Last Blog Part Deux!

My favorite perspective on life is that it's a story. We are all the protagonists in our own stories with our own hopes, dreams, fears, and love. The people we meet in life may be major or minor characters, but they move the narrative that is our life along. You see while we are the main character in our lives, we are those minor characters in the lives of others, which seems like an easy concept to grasp, but sometimes its hard to let our egos be in the background. I myself forget sometimes that the people I meet are going through different versions of the same things that I am, they have different hurdles that may not seem large to me, but to them, they are a mountain. My favorite part of this class was getting a glimpse at everyone's stories. That is the purpose a myth. To look at someone else's story and feel and learn from it. It is such a powerful thing to open oneself up and let others see inside our worlds, and I thank everyone for letting me be a part of your story.

My last post, My Life as a Mythic Detective

William Jones

Lit 285: Mythologies

Michael Sexson

17 April 2013

My Life as a Mythic Detective

            What is a mythic Detective? I have been asking myself this all semester and I still am unsure if I’ve completely grasped the concept. In order to define something, you need to look at its parts. Google defines a detective as “a person whose occupation is to investigate and solve crimes,” while it defines mythic as “of, relating to, or resembling myth.” Therefore after looking at these parts, I have come to the conclusion that my occupation this semester has been to investigate the mythic occurrences of my life. That is to say, I needed to discover the precedent behind every action that occurs. After coming to that conclusion, I believe that I sat in a dark room and cried for at least a week.  How could I decipher all of that information! I was awestruck as I realized that the young man from Signs and Symbols must have been a former student of Professor Sexson, driven mad by his work as a mythic detective. He was doing what I must do; he was seeing that “great mountains of unbearable solidity and height sum up, in terms of granite and groaning firs, the ultimate truth of his being"

            I slowly pulled myself from the brink of this madness, came to my senses, and I began to just think about what I must do. I’ve always had a hard time spotting the forest because of the Trees, and then it hit me! Trees! I should start with trees. So I started reviewing my blog, and with that I began to remember. I rembembered the agonizing decision of which tree I would give my affections to. This brought to mind all of my fellow tree huggers, so that I recalled Amber hoppel’s photographs of her tree. This tree turned out to be a white Birch, which has since become the only tree I can classify with any sense of confidence.

            Thus my search had begun. I looked back and saw little clues I had left for myself, a photo I had saved on my phone: a crossword puzzle clue “a Narcissist’s Love.” The thought that death is the mother of all beauty, and the words of Sonnet 73 that I sent to my great-grandmother to let her know I care. This led me to finding Shakespeare’s sonnet 53.

                “what is your substance. Whereof are you made

                That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

                Since everyone hath every one, one shade,

                And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

                Describe Adonis, and its counterfeit

                And it is poorly imitated after you.

                On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,

                And you in Grecian tires are painted new.

                Speak of the spring and foison of the Year

                The one doth shadows of your beauty show

                The other as your bounty doth appear

                And you in every blessed shape we know.

                In all external grace you have some part

                And you like none, none you, in constant heart.”

There was a multitude of little events that occurred on normal days, which made them anything but normal. I think the biggest moment for me occurred in a restroom of all places. I apologize if the following is crude, but lend me your ears for it is significant. In the pharmacy that I work, we have our own separate restroom, which I have used on numerous occasions over the year that I have worked back there. The moment occurred; as such moments are want to do, on a normal Saturday in March. I stood at the sink washing my hands, for cleanliness is next to godliness, and I happened to glance over. My gaze slid across the toilet and finally rested on the brand that was stamped upon its side, A single word in bold black letters “Toto”. My brain was immediately bombarded with questions. Who am I, what am I doing here, how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop!? Those thoughts vanished almost immediately (I suppress those multiple times during the day, and have gotten quite good at it) and were replaced by the single question “Why did they Name it Toto?” I came to the conclusion that I had been given a brief glimpse at the man behind the curtain. I had noticed this small and insignificant thing that had been in front of me for over a year, and only now does it seem profound. Toto: Dorothy’s dog that had travelled with her through a twister to the Land of Oz. Now Toto resides in the Wal-Mart Pharmacy restroom, automatically creating little twisters as it flushes, sending things to Oz multiple times a day.

            Now as I watch movies, I look for the Ovidian Stories within them. I look at works of art and try to coax form them the gods, their Love, Hate, Jealousy, and Wrath. I listen to music, knowing that Elvis is most definitely Orpheus and not Apollo. I’m fairly certain that as the snow flies, on a cold and gray Chicago morn, a poor little baby child is born, in the ghetto, and the rocks would cry, opening a path to the underworld. I read my Epic fantasy novels; I look among the knights and dragons, for signs that the Epic hates incest. And here at the end, at the lifting of the veil, I See the forest, but it is the trees I truly appreciate.

 

Mythology, Art, Controversy

I was recently reading an article" 5 Amazing Stories of One Complaint Ruining it for Everyone" (http://www.cracked.com/article_20343_5-amazing-stories-one-complaint-ruining-it-everyone.html)
this brought me to Number 4 of this list where a student (a single person) on the campus of El Paso Community College was offended by this painting by Peter Paul Rubens "Saturn Devouring His Son"




it was a magazine cut out that was part of a Student's collage for art appreciation, and the collage was removed because another student wrote a letter of protest saying it offended her beliefs. Eventually in protest of the censorship, the entire display from the class was removed. I found this story kind of sad because I found the painting not only beautiful, but an interesting display of the myth. This seemed to follow in the vein of finding artworks to go along with any of the myths we read, so I figured I would post it for everyone to look at and appreciate. I think everyone is entitled to their own oppinion about liking the art work, but don't let those opinions ruin it for others. Here's the link to the school newspaper that reported the incident (http://www.epcc.edu/TejanoTribune/Archives/Nov.%205,%202009.pdf) also the original article where I found out about this is posted above.

Scientists with a Sense of Humor

As a science major, I often times find some of the materials in lectures or readings to be very dry and lifeless. Not to say that it isn't interesting, its just that Science can be so full of FACTS! Every now and then though I hear or read something from the science community that seems to come out of left field and completely engross me. That being said I learned some very interesting and mythological things in my Advanced Cell & Molecular Biology class on Wednesday.
So First comes the interesting information: The first cloned mammal was a sheep named Dolly, and she was named after Dolly Parton. Now I see in your eyes the question: Why was she named after Dolly Parton... Well Dolly was cloned from a Mammary Gland of another sheep. Boom! I just immediately became interested in not only this lecture, but the miracles of science once again.

one of these is a sheep.

Now that I'm actually listening to the lecture, we stumble upon the mythological part of class.
The current lecture is about Stem Cells, and we come to a slide on growth factors that are expressed by stem cells, Oct4(boring), SOX2(boring), Nanog(wait a tick that seems different).
Apparently the last factor their (Nanog) was named for Tir Na Nog, the Land of Eternal Youth from Irish legends. So I of course had to dig into this and find out about this myth.

The Legend of Tir Na Nog
The Land of Youth

Long ago, on an isle of emerald green, surrounded by a sea of azure blue, there lived a young man named Oisin.

Oisin liked to explore the moors with the Fianna, ancient warrior-hunters.

One day, when Oisin and the Fianna were out hunting, they saw an extraordinary sight. It was a beautiful young woman with long red hair, riding on a spirited white mare. The sun glistened off the maiden's hair, casting a magical golden light.

The mare's movements were so fluid that she appeared to float across the ground. As her rider brought her to a stop before the group, the horse's hooves struck at the field stones impatiently, sending small sparks into the air.

"My name is Niamh," the woman said, in a voice that sounded like the music of a harp. "My father is the king of Tir Na Nog."

Oisin stepped forward from the group of hunters to welcome the rider. As his eyes met Niamh's, they fell in love.

"Come with me to Tir Na Nog," Niamh pleaded to her new found love. After only a moment's hesitation, Oisin swung up behind Niamh onto the white horse.

Together, they crossed the sea to Tir Na Nog.

 

Having grown up on the Emerald Isle, Oisin would never have believed that a more beautiful land existed. But, as he gazed upon Tir Na Nog, he was stunned by the beauty around him.

In this magical land, Niamh and Oisin built a life together. They spent each day exploring Tir Na Nog with the white mare. Niamh and Oisin's love grew deeper as Niamh shared the beauty of her enchanted homeland.

300 years passed as though it were but a single day. No one in Tir Na Nog ever grew old or fell sick. They lived in endless, youthful moments filled with happiness.

In spite of the beauty of the land and the deep love that Niamh and Oisin shared for each other, a small part of Oisin's soul knew loneliness.

Such feelings were unheard of in Tir Na Nog. But in spite of her efforts, Niamh was unable to ease Oisin's loneliness.

So, when Oisin came to Niamh and told her of his desire to return to Ireland to see his family and the Fianna again, she could not hold him back.

"All right," said Niamh. "Return to Ireland on the back of the white mare. But my dear, your foot must not touch the soil of Ireland!"

Immediately Oisin rode the white horse back across the sea to the land of his birth.

But, as soon as the mare's hooves touched Ireland's soil, Oisin realized how much the land had changed. Oisin's family and friends had long passed away. Their grand castle was over grown with ivy.

Oisin was so caught up in his quest to find his family and his grief at their loss, that he forgot to care for the beautiful white horse. In spite of her hunger and fatigue she continued to respond to her rider.

Finally, with a sad heart, Oisin turned the mare back toward the sea to return to Tir Na Nog.

Approaching the sea, he came upon a group of men working in a field. As the mare reached the group, her fatigue caused her to stumble. Her hoof hit a stone. Oisin bent down to pick up the rock, planning to take it to Tir Na Nog. He was sure that it would ease his sadness to carry a piece of Ireland back with him.

But as his hand grasped the stone, Oisin lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Within moments, Oisin aged 300 years.

Without her rider, the mare reared up and rushed into the ocean, returning to Tir Na Nog and her beloved Niamh.

When the men in the field witnessed this, they were amazed. Not only had they seen a young man age before their eyes, they had also seen a tired old plow horse transformed into a beautiful silver-white mare, who raced into the sea.

The men went to Oisin's aid and carried him to St. Patrick.

When Oisin met St. Patrick, he told Patrick of the his family and the Fianna, who had disappeared from Ireland almost 300 years before. Then he told St. Patrick of Niamh and the magical land of Tir Na Nog.

As Oisin ended his story, a great weariness swept over him and he closed his eyes in eternal slumber.

Even to this day, the fishermen and lighthouse keepers still tell of foggy nights when the moon is full, and they see a shimmering white horse dancing in the waves along the shores of Ireland. Some say that the red-haired maiden who rides the horse still searches for Oisin.

http://www.horsesoftirnanog.org/legend.htm