Life and fiction
I've had the impression of being constantly in motion for over a week now--no time to rest and reflect. This is a healthy change for me, I think, since a static life often feels like no life at all. However, they also say that the unexamined life is not worth living either--I need a balance. Right now, I'm feeling exhausted.
A lot of interesting things have happened since my last substantial post. I've spent a lot of time with three fascinating characters: Joshua the Poet (who was one of the people I referred to here, and who turns out to be another one of the more-recently recruited members of Invented Usage)), and his friends Alan 50's, classicist and philosopher of the early modern bent (which is a bit alien to me) who is also in my fiction class (see below), and Enrique Pretense, a playwright.
(The last I've met only once, but he deserves mention in this trio, since he seems to be the focus of their social attention. Together, they sit together and talk about art, apparently. Enrique holds their interest by making grandiose and flamboyant statements--by demanding, behaviorally, their interest--and holds their respect, I gather, by being the most prolific of the three.
Honestly, I've met this kind of person before and find the personality frustrating, although I'm open to allowing my opinion to change. In the meantime, I'm frustrated at having commented for so long on somebody whose best medicine would be a good dose of personal insignificance. In principle this sort of commentary, although I doubt and hope it will ever be seen, only feeds the monster. The others, who are far more understated (although Alan has is own odd affectations) are much more interesting to me as people. They are more genuine, and therefore deeper and denser.)
I mention these guys because they are playing a role in my reintroduction to "art" this semester. I'm feel that my classes this term are showing a lot of overspecialization due to my requirements (two or three Cog Sci classes, plus Philosophy of Mind), but I'm breaking free from it by taking
LR0021 Fiction II
As in, like, creative writing. You might be surprised, not thinking its not very me. Well, fooey on you--don't put me in a box! I've spent my life making moves to defy your expectations.
My intention was to tell you a short bit about each of my classes this semester and why I'm taking it, because there is actually a lot resting intellectually for me on each one (really!). Conveniently, the first writing assignment for the fiction class was a "Manifesto" about what we thought the purpose of fiction was. I have strong feelings about this, but was afraid of coming off dry if I started yapping about pragmatism. So I erred wildly in the other direction and turned in an allegory...I'm not sure what I think about it, but it's at the end of this post. (You'll note, with disgust, that I totally haven't worked the Nietzsche out of my system yet).
But before I finish by dumping that, I want to mention this one anecdote from class which I think shows what might be a source of conflict:
[During discussion of the value of fiction...]
Holly (who teaches the course): I think the purpose of fiction is to express the truth.
Me: (feeling deeply sympathetic, but also curious) Do you have a definition of truth that is compatible with it being fictional?
Holly: (immediately getting defensive) Well...I mean, we all have different ideas of truth...this isn't a philosophy class!
I'd mentioned that I was into philosophy before, see? My kind isn't really welcome in that setting. Analysis is a mood killer.
Smiles-by criticized me the other day (in totally good form--without malice) for writing in a way on this -ive-ournal that is "cold" compared to how I am in person. I feel like this "cold" side is a real thing, not just a trick of the mode of expression. I keep telling you I'm part robot.
But for now, I'm going to answer the question of "Why are you taking this course in fiction/why deal with fiction at all?" in a way that isn't very analytic at all. (Wow, there were a lot of other things I was going to say! But this is already crazy long. I'll say more later, maybe)
The Pragmatic Emergence of Truth and Fictions
1. Alone and again, we stare into the black Pit (toes curled around its crumbling rim, wind at our backs pulled down into its abysmal void). Forty roads lead away and back to it. Forty well-recommended roads disappoint the pilgrim who searches for the source of the distant Light that pierces the twilit jungle.
2. Forget the Light, traveler. It is far away from you, but you are hungry. You must hunt for food. Throw your map into the pit. Throw it! Instead, take out your knife. (Feel the hot breath on your neck.)
3. Turn around... (Be careful that you do not fall into the Pit--which is infinite Doubt, therefore Ignorance; you follow? Do not be afraid; the breath on your neck was only the steam of the jungle--a steam that carries the scent of ripe fruit and of the lean animals that prowled and skulked before in the darkness beside the roads.)
4. ...and go. Crawl, at first, to the edge of the jungle--one hand's knuckles to the rich earth, waddling with legs akimbo. Do this without thinking. You crawled as a thoughtless baby. Now crawl thoughtlessly again, and at the edge of the jungle lift your sullied fist from the earth and push at the dense foliage.
5. Probe for weaknesses, then raise the knife. Carve the world at its joints and move through it. (This is the new beginning of your new Knowledge, but think nothing of it.)
6. Now run, run through the jungle, slashing with your knife and breathing mist which smells of fruit and blood and thinking nothing of the echoes in your arteries or encoding of the texture of the earth into your sinews, thinking nothing of the arcs of lightning flashing through your spine but thinking only of the persevering chasm of your belly and the slickly viscous juice from ruptured skin of tender fruit that hung on the tree in the center of the jungle and thinking only of the shadowy beast that chases you and the shadowy beast you chase and flank and wound with your quickening knife and track by bloody scent through vine and vale and find collapsed and panting at that central tree and that at last you solemnly slaughter.
7. Reflect. (The paths you've carved through the jungle, the maps in your sinews, the runes etched by lightning in your spine--this is Belief. And the still hot blood of the beast you hold in your arms hallows those paths and maps and runes as Truth. You are far, far from the Pit, but the twilight has faded; cold darkness looms.)
8. Finally, gather fallen branches and build a Fire. Skin and roast the beast. Let us stare out into the illuminated jungle (toes drying close to the embers, sirocco gusts blow out at our faces.) Forty directions radiate out from the source of the flame. Forty unexplored directions await the hunter in the morn. But rest now. (Have you forgotten the Light?)
A lot of interesting things have happened since my last substantial post. I've spent a lot of time with three fascinating characters: Joshua the Poet (who was one of the people I referred to here, and who turns out to be another one of the more-recently recruited members of Invented Usage)), and his friends Alan 50's, classicist and philosopher of the early modern bent (which is a bit alien to me) who is also in my fiction class (see below), and Enrique Pretense, a playwright.
(The last I've met only once, but he deserves mention in this trio, since he seems to be the focus of their social attention. Together, they sit together and talk about art, apparently. Enrique holds their interest by making grandiose and flamboyant statements--by demanding, behaviorally, their interest--and holds their respect, I gather, by being the most prolific of the three.
Honestly, I've met this kind of person before and find the personality frustrating, although I'm open to allowing my opinion to change. In the meantime, I'm frustrated at having commented for so long on somebody whose best medicine would be a good dose of personal insignificance. In principle this sort of commentary, although I doubt and hope it will ever be seen, only feeds the monster. The others, who are far more understated (although Alan has is own odd affectations) are much more interesting to me as people. They are more genuine, and therefore deeper and denser.)
I mention these guys because they are playing a role in my reintroduction to "art" this semester. I'm feel that my classes this term are showing a lot of overspecialization due to my requirements (two or three Cog Sci classes, plus Philosophy of Mind), but I'm breaking free from it by taking
LR0021 Fiction II
As in, like, creative writing. You might be surprised, not thinking its not very me. Well, fooey on you--don't put me in a box! I've spent my life making moves to defy your expectations.
My intention was to tell you a short bit about each of my classes this semester and why I'm taking it, because there is actually a lot resting intellectually for me on each one (really!). Conveniently, the first writing assignment for the fiction class was a "Manifesto" about what we thought the purpose of fiction was. I have strong feelings about this, but was afraid of coming off dry if I started yapping about pragmatism. So I erred wildly in the other direction and turned in an allegory...I'm not sure what I think about it, but it's at the end of this post. (You'll note, with disgust, that I totally haven't worked the Nietzsche out of my system yet).
But before I finish by dumping that, I want to mention this one anecdote from class which I think shows what might be a source of conflict:
[During discussion of the value of fiction...]
Holly (who teaches the course): I think the purpose of fiction is to express the truth.
Me: (feeling deeply sympathetic, but also curious) Do you have a definition of truth that is compatible with it being fictional?
Holly: (immediately getting defensive) Well...I mean, we all have different ideas of truth...this isn't a philosophy class!
I'd mentioned that I was into philosophy before, see? My kind isn't really welcome in that setting. Analysis is a mood killer.
Smiles-by criticized me the other day (in totally good form--without malice) for writing in a way on this -ive-ournal that is "cold" compared to how I am in person. I feel like this "cold" side is a real thing, not just a trick of the mode of expression. I keep telling you I'm part robot.
But for now, I'm going to answer the question of "Why are you taking this course in fiction/why deal with fiction at all?" in a way that isn't very analytic at all. (Wow, there were a lot of other things I was going to say! But this is already crazy long. I'll say more later, maybe)
The Pragmatic Emergence of Truth and Fictions
1. Alone and again, we stare into the black Pit (toes curled around its crumbling rim, wind at our backs pulled down into its abysmal void). Forty roads lead away and back to it. Forty well-recommended roads disappoint the pilgrim who searches for the source of the distant Light that pierces the twilit jungle.
2. Forget the Light, traveler. It is far away from you, but you are hungry. You must hunt for food. Throw your map into the pit. Throw it! Instead, take out your knife. (Feel the hot breath on your neck.)
3. Turn around... (Be careful that you do not fall into the Pit--which is infinite Doubt, therefore Ignorance; you follow? Do not be afraid; the breath on your neck was only the steam of the jungle--a steam that carries the scent of ripe fruit and of the lean animals that prowled and skulked before in the darkness beside the roads.)
4. ...and go. Crawl, at first, to the edge of the jungle--one hand's knuckles to the rich earth, waddling with legs akimbo. Do this without thinking. You crawled as a thoughtless baby. Now crawl thoughtlessly again, and at the edge of the jungle lift your sullied fist from the earth and push at the dense foliage.
5. Probe for weaknesses, then raise the knife. Carve the world at its joints and move through it. (This is the new beginning of your new Knowledge, but think nothing of it.)
6. Now run, run through the jungle, slashing with your knife and breathing mist which smells of fruit and blood and thinking nothing of the echoes in your arteries or encoding of the texture of the earth into your sinews, thinking nothing of the arcs of lightning flashing through your spine but thinking only of the persevering chasm of your belly and the slickly viscous juice from ruptured skin of tender fruit that hung on the tree in the center of the jungle and thinking only of the shadowy beast that chases you and the shadowy beast you chase and flank and wound with your quickening knife and track by bloody scent through vine and vale and find collapsed and panting at that central tree and that at last you solemnly slaughter.
7. Reflect. (The paths you've carved through the jungle, the maps in your sinews, the runes etched by lightning in your spine--this is Belief. And the still hot blood of the beast you hold in your arms hallows those paths and maps and runes as Truth. You are far, far from the Pit, but the twilight has faded; cold darkness looms.)
8. Finally, gather fallen branches and build a Fire. Skin and roast the beast. Let us stare out into the illuminated jungle (toes drying close to the embers, sirocco gusts blow out at our faces.) Forty directions radiate out from the source of the flame. Forty unexplored directions await the hunter in the morn. But rest now. (Have you forgotten the Light?)