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.

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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…