Category Archives: fables

On Ishmael

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“Call me Ishmael,” he said. And so begins one of the all-time epic narratives about hate, obsession, and man versus nature. The novel by Melville, Moby Dick, is often rejected, or even reviled, unjustly, by readers who just don’t understand a five hundred-page novel that often reads like a “how-to” manual on whaling. Ishmael was/is an itinerant sailor who from time to time would pack his gear and off to sea to make a little money, have a little adventure, see some different scenery, breathe some fresh sea air, and search for his own existential self. Although we know his name, we know almost nothing about him. Parents, family, friends, ties to other people, he is bereft of human connections, so when he wants to take off, he can. Ishmael is an Everyman who is a little different in the sense that although he a part of crew, he stands alone, a bit of an island, around which swirls the crew of Pequod, its insane captain, and his obtuse obsession–the white whale. Ishmael’s principle function as narrator is to act as a reliable witness to Ahab’s obsession and eventual destruction, but he is also a lingering metaphor about the value of a human life, the purpose of that life, how a life is shaped, and how we become the sum of our decisions, good or bad. Ishmael is less hero and more witness to this tragedy because he must survive the sinking of the Pequod and the loss of her crew. Structurally, without Ishmael, there simply is no story. Shipwreck, either metaphorical or literal, must be witnessed and verified by a survivor or the loss of the ship is just a mysterious footnote with no details and no story. In a way, our errant sailor and narrator is an exercise in existential energy and one of the book’s larger enigmas, existing on the margin of the moral or ethical considerations presented by Ahab who is willing to take his entire crew into Hell just to get his vengeance on the white whale who had taken his leg. It is Ishmael’s isolation which clarifies his voice as he describes the nuts and bolts, literally of the whaling trade, the ships, the tools, the crews, the techniques for hunting whales on a massive, industrial scale in a world lit only the oil which could be gleaned from each of their victims. Yet far from an ecological commentary of the uncontrolled finishing that would eventually drive the whale almost to extinction, Ishmael’s narration is a bird’s eye view into the insane and brutal world which Ahab has constructed on the Pequod, which is by itself a microcosm of the world itself, populated by men of all colors from across the entire world. The fact that the novel details the voyage of an almost random whaling ship in the mid-nineteenth century, has little to do with the allegorical content of the narrative which speaks to the ever-present battle/conflict of man against his environment. Ahab thinks that the whale is the very incarnation of evil representing the vital forces of nature against which he rails, leading to his own destruction and the sinking of the Pequod. Those who would think that this book is only about whaling ad nauseum will miss the opportunity to witness and experience vicariously Ishmael’s quest for the truth about the nature of the human soul or the lack thereof. The ship, its crew, the mates, its orphaned narrator, searching for identity in the wilderness of the Earth’s vast oceans, are led by a mad man who considers everything expendable in his irrational search for vengeance at any cost. If Ishmael is alone at the beginning of the novel, he is the sole survivor at the end. The last man standing and witness to the catastrophe brought on by Ahab, he is a tribute to the strength of the human heart to endure almost anything, but he is also a tribute to narrating, the importance of words, language, and story.

On Ishmael

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“Call me Ishmael,” he said. And so begins one of the all-time epic narratives about hate, obsession, and man versus nature. The novel by Melville, Moby Dick, is often rejected, or even reviled, unjustly, by readers who just don’t understand a five hundred-page novel that often reads like a “how-to” manual on whaling. Ishmael was/is an itinerant sailor who from time to time would pack his gear and off to sea to make a little money, have a little adventure, see some different scenery, breathe some fresh sea air, and search for his own existential self. Although we know his name, we know almost nothing about him. Parents, family, friends, ties to other people, he is bereft of human connections, so when he wants to take off, he can. Ishmael is an Everyman who is a little different in the sense that although he a part of crew, he stands alone, a bit of an island, around which swirls the crew of Pequod, its insane captain, and his obtuse obsession–the white whale. Ishmael’s principle function as narrator is to act as a reliable witness to Ahab’s obsession and eventual destruction, but he is also a lingering metaphor about the value of a human life, the purpose of that life, how a life is shaped, and how we become the sum of our decisions, good or bad. Ishmael is less hero and more witness to this tragedy because he must survive the sinking of the Pequod and the loss of her crew. Structurally, without Ishmael, there simply is no story. Shipwreck, either metaphorical or literal, must be witnessed and verified by a survivor or the loss of the ship is just a mysterious footnote with no details and no story. In a way, our errant sailor and narrator is an exercise in existential energy and one of the book’s larger enigmas, existing on the margin of the moral or ethical considerations presented by Ahab who is willing to take his entire crew into Hell just to get his vengeance on the white whale who had taken his leg. It is Ishmael’s isolation which clarifies his voice as he describes the nuts and bolts, literally of the whaling trade, the ships, the tools, the crews, the techniques for hunting whales on a massive, industrial scale in a world lit only the oil which could be gleaned from each of their victims. Yet far from an ecological commentary of the uncontrolled finishing that would eventually drive the whale almost to extinction, Ishmael’s narration is a bird’s eye view into the insane and brutal world which Ahab has constructed on the Pequod, which is by itself a microcosm of the world itself, populated by men of all colors from across the entire world. The fact that the novel details the voyage of an almost random whaling ship in the mid-nineteenth century, has little to do with the allegorical content of the narrative which speaks to the ever-present battle/conflict of man against his environment. Ahab thinks that the whale is the very incarnation of evil representing the vital forces of nature against which he rails, leading to his own destruction and the sinking of the Pequod. Those who would think that this book is only about whaling ad nauseum will miss the opportunity to witness and experience vicariously Ishmael’s quest for the truth about the nature of the human soul or the lack thereof. The ship, its crew, the mates, its orphaned narrator, searching for identity in the wilderness of the Earth’s vast oceans, are led by a mad man who considers everything expendable in his irrational search for vengeance at any cost. If Ishmael is alone at the beginning of the novel, he is the sole survivor at the end. The last man standing and witness to the catastrophe brought on by Ahab, he is a tribute to the strength of the human heart to endure almost anything, but he is also a tribute to narrating, the importance of words, language, and story.

On vampires

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Seriously? Vampires? The rational empiricist in me says this topic is dead even before it gets started. Some people are totally obsessed with the figure of the vampire, but the vampire only has life because people fear death, the dark, and premature burial. The “life” of a vampire is completely antithetical to the sun-loving, light-loving normal human being who wears a cross and eats garlic bread until it bleeds from their pores. People generally fear that which is completely unlike them. Unless we can see our mirror image, we are afraid of all “others”. The vampire couldn’t be more “other” because they don’t drink…wine. Vampires “live” at night, sleep in their coffin during the day, drink blood, simulate sex by biting their partner (okay, forget that, some people also bite, or so I’ve heard), cannot bear to be out in the daylight, don’t eat food, don’t age, and don’t die. A psychologist might suggest that humans construct the vampire in order to embody all of their own irrational fears about life. The very solitary nature of the vampire’s so-called existence is also antithetical to the gregarious nature of most humans. The thing is, vampires don’t exist, but human fears do. The vampire moves through the dark of night, inhabiting the shadows and corners of the human mind where fear dwells and the unknown makes its nest. With all the pressure of the modern industrial world, and let’s face it, the vampire is a product of modern industrialism, unbridled commerce, and uninhibited capitalism, human beings cannot for a minute pretend to cover all of their responsibilities brought on by work, school, marriage, children, church, and social organizations that pull on their time and energy. The vampire appears on the urban scene when time poverty is everywhere, sleep comes at a premium, and the pressure to succeed at all costs comes from every corner–business, home, society. The vampire is a cold, blood-thirsty primitive animal that arises out of that primordial mass of irrational thought that resides at the bottom of the brain, driven and fed by all of the really negative energy of emotion, fear, and hate. What makes the vampire particularly interesting is that it feeds by sinking its fangs into the throats of its victims and sucking out their life’s blood and recreating itself by killing its victim, engendering a new line of vampires, of the undead. Undead is neither alive nor dead, but something interminable between the two where life neither progresses nor ends. The undead are rejected by both Heaven and Hell, not fitting the criteria for either one. Why humans fear all of this is, of course, highly irrational because no such beast has ever existed, exists now, or will exist at some time in the future, but the strange erotic attraction people feel toward the figure of the vampire is real and creepy. Some goes as far as having actual fang dental work done, so they can more easily simulate the most notable characteristic of the vampire. The necro-erotic, homo-erotic, and hemo-erotic psycho-sexual undertones that run through all vampire literature only add to the global attraction that mortals feel toward this dangerous supernatural creature. It is weirdly ironic that it is usually a man of science a la Van Helsing that occupies itself with eradicating the menace. Vampires are a real physical manifestation of our irrational fears—creating a literal body upon which these fears are inscribed: undead, darkness, fear, violence, self-loathing, hate, ire, violence, death, and blood. The vampire is then, by default, us.

On vampires

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Seriously? Vampires? The rational empiricist in me says this topic is dead even before it gets started. Some people are totally obsessed with the figure of the vampire, but the vampire only has life because people fear death, the dark, and premature burial. The “life” of a vampire is completely antithetical to the sun-loving, light-loving normal human being who wears a cross and eats garlic bread until it bleeds from their pores. People generally fear that which is completely unlike them. Unless we can see our mirror image, we are afraid of all “others”. The vampire couldn’t be more “other” because they don’t drink…wine. Vampires “live” at night, sleep in their coffin during the day, drink blood, simulate sex by biting their partner (okay, forget that, some people also bite, or so I’ve heard), cannot bear to be out in the daylight, don’t eat food, don’t age, and don’t die. A psychologist might suggest that humans construct the vampire in order to embody all of their own irrational fears about life. The very solitary nature of the vampire’s so-called existence is also antithetical to the gregarious nature of most humans. The thing is, vampires don’t exist, but human fears do. The vampire moves through the dark of night, inhabiting the shadows and corners of the human mind where fear dwells and the unknown makes its nest. With all the pressure of the modern industrial world, and let’s face it, the vampire is a product of modern industrialism, unbridled commerce, and uninhibited capitalism, human beings cannot for a minute pretend to cover all of their responsibilities brought on by work, school, marriage, children, church, and social organizations that pull on their time and energy. The vampire appears on the urban scene when time poverty is everywhere, sleep comes at a premium, and the pressure to succeed at all costs comes from every corner–business, home, society. The vampire is a cold, blood-thirsty primitive animal that arises out of that primordial mass of irrational thought that resides at the bottom of the brain, driven and fed by all of the really negative energy of emotion, fear, and hate. What makes the vampire particularly interesting is that it feeds by sinking its fangs into the throats of its victims and sucking out their life’s blood and recreating itself by killing its victim, engendering a new line of vampires, of the undead. Undead is neither alive nor dead, but something interminable between the two where life neither progresses nor ends. The undead are rejected by both Heaven and Hell, not fitting the criteria for either one. Why humans fear all of this is, of course, highly irrational because no such beast has ever existed, exists now, or will exist at some time in the future, but the strange erotic attraction people feel toward the figure of the vampire is real and creepy. Some goes as far as having actual fang dental work done, so they can more easily simulate the most notable characteristic of the vampire. The necro-erotic, homo-erotic, and hemo-erotic psycho-sexual undertones that run through all vampire literature only add to the global attraction that mortals feel toward this dangerous supernatural creature. It is weirdly ironic that it is usually a man of science a la Van Helsing that occupies itself with eradicating the menace. Vampires are a real physical manifestation of our irrational fears—creating a literal body upon which these fears are inscribed: undead, darkness, fear, violence, self-loathing, hate, ire, violence, death, and blood. The vampire is then, by default, us.

On Avatar (the movie and 1,000 blog entry)

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What can one really say about this strange movie about conquest, conquistadors, and a native population that fights back? James Cameron’s 2009 film is about intertextuality and dialogues directly with the ghosts of Christopher Columbus, Hernán Cortés, Francisco Pizarro, and Ferdinand Magellan as they conquer and subdue the native population of the New World. The premise of the film is simple: the Earth is dying from mistreatment and overpopulation and the Earthlings are on the war path to find a rare element “unobtanium” (get it?) which they might then use to refuel their own burned out planet. They know that this element is on a moon called Pandora (another dialogue). The problem is that people are living on top of this element, and unless you move the people, you can’t get to the element. The conflict of the film the mirrors all stories of conquest and diaspora which are economically driven, giving rise to military invasions and crusades that litter human history with death, destruction, chaos, mayhem, and tragedy. Whether it was the Christian conquest of Jerusalem during the crusades, the Spanish expulsion of the Jews in 1492, or the conquest of the Americas, military might has been employed to displace the weak, eliminate less developed cultures, and persecute religious minorities. Watching a couple of the battle scenes I thought the movie was eerily reminiscent of the jungles of Vietnam in which American troops labored in vain to fight off the Communist threat in Southeast Asia. The problem that the American/Earth forces face in Avatar is that they not only don’t understand who the enemy is, they underestimate the complexity of their opponent’s strength by imagining that the “other” is inferior because they live in harmony with nature and not at odds with it. The “natives” live outdoors with few or no structures, they wear almost no clothing, and their society is not mechanized at all. The invaders imagine, then, that the natives are barbarians who will be easy to defeat. Guns and bullets have always solved everything, so why shouldn’t that be the case this time as well. The movie strongly criticizes the military option as barbaric, inhuman, ruthless, and stupid. Again, the movie dialogues with all wars, invasions, police actions and military occupations as it criticizes the use of brute force to displace an already settled population, creating an intertextuality with the displacement of native Americans in both North and South America. Military action is justified against these people because the invaders ironically place themselves in the role of the culturally superior, rationalizing the death and violence they will use to subjugate another group of humans. The invaders have no idea, in the end, that the people they are killing enjoy a rich, complex life which is only different, essentially, in one way–window dressing. In this fable, the natives drive off and defeat the invaders, which is a fairy tale ending, but it is also highly satisfying. The subplot of the paraplegic marine who gets to experience life as the “other” is a quirky anti-war commentary about the soldier who is “humanized” and meets the enemy. Here he gets the chance to be the enemy, to experience the world first hand as they would experience the world–a curious tip-of-the-hat to Borges’ short story, “The Ethnographer.” In the end, the cannibals are not natives living in the trees, but instead are the gun-toting goons that have been sent to rid the planet of a humanoid infestation. A final note: Sigourney Weaver of Alien fame plays a misplaced scientist in charge of the Avatar project, which in turn dialogues with the entire Alien series, a cautionary tale about messing with things you don’t know about and can’t understand. You can’t always reach out and take just anything you want. Ethnocentrism can be a very bad thing. As an epilogue, I am sure that the damage done by the invading forces is irreversible and that permanent damage has been done–the locals, as it were, have been thrust from Eden never to return, and this is the great tragedy of Avatar.

On reading

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I was reading Thoreau last night. It was his essay on reading. He thought reading was important, but he also thought that quality reading was more important still. Homer, Plato, Aristotle, that kind of reading. He was criticizing what he saw as “trash” (my word, not his) reading, which includes popular novels and related kinds of reading that he considered a time sink that did nothing to enlighten the hungry mind. Although I understand what he was trying to say (“Read smart stuff and you will be enlightened.”), I am not entirely sure he was completely right. The popular novel has a lot to offer if you know how to choose. Now many popular novels are bad because they have nothing new to offer; they either re-plow old ground or that imitate good novels badly. There are also many kinds of writing, i.e., poetry, essays, plays, letters, travelogues, reviews, opinions, short stories, and novellas, which touch on a multitude of interesting topics in a variety of ways. Autobiography, a notoriously fictional genre, is so utterly problematic that it cannot help but be extremely fascinating. If you limit your reading to Classical literature you will miss a lot about what is going on around you. You won’t read Thoreau, whose short essay on civil disobedience is one of the most important non-fiction works of the nineteenth century. You would also miss, The Scarlet Letter (Hawthorne), the short stories and poetry of Poe, Moby Dick (Melville), The Red Badge of Courage (Crane) or The Awakening (Chopin). If you are reading something, and you don’t like it, set it aside and find something else, but don’t not read something because it’s too contemporary. I would amend Thoreau’s work by saying this: blow up your TV, throw away the radio, move to the country, and renew your library card. Reading always helps the mind grow, learn, contemplate, escape, rebuild, revitalize, renovate brain space. Perhaps this is why the digital age has not yet displaced the book, a centuries old technology that just keeps going, and going, and going…

On "The Hunger Games" (movie)

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My son is a huge fan of The Hunger Games trilogy, so the family went to the movies last night. Though I wouldn’t say that the film is brilliant, it is very good, and although “subtle” is not the word that most would use to describe the movie, there was a lot of subtle commentary on the culture of television, reality tv specifically, fascism, slavery, personal sacrifice, class conflict and the role of violence in pop culture. Indeed, the movie was very violent and ended up being a riff on itself and the exploitation of violence as a marketing tool to get people to watch something so sponsors can sell their stuff. I took careful note last night as to whom was sponsoring commercials in the movie theater before the movie began. The Hunger Games is about a completely secular society that represses and exploits others so that they may lead a life of leisure and luxury; imagine if Rome had never fallen but had continued to flourish into the 21st century. The “Capital” culture exploits the outlying “districts” so that they may follow a life of wealth, power, hedonism, and luxury. The outlying districts are, more or less, living hand to mouth to do the work that ensures the luxurious lifestyles of the Capital. The movie starts in District 12, the designated coal mining region which supplies all of the coal which keeps the lights on in the capital. The exploitation of the workers is ensured by a faceless army of thugs and brutes which rule through violence and fear. The government is fascist writ large. There is no democratic process to ensure any kind of representation, and there are no checks and balances which might curtail corruption or exploitation. The actual “Hunger Games” is an exercise in ritual murder turned into a reality television show, and the participants–all of whom will be violently murdered–are chosen via lottery (wink and nod to Shirley Jackson)–two from each district. The last man standing is turned into a pop celebrity for “winning” the Hunger Games. Tip of the hat to Woody Harrelson for bringing life to a cynical alcoholic ex-winner of the games from District 12. The main character is a reincarnation of Diana the Huntress, who begins the film by sacrificing herself to save her little sister who has been chosen to participate in the macabre reality show of violent death, mutilation, suffering, and cruelty which is being staged for the entertainment of the Capital, and for the humiliation of the districts. No spoilers here. Watch it, read it, but remember, this is strong stuff–not for the weak of heart.

On the medium is the message

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“In a culture like ours, long accustomed to splitting and dividing all things as a means of control, it is sometimes a bit of a shock to be reminded that, in operational and practical fact, the medium is the message. This is merely to say that the personal and social consequences of any medium – that is, of any extension of ourselves – result from the new scale that is introduced into our affairs by each extension of ourselves, or by any new technology.” (McLuhan 7) Fascinated by ambiguity, I find McLuhan’s assertion both intriguing and beguiling, if not downright cute. I have read his work, his explanations, his rants, his assertions, his reasoning, but I remain unconvinced. I think the secret to his famous assertion about mediums and messages is more poetically interesting as a puzzle or conundrum that it is as an actual statement of theory or philosophical position or ideological battleground. The beauty in his statement lies in the ambiguity of both words which work in tandem to deconstruct each other. So medium and message work together and against one another to form a line of poetry that might mean practically anything, which also means they signify practically nothing. Yet therein lies the beauty of the phrase: since it is bereft of a clear meaning, it is full of ambiguous ones. We might argue until the next millennium arrives and nothing will be resolved. You see, his own explanations make no more sense than anyone else’s. His intention of clarifying the meaning only serves to befuddle clarity and understanding. If he is trying to say that as human technology develops, the ways we communicate will change, then I get that, but I also think his point is totally obvious. In other words, he himself cannot clear up the structuralist problem posed by his assertion that the medium is the message. Confusion is working in his favor because there is no clean way to explain his aphorism. In a sense, his own fame as a pop culture icon and hipster writer is due entirely to the anarchy he creates, not the clarity he provides. Everyone is talking about what he means, but nobody is really sure, and no one wants to admit that. Though I suspect he is sincere, I also suspect a bit of the “emperor’s new clothes” syndrome: I can be hip and cool by offering to explain McLuhan’s fabulously intelligent, but totally unintelligible, bumper sticker slogan. I also suspect that if he had tried to create confusion and chaos on purpose that he would have never succeeded. His success lies in his genuine earnestness, his ability to perceive major changes in human communication, and his intuition about how those changes would change human beings, the way they interact, and the way they perceive the world around them. Twitter may be the medium, but the message constantly changes. Does Twitter as a medium “mean” anything? Probably, but those speculations are probably best left to the prophets, a couple of pop star icons, mystics, philosophers and Silicon Valley gurus.

On Oscar

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What did Billy Crystal say last night? “Tonight we are going to watch a bunch of millionaires give each other little golden statues.” I have watched the Oscars for a couple of decades, and they really are no more transcendent now than they were in 1929 when the Screen Actors Guild started handing out the faceless statuettes. They just add another level of mysticism, elitism and glamor to an already very selective and exclusive club to which no mortal has access. Like a bunch of crazed voyeurs, we tune in each year to stare at the beautiful people come together to out-stage even each other. Their pathetic attempts at saying “thank you” border on the banal and boring. Basically, the Oscars are here to tell us all that we are just normal human beings and have no chance of ever attaining the fame and stature of the stars who will possibly win a little golden statuette. Oscar is a talisman of exclusivity. The people who receive the award have worked hard, but they also have had their share of good luck. And how many, exactly, have sold their souls to the Devil to get that little golden guy? Far from jealous, I would say that having a normal life is a pretty special thing. I can walk into any Starbucks in any airport in the world and not have to worry about being recognized, about having to be nice to fans, about having every inch of my life under a microscope. While I am out in public, my stress levels are very low. I can go to the grocery store, get my junk and get out. I’m not so sure that giving out autographs, getting lots of photos taken, and having my life scrutinized at every turn would be that interesting. In a sense, any of those famous people is just a regular person as well. Notting Hill (1999) is an unglorified look into the public/private pain of an actress (Julia Roberts) who is looking for love, but her all too public face makes that impossible. The stress of living a public life cannot be at all very fun. Having a face that half the planet will recognize has to be a pain in the neck. Oh, I wouldn’t mind the money, at least at first, and I’m sure the fame is great for the ego, at least at first, but in the long run, the press, the paparazzi, the news channels must be both tedious and boring. You cannot gain a pound or grow old, you cannot have a movie that goes bad, you cannot play characters that your fans might hate, you cannot fail to live up to their expectations. So let them pass out their little statues. The movies may or may not be good. Some of my favorite films were never nominated for anything, and, as far as I’m concerned, many of the big names might never have been made at all.