Before The Law by Franz Kafka

Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” At the moment the gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try it in spite of my prohibition. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I can’t endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside. The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud, later, as he grows old, he still mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper. Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body.The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know, then?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.

My Prospectus for Senior Thesis

The poem “The Idea of Order at Key West” by Wallace Stevens sets out to explore the relationship between humanity, nature and language. The poem communicates a curious moment between three characters along the coast. The speakers of the poem, who are two men, witness this curious moment between the sea and an unidentified she character. The moment becomes curious as the speakers attempt to articulate what is taking place. The she character is singing a song, but the nature of this song and its relation to the sea is ambiguous, as the sea appears to be communicating as well.

The beginning of the poem is quite clear in stating that both the sea and she are communicating. She is singing, and the sea has a “constant cry,” but the speakers choose to define and redefine what they think is taking place between the two, through the complex images and counter-images used to articulate the uncertainty of the speakers’ narrative. The poem wavers back and forth to articulate the sea’s cry as either pure sound only or as meaningful communication. This wavering also takes place with the content or origins of she’s song. Is the content or origins of the song from the sea or she? Within this interaction between the sea and she, the poem alludes to the relationship between humans and nature through the realms of language. Humans rage to order through language. The poem states, “The maker’s rage to order words of the sea.” This line suggests two things. One, the maker (she or the human) rages to order the words of nature. And two, that the sea has words, has a language. With these two languages (human and nature) defined, language itself must be explored in the poem.

The poem’s final stanza articulates the complicated notion of words and how humans attempt to order them. Though humans order words of the sea, these words are defined as “fragrant portals, dimly-starred, / And of ourselves and of our origins.” Words communicate a notion of order, but this order is a fleeting idea. This said, it is important to connote this understanding of words to a human quality. The “self” suggested in this passage as well as throughout the poem represents a human voice that contains an invisible essence (spirit). But what does the poem say of nature’s language? The poem’s imagery of the sea’s words is only through the sound that these words make. Whether it is the “grinding water and grasping wind” or “deep air,” which is “sound alone,” the poem articulates nature’s language as sheer sound. Though the she continues to project a spirit upon nature’s language, it becomes clear that this is merely the human ordering an idea of things that does not exist. Nature’s language in the poem conveys a spiritless essence that the human struggles to accept.

With the scene set, my observation points towards several larger questions within the poem’s text. The sea throughout the text resists human intentions and purpose. The wilderness will not be tamed; however, there is a clear language of nature. Then what is this nature communicating? What is the sea saying? What is the substance behind the form? With the assistance of Paul de Man and Julia Kristeva, the notion of sound and nature’s language in the poem will be fully explored.

In his essay “Phenomenality and Materiality in Kant,” de Man moves to critique Immanuel Kant’s idea of the sublime. De Man’s argues that Kant’s sublime does not address the “materialism that…is seldom or never perceived” (88). An image in the essay is the sea the seer sees through the eye. With Kant’s sublime, the looker may look at a sea and see a teleological depth (an invisible essence). However, De Man responds, “Imagination substitutes for reason at the cost of its empirical nature and, by this anti- or unnatural act, it conquers nature” (86). The speakers and she of Stevens’ poem speak of this rage to order the sea, but they have not come to terms with the depthless sea. The sea’s language is purely material. There is no substance beneath the form. Nature’s language in Stevens’ poem through the lens of de Man’s essay becomes purely material. This purely physical language finds its voice through sound alone.

The notion of sound is threaded throughout Stevens’ poem. The poetic genre and sounds of the poem will need attention, but for our purposes now, the sound of the sea should be explored. Kristeva in her work Revolution in Poetic Language explores the purely physical sense of language through sound in her idea of the semiotic. The notions of the “semiotic chora” and “symbolic” will develop Kristeva’s observations of the “genotext” and “phenotext,” which will then develop Stevens’ language within the poem. The sound of the sea and nature becomes purely physical and material. With de Man’s and Kristeva’s assistance and perspective, can we separate human language in Stevens’ poem from the conclusive materiality of nature’s language?

This final question is where my working thesis will develop for this essay. The tensions of materiality and phenomenality in human language teeter back and forth in Stevens’ poem. Not only are there questions concerning the nature of language’s cry, but the subject of the song itself. What is she singing about? To answer this question we only have the account of the speakers who attempt to communicate what is happening. And in this moment a peculiar thing happens. The poem zooms out of the moment between the sea and she, and we are left with the speakers. The speakers in this moment attempt to understand the moonlight and random assortment of visual images around them. At this moment, they realize they are doing the same act that she was doing to the sea. This conviction grips them, as they now understand how they, a part of humanity, rage to order and to know the invisible meanings behind the visible. The speakers are articulating a meaning to the empty song she sings. Thus, human language is also made up of sheer materiality.

My thesis hopes to work through the complexity of “The maker’s rage to order words of the sea.” Though it appears that I have rather quick answers to the questions I pose, this is merely to communicate my intended direction towards my argument. This said, there will be many anticipated stops along the path to my argument. These stops will construct my thoughts on Stevens’ poem and the postmodern lens that will assist the closest and liveliest understanding of what the text is saying that I can articulate through text. “The Idea of Order at Key West” will anchor or guide the reader and myself through invisible realms of the visible, if the invisible does exist.

A Moment or Two Ago

Can I be with you and

you with me, tonight?

That's all I'll say.

But wait, wait.
Take this into consideration...

You're the one who lays arms clenched and crossed
and folded to and through the pillow
staring my way
wishing, I would
pull it away.

Soon to be Titled (Part 2)

Since I have been home from Europe I have decided I would want a wardrobe much like in The Chronicles of Narnia to guide me back to Europe whenever I pleased. It is far too expensive to merely fly there wherever I want. But this brings up an interesting observation, one of distance and space.

I did not like how quickly I traveled home. It took me about 7 hours to fly back into the States from Heathrow Airport and then a hour and a half home to Indianapolis. Due to the perfect nature of my life and stay in England I felt that I should have been on a long pilgrimage home. But within 10 hours I left a home and returned to another on the other side of the world. I did not like this feeling.

This quick transition made me aware of something though. My idea of self in space and time tore. There became two thoughts of me, two of me. One Jeffrey that lived in the States, and one who lived in Europe. My life abroad was the first experience to create this conscious parallel universe.

What I mean by this parallel universe is that I can imagine a second me in Europe now. He is almost like a ghost. A faint spirit but very much real. This second Jeffrey is living a life if I was to stay, if I was to actually live a life in Europe now. This idea of this parallel me is the only way that I can convey how hard it is for me to just be in the USA and also to tell people about my trip. For it was not a trip, but I lived in Europe and still do to this day.

Canterbury was and is one of my homes. I was not a tourist in London nor Paris, these were second cities, second homes to me. I have dear friends in Germany, Switzerland and Italy. What my point is that I could live there so easily. I can imagine and feel myself living there vividly. This is why it was hard saying goodbye, but also hard transitioning back to the USA.

All this being said, I will return to Europe as soon as I can. Like I have told all my friends there… it will be in a couple years.

And this is the reality. I live in the USA. This is why I want a magical wardrobe... so I can pop into Europe and pop back into the States. But this also brings to focus my contentment with being here. I am glad to be back. Though I miss Europe dearly and I have a part of me floating about over there, I am glad to be here. But this thought comes and is found in tension.

I now want to address my European companions... or bitches...

Dear dear companions,

Though there is this ghost of me around you all. You all are in America though you may be unaware of it. For I speak of you often and think of you even more. Thank you for the love and friendship you have given me. Thank you for the pubs and the pints. Thank you for your visions and re-visions before and after a cup of tea. Thank you for being you. Now let's attempt to unfuck the world.

Live. Laugh. Love.

Your Jeffrey, Jeff, Indiana and/or America

Soon to be Titled

Some have noticed that this post is the first post in a long time. I am now State side and have yet to reflect on my year abroad in Canterbury, England.

Since being home I have been attempting to put in words a blog post that would best articulate my experience. I have not found the collection of words to do so until now. And even now, my words fall short though they pursue presentation.

I now understand and appreciate why authors choose to write fiction.

This statement might seem a bit odd given the content of this blog. Well, it is odd, but I have begun to understand through my journey and life overseas that a fictional story would present a truer reality and a more accurate essence of my experience. There would be no other way to convey the countless pub-crawls, rappers, French dinners, lectures, Switzerland trains, bottles of wine, McDonald adventures, Parisian nights, Clowes parties, tea times and the deep companionships I have had in England and Europe without creating, without writing a fictional tale, let alone an epic.

This may seem a bit much but I believe it to be true. I have been reading The Chronicles of Narnia amongst other books and have felt a kindred link to the author of these stories. Though these books are considered fiction for the sake of categorizing them, I believe C.S. Lewis and I have been in the same boat before, that is we have found the purpose of fiction to articulate the real. If I ever attempt to communicate this year abroad, I will have to write an epic. For now, I have been telling the people who ask that my experience was perfect.

I have travelled to the lands of Narnia, to the white city of Minus Tirith, the parallel universes of His Dark Materials and to the classrooms of Hogwarts…

How was my time? How was my journey?

My time was perfect. A dream. Simply magical. A life I would like living again. I could see me living there now.

100 days

I have 100 days before I board my flight back to the United States of America. I know this because I have a little countdown on my computer. The purpose of the countdown is to think about each moment and to make sure I live in the moment as I am here. The countdown is not to hurry up my time here, but make me aware of it.

I have been thinking about my time here. It has been wonderful. A grand experience. Words do not have the power to convey such wonderfulness. I have learned much. I am also becoming confident in my education. In a way I think I am "growing up" a bit. In other ways, I finally feel like a legit literature student. However, I still understand the importance of a childlike imagination and an explorer’s heart. The world is still too big to actually know things.

Below are three days full of events that have taken place here in Canterbury. I wanted to compile some (and let me say some) of my favorite moments here. I want to share with you a few of my favorite moments. The days are compiled by events that have not taken place during a normal day (if there are such things) but specific events compiled to represent three perfect days.

And for those I have not mentioned in this blog, your turn will soon come.

And as far as the concept of time goes in these days… it doesn’t really exist.

Day 1:
10:30 am: Wake up on the Castle’s couch after a solid night out.
11:00 am: Consume some English fry-up goodness at the Beano.
12:30 pm: Pop into the library’s 4th floor computer lab to say hi to all my friends.
1:00 pm: Bag It lunch with the crew.
2:00 pm: Walk to town.
2:00 pm: Spend the afternoon at Coffee and Corks writing an essay.
3:00 pm: Tea with Carmen.
4:00 pm: Touch rugby.
5:00 pm: Late tea and crêpe party.
9:00 pm: French frog legs at Valentine’s.
10:00 pm: Comedy night at Mungos.
11:00 pm: Run to Essentials for chocolates and sweets.
12:00 am: Pop into the Canterbury Tales pub for a relaxing last drink.
12:30 am: Talk the muse of music with Craig and Carmen.
1:15 am: Decorate my room a little more.
2:00 am: Teas and conversation after a great night out.
3:00 am: Chat with Liz.

Day 2:
9:00 am: Begin the morning with croissants, pan au chocolats and coffee.
12:00 am: A Mungo’s Mega Burger for lunch.
1:00 pm: Skype with Ken.
2:30 pm: Packages from family arrive.
3:30 pm: Shotgun James’ discount when we eat at McDonalds.
5:00 pm: Sip Swiss wine.
5:45 pm: Myriam brings a friend.
6:00 pm: Head to the gym for Circuits.
7:30 pm: Pasta with Jason.
9:00 pm: Team Groovy wins another beer pong match.
10:00 pm: Alex leads the horse races.
10:15 pm: Sucette A La Viande.
11:00 pm: Surf night at the Venue.
11:38 pm: Sucette A La Viande.
12:00 am: Matt smacks me across the face once again.
12:30 am: Clowes 6 family pictures.
12:54 am: Sucette A La Viande.
1:30 am: Help Caitlin stir the peanut butter cookie batch.
2:30 am: The conversation could go on till the end, but I had to leave.


Day 3:
10:00 am: Coffee and e-mail a “vulnerable moment” to family.
11:00 am: Pancake brunch with neighbors.
1:00 pm: Watch football with Alex.
3:30 pm: Relax at Canterbury Cathedral.
3:50 pm: Wake up Marius and cloth Antoine for footie.
4:00 pm: Footie with the boys.
6:00 pm: Two for Tuesdays at Domino’s.
8:00 pm: Watch X Factor with the Castle.
8:30 pm: Scare Nat by simply breathing.
9:00 pm: Pig Fuckers at the Cheery Tree.
10:30 pm: Save the Queen.
11:00 pm: Sip port while listening to some Harry Potter piano music at the Thomas Becket.
11:30 pm: Save the Queen yet again.
12:00 am: Watch Matt dance at the Studio. He dances his signature move, which consists of him looking as if he is biding the unseen spirits with his hands to enter his mouth.
1:15 am: Super Mario Kart. Enough said.
1:30 am: Beat Nat till she can’t remember.
2:00 am: Step on the uneven stone while walking up Tyler Hill.
3:00 am: Teas with Anja’s special collection and biscuits.

I am a priest

Three years ago I believe that I had the gifting (at that time I would even use the language “calling”) to become a pastor. This might only seem natural given the fact that my father and his father were pastors of a dedicated group of believers. This being said, I decided to study literature, journalism, and culture at a secular, liberal university to understand the world as best as I could before I began pastoring individuals.

At that time in my life and still today, I was well aware and truly frustrated at the number of pastors, priests, etc. that study in a Christian high school, Christian undergrad, and Christian graduate school to then be in a church all their lives. What do they know of the world? Obviously this is a harsh question but one I still ask.

My thoughts since that time of my life have developed immensely. And I must be honest, my thoughts dramatically changed from the first night at university. God (if he/she is "up there" or all around here) will have to throw a pretty big brick for me to be a pastor. Now I believe I have the character, education, communication skills, heart and grit to love people well and to be loved by people, but my heart no longer desires to have such a position. And to be blunt, I am not sure if I believe in the role. We all are pastors, priests, preachers and even the pope. However, I will leave televangelists to a very select group of people. We all are not one of them. Thank God.

All of this said, today, something happened. It was a moment that made me laugh out loud and enjoy true irony for all it's worth.

Today I presented Wallace Stevens and his works to my Modernism seminar. A major concept that is attributed to him is the theory of the “Supreme Fiction.” The Supreme Fiction is the replacement of the belief in God for a belief in something else. Stevens believed that fiction (poetry) was worthy believing in.

In his essay Opus Posthumous, Stevens states:

“The relation of art to life is of the first importance especially in a skeptical age since, in the absence of a belief in God, the mind turn to its own creations and examines them, not alone from the aesthetic point of view, but for what they reveal, for they validate and invalidate, for the support they give.”

The poet or more broadly, the fiction writer is someone who describes and presents the relation between art and life within his/her works. The poet and what he/she creates becomes and replaces the thought of God.

In the same essay, Stevens makes several more statements that might clarify his thought.

“The theory of poetry is the theory of life.”

“The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction that you believe in it willingly.”

“Reality is the spirit’s true center”

This final quote might stick out to a critical eye. If Stevens does not believe in a higher being, why would he use the term “spirit?” The word spirit for Stevens is the essence of the world. This essence is defined by the tension and interconnectedness of humanity and reality and the mind and soul (inner psyche) to name a couple.

However, answers do not come this easy. The poet will always have “a never-resting mind” ("The Poem of Our Climate”) as he/she attempts to speak of this essence. The uncertainty, yet, desire for Stevens to search for the connections between the different facets of the world is seen throughout all his works and is never quite found.

Yet, Stevens is a firm believer of the poet being the creator of the world because the poet presents that essence. Because poetry is the “theory of life,” the role of the poet (according to Stevens) is to “help people live their lives” (The Noble Rider and the Sound of Words.) Due to the replacement of God with poetry and the duty of the poet, the poet becomes the middleman or middlewomen between the world and the human.

Thus, “the poet is the priest of the invisible,” the priest of the world and the priest of reality (“Adagia”).

And again, I laughed out loud when my mind linked Stevens calling for all writers of fiction to assist people to live their lives to an ironic re-imagination of the word pastor.

I am a writer and lover of fictions. I am a seeker of the latent things of this world.

I am a priest.

My treasure map

I recently met with an instructor about my future in academics. She is who I would like to be in a few years so I asked her what and who i should read to enter into the historical and present conversation of literary theory and criticism.

Some questions I have in mind as I read these books:

1. What is the limits of representation and presentation? Dealing particularly with the nature of silence.
   
2. Why is art always trying to completely represent and/or present the world before us when we actually are in "reality?"
   
3. Why do readers still enter into fiction and fiction writers portray the readers world?
   
4. What is Derrida's thoughts on religion when he himself is Jewish?
5. Does language use us?
   
6. The nature of language and the divide between Jacques Lacan and Ferdinand Saussure.
   

Here are the notes from our conversation. I must say that I have also included the books Orthodoxy and The Philosopher and the Wolf, which were recommended by two dear friends. And a personal side note: I am also reading Diary of an Old Soul by George MacDonald daily.

This is my "for fun reading list" for the next month of two. I am excited and giddy to read these works.

1. Return to Freud by Samuel Weber
a. “The Unconscious Chess Player”
b. “Saussure and the Apparition of Language” (Not sure if in this work)

2. Points...: Interviews, 1974-1994 by Jacques Derrida

3. The Postcard: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond by Jacques Derrida
a. Specifically the “Love Letters” section.

4. Orthodoxy by G. K. Chesterton

5. Deconstruction in a Nutshell: A Conversation with Jacques Derrida (Perspectives in Continental Philosophy) by John Caputo

6. Look for interviews with Jacques Rancière

7. Look for interviews with Hélène Cixous. Read Anthology.
a. “The Gardening of Language” interview.
b. The Laugh of the Medusa (what she is most known for)
c. Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing by Helene Cixous, Susan Sellers, and Sarah Cornell
d. Look for London speech in near future.

8. On Literature (Thinking in Action) by J. Hillis Miller

9. Arts of Impoverishment: Beckett, Rothko, Resnais by Leo Bersani and Ulysse Dutoit
a. Just read introduction. Get at library.

10. “What is an Author” by Michel Foucault.

11. Jacques Derrida (Routledge Critical Thinkers) by Nicholas Royle

12. The Philosopher and the Wolf by Mark Rowlands.

I am An interesting day...

I am a shamed of myself for writing a blog post on Valentine’s Day. Hopefully this isn't too dramatic, didactic and ambiguous. I am ashamed. :)

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The cotton clouds stretch over the horizon. It’s not gloomy, just gray. In a moment, the sheet of clouds will rip and the perfect blue will show through. Water droplets drip from roof to gutter. Couples walk hand and hand. Dogs run. Squirrels find. The rose is already wilting.

Today I awoke to the muse of Death Cab for Cutie’s "A Marching Band of Manhattan" (listen to it.) I took a quick “French bath” and proceeded to prepare for a meal with my Clowes Court neighbors.

In my sandals and socks I moved next door. Still feeling the lines
of Death Cab:
“Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole
Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound.”

The pans are cooling, the food is ready. We all sit for re-nourishment.

Laughter, secrets and questionable jokes fill the room amongst the muffins, eggs, questionably chunky bacon and chocolate cake. After the last drop was licked and the last crumb given to the ducks, we all went our way this interesting Sunday.

I now find myself peering outside at the bedlinen-like sky. Cozed by coffee, peaced by pictures, comforted by chair, compelled by fictions. Besides me lies the collected works of Geoffrey Chaucer and next to Chaucer lies James Joyce’s Ulysses. I have been reading. I have been traveling.

Books are my dearest things, dearest possession. I love purchasing books and I have a dictionary that I refer to as my bible (and I am serious.) but there is more than purchasing that takes place with books. I want to move beyond the purchasing and possessing aspects of book collecting.

Books are given as gifts. Books are spontaneous escapes from conscious reality. Books are wisdom and enlightenment. Books assist you in seeing old things new. Books are fun and complex and magically simple. Books are reality.

Each book is dear to me. I have a few favorites that will always be my favorite. These books are foundational to who I am. They are the pastness of the present. I will never throw a book away.

However, I am learning, reading, and discovering books and fictions each day. I have received books as gifts, for courses, and for my own personal exploration. These books are becoming dear to me.

Still there is always that one book that makes you laugh. Makes you tear. Makes you lost for words. Makes you silly. Makes you imagine. Makes you more. Makes you want. Makes you you and I I. You would rather read the book then wake for a coastline sunrise or attend an afternoon tea.

----------------

I am lonely I am lonely I am. I would not be human if I did not state this…
if I did not embrace this.

But I still “am.”

I will never stop sailing in the open sea.
Though that is what has crippled me.

Today is a day of extremes it seems. Emotions heightened, depression deepened, and friendships questioned.

To all,
Happy Valentine’s Day. Live deep within your soul. And live deep in another.

Footsteps

It is easy to think one is alone.

And I don’t necessarily mean lonely. To clarify, it is easy to think one is original—a person’s identity, ideology, and lifestyle are not formed from language, society, history, family and personal motive. For some, it is easy to think one has a duty to do something alone, original and radical to change this world for the better.

There is a path I walk quite often from my place to town and to homes that house my friends. Many times I walk this path alone after a long and late night out.

A few days ago it snowed here in Canterbury. A good 5 inches at least. Though the snow has been melting there is still evidence of the many feet that take the same path as I down Tyler Hill. Now some of these tracks deviate left and right throughout the length of the hill to go to their respected destinations or to simply make a snowman (or snowwoman,) but the point is that there is a snow-packed path full of sole imprints.

These hardened snow tracks caught my eye as I walked up the snow-covered hill to my resting place the other night.

I might have been alone, apart from the population of rabbits that take note of each passerby. I might have been walking to a destination by my lonesome.
But each of my steps stepped on the former steps of many.

And I wonder what those footprints would have to say…

Christmas

Christmas

There are several pairs of lenses one could place on his or her nose to read this word with near clarity. To read a word, humans must place lenses of definitions or “values” on the words they read. Words themselves would be nothing but simple signs unless we placed them into a structure of meaning, relevance and system. Though there is a structure to the structure of language, there are still multiple interpretations and readings of a particular word. Christmas has become a complex word that invites many readers to approach the word with their own lenses. I want to look at these lenses or definitions to establish what I have been thinking of Christmas lately.

One definition that we place on the word “Christmas” is of a religious nature. It is no secret that Christmas symbolizes a time when the gods gave one of their own to be born on earth to reunite the gods and humans into a companionship. This mystical tale is full of peculiar (maybe even contradictory) details of how the gods chose for the baby-god to enter humanity. This tale is a rather simple story full of complex and hidden details, but I would rather not speak of the literary value of the birth of this baby-god at this moment.

The second definition that is placed on the word “Christmas” comes from society. Because society attempts to separate itself from religion, the “societal Christmas” focuses on the manifestations of Christmas, not necessarily the origins of the holiday. Through society, Christmas is a joyous holiday full of food, good cheer, gifts, Christmas sweaters, Santa Clause, snow and family. Society attempts to overpower the religious value of the word, but I would suggest that the religious connotation of Christmas still exists today, though it might only exist in a historical (thus a distant) sense.

Now there are negative aspects to both definitions. Society’s, particularly the media’s, definition of Christmas have aspects of consumerism (well, this is evident in the USA’s society) where all you hear about is “a diamond is forever.” In England the adverts are not so forceful or annoying, but there is still a hint of consumerism.

The negative aspect of the religious connotation is the exclusion and separatist nature of Christmas. What if someone does not want to celebrate Christmas? Society is attempting to move the definition of Christmas away from its religious value so all may freely participate.

To address another relevant con to Christmas, Christmas is a time of loneliness for many.

Though there are different lenses, the meaning of the word must be inspected closely. The old English root of the word simply says “Crïstes + mæsse.” In old English this would be translated as “Christ’s festival.” This festival commemorates and celebrates the coming of a god (the baby-god sent by the gods to become part human.) There is a marriage in the word that unites the concepts of gift and companionship. “Crïstes” is humanity’s gift from the gods. “Mæsse” originates from the concept of Mass. Mass could be analyzed in several ways, but one way to looked at it is through companionship, which literally means, “to break bread with.” The gods chose to symbolize their union with humans by breaking break in the last supper. This being said, within the word there is an intertwining of the words gift and friendship. Through the lenses of different readers and the dichotomy of the word, there is major “play” when using and reading the word. However, I want to define more clearly the connotation of this godly gift in particular. Now bear with me.

The story of this god coming down to earth has his “death” told in paintings, images, statues, necklaces and little booklets passed out by crazy peoples all over the world. It has been used as an icon to kill and save throughout the world. Thus, the idea of Christmas needs to be re-examined with fresh eyes, a reborn imagination and a new vigor towards fictional stories. The myth speaks of the baby-god sacrificing his godliness to come to be with us humans. The baby-god lost his godliness and then lost his humanness when killed by the humans he came to be in relationship with. Therefore, there is an intrinsic value of sacrifice in the idea of Christmas—the festival that remembers the gift of the gods—the gift to be later murdered.

Therefore, Christmas holds the value of sacrifice. But how would this relate to humans and how we experience Christmas? To transpose the essence of sacrifice to daily life, sacrifice might simply look like thinking and living beyond one’s self. Now I am a big believer in having a festival whenever I can or to visit any that are taking place, but I think that the essence of Christmas (and this might go unsaid) is in the everyday life.

This is how I spent my Christmas… mainly on a train from Rome (where you could say Christmas was first created) to Florence, Italy. It was a four and a half hour ride where I filled the time by listening to music with my ipod, eating Penguins (wonderful English chocolate biscuits), and watching the Italian countryside pass me by. Later that evening I skyped with my family for a good hour, ate Italian pizza, drank wine, ate chocolate and attempted to watch A White Christmas and Miracle on 34^th Street but they wouldn’t download correctly. When I went to bed that night i was not satisfied, I was also not unsatisfied, I just was falling asleep from another day.

I know of an English bloke who spent his Christmas at his university home alone where he opened gifts he rapped for himself and ate bread and butter for the day because he could not grocery shop the day before. He then spent the day watching movies and the Queen’s annual speech to the nation.

Christmas for me (the literal day) has not really happened. And I am glad for this. Christmas takes place in the little things I encounter in life. I have and hope to experience bits of Christmas each day in a new way. We should celebrate the mystical, fictional tale of the gods, diversity, unity, companionship, and the ability that we all can give each other a laugh, a cookie, a card, and even an embrace. And this in time should scratch our lenses a bit. We won’t be able to read the word so clearly, but maybe that is the point. The third definition that I would like to place on the arbitrary symbols that make up what we know, as Christmas is the messy idea to live a life of sacrifice and companionship—being an important local citizen and an aware world citizen. But this is still ill defined.