This blog doesn't just assign old-fashioned homework. In addition to the essay by William James, mentioned last time, today's assignment is to watch the Coen Brothers' movie, "Barton Fink." The role of "the life of the mind" in its memorable climax fits in well today.
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Long-suffering readers know that I encourage 'living' a book rather than just reading it, in order to turn a stultifying process into a more vivifying one. You must pretend, even if only temporarily, to have some sympathy with this approach if the rest of this post is to mean anything to you.
The first time I read Patrick O'Brian's "Master and Commander" novels, several years ago, I was in Yuma, bicycling with the superb road-cycling club here. Back then I saw no connection between sailing the high seas in a British man-of-war, during the Napoleonic era, and the sport of cycling. This time around I have seen a connection, and it has vivified both reading and cycling.
One day I was riding alone, but in the mirror I could just barely see the neon-colored windbreaker of another cyclist. How they fill up with air, inside! But who was it? They were too far back to tell. Were they trying to 'take me a prize', in "Master and Commander" lingo? One minute they would go over a small convexity -- you wouldn't call it a hill -- and thus come back into view; and then they'd quickly disappear into a subtle concavity. These undulations of road over sandy desert, mirages from the Yuma sun, and the poor optical quality of the mirror, kept the suspense going for a couple minutes. More than that, everyday I now find another analogy between cycling the windy lettuce fields of Yuma and reading "Master and Commander."
By now, the reader can guess, I was fluttering my eyelashes over the experience, in part because of what it shared with other outdoor experiences. There is nothing more lethally glamorous than a barely identifiable animal scudding along on a distant ridgeline.
Sweat and metaphors -- imaginative effort during strenuous physical activity -- that is the ultimate outdoor lifestyle. What prevents it? Do we feel silly taking our "play" seriously? After all, that is what children used to do, back in the days before television and video games. It is what dogs still do at the bark park. But we responsible, middle-class adults are so tied up with our busyness and conventionality that we can't take play seriously.
We still share something with that conventional old crone back at Starbucks, last post. Maybe my inability to become totally independent of what she represents is the reason why she irked me.
_____________________________________________________
Long-suffering readers know that I encourage 'living' a book rather than just reading it, in order to turn a stultifying process into a more vivifying one. You must pretend, even if only temporarily, to have some sympathy with this approach if the rest of this post is to mean anything to you.
The first time I read Patrick O'Brian's "Master and Commander" novels, several years ago, I was in Yuma, bicycling with the superb road-cycling club here. Back then I saw no connection between sailing the high seas in a British man-of-war, during the Napoleonic era, and the sport of cycling. This time around I have seen a connection, and it has vivified both reading and cycling.
One day I was riding alone, but in the mirror I could just barely see the neon-colored windbreaker of another cyclist. How they fill up with air, inside! But who was it? They were too far back to tell. Were they trying to 'take me a prize', in "Master and Commander" lingo? One minute they would go over a small convexity -- you wouldn't call it a hill -- and thus come back into view; and then they'd quickly disappear into a subtle concavity. These undulations of road over sandy desert, mirages from the Yuma sun, and the poor optical quality of the mirror, kept the suspense going for a couple minutes. More than that, everyday I now find another analogy between cycling the windy lettuce fields of Yuma and reading "Master and Commander."
By now, the reader can guess, I was fluttering my eyelashes over the experience, in part because of what it shared with other outdoor experiences. There is nothing more lethally glamorous than a barely identifiable animal scudding along on a distant ridgeline.
Sweat and metaphors -- imaginative effort during strenuous physical activity -- that is the ultimate outdoor lifestyle. What prevents it? Do we feel silly taking our "play" seriously? After all, that is what children used to do, back in the days before television and video games. It is what dogs still do at the bark park. But we responsible, middle-class adults are so tied up with our busyness and conventionality that we can't take play seriously.
We still share something with that conventional old crone back at Starbucks, last post. Maybe my inability to become totally independent of what she represents is the reason why she irked me.
Comments
Don't say "we" at the beginning of the last paragraph. Own your own projections. You don't have my company with it. And let me also mention that you clearly state that the "ad hominem approach" will not be allowed on your blog........apparently that just means comments regarding you but that you are allowed to engage in such behavior with people who are not here to defend themselves.
Now, I admit, this has an edge and it's hard to hide. Your saving grace in my eyes is your last sentence.
Now, let me go back and reiterate the importance of PROCESS in the development of a virtue. If you go back to Franklin's list, surely you can see the lack of attainment on your part of several of his listed virtues. I will not enumerate but want to stay with my greater point. Again, I acknowledge the importance of your insight, that it is your inability to be independent of something or other, whatever it is that you have projected onto her.
I'm also wearing thin on your assumption that others lack imagination and somehow do not sufficiently enjoy their endeavors and somehow you are capable of teaching them (us). Bit presumptuous, I believe. I appreciate your love of strenuous physical activity but believe me, that is a detail in the long term. It may be a good method but it is just your personal method and there are many roads to nirvana. If you truly are growing to be a better person (as your interest in the virtues of Franklin might suggest), somewhere along the line you have to begin to embrace the fact that others are different from you but that their path is equally valuable and their wisdom as great, in fact, perhaps, even greater.
Am not sure George or Jeanne caught the irony in my use of the politically-incorrect word, crone. Perhaps I should use an emoticon when something is to be interpreted ironically. The crone and I were mirror images of the "blindness" in James's essay. (Does this prove that they didn't do their homework?)
If you want to make a confession of sorts of your own blindness in the situation, then just be out with it, man, and quit hiding behind the bushes.
Enjoy your class of 1.
You have a wonderful imagination. That is true. And I know that this is what you are trying to share with your readers. I appreciate that for I believe I have as equally a good imagination as you and it has been a blessing in my life. Someone's very active imagination has preceded every great invention in mankind. So it is something to be valued, for sure.
What would happen if, upon recognition that your experience with the lady in Starbucks was one of seeing her negatively (i.e. a crone, etc.) you used your imagination to transform the experience? It is possible you know. Just as you can transform a physical experience of cycling into a "Master and Commander" adventure, so can you transform your experience in Starbucks.
So if this makes any sense to you, I have a reading recommendation for you to consider. It is called "Inner Work" by Robert A. Johnson, a Jungian analyst and author. One of my favorites. There is a section on "active imagination" which might be interesting to you. Also one on dreams which you may just want to blow off. I'm not sure. Anyway, just a thought.