Nothingness (Entropy?)

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high grav'd books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to Nothingness do sink.

 



 

Poe might have imparted some personal experience in which I personally as a person could identify with that person he wrote so elegantly about, Keats here brings an ideal I find rather interesting and worth investigation, if for entropic reasons. While this does cross into the forbidden area of Romance apparently, I take the love more in the ideal sense than the highly probably literal sense Keats uses by refering to someone he looks at with love (I extend it as a metaphor to ride beyond simple romance in this case).

 

 

It begins in a seeming state of regret towards things he may not do, as if dying or soon to gone, he or the object he adorns. It would appear he directly references the many ideas he will be unable to explore as they melt alongside his form, a notion particularly horrifying to he and one I find to be quite disturbingly true when thought about.This failing vision imparts a highhorse, later seeming to be fame (presumably Keats and/or ego), from which the night imparts a loving face in the stars (romantic in itself I suppose). From here on it describes the typical concealed commonality that I prefer to take metaphorically: He knows that he will lose that lover's face (apparently the most endearing quality, rather dumb if you ask me) and is remorse that he will be unable to trace that lover with his hand (presumably in a sensual manor) before he returns to the pity of the lost face and its "magic." I prefer to think of it pieced as him looking wistfully at the sky with continued remorse and love lost (not necessarily a lover). This spans that he can no longer feel the magic it brings and that its power in merely seeing it is very alluring even during this presumed fall of some sort. Then of course that pose must end, and once again very alone like, much like "Alone," the narrator must face their lonesomeness, only here it goes on to say that they previously mention aspect of love, and notoreity, are inevitable also doomed to become nothing as he appears to be doing as well by the intial remorse. It could simply be a final farewell as he drifts into the abyss away from that he dears most (clearly detachment has not occurred i.e. very not good dying health if that is what is occurring), but it could also more profoundly refer further to say that even the great seemingly immortal aspects of Love and Fame, are but to eventually become nothing, a rather depressing footnote to his plight.

 

Sadly as I said before I cannot relate personally, however this light-is-fading swoon is something I have observed and thought about in amusement of it. Much like my own endings, this ends with the notion that in continuation there is eternity and futility, common aspects to see when thinking of one's own demise, or even death itself. However, even I do not wish to dwell long in such despair and say that if such a horror were to occur it would be of perspective, and over a long period we cannot yet fully comprehend as the living, and only with possiblity as the long and gone like so many before us.

Alone [with Him]

Edgar Allan Poe's "Alone" is perhaps the most convoluted poem I have yet encountered, and yet still it the most meaningful as well. The diction is undoubtedly quite dense as it twists to fit a rather strict meter while describing great founts about the narrator and his curious predicament. I shall share an imparted meaning, then reflect, as what I believe it to be, could very well be a quite different demon all together.

 

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.  

 

Overall, it seems to describe that the narrator is quite different from his peers, going as far to say that it has not only been this way for quite some time, but that which others had, he drew into action from an alternative, perhaps intraflectively. This is particularly achieved by describing emotion, then while identifying the difference of his experience with them versus others, or even at all, he turns towards an ugly spiral of turbulence reminiscent of his childhood life. Alone he was in his plight, and in that loneliness all else came to pass, from the great wonders of the natural world: the founts of pain and pleasure, the struggles high as the mountain stained with effort (blood), the powerful center and source of light/life, and finally the tumultous heavens of the heart. In this lone sanctum was the highest moment achieved after such strain to arrive, and what is there to face upon the sea of tears, but you and you alone, quite different from the other side. Perhaps even a bit a bit as evil as it may have seem just to arrive at such a revelation, or maybe just another mirror to remind you of that endless existence inside yourself, taunting you with futility and eventually doom by you inevitably.

 

Reflectively, I see a lost child that stand apart from what could be considered normal, and there sees through a self journey in the bowels of that conflict. While the circumstances that occur are not clear as to what they are, they do reveal their grandeur in nature, as well as their tumultuous passing. Inevitably this returns the child to himself pass each great and dark wind that he encounters furvorously, and reveals his own true nature, nutured by his lone life and stark upheaval of it. This confrontation is not played out, however it is safe to assume two very possible outcomes from the end point, both quick and intraspective. He can embrace this lonesome life as it is, empowering the demon and embracing the winds as a cape of travels in the sky-bound city as he ventures into the unknown darkness he exudes. Or perhaps he can reject it, which in turn may lead to his seeking an end to such burden, or simply abandonment of it, resolving his lonsomeness all the same, but only in bitter existence for the sake of hiding it all away. Personally I felt as though I could be that child should the poem be me, although it clearly is not, and so I feel that this poem is quite effective at not only stirring your mind, but peeking at your own dwelling spirit as well. Hopefully the mirror seen for real does not reflect that of the unfortunate, or bear something rather unbearable even in spirit.

The Tales of Olde and The Tails of New

I'm going to go straight to the point, and by that I mean imparting meaning on the rather lamely poetic title and hopefully entertainingly. I want to compare what was old and what is new, but not in a way that first seems apparently, but really does make sense. For the tales of old, I meant those which we once knew before, in youth, as versus ancient or classical (More of Nursery Rhymes and Fairy Tales than The Canterbury Tales or The Rime of the Ancient Mariner). The "tails" (poetics on Tales for humor: reference to regenerable, hence new, tails, like those of certain species) of new are the contemprary material, which can comprise anything from the Inheritance Cycle to The Dragon Heir. Glancing these two are quite similar (and yes I will be using dragon tales to demonstrate a slightly broader topic of fairy tales as I have more experience in dragon ones), but I am trying to discern the two to appear different by their times, timing of our own age more than the year of publication (some overlap).

When we first start out, as toddlers (basically infants), we are often told of the world in a mystical tone via stories, which are often retold tales from ages past (at least partly). Many if not all know something of Red Riding Hood, Repunzel, Cinderella, several "lesser" known tales (Princess and the Frog, Jack and the Bean Stalk, etc.), and very especially Dragons, probably from the mythological fasination of something great yet inhuman. These clearly offered us exposure to imagination and wonderment, in a world that is great, if not as magically as percieved elsewhere. It is also quite apparent that without this, culture and innovation would be far less important if they were even to somehow exist in such absence. In example, most tribal cultures still thrive by the passing on over the next generations life, even as the world changes deeply around them, and most religions, major ones, have stood the test of time by the tales of what once passed and what will be, all seen by viewing things as they are via stories.

Then what is the point of separating the tales we now know and have avilable to us? For me at least, there is a stark contrast in the feel and takeaway each possesses, especailly with age. When we "grow-up," for some reason we appear to shrink and/or dissipate the very lively things of imagination that caused us to get to that point. This is reflected in materials today as some steer away from what could, to what really is, an irksome notion that reality is some plane representative of a box and a withering one at that. Inheritance and The Dragon Heir were books I enjoyed very much with their use of fantasy to a great moral length, one I could learn from in the end (in the books together this was self sacrifice). However, they had a slightly lesser effect (in this case only slight), than did things like Dragon Rider and The Daughters of Petabyee: Maelstrom, despite having a more "mature" and "modern" take on something very similar. These books for the youth somehow held more value, especially in my own youth, than even things I enjoyed just as immensely and intensively (after all they were mmore my "level"). I wish I could state it more clearly, but this correlation is all that I can really muster, that in youth there are the fairies, and later they recurr, but strangely enough are so different. What really happened to these symbols and characters of olde escapes even me, perhaps our reality and its change to the almost exclsuively material is blame. However somehow I feel this is just a visible change of something much deeper, and more innate than something gained by the way of generations. Hopefully it is a path to find a brighter light, rather than inevitable irreversible corruption, and most certainly not a loss by natural, or perhaps artificial, destruction.

Ham VS Mac: The Dark Bloody Meats of The Speare {BurgerMeister}

I'm sure it has been said more than once before, including by me, that Shakespeare has a knack for rather strange character involvement that ends up in quite the dramatic "blood everywhere." Two very similar embodiments of this are very well known and cherished throughout the world, the supposedly deranged vindicator known as Hamlet and the prophetic slaying king Macbeth.

Hamlet is my more well known examined subject, as he is the worse of the two, in ways, as well as being my more favorite anyway. As I have said before, Hamlet is pentultimate evil in his path of vengeance for his father towards Claudius, leaving few to spare. His massive delay in the plot to plot Claudius' death causes a dreadful decay towards an inevitable bottom of the down spiral. He even drives Ophelia to her own madness, while having taken Polonius by supposing him Claudius and finally deciding to act, albeit a bit late and rashly so. After such already potent killing directly and not, Hamlet's quest still isn't sated, and he is left to await a doom for not only his goal, but his family as well. In the end, all but Horatio, who manages to be the storyteller of such a fate as per due, and Fortenbra, who usurps the throne immediately after the court has been turned to a cadaver field, are dead. So, we are left knowing that Hamlet's efforts effectively did no good aside possible vengeance, and instead they also wrought the death of not one, like even Claudius' action, but all (almost).

Macbeth has a slightly different story with his claim to fame by witchery's prophetic vision, proving he was unstoppable but by seeming impossible means. So, Macbeth has his way in arrogance, leading to his own rapid downfall as quick as he came, by the hand of Duncan, the wombless born, and his contingent of the using-forest-parts-as-cover-and-or-camoflage-technique. There is much more to the story, but here is more so where my point lies then others: the dark.

I have stated both sides are dark, but to tie them together I will need a pivot, and what better joint than in the other characters, particularly the women. In both cases women are seemingly important role caster, whether Lady Macbeth or Gertude/Ophelia, while also subsequently finding themselves encased in unsavory circumstances. These occurrances, usually by visage or madness (Gertrude- Hamlet's "betrayal" ; Ophelia's Madness ; Lady Macbeth and the Blood), are effects garnered by the main character and their actions, most towards their goals, versus directly. Ultimately this is progressed to further death, including the main character instigator, effectively thwarting any meaning they would have been worth alive. Really all I can see being gleaned from these stories under such a dim light, is that you should not be like them, and there are interesting consequences to your psyche beyond what can even be imagined beforehand. I suppose this makes sense for the British, as in my experience, the stories usually have some sort of quality in their characters that is deplorable, one that the people would admonish and see reason in. For whatever reason, perhaps because of how unversed I am in natural British, the meaning meant was too dark and bloody to see.