First of all, I'd like to say congratulations to everyone for a job well done with the individual presentations. You guys really thought about what you had to say and presented some really good material. Here are a few topics that certainly grabbed my attention:
Misaki's use of props with her presentation was incredibly creative. I don't think I've seen it done quite that way before, where visual aids folded out. It was very interactive, like a graphic presentation more than a show-and-tell, point and shoot approach.
Heather's analysis of love and death was interesting as well. Some phrases she said that caught my eye (or ears, rather): "even death needs to be loved" and "death is the tool to keep people together".
Erica's argument, "if catharsis is so effective, why do we need to suffer in life at all?" is arresting in its simplicity. What a question!
Of all the presentations, however, a few were more personal than others. It requires a lot of courage to speak openly and truthfully about oneself, one's own life, especially with thirty or so kids staring at you in breathless expectation. I admire the people who took that on. Nick made us laugh with his "i'm terrified that you're all looking at me right now" comment. Kris spoke to a personal battle and ongoing tragedy. Zach Morris told us the touching story of his mother and the lullaby she sings. Each momentary presentation spoke volumes about the person behind it, and it was nice to see so much attention to detail in their execution.
Thank you all for doing a great job! I'm looking forward to the upcoming group presentations.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Absolute Man: The Pursuit of Transformation
Truly, we like to think of ourselves as entirely individual and isolated entities, following solitary paths of pain and love imperceptible to the average passerby. We devise new ways of conceptually cutting ourselves off from the world and its masses by defining our role within that greater continuum in terms of differences alone. Yet, there exists a struggle in us between this fascination with total autonomy from the unknown forces of this world and our ultimate need to let go and be wholly encompassed by those same forces. We remake ourselves again and again, following the shifting shapes of serial transformations in order to achieve one or both of these ideals. For Ovid in David Malouf’s An Imaginary Life, these transformations of self occur through the power of imagination as he walks through waking dreams more real than any life restricted by the bonds of place or time.
In the first of five parts of Malouf’s work, the character of Ovid struggles to transcend his circumstantially bound identity in order to achieve some sense of peace in exile. The novel opens with Ovid’s lonely isolation and with two dreams of great significance. In the first dream, Ovid travels across a vast and terrible valley in order to dig into the earth itself only to find wolves digging alongside him with increasing fervor. The dream stems from Ovid’s fear of death and brings to light his attachment to the world as he knows it. In the second dream, hordes of centaurs gallop towards a meeting with Ovid, frightening him enough so as to wake him abruptly. “Let us into your lives. Believe in us” they call, and something of a divine, animal nature rises up in Ovid to converse with the centaurs; the world of myth demands this recognition if only in dreams (24). Ovid grapples with this fear of relinquishing control even until the final words of this passage when suddenly, he finds some revelation. In the form of the poppy, he sees the path to true awakening, a way to, as he states, “work the spring” within himself (32). In naming there is becoming. By letting go of his former self, Ovid can define and awaken the forces within him needed to fuel the transformation of self and achieve ultimate transcendence of this physical world. “You will be separated from yourself and yet be alive” (33). These are the words he reflects upon in this passage, the words he dedicates to the beginning of a journey.
The second portion of the novel then continues, building on this initial revelation. Now, rather than thinking only of his superiority over the rural people he has come to live with, Ovid tries to understand the forces of nature, and of the divine, inherent in them. Speaking of Ryzak, the clan leader, he says “believing in nothing I couldn’t see [. . .]—what can I know of the forces that have made this man, this tamer of horses, whose animal nature he somehow takes into himself and gentles” (40). In this reference to Hector of Troy, we gain new insight into the dream of the centaurs in the previous section. In the centaur, the melding of horse and man into one being, we see the natural world and the world of the mind working in absolute harmony with one another. Ovid wonders as to how Ryzak is able to retain his humanity, his individuality, while simultaneously embracing the unknown, the uncontrollable in nature. Rather than completely surrendering himself to the unknown, Ovid still desires to maintain some sort of control over forces too great and too subtle for him to define in concrete terms. This desire to retain some sense of ultimate individuality or sovereignty over himself can be seen in the dream he has deep in the woods in the presence of the Child. “We have all been transformed,” he dreams, “the whole group of us, and become part of the woods [. . .] I am a pool of water” (61). This pool of water does not fear the deer or the Child drinking it up; he fears the wolf gorging himself on the sweet liquid just as the waking Ovid fears the violence of passions he cannot control, the violence of falling completely away into seeming nothingness. In this same passage, Ovid’s eventual death is foreshadowed in the brief words, “I sleep. I wake” (62). The sleep of death will be an awakening, though Ovid has not entirely reconciled himself to this concept in his waking consciousness.
The revelation in this passage comes with the identification of “some power in us that knows its own ends” (64). Ovid realizes that every version of himself that he could possibly become, all aspects of the universe are contained within him. “We have only to find the spring and release it,” he says (64). By embracing the entirety of the world, one does not lose oneself, for the entirety of the world is contained within that self. Though the passage ends with the shockingly violent capture of the Child, the vital weight of this realization cannot be subdued.
The violence inherent in the physical bonds used to restrain the Child does not last long, however, in the third and fourth sections of the novel. A shift begins to occur from the physical bonds, representative of place or time, to the figurative bonds of attachment similar to that of perceived nationality, family ties, or possession. Ovid teaches the Child ownership by giving him a ball to play with, creating, as Ovid describes, “the web of feeling that is this room [. . .] I feel, even in darkness, the invisible twitching of strings” (82). Here lies Ovid’s final attempt, through the person of the Child to control nature, to define that nature, human or otherwise, in terms of circumstantially bound definitions of place. Aptly, he uses the word web, a trap, to define this state of being.
By wondering at the ancestry of the Child, Ovid betrays his lingering fear of complete abandonment of the restricted self he has known, yet he also wonders “does not knowing make him free?” (89). Because the Child is not rooted to the physicality of life contained in concepts such as time and place, he is free and completely his own being. When he imitates birds and other creatures, Ovid says, “he is not, like our mimics, copying [. . .] He is allowing it to speak out of him” (92). Here again we see the child as the ultimate form of individuality enmeshed in the greater web of life. He exists completely unto himself yet enfolding all things; all forms of life live in him, in the singular aspect of his body, his soul. Perhaps paradoxically, by being all things, the Child finds a wholeness in his singular identity more original than any other. Finally, Ovid begins to achieve a transcendence of self, saying, “I must drive out my old self and let the universe in. [. . .] The spirit of things will migrate back into us. We shall be whole. Only then will we have some vision of our true body as men” (96).
In the final section of the novel, in a world beyond metamorphoses, beyond even imagination, Ovid achieves true wholeness of self and everlasting peace. The chapters begin with “No more dreams” (141). No longer needing to remake himself because he has achieved the entirety of his awakening, dreams and the imagination are needless as well. They are but agents of change between transformations.
Malouf ends his novel with Ovid’s final transformation and the words, “I am there” (152). Our Ovid has achieved the ultimate level of awareness, a state of being in which he encapsulates all that ever went before him and all there is to come, the fullness of man as he was meant to be. This man exists wholly unto himself and wholly within the world. The Child and his natural fire and spirit fade away upon the breeze just as the mind of Ovid sinks into the earth, into the sky. Somehow, he exists even then in all things.
While reading Malouf’s work, perhaps we recognize some silent force within us, some ancient spring that will trigger a change of consciousness. As we fully succumb to this next great transformation, perhaps we will glimpse a bit of ourselves in all things and feel wholly connected with all of life, past and present. Perhaps, we will see, rising within us, the birth of a new man, a god that breathes in tandem with the beating of our hearts. In this, and in all aspects of awakening, we are reborn.
In the first of five parts of Malouf’s work, the character of Ovid struggles to transcend his circumstantially bound identity in order to achieve some sense of peace in exile. The novel opens with Ovid’s lonely isolation and with two dreams of great significance. In the first dream, Ovid travels across a vast and terrible valley in order to dig into the earth itself only to find wolves digging alongside him with increasing fervor. The dream stems from Ovid’s fear of death and brings to light his attachment to the world as he knows it. In the second dream, hordes of centaurs gallop towards a meeting with Ovid, frightening him enough so as to wake him abruptly. “Let us into your lives. Believe in us” they call, and something of a divine, animal nature rises up in Ovid to converse with the centaurs; the world of myth demands this recognition if only in dreams (24). Ovid grapples with this fear of relinquishing control even until the final words of this passage when suddenly, he finds some revelation. In the form of the poppy, he sees the path to true awakening, a way to, as he states, “work the spring” within himself (32). In naming there is becoming. By letting go of his former self, Ovid can define and awaken the forces within him needed to fuel the transformation of self and achieve ultimate transcendence of this physical world. “You will be separated from yourself and yet be alive” (33). These are the words he reflects upon in this passage, the words he dedicates to the beginning of a journey.
The second portion of the novel then continues, building on this initial revelation. Now, rather than thinking only of his superiority over the rural people he has come to live with, Ovid tries to understand the forces of nature, and of the divine, inherent in them. Speaking of Ryzak, the clan leader, he says “believing in nothing I couldn’t see [. . .]—what can I know of the forces that have made this man, this tamer of horses, whose animal nature he somehow takes into himself and gentles” (40). In this reference to Hector of Troy, we gain new insight into the dream of the centaurs in the previous section. In the centaur, the melding of horse and man into one being, we see the natural world and the world of the mind working in absolute harmony with one another. Ovid wonders as to how Ryzak is able to retain his humanity, his individuality, while simultaneously embracing the unknown, the uncontrollable in nature. Rather than completely surrendering himself to the unknown, Ovid still desires to maintain some sort of control over forces too great and too subtle for him to define in concrete terms. This desire to retain some sense of ultimate individuality or sovereignty over himself can be seen in the dream he has deep in the woods in the presence of the Child. “We have all been transformed,” he dreams, “the whole group of us, and become part of the woods [. . .] I am a pool of water” (61). This pool of water does not fear the deer or the Child drinking it up; he fears the wolf gorging himself on the sweet liquid just as the waking Ovid fears the violence of passions he cannot control, the violence of falling completely away into seeming nothingness. In this same passage, Ovid’s eventual death is foreshadowed in the brief words, “I sleep. I wake” (62). The sleep of death will be an awakening, though Ovid has not entirely reconciled himself to this concept in his waking consciousness.
The revelation in this passage comes with the identification of “some power in us that knows its own ends” (64). Ovid realizes that every version of himself that he could possibly become, all aspects of the universe are contained within him. “We have only to find the spring and release it,” he says (64). By embracing the entirety of the world, one does not lose oneself, for the entirety of the world is contained within that self. Though the passage ends with the shockingly violent capture of the Child, the vital weight of this realization cannot be subdued.
The violence inherent in the physical bonds used to restrain the Child does not last long, however, in the third and fourth sections of the novel. A shift begins to occur from the physical bonds, representative of place or time, to the figurative bonds of attachment similar to that of perceived nationality, family ties, or possession. Ovid teaches the Child ownership by giving him a ball to play with, creating, as Ovid describes, “the web of feeling that is this room [. . .] I feel, even in darkness, the invisible twitching of strings” (82). Here lies Ovid’s final attempt, through the person of the Child to control nature, to define that nature, human or otherwise, in terms of circumstantially bound definitions of place. Aptly, he uses the word web, a trap, to define this state of being.
By wondering at the ancestry of the Child, Ovid betrays his lingering fear of complete abandonment of the restricted self he has known, yet he also wonders “does not knowing make him free?” (89). Because the Child is not rooted to the physicality of life contained in concepts such as time and place, he is free and completely his own being. When he imitates birds and other creatures, Ovid says, “he is not, like our mimics, copying [. . .] He is allowing it to speak out of him” (92). Here again we see the child as the ultimate form of individuality enmeshed in the greater web of life. He exists completely unto himself yet enfolding all things; all forms of life live in him, in the singular aspect of his body, his soul. Perhaps paradoxically, by being all things, the Child finds a wholeness in his singular identity more original than any other. Finally, Ovid begins to achieve a transcendence of self, saying, “I must drive out my old self and let the universe in. [. . .] The spirit of things will migrate back into us. We shall be whole. Only then will we have some vision of our true body as men” (96).
In the final section of the novel, in a world beyond metamorphoses, beyond even imagination, Ovid achieves true wholeness of self and everlasting peace. The chapters begin with “No more dreams” (141). No longer needing to remake himself because he has achieved the entirety of his awakening, dreams and the imagination are needless as well. They are but agents of change between transformations.
Malouf ends his novel with Ovid’s final transformation and the words, “I am there” (152). Our Ovid has achieved the ultimate level of awareness, a state of being in which he encapsulates all that ever went before him and all there is to come, the fullness of man as he was meant to be. This man exists wholly unto himself and wholly within the world. The Child and his natural fire and spirit fade away upon the breeze just as the mind of Ovid sinks into the earth, into the sky. Somehow, he exists even then in all things.
While reading Malouf’s work, perhaps we recognize some silent force within us, some ancient spring that will trigger a change of consciousness. As we fully succumb to this next great transformation, perhaps we will glimpse a bit of ourselves in all things and feel wholly connected with all of life, past and present. Perhaps, we will see, rising within us, the birth of a new man, a god that breathes in tandem with the beating of our hearts. In this, and in all aspects of awakening, we are reborn.
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