Bittersweet, smell my feet.

Someone once told me, "If you ever get the chance to take a class from Sexton, do it." It took me three years to heed that advice, just in the nick of time. 

I've never learned so much in such a laid back class, but really, it was because of the people I shared it with. 

There are things I won't forget about some of you. Today, two yanked on my heart strings. Your journeys are not over, and I'm glad I could be a small part of them.

To Dr. Sexton:

Thank you.

A. Poem.

The saying,

"You learn something new everyday,"

is true. We all know this.

This semester,

"How did it all begin?"

Mythology's first kiss.

Creation,

the diver, division,

dismemberment.

This class certainly started with wonderment.

I've gained

understanding and

insight.

For instance, I now know,

on days as this one,

we all get a little stage fright.

Who knew that a tree

is more than wood,

our axis mundi.

Or that rants,

tangents,

might not be so inopportune-di.

I told you a story,

an "initiation"

of The Sweet Sixteen.

A uninteresting tale

of young girls and dad's money...

hold on. I need caffeine.

Morning after morning

I listened,

heard this ol' bloke.

Telling stories

like they were of his own life,

hanging off every word he spoke.

A few of you,

I've seen around,

some in my store.

Hopefully I'll never see our bartender Scott, while drunk and on the floor.

That girl there,

her birthday

I'll never forget.

And this gentleman here,

the one blogging encryptions, 

still I found you an asset.

There is such a variety,

all kinds of kinds,

none stranger than the other.

Like the story of the sunburn,

the peeling of skin,

was there one about butter?

A few mornings I overslept,

skipping our time,

but my friends, I experienced a first.

Missing this class was always the worst.

We all make that one friend,

the one who always helps out,

are my eyes getting misty?

That friend we hardly know,

and may never see again,

yes, that's you, my dear Kristy.

Last week, more than one

spoke of a flame,

a sparking of the soul.

I like that phrase,

makes me feel

as if someday I'll be whole.

The Doc once said,

"Myth says,

'It isn't about you."

I've found that

makes complete sense;

its entirely true.

Our time here

was less about me,

but more about you and myth.

Who you tell the stories to, who you're with.

Know that they've heard it all before,

nothing is new,

as far as I'm concerned.

That, anyway, is what I have learned.

The end is near,

mere minutes

before we fail or pass.

I hope I've done my job,

in the ways of Suess,

rhyming like a total jackass. 

Lordy, where does the time go?

It's been 11 days since I've blogged last. Eleven.
I've certainly been busy.
But not only with school, although I'm feeling close to burnt out.
My measly little job is potentially turning into something bigger--
        --I'm in the running for a promotion!

I know! Please, hold your applause!







So, between all of that, my mind has been on a million and three other things. Crappy excuse, I know, but I'm intending on this post to be a long compilation of what I have slacked on for 11+ days. Bear with me. This could be a bumpy ride.

First on the agenda is The Storyteller.

Admittedly, I didn't finish it. Trust me, I wanted to. I tried for weeks and wEEks to work through that thing and I just. could. not. Anthropology is most definitely not one of my interests and no matter what I did, I couldn't get through the second half. I tried reading a little everyday, I tried withholding social media and giving myself Facebook privileges if I read, I even tried rewarding myself with beer. Ultimately, I stared at the page until I fell asleep, almost every time. (The roommate found me at the kitchen table once, sawing logs, nose literally in book.) My apologies, Dr. Sexton. I did my best, promise!

Agenda Item Two: Air Quotes.

This was fun. Reeeeal fun.
A few of my close friends and I made dinner last Saturday night. About half of the attending group of nine identify as homosexual, the rest of us as heterosexual. The thing I love the most about my friends is 1) they are very accepting of one another, under any circumstance, and 2) they all have incredible senses of humor. There were plenty of stereotypical gay jokes, as well has hetero- jokes, flying around, all said in good fun. I had kind of forgotten about the air quote assignment until well into the evening, after we had killed a couple bottles of wine, but once remembered, I began air quoting words at random:
"gay" "heterosexual" "drag" "joking" "manly" "queen"
The list is much longer, but my memory is failing me now. Some of the jesters played along without realizing it, adding phrases following my air quotes.






"If you know what I mean."





It was perfect.

Thirdly, Cougars.
I've referred to my notes, because I sometimes do take my own and occasionally enjoying reliving my own account of our experiences in class. (Also, I jot down blog ideas. Why? Not sure. I apparently have a hard time writing blogs anyway.)
The last notes I took must have been from before our Displaced Myth presentations.
Under "22 Points of Mythological Heroes," I wrote:

(I spelt governor wrong!)

I'm not totally sure why I wrote this or what we could've been discussing during class that made me think of this. BUT. Have you seen this show? Its on A&E and it is shocking. S-H-O-C-K-I-N-G.
In the photo below, the Governor's actual wedded wife stands on your right, her two step daughters on the left.

What?

That concludes my blog-o-thon. Or blog-a-thon. Whichever. 

This has been fun, recapping some of my thoughts that I should have been writing about for the last fourhundredmillion days.

But there's more homework to be done, and a presentation to prep for tomorrow.

I brewed a pot of coffee about 30 minutes ago. Its still hot, and damn. Its strong.

That moment when you have so much to do, you...bake...instead?

You know that feeling you get when you have so much to do, you don't know where to begin? Today, I took a good look at my calendar and realized it is that time in the semester, the time when the rubber meets the road, the time when my coffee pot brews non-stop, the time when I feel overwhelmed.

So how am I spending my Thursday evening?
With baking cookies and TLC's "Say Yes to the Dress" of course.

Yes, I'm scheduling some time for myself, with the theory that I will later be much more productive and focused.



I was just in the kitchen, dropping cookies onto the pan, when I heard the narrator of my show announce the next bride trying on dresses. This woman's name was Afrodite. Guess what her soon-to-be-husband's name was?

Achilleas.

Clearly, with names like that, they're meant for each other.

Myth. Its everywhere.

Percy. Truthfully, I don't know one.

I always get super nervous speaking in class, which means I miss details. So was the case today! Here's my story, with every detail I fully intended on sharing, but regrettably missed. (I'm much better at writing than storytelling.)

Last week was an eventful one for my friend, Percy. 

Percy's mom has been seein' this guy. They've been hangin' out for a few months, but this guy--Paul is his name--is a real jerk to Percy. Whenever he's over, he makes Percy feel like he isn't wanted, encourages him to go to friend's houses and such. On Wednesday, Paul told Danny--that's Percy's mom--he had a great plan for the weekend. 

Turns out, that great plan was to send Percy hunting. Not take him hunting, send him hunting. And all that jerk gave Percy was a shiny, sharp knife and a raincoat. That's it. He told him to drive to the highest peak of the Bridgers and not to come back empty handed.

Percy left early, early Saturday morning. He drove until the road ended, and even a little more. It began to sprinkle. When his old truck could go no further, Percy got out and sat on the hood. The rain came down harder now; Percy threw his raincoat over his shoulders to shield his torso from the moisture. Dawn was just breaking when he saw her: the doe.

She walked right in front of him, as if she was blinded from his presence. Percy slid off his truck quietly, pulled the knife from his pocket, and began to walk. As he stalked his animal, Percy called it Maddie, and thought about the luck of finding her so quickly. Maddie moved kind of slow and appeared well-fed; lots of meat to take back to his mom and Paul. It wouldn't be a chore to slaughter her with his knife, clean across the throat. Hauling Maddie back to the truck might prove to be difficult, but he was up for the challenge.

Suddenly, Maddie the doe fell over. Percy circled around and crept up on the animal from behind. He pulled his knife from his belt, held it out, moved closer. The glint from the sun hitting the blade reflected perfectly into Maddie's eyes. Percy struck from the front; sliced the animal down the throat, all along its stomach. Unexpectedly, two young fawns spilled from Maddie's gut.

And Percy just sat there, shocked. They were clean, not a drop of blood on their bodies. He watched them struggle to walk, and when they finally did, they sauntered off as if they weren't new animals at all. Percy thought to name the fawns Peter and Christopher, since he named their mother, to commemorate their very unusual birth.

Certainly, this animal wasn't the fine, fat piece of meat Percy had once thought…she was simply pregnant. Exhaustion overcame him and Percy decided to simply cut the head of Maddie as a trophy for Paul. It was lighter than he expected.

Percy returned late that evening, well past dark, to a block filled with vehicles that seemed to belong to the group of people in Percy's house. Despite the party and Paul's need for attention, Danny was waiting impatiently. After pulling into the drive, Percy sat in the driver's seat until his mother came to greet him. Paul came also, along with a group of his friends. They stayed on the porch as Percy got out of his truck and began to recount the events I've just told. 

Right there, in the yard, Percy served up the head of Maddie.
Paul turned stone-gray, shocked at his achievements and hasn't harassed him since.

See? Last week was an eventful one for my friend, Percy. 

I Have A Wooden Giraffe Named Henry...

...but this is Maddie.

William Williams. His parents were creative.

I was cruising Ian's notes blog just now, again reviewing what I missed last week. I reread the poem by William Carlos Williams and was overcome with an intense feeling of deja vu.
I've read this before. Like really read this.

It took me a solid five minutes, but then I remembered. A couple years ago, I took the 200 level Intro to Lit class, as I'm sure some of you have taken. The last third of the semester was dedicated to poetry, as was our final paper. There's a lovely website, of which the name escapes me, that is similar to a database but filled with only poetry. I had this ingenious idea to find a poem and write the back-story; the situation in which the poem was inspired, as if I was the author. In this lovely website/database, I typed 'red' into the search bar and guess what was the first hit?

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

I've found my paper, in an archive on my email account.
Here's the first few lines:

"I open my eyes to just slivers. Sunlight floods my bedroom as I shift to my side and flop my arm across the bed. He’s gone, again. 

Breathe deep. 

Arm retracts to its usual position in front of my chest, hand-under-face. There’s still an indent in his pillow, sheets aren’t yet cold. 

Sigh. 

I’m not that surprised, but I find myself pissed off all the same."

It may be difficult to picture where this story leads, but I assure you, in the end it all works out.

Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday baby...

*While reading, for the full effect, play this.*

When I was assigned #7 on the List of 25 Crazy Rites of Passage, I was insanely surprised the Western tradition of celebrating (more often than not) a girl's 16th birthday made the list, especially in the top ten.

What in the world?!

I can hardly remember how I celebrated my 16th, other than I didn't attend school and went to breakfast with my mother, like I do every year. I've always enjoyed birthdays with my longstanding group of friends, but the years have blurred with age. But, I can tell you, with an incredible utmost certainty, that that particular October 22nd was in no way, shape, or form painful.

An un-altered photo of my 16 year old self in my high school yearbook.

In my research, I discovered that there are three ceremonies that are performed at a typical Sweet 16 birthday party.
1. Candle-lighting ceremony: each of the candles placed on the cake represents, and is lit by, various people that have been influences in the life of the honored.
2. Shoe ceremony: a father, uncle, grandfather presents the birthday girl (who is wearing flats) with a pair of heels and helps her change into them. This symbolizes moving into womanhood.
3. Tiara ceremony: the mother brings a tiara to place on the noggin of the birthday girl. Sometimes this is paired with the shoe ceremony.

Please, if you would like your mind-blown by financial obscenities, check out full episodes of My Super Sweet 16. I was stunned, shocked, how much money these girls spent--and not of their own cash, but their parents. In.sanity.

Page 84!

"In any event, arete is incandescent whenever manifest in a man's love for a boy. In its Kantian, unattached isolation, the Greeks would scarcely have appreciated the quality at all. The last and ultimate image of arete Greece offers us is a field strewn with the corpses of young Thebans after the battle of Chaeronea. The corpses were found lying in pairs: they were all couples, lovers, who had gone into battle together against the Macedonians. It was to be Greece's last stand."

Now, some of these words are either new or too big for my peewee brain. So here are my notes of definitions, synonyms, and bits of history that helped me read between the lines.

arete: being the best you can be, excellence (this is also defined, in a few lines previous to this passage, as virtue)
incandescent: passionate
*love: the Greeks have five different words for love: agape, eros, philia, and storge; all used for variant degrees of affection*
Kantian: reason, rationality? Based on Kant's work! Intriguing stuff, but I found it difficult to read
Thebans: people of Thebes, fought in Chaeronea against the Macedonians--Sacred Band of Thebes were said to have fought in this battle, speculations of homosexuality from other sources other than mentioned in Calasso's passage
Battle of Chaeronea: fought in 338 BC, between Macedonia (lead by Phillip II) and allied Greek city-states. Macedonia = victors 

So, if I were to rewrite the beginning of this this passage, my own, dumbed down version would go something like this:

In any event, excellence is passionate whenever displayed in a man's love for a boy. In its own reason, the Greeks would have just barely appreciated the quality at all. The last and ultimate image of excellence Greece offers us is a field strewn with the corpses of young Thebans after the Battle of Chaeronea.

*The fact that English has stuffed all kinds of feelings of affection into one measly word astounds me. As mentioned, Greek has five different words, but Hebrew has seven. In the last 24 hours, I myself have exhausted the word "love," making claims such as, "I love coffee." and, "Love you, mom." Certainly, I don't love my mother in the same way I love coffee--no matter crappy my morning turns out--so why do I, why do we, do this? Is there no other term pertaining to my endearment of caffeinated deliciousness? Sure there is. I'm just lazy, as are you, and overgeneralize language. 

I'm uncertain as to why this passage stuck out to me, and I'm not sure I really have a point for analyzing it, other than I find Greek Love, the cultural acceptance and almost reverence, interesting. (And the use of language is also intriguing!) 

The Sacred Band of Thebes

Here's some Wiki-links for related reading:
Kant
Battle of Chaeronea
Sacred Band of Thebes
Greek Love
Greek words for Love

Hallelujah

I've heard many versions of the song, "Hallelujah" but never registered all of the lyrics. (Remember Shrek??) In class, Dr. Sexton mentioned the reference to the story of David and Bathsheba in the lyrics, and while I believed him entirely, I felt I needed to research this myself.

Sure enough, very first line!
But, the seduction doesn't begin until the second verse:

"Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah"

Now, I'm not sure about the tying to the chair part...I'd have to brush up on 2 Samuel.

Leonard Cohen was the original singer/songwriter, which I did not know. I found this youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrLk4vdY28Q, and in my humble opinion, I must admit...this version is the least appealing! The cover by Jeff Buckley is my favorite! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8AWFf7EAc4)

I don't really remember what I had for breakfast, or how this little gem of information was brought up in class. But, it reminded me how interconnected everything really is, nothing is original (even song lyrics), and that (thus far) Dr. Sexton knows what he's talking about.

Just Look At That Face!

Two weekends ago--I really had to think about that. Seems like much longer--I took my most favorite six year old to ice cream. It had been a while since we had time for just us; usually his little sister tagged along to our outings. But that day was solely for him and pseudo Auntie. He told me about school: he has a boy teacher, Mr. D was really funny, and that he knew what anarchy meant. Man, was I impressed! We got to chatting about the playground and friends. My little buddy told me about another kid that makes up stories all the time and, "Sometimes he gets in trouble Auntie Whit. So I always tell the truth."

Yeah, that will change.

When he was finished telling me all these great things happening in his small world, I asked him if he had learned about Native Americans in school yet. "A little," was his response. "Will you tell me more?" Ah! I couldn't have asked for a better opener! I started to explain that they were a group of people on this continent before the settlers moved in and began...
                           I was cut off. My little friend wanted to talk about something else.
"Wait!" I said. "Let me tell you one of their stories."

After I finished my creation story, we talked about how it differed from 'God's Story' (meaning Genesis 1) and what the scientists say. It was a very enlightening conversation, being reminded of this world from the perspective of a child.

Before I wanted to, it was time to take the little guy home.

At Last, We Meet Again

I have been utterly terrible at posting my blogs! My mind has been boggled with many things, but that is not a decent excuse, friends. So, I'm dedicating this week to Mythology in a way that I should have been all along, and I promise to be caught up sooner rather than later!

My first order of business: a description of a habit. Easy. My entire life is one big habit!

Sunday: lunch with my mother, read all afternoon if I'm not scheduled to work, late-night movie marathon (I'm usually asleep halfway through the first one.)
Monday night: work, late-night regular at Applebees. (I know, sounds strange. But, there's a group of us that meet every week. Unless you're experiencing serious mythological issues, you had best attend.)
Tuesday late morning: lunch with my best friend in between classes, work after school
Wednesday: Dave's Sushi with the boyfriend. Sometimes we go for lunch or sometimes dinner, depending on my homework load, but its always Dave's, every week.
Thursday late morning: lunch with my best friend in between classes, work after school
Friday: homework day!
Saturday: work, dinner and a movie with the boyfriend

Just cycles, week after week. I find some comfort in that kind of redundancy, that kind of stability. (Psychology majors, eat your hearts out!) Obviously, occasionally the schedule fluctuates because, let's be real here, life happens. And that's just fine.

p.s. I'm still working on the dissection of a page from Calasso!

Blackfoot Creation Myth

It all began, as it does sometimes, with a vast body of water. The Sun, or Old Man as we refer to him, was afloat a raft with all the animals in existence. And they were content.

As time wore on, they all realized this raft was entirely too small for all of them. Utterly crowded, Old Man had enough. He had an idea and sent the beaver to the bottom of the water to collect mud.

Beaver was unsuccessful. So, he asked the loon to dive. Loon wasn't successful either. So, he asked the otter. And otter was also without success.

Finally, Old Man called on the muskrat.
"Muskrat, dive to the bottom of the water and bring me mud."

Little ol' Muskrat was happy to oblige. He dove and swam and swam, finally reaching the bottom. There, he grabbed a small amount of mud and swam back to the surface. With this, Old Man dried out every spec Muskrat brought to him and spread it over the water, creating land.

Old Man ventured across his creation, adding mountains and valleys, rivers, and plants: trees to the hills, grass to the plains.

Before long, Old Man became lonely. He decided to form a woman and a child from the clay found in the land. After crafting them perfectly, he buried them and covered the spot with his robe. Four days had past until his newest creations were in full human form. Old Man was so pleased, he created many more sons and daughters; they also contributed to populating this new land. He taught them how to make weapons, hunt, and maximize the use of the buffalo.




**While looking for a photo of our little muskrat friend, "muskrat love" came up as a popularly searched term. Curiosity got the best of me and I clicked. This is what I found:

                                                                                                         :).**

The Immortal Memory

I remember, vividly, the first time it happened. My mother and I had moved back to Bozeman, after a 9 month hiatus in the Black Hills, and I was adjusting to our new apartment and my new preschool well. At the young age of four, I was middle-of-the-road shy with strangers but once we were well acquainted, watch out. Boy, could I talk. The subjects in which I entertained my audiences are more difficult to recall, however. I can only imagine what a 20 year younger version of myself would ramble on about; probably something about my project on arts and crafts day or learning how to spell my name at school. My mind has always one that pays attention, something that hasn't faded with age.

Temperature is a funny thing. 

I tend to run on the warmer side, but I remember this day being very cold. So it must have been mid to late January. The apartment complex where my mother and I lived happened to be across the parking lot from my Preschool; the sound of snow pants swishing with every toddler step fills my ears now. My gloved hand was gently placed in the bare one of the only person to have ever provided for me: Mom's. We walked the 30 yards across pavement, opened the bright red door, and I began to shred the layers I dressed myself in just minutes before. A new teacher was there to greet us, introducing herself as Mrs. H. The face of the woman didn't appear unfamiliar; she had been dating my uncle for as long as I was alive and they planned to exchange vows within the next few months. Mrs. H must have felt the need to carry on some kind of charade. As I placed each piece of my winter-wear in my tiny cubby, she knelt down to my level and, with a smile, asked, "What's your name, kiddo?" 

Let me pause here and ramble a bit. 

The more I think about it, the more I'm realizing now that this particularly frigid day in the middle of winter brought two firsts. Looking this woman in the face, I can tell you I had never felt pure annoyance until this point in my life. Really? Even with the limited knowledge I possessed, I understood who this person was, how she was soon to my aunt, and that I wasn't going to receive any special treatment at school because of her relations to my family. And yet, here she was, right in front of me, asking me my name. (Talking to my mother about this memory shed some light on my appearance in this moment; apparently, irritation became visible on my face instantly.) This feeling must have blinded me momentarily as I cannot recollect finishing the removal of what winter clothes remained.

But this. This I do remember.

Mrs. H asked me again, "What's your name?" And instead of the fluid, cohesive response I had practiced for half my life, out came this choppy, elongated, taxing version of my name. Confusion instantly struck me. Why did I sound like that? The expression on my mother's face, and also on Mrs. H's face, confirmed any emotion I felt. In classic four-year-old fashion, I began to cry. 

That's my last bit of clarity. 

However, I can tell you what happened in that moment of choppy, elongated, taxing spew of an attempt at my name. I stuttered. As I aged, its development was a gradual thing; first with my name, then other common words, and, as my vocabulary grew, most sentences contained a hang up or two. My Elementary years were filled with Speech Therapy and lots of practice; I spoke constantly. In Junior High, I quit therapy and took up reading. I read anatomy and biology books, books with many theories of origin, books without any real answers. Even now, in our information-at-your-fingertips generation, there aren't any solid answers as to why a person would have trouble with pronunciation, enunciation, articulation, fluency, timing, and delivery. And, not so surprisingly, there isn't a dang thing that said person can do except work it out.

So that's what I do.

Have you ever heard anyone say, "Think before you speak?" Well, let me tell you, I practice that every day. Every day! There are particular words, mostly those that begin with consonants, followed by a vowel sound, that to this day trip me up. See, these words are dangerous simply because of their phonetic makeup. I regularly switch entire phrases to avoid the problem, and sometimes what's actually said sounds slightly odd. But keep in mind, this isn't a constant thing. When I'm in a comfortable situation, with people I know, at a spot I've been to before, doing something that isn't new--I'm just fine. Stick me in a room with 40 people I've never met, in front of a podium, telling a story for three minutes--I'm just not fine. But I work it out.

I don't tell jokes.

Usually the punchline is so funny, I can't spit it out fluently. 

Comedy ruined.

I can't hide emotions.

When I'm upset, about anything, anyone can tell.

Its annoying.

I won't be defeated.

Eventually, what I'm trying to say will come out.

Be patient.

For light reading: http://www.asha.org/public/speech/disorders/stuttering.htm

Seems, heavenly, doesn't it?

When I Met My Muse

I glanced at her and took my glasses

off--they were still singing. They buzzed

like a locust on the coffee table and then

ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the

sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and

knew that nails up there took a new grip

on whatever they touched. "I am your own

way of looking at things," she said. "When

you allow me to live with you, every

glance at the world around you will be

a sort of salvation." And I took her hand. 

William Stafford

"Sing in me, muse..."

Fact: we all are different. There are not two of us that are exactly alike, even if we have similar interests.

When looking further into the Nine Muses (thank you Wikipedia), I couldn't help but notice like characteristics in myself and others close to me. This discovery wasn't necessarily a surprise; after all, I did ask any one of the Muses to inspire me to write something interesting and perhaps even amusing. 

It seems as though the further I went down the Muse Lineup, the more their specialties and traits overlapped. Which makes sense, since we as beings might be passionate about a sole subject, lifestyle, or purpose…but are ultimately made up of multiple interests of various degrees. For instance, I found myself identifying with Calliope mostly because of my writing habits and love of literature. However, at times I could also see the serious and pensive traits of Polyhymnia in my behaviors or even the upbeat and musical traits of Euterpe. The list certainly does not end there, and I suppose I could find parts of all nine of these lovely ladies in my personality and actions at one time or another.

I'd be very shocked if someone said they couldn't relate to any of The Nine. I mean, come on. We all have that Terpsichore in our lives: the multitalented musical friend that has tunes and beats oozing from their pores. Or an Erato that has members of the opposite sex pining after them, a Clio chasing enough men to make anyone blush, a Melpomene dressed in death and tragedy but seeming surprisingly upbeat. 

So here's to calling on all Nine Muses throughout the semester, for whatever we might need. Maybe you will continue to use them for the year, next, or over the course of your life!