The Spark

I haven't written in awhile. To be honest, it's because I am not sure what I really have to say. I am so impressed at the insights and depth into which everyone is reading, and honestly, I just feel a little lost as to what to say. I still feel as though I am drowning in the ocean and at most I am processing the stories, but barely comprehending any great meaning behind them.

Or, the light bulb goes on when someone else says something, or when Dr. Sexson expands upon the stories in class, but as far as what to write, I am totally lost on what to say that is even worth reading.

So today, after Walter and James' faked little argument, I began to think....Isn't it all so much simpler than all of this?

Love is easy. It's the living around it that gets hard.

And that seems to be what these stories are about. And I really enjoy them and I have learned so much, but as to what they mean on all these different levels seems to be a depth of the ocean that I have yet to reach.

It is my first year of school. So maybe I can cut myself some slack. But I have never felt so utterly lost on grasping greater meanings than in this class. Usually I am good at reading the text and thinking about ideas beyond what is blatantly laid out. But here, in this class, and at this reading, I am failing at getting to the point beyond which I simply enjoy the reading.

Rambling.

I have been thinking.

We make too much of a drama out of love. The loving part is easy. It really is. It's the lives colliding, and the world spinning, and the ticking of time that drives us to believe that it is hard.

I have been in love with the same man for over three years. And I won't say that it has been easy, because it hasn't. But, the loving is always easy, it's the living around it that gets tricky.

Is that what these stories are about? Because lately it seems as though it is all focused upon events and we miss out on the spark, the true motive behind the actions. What about the love? Where is the love in all of these romances?

Where is the spark and why aren't these stories about that, instead of wild adventures? Entertaining, sure. But romantic? We get the details, but we don't get the look. We don't get the feel of a calloused hand reaching out. We don't get to look into the eyes. We don't get to feel the sheets and we don't get to drink the coffee after making love all night.

The only thing we get, is the laughter. That seems to be the only connection between us and these stories. I don't feel in them, unless I am laughing. I am reading them, but I am not along side them.

Does any of this even make sense?!

I hope so. And if not, I'll keep trying and hopefully it will soon make sense.

What I have learned and am learning

Oh my goodness! I am so impressed my everyone's creativity! The stories were wonderful. a real joy to listen to, and a fun 3 minute mystery.
Things that I learned:
1. English presentations are way more enjoyable both to write and listen to than any other class.
2. The people around me are SO creative. They have so many surprises hidden up their sleeves.
3. Seriously though, this class reminded me to keep my eyes open. Not only for the hidden fairy-tales in the news, but also to remember that the people around me have way more to share than I ever expect.

It was so wonderful to read Dr. Sexson's story and really reminded me that magic IS everywhere. I have talked about my belief in magic and it is always beautiful to hear small reminders that if you open your eyes, you will not see reality, but instead myth playing tricks on us.
How many times have elders told me, Open your eyes child! You won't be young forever! Look at the real world, and get a seat on the train!
But then I smile because I know that opening my eyes will only display the magic further, that fairy tales and greek tragedies and myths of epic proportions are playing themselves out right in front of us. Reality? Sure, I live in the real world. Because what is real-ly going on is nothing but a modern reenactment of stories. Beautiful stories that when retold using other language people scoff and say, What is the use of telling stories that aren't true?

Which brings a whole new answer to that question. Because those stories ARE true, we see them everyday!

So, let us keep our eyes open. Whether it leads us to see the people around us and remember that they are all sources of astounding creativity, or to see that sometimes, more often than we think, the news is reminding us that stories really are at the source and perhaps lead us to understand that truth and meaning are all in the eye of the beholder.

Displaced tale of Shaharazade

I did not know a question would decide my fate. It was a question that rolled off my tongue, illuminating what I most loved, and what I most feared would become of it.

The air was electric, with breath and love and thunder rolling across the plain. We made love. Your breath was hot on my cheeks with your hair falling into mine. We did not sleep.

I thought that it was the beginning of the end. And so, I made you laugh, I made you cry, I made you plead to me. The roles became twisted and for a few hours I felt like master. Somewhere in North Dakota, in an old farmhouse, at the end of America, where thunder tumbles and grumbles, crawling its way towards your eardrums. Somewhere in between all this, there was a bed and a space, between our noses, our chests, my throat and your adams apple. Between all this was the space that I filled, and then beyond. Stopping only when the lightening clawed our eyes or I asked for permission to use the bathroom. Tiptoeing throughout a house that creaks, and faucets that moan.

I see you like this now. We are old, and our children have grown, and yet this is always how I think of you. You will be gone soon, and I will carry on. Your young wife that was the last to be picked.

I see you, afraid and mean. Lusting for what you always denied yourself the pleasure of for a second time. I see you, with gold flecks in your hair, and a smooth face. There were no wrinkles, for your smile rarely made it to your eyes. 

I, also, was afraid, but perhaps I did the job of fooling you. Later, you will tell me that I looked beautiful.

And how do I describe? The words filling the air, and the stars and the moon turned upside down. And my lips and your eyes watching, and the whiskey. How do I remember this? Ripples. And oceans overflowing. And sand in my throat and burnt sugar on my tongue. And the night turned light and the world filled with gold.

How could I know that I would come to love? That it was not until years after this night, when my voice was hoarse, and my tongue dried out, that I would come to love this moment, with all its imperfect danger.

I asked, May I tell you a story?

You replied, Until Dawn.

The Spark

As much as I have loved reading all the different romances, and talking in class about the Essential points to a romance, it seems to be that the most perfect romance is one that does not have any of the requirements. Isn't the most perfect romance once that is completely organic and completely your own? I suppose that within the few requirements there is room to make it your own, but it seems to me that the only true requirements are a Quest, a Happy Ending, and The Spark.

Something we haven't mentioned in class, and perhaps we haven't because it seems so obvious, is The Spark. Not the Nicolas Sparks. The spark between two individuals which seems to be the most key requirement in a love story. Love at first sight, friends growing into lovers, whatever you want to call it, the fire between two people in love HAS to be in a romance. Otherwise it simply becomes a tale of two friends. And although friends often, and should, love each other, it is in a very different sense than between two lovers.

There must be a spark. There must be a moment you can recall on years later and say, then. That is when I knew. Maybe you didn't know that you were in love, or that you had found "the one" but you knew that something was beginning that "friends" do not engage in.

So maybe this was already a given and I am just stating the obvious, but to me a spark seems the most essential ingredient into which the most delightful chocolate souffle is created.

Daphnis and Chloe

"Daphnis and Chloe" by Louis Hersent

I could only smile and laugh while reading this story! What a silly story! And so wonderfully silly!

When I first began reading this, I thought that this was the perfect story. What a wonderous beginning and is there anything sweeter, than two people discovering love together?
But then, the story turned ridiculous. Still quite entertaining, but all together ridiculous.

I like this painting because it is so sweet and soft and innocent. And just look at how dopey Daphnis looks.

Tumbles

I was the kid with sap in my hair and animal teeth. I still am, but now my hairs clean, and its my heart that gets stuck. I never went to school. Not because I played hookey, but because my mom decided to homeschool my older sister and I. We aren't conservative christians, or the strange outliers that most people think of when they hear homeschoolers. Quite the opposite. My sister and I were "hippy kids" for lack of better words, and I cannot imagine a better way to grow up. While most other children were sitting in nicely lined desks, filling their minds with fluff about which kinds of stardust are real, my sister and I were navigating the world with our hands. We would rub dandelions on our skins, because everyone knows that faeries are yellow. We got up around 9 o'clock and played until it got dark. Climbing trees, reinacting the heroes from our favorite books, playing dress-up, and having tea parties. Growing up like this is the real reason I am on my journey today. I truly believe that if I had gone to school, I would have lost my self, and it would be far too hard to regain it.

For I have never really stopped being myself. By the time I went to "real school" in 9th grade, I knew Santa Clause and Harry Potter didn't exist, but I never stopped believing in magic. I guess in a lot of ways I never really stopped being six years old. I found that even though I had not received "conventional learning" I was still ahead of most kids in my grade!


 People sneer the word naive through their teeth, like it is a bad, stupid thing to be, but I feel sorry for those who aren't. It's not that I don't know the risks, it's just that I chose to believe in something else. It's not that I don't know the danger of strangers but I have chosen to believe in something else.

Childhood and the sweet warm memories that lie somewhere in the peripheral vision of my minds eye. You can almost see them clearly.

Blurred light, mingled voices, taste of something soft and sweet on your tongue.

Never again to be seen in plain view—

The outliers, the folded eggwhites of life’s lane. 

Where does childhood lie?

It is in the corners of my eyes. The way my crow’s feet have already begun to crinkle with 20 years of laughter. It lies in the way I move my hands, the way my legs itch to run in a circular dizzying way. It lies in the craving to explore jungle gyms. It lies in the need to be held, to cry, to laugh. It is the impossibilities.

Of Hymns and Pearls and other delightful things

Things will take care of themselves.

After intending to write a post about souls and guides, I was somewhat deterred when asked to open a page in Frye's book and write about what I found. After reading some blogs, I have been overwhelmed at the level of academic writing and somewhat intimidated at how to dissect a passage from Frye. However, to my delight, my hands, once again, led me to the right page, the right paragraph, and the right sentence.

"What confronts the teacher of literature is the student's whole verbal experience, including this subliterary nine-tenths of it. One of the things that the study of literature should do is help the student become aware of his own mythological conditioning, especially on the more passive and critically examined levels" (Frye 167). And then I realized how truly lucky I was to have landed here, in Oceans of Stories, for once again the world was providing me with exactly what I needed. 

My heart was open and humbled when I learned about The Hymn of the Pearl and realizing that however alone I feel sometimes on my journey, I am by no means the only one feeling this way, nor are my actions as unique as I think they are. For someone has already written of my soul's journey, and done it far more beautifully than me! 

The Hymn of the Pearl, and stories without morals, and souls that are scratching at the door has got me wondering and loving at every twist and curve of the day, of a doorframe, at the sight and sound of love. It has me swerving. 

This quote from Frye has reminded me how important literature can be, and how important teachers acting as guides are. How alone and miserable I would be, never knowing what has been felt by other people. Never quite desperate as Hamlet, or even as passionate as Juliet, these stories let me know that the way I am feeling is OK. Even these blogs speak as an insight to someone that I would never talk to. 

What is my mythological conditioning? I'm not certain of the answer yet, but I feel that the answer will unpack itself in my writings, as long as I keep them true. 

This class is the letter reminding our souls to look for the pearl. How beautiful those words are! Soul, pearl, letter, hymn, swerve...Don't they make you just want to dance? Don't you just want to laugh about love, and lilies, and the kiss of a dewdrop on a morning glory? 

The letter has come and I am beginning to read it. Come in the shape of this class and with Professor Sexton as the guide, but really, my soul wrote this a long time ago. For me, this letter has come again and again, and perhaps one of these swerving days I will remember it, but for now... My soul reminds me that shapes and words come out of the most surprising places and linger in your heart to write your own story of love.