Somewhat of a Coincidence

        I was looking at the last post that I just wrote and {re[re]}read the quote about Alison's habit of doing something and then finding a reason for why, and it reminded me of my last desk crit with my professor. I had been stuck on my building design for a couple days but our next big review day had crept up and I had nothing new to present. I tried for hours to produce something with meaning in every line, but had not gotten out of my rut. In the wee hours of the morning I eventually resigned to just making something that I thought would be appealing at the very least and decided to wing it when describing its merit. I eventually had to discuss what I had done with my professor and successfully evaded the situation with an articulate dosage of somewhat bullshit. I realized that this book [The Magus] has made me reflect on all of the times I have done that to give myself more time. I related this to the way that Nicholas recognized his cynicism as an inability to cope, and I came to the conclusion that I wholeheartedly agreed. I had wasted hours being cynical about my work. Just sitting and staring at it while hoping that something would just autonomously manifest itself infront of me on my desk. Once I accepted that all I could do was produce something and hope for something to come out of it, everything just kind of fell together into something discussable that lead to my skyscrapers thesis. I think it was Chuck Close that said, "Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work. If you wait around for the clouds to part and a bolt of lightening to strike you in the brain, you are not going to make an awful lot of work. All the best ideas come out of the process; they come out of the work itself.”

[Re]reading reflection

    Going back over some things from The Magus, I made a connection that I had read over. Alison and Nicholas are both self benefiting fabricators. Alison makes fabricates justifications for her actions. "She liked doing things, and only then finding a reason for doing them. " [Pg. 34] She does this to get things that she wants. For example her kleptomania. She does this in the same way that Nicholas fabricates his "solitary heart". He puts on a show of cynicism and indifference to get women to fall for him. This is a facade because he even admits to not being a cynic by nature. He chooses to be a cynic by revolt making his solitary heart nothing more than "...a conjurer's white rabbit..."

Last time in class I wish I had....

     Last time in class if I were to talk about something it would have been the reference to Sciron in chapter 8. Urfe talks about not feeling his age, but finding no solace in the older. He describes himself as a mid-air man. He's stuck in the air. The woman he loves, or loved, has abandoned him and he is stuck on a desolate island where he has nothing else to do either than feel completely alone. I would have gone into the fact that this personal isolation seems to carry through and manifests itself in different characters as the book progresses.

Quality of Education

It's hard to quantify the quality of education. I don't necessarily think there is a blanket way to even begin to criticize a college education, and that is probably because the characteristics of each discipline are like apples and oranges. As an architecture student my success in school is largely in part based on my professors subjective opinion. There isn't really a grading scale, and that creates a very broad definition of a good student. For some professors it is primarily about work ethic and production while for others, a good grade relies mostly on final product and review. The opinionated quality of the majority of critiques from your professor and other professors has the ability to either be inspiring and motivating or emotionally draining and demotivating. A design education becomes just as much a political battle as an academic one. An environment is created where you are trying to bring your project to realization, but appeasing your professor ends up taking priority over personal design aspirations. That is not to say that you have to do everything your professor tells you to do. There is definitely a difference between utilizing constructive criticism to make changes and designing something one way because your professor just told you to. It just shows that doing well in class has just as much to do with reading a person as it does with completing your school work. I have a feeling that this can span over multiple disciplines, but then what kind of education is that. An education where someones opinion determines your outcome? Then the question becomes what the standard should be for such an unstructured curriculum? It just seems like my opinion of a strong class environment involves a professor who is excited about the subject matter, inspiring, and open to ideas, but once again those are qualities that mean different things to different people. There are just times when I feel I could be getting a much better education and other times when I am so appreciative of the education I've received. A determination of quality tends to come from a faculties qualifications, but what does it mean to be qualified? I have had professors without a masters that have worked in the field for years, and then I have had professors that have a PhD and zero years experience in the field. There just aren't enough consistencies to find an average level of quality to compare to which leads me to believe that any other place that I would have gone would have been a shockingly similar experience and quality with a different logo on my degree. Then I think in terms of amenities. I think of the Ivy League schools with there exceedingly high amount of resources and consider whether that makes their quality of education higher. I'm don't necessarily think that having the most up to date rapid prototyper makes one education better than the other, but there may be some out there that do. I think the answer to the  question of quality in higher education is subjective and ever varying.

Detached Fairy Tale

Recruited

It was like the white noise of a recurring nightmare. She could only make out bits and pieces of it, but she felt somehow used to it. Like a replay of movie that became less dramatic as time went on. Probably because she had been dreaming about this moment for months now. Just waiting for things to fall into place so nothing could go wrong.

“You’re gonna’ hate it,” her mother said sharply. “Do you think you even have a chance there,” mommy dearest takes another stab. She remains silent as she stuffs the last of her things into her last bag. Her mother’s “Hands-off-but-debilitating-critical” parenting method should have prepared her the spirit crushing barrage of insults, but this one hurt all the same. “You’ll be home before I even know you’re gone, you cocky idiot. You can’t survive on your own. You need me.” This isn’t remotely accurate. She had only ever gotten one gift from her mother, and it wasn’t even from her. It was her grandmother’s faded red Cadillac town car. She loved that car, probably because it was the thing that could get her the farthest away from her mother. She hoisted the last bag into the trunk, and walked back to the front door of their perpetually decaying North Minnesota home. It was cold, but it was early and she knew her car could make it to the slightly warmer afternoon before she would have to take a break. She’d been working for years and saving for just this opportunity and it was finally presented to her. She braced herself for the final goodbye.

“Okay Mom, I,” she pauses and thinks.

‘I shouldn’t’ t even say goodbye. I should just leave because, like she said, she wouldn’t notice if I was gone,” She begins to call her mother again.

“Okay Mom, I’m headed out!” She waited for a response. She didn’t get one. On her way out of the driveway the last encounter she ever had with her mother unfolded.

“How can you be so ungrateful? I knew you would disappoint me and leave just like everyone else! I hate you and never want you to come back here! I hate you! Never come back here! ”

She bolted out of the drive with a broken rear windshield. She reached for her phone to call the police but had barely dialed before she decided it wasn’t worth her time. Her mom could doubt her ambitions all she wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that she had school paid for and had already landed an internship in one of the largest design firms in California. That’s all she had now; a job in L.A. and a faded red Cadillac town car full of the essentials. Anyway, even if she wanted to go back she knew she never could. She was finally on the path to her better life.

She’d been driving for hours with. She had stopped at a grocery store outside of St. Paul about three hours ago now. The neighborhood was strange. It was dense, but so seemingly empty. It was desolate; row houses everywhere with no inhabitants, small shops with bleak displays, and abandoned cars on every block she could see. She was in the gas station for gas and snacks when he materialized in front of the fridge next to her.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a regular stop for you.” He smirked. She avoided eye contact. She also noticeably tried to relax to present herself more confidently than she actually felt. He smoothly dropped a hip and casually put his hands in his pockets. “I’m not a creep I promise. I’m just not used to running into anyone here so I might be a little over zealous.” He chuckled, and so did she.

“What’s your name?” she said

“Lowell.” He said “Yours?” She introduced herself.

“Where ya headed?”

“L.A., I’ve got a long way to go. Where are you going?” he flinched slightly and was averted from his energy drink selection process.

“I also happen to be going to L.A.. What are you going to L.A. for?”

“Work and school. I’ve got a job at PLH for the remainder of the summer and the school year.”

“Really. That’s very impressive.” He chuckled again and she noticed she was progressively trying harder and harder to look more cool and relaxed. “Here. This may prove to be useful in the near future, “He said and took something out of his pocket. He put it in her hand, selected a beverage, and left. She examined what he gave her. She dropped the business and instantly picked it back up to confirm her what she thought she had seen. She read the card again and again and got scared and excited about the first contact she had made since beginning her California life. The card read-

Lowell Prymson

Principle Architect PLH Studios

NCAARB, AIA, LEED, AP

His phone number and e-mail were listed at the bottom of the card with a design sketch of what she knew to be there office in the background. She couldn’t help but recognize the studio space of the firm that had just hired her.

She arrived in Los Angeles a day early feeling like she had already stumbled her way into a huge mistake. Her first day at PLH was tomorrow and she couldn’t be loathing it more. Her student apartment was bleak. Its scratched hardwood floors and stark white walls with matching exposed hardware reminded her of what she thought an insane asylum might feel like.

She reluctantly went to bed realizing there was no one around and nothing to do. The strange meeting never left her mind. From tooth brushing, to P.J.s, to pillow, she contemplated the possible consequences of the encounter with Lowell. She finally fell asleep just in time to wake up.

            She overslept the next morning. Things were a blur since the moment she stepped out of the door. She arrived at work, hair still wet, but cool, calm, and collected. She joined the meeting in progress, instantly notice that the one thing she was the most anxious about wasn’t even present. Instead another man ran it. He looked a lot like Lowell except a little thinner and with blond hair, but other wise spot on; thick-rimmed eyeglasses, scruffy beard, messy hair, black vans, and all. They spoke briefly after the meeting. He was calm and they laughed a little, but eventually they parted ways and she went on to work.

The day was good. Her coworkers were receptive of her and her ideas, and things were going well. She was loitering by the lasercutter lackadaisically eating her cheese not eager to return to work that day when she saw someone coming down the hallway. In a heal-toe fashion Lowell Prymson came toward her. He reached her and stopped abruptly.

“Do you have plans for tonight?” He said exasperated and hopeful.

“Not really,” she said nonchalantly. He laughed.

“Don’t you like to have fun?” He said.

“I shouldn’t, I have to be here early tomorrow,” he interrupted her,

“Come on! I’ll show you around. It’ll be fun.” Eventually she agreed to go. She thought it would be good for her career, and ultimately keeping her new life on the path she wanted, to stay on her bosses good side. When she got home she ate showered and got ready to meet Lowell. She hopped in the red Cadillac and headed downtown.

She had finally found The Posey, the club where he wanted to meet, and made her way inside. The club was so dark whatever the interior was didn’t matter. All that mattered were the lights, the music, and the drugs. She made her way around the bar looking for the man who had invited her there. She got herself a drink and began to make another round when she saw Lowell at a table in the back talking to a strung out looking couple rather animatedly. She walked back to the table sat down and waited for him to acknowledge her. He continued to fight with the couple for a few more minutes before asking them to leave. He turned to her and smiled, and she smiled back.

“I didn’t think you would come.” he shouted

“Do I seem like that type of girl?” I shouted back

“I don’t know what kind of girl you are.” He said, or at least she thought that’s what he had said.

            She met him a few more times, and each time she delved a little deeper into the life Lowell had dropped in her lap. Her routine had begun shape-shift into the likes of something she had never quite thought she was capable of. Lowell’s influence on her was dark. She became so enthralled with his lifestyle that she was beginning to adapt it for her own. The Posey Club was like her new home. She went from having no friends in this overwhelming city to feeling like she ran the night scene. Lowell had introduced her to some people who had then introduced her to their colleagues. She had lost sight of why she was here, in Los Angeles. She had forgotten what she was looking for in favor of an exciting life of wild parties and drug culture. Everything was about Lowell and the thrill of the sale.

‘Where did Lowell meet these people?’ she used to think to herself. Contemplating the unlikelihood of the scenario she was finding herself in. She couldn’t understand how this lifestyle could mesh even remotely with Lowell’s professional life, but instead of questioning if he was the right person to be getting involved with she just continued to justify her actions as a means to end. The flashing lights, pounding bass, and designer drugs were just catalysts to her happier life in the big city away from the shambles of what was once her family. Thus, the lights, music, and speed became her routine. She started missing school regularly. Her roommate would call her constantly to check, but she didn’t care. Who was that girl to someone who thought they were on top but could realize they were slipping. She started selling more drugs to her wealthy friends and fellow club patrons, and subsequently started using more and more. She started missing work, but she didn’t care. She was making more money than she ever thought she would as an architect. She was lost in her own self-created delusion of happiness. Like she was trapped in a forest that, instead of leaving, she just covered up with fantasy. She was ok as long as she had Lowell. He had told her everything would be okay and it had been as far as she was concerned. He was taking care of her and introducing her to all sorts of new friends and adventures. She couldn’t see that he was dragging her down into a world that she wasn’t ready for and couldn’t even comprehend for what it truly was. Lowell had replaced her original image of what success and happiness and his alluring world and demeanor were ever more quickly swallowing her up.

It was dark and on the verge of a downpour. She was in a part of town she had never experienced before, but that was okay because Lowell told her to meet him there. She was sanding in front of an anonymous building shuffling anxiously. A man was approaching her. A man she had never seen before in a long jacket and dark sunglasses. He was a large man with jagged features and a series of lurid tattoos. She wasn’t focused on that though. She was focused on the large scar running from behind his ear to the center of his throat, and also the pistol she could see sticking out of his jacket pocket. She started to walk in the opposite direction. The man began to approach her faster until it was obvious that was a chase and not an accidental rendezvous.

“Hey! You Lowell’s girl?” he shouted roughly.

“Hey! I’m talking to you! I paid Lowell and now you owe me!” He shouted again. She didn’t know what he was talking about. Had Lowell sold her? What was this lunatic talking about? She was unsure, and unable to find a way out of this. Then a familiar face came out of a dark parking garage. It was one of Lowell’s partners, but she couldn’t remember his name. He had given the meeting on her first day of work at PLH.

“Hey! Hey! Come on let’s get out of here.” He said as he rushed her into the garage. Everything was in a whirl. Unsure of whether or not to still be afraid, she proceeded to follow him into the dark parking structure. In a matter of seconds they were in a car and driving. He started to talk to her softly, at first, but quickly grew a little bit less than a yell.  What was he talking about? What had she become a part of in her short few months here.  They drove and spoke for a long time before he dropped her off at her apartment. She shouldn’t have told him as much as she had. After hearing herself talk about it she realized how flighty and immature she had been. It made her sick. She went inside without realizing she hadn’t thanked him, or even said goodbye for that matter.

            The next day Lowell fired her. He said it was because of the recent absences from work, but she knew that his partner had said or done something to provoke this.  The partner whose first name she still could not remember was walking in as she was leaving. He stop to ask her what was wrong and she told him everything quickly. He left after the conversation ended without saying a word, and she waited. She waited for a long time until a police car pulled up beside her. Two officers went in and what felt like mere seconds later they came out with Lowell in handcuffs and his partner trailing behind him. There were signs of an altercation, but she afraid as to what was going to happen next. He walked over to her and they watched Lowell climb into the police car.

“Your not the first one he’s done this too.” He started explaining, “Lowell’s been convincing interns to do his dirty work for him for a long time. I guess it’s been going on for years, but this is only the second time I’ve caught it.” She didn’t say a thing the whole time. “He’s done though. At, least done here. His career will be ruined. He’ll be dead to the professional community.” He kept explaining things she already comprehended. All she wanted was to know one thing

            “Can I have my job back?” She asked. He just smiled and stood up. He nodded at her, extended his hand, and she shook it.

Did you startle me, Northrop?

While reading The Secular Scripture, I was startled to read Frye’s discussion on the criticisms of popular literature. It wasn’t so much startled to read it, as I was to think about it. The initial point of consideration began with the segment regarding the condescension faced by popular literature. He begins by describing romance in general as being “sensational”, but the criticisms he analyses go far beyond this sentiment. The section reads, “ Romance appears to be designed mainly to encourage irregular or excessive sexual activity. This may be masturbation, which is the usual model in the minds of those who speak with contempt of “escape” reading, or it may be a for of voyeurism.” Frye explains that the keepers of this school of thought assume that the pornographic and the erotic are the same, and then he goes on with his analysis to say that they differ in there effects of numbing and awakening respectively. This however wasn’t quite what led me down my thought process to bleakness.

            There was a quote that started connecting things for me. “They [literary critics] attach what for them are the real values of literature to something outside of literature which literature reflects.” This brought me to go back further in the book to a place where Frye talks about man’s creation of his mythological universe. He says, “A mythological universe is a vision of reality in terms of human concerns and hopes and anxieties: it is not a primitive for of science.” This idea continues into man’s natural instinct to create his own mythological universe and pretend for as long as he can that his mythological universe is the actual universe, and how this directly reflects the way popular literature, or media of any kind, allow us to create a hyper reality based on its social construct. Thinking about this gave the book, and my considerations, an existential filter.

            Frye talks about the current state of popular media being the product of an over productive society that distributes literature as a packaged commodity distributed with varying degrees of adulteration, and I found this to be harkening to a previously read essay by Jean Beaudrillard. His paper, “The Procession of Simulacra”, speaks to the nature media being ever replicating and simulating. It takes originals and so incessantly replicates to a point that we are replicating replications and simulations and then translating those actions into daily function. Therefore, after X amount of time, our social construct has become nothing more than a hyper reality consisting of a replication of what was once a replication of the idealized lifestyle. He suggests that our very existence is becoming just a simulation of something we idealize.

            This is bleak, but then I related the ideas back to Frye’s discussion on the consistency of structure in romantic literature, the idea of a fabricated mythological universe, and this concluding quote regarding the criticisms of popular literature, “Popular literature, so defined is neither better nor worse than ‘elite’ literature, nor is it really a different kind of literature: it simply represents a different social development of it.” I began to think about the bleakness on a larger scale. By existing in a genre where the structure has been proven to be consistent with only varying plots and character development is there ever really something “original” or is it just a sea of “replications”? Could we, as a cultural society, be placing ourselves in a large mythological universe that is essentially just a giant existential rat box of unoriginality that represents a degrading social development of literature? Or, could the larger argument be for the value of all literature regardless of its merit among different schools of criticism. Frye says, “ The popular helps to diversify our literary experience.” It creates an environment where a specific type of literary education cannot make a monopoly of it. I choose to air on the side of the optimistic, and think that popular literature leads to the next literary development. The hope is that more and more modern writers don’t fall victim to the literary establishment, as Frye refers to it.

            Maybe startled isn’t the right word to describe my reactions to reading this section of The Secular Scripture. Maybe intrigued or provoked are better words, but nonetheless I was driven to retracing previous readings.  I could have read into the ideas to far, or I could have gone off on an analytical tangent. At the vary least it’s food for thought.

           

How the Past Possesses the Present: “The Swimmer”

            When determining how the past possesses the present, one must first determine to what depth or even what context they are going to analyze. In “The Swimmer” by Jon Cheever, the main character travels home by pool and eventually realizes that his home has been foreclosed upon. He doesn’t seem to remember that he has lost his home, but it begs the question as to whether he actually forgot, or if he cognitively removed that event from his memory. Regardless of the reason for forgetting, this scenario actually initiates a reversal of the prompt. Since he is under the impression, for majority of the short story, that he still lives in the foreclosed while swimming to his no longer home the present may be, in fact, possessing the past. He goes on with his day as if it is the same as yesterday, even though he has experienced a significant traumatic event.            

            On the mythological side, the past possesses the present in terms of repetition. The journey he takes on his way through the pools is reminiscent of Odysseus’s journey in The Odyssey. He travels home, by water, and reaches his destination with a place that was once his having been taken away. His stops seem to line up too perfectly with the detours in the odyssey. For example when he stops at the party for a drink he stays a while. He contemplates the idea of staying and enjoying himself having been mesmerized of the people and the libations. This all happens in a similar way to Odysseus arriving on Calypso’s island. The past, being the epic of Odysseus, possesses the present, the swimmer’s travels, in the context of reference and repetition.