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.
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