of the TOOL song jimmy:

"What was it like to see

The face of your own stability
Suddenly look away
Leaving you with the dead and hopeless?
Eleven and she was gone.
Eleven is when we waved good-bye.
Eleven is standing still,
Waiting for me to free him
By coming home.
Moving me with a sound.
Opening me within a gesture.
Drawing me down and in,
Showing me where it all began,
Eleven.
It took so long to realize that
You hold the light that's been leading me back home.
Under a dead ohio sky,
Eleven has been and will be waiting,
Defending his light,
And wondering...
Where the hell have I been?
Sleeping, lost, and numb.
So glad that I have found you.
I am wide awake and heading home.
Hold your light,
Eleven.
Lead me through each gentle step by step
by inch by loaded memory.
I'll move to heal
As soon as pain allows so we can
Reunite and both move on together.
Hold your light,
Eleven. Lead me through each gentle step by step
By inch by loaded memory
'till one and one are one, eleven,
So glow, child, glow."

What are the odds of a song and a novel both containing a young male character stuck on or at eleven because of their mother? Without going into a lot of biographical information on the writer, the song jimmy is about a traumatic mother related event that occurred at the age of eleven and is similar to Hauron's mother leaving eleven o' clock. On the way back home I finished Hauron and began thinking of ways in which this story and my own stories were similar.  My previous experience with Frye is in the realm of archetypal images. And really isn't that what makes for good stories and good poetry? As readers, listeners, and spectators we often find personal truth in the universality of archetypal imagery. I did not go over the entire set list in my story, I stuck to songs with lyrics that (at least in my mind) connect with Rushdie's novel. I could go on and on and on, music and literature are great passions of mine, but instead I would like to thank Dr. Sexson for excusing me from class so that I could chase my dreams and return spiritually and intellectually refreshed.
All we really are is collection of stories, both individually and collectively.  We are comprised of passion and dreams, memories, stories of the mythological and the fantastic, hopes and fears, rituals and beliefs. These are the things of great stories as we are all great stories ourselves.
If anyone cares or is still even reading information on Merkin Vineyards and Caduceus Cellars can be found at www.caduceus.org and www.vino.caduceus.org the documentary Blood Into Wine is available on Netflix. TOOL is amazing they were relevant twenty years ago when they first hit the scene and they're relevant now, you don't have to go far to find their music or lyrics. Ask a friend or consult the oracle (google).
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Dr. Sexson made the mistake of asking me where I came up with the title 'an ocean of alien mystery' for my blog. It comes from the Acid Bath album Pagan Terrorism Tactics and is a poem spoken in plain verse randomly (?) in the middle of the album.
Old Skin
We smoke the toenails and the hair of the wise man, Under a black gods thumb, We dance like painted puppets, She bleeds orgasm in tecnicolor, An ocean of alien mystery,We eat the wisemans eyes for sight that we might see the darkness if we kill the lights fast enough,We eat the brain and pray that our eyes can open wide enough, We burn the dry shell, A funeral chant, The pulse quickens and we dance as the blossoms fall, the scattering of dust to the winds, the celebration of OLD SKIN, I feel every flower that is screaming to consume you, The earth and sky your cradle, The earth and sky your entomb, So is the way of forever, Teething with simple cruelties, Beatings in cold rooms, Hands and head not found.