Philosophy and the Incomplete Cube

Awesome Philosophy Professor.  Accept No Substitutes.

My philosophy professor for this semester was awesome.  We disagreed often, she challenged my perspectives whenever possible, and I am glad to have had her. 




When giving her advice to the class for how to handle the essay question on the final, she said to be brief.

This, then, is the net instruction for the essay question for my final exam in Philosophy this semester, which I reproduce for you now only because I am sure she will never use this exact question again:

"Explain what it means to be a person, a "you," a "me," using ideas from Luijpen, Sokolowski, and Wallace.  Talk about what it means to be philosophical and why is it important to our individual future.  From Sokolowski's "What is Intentionality," be sure to talk about how persons search for truth and how it is related to ethics.  From Wallace, be sure to explain and use Wallace's account of "operative perfection,"how it is developed in person, and how it is related to ethics.  From Sokolowski's "Soul and the Transcendence of the Human Person," explain and use Sokolowski's account of soul and spirit, being sure to talk about why spirit is different from soul and what makes it so important for our human actions.  From his account of "The Self," talk about what it means to have both am empirical and a transcendental ego, and how they are differently related to the world and what it means to be an "I."  Be sure to talk about human freedom and the resulting responsibility from either Sokolowski or Wallace.  Finally, explain a theory from one of these texts that you have not already talked about and why you think it is important to you as a person here and now.  Be precise, give some real detail and give explenations for all the ideas first as the authors discuss them, and then in your own words.

. . . be brief."



(Now, this alone, of course, is laugh-worthy.  And even as I prepared for this essay (and we were all well prepared, I think), I was laughing at the irony inherent between the verbal and written instructions.  However, since the rest of you were not there, let us have a bit of context if you please.  For one thing, it was a timed test, and all things are relative.  Any student who got too wrapped up in one point would not have time to finish the rest.  And for another . . . well . . . frankly, I was in the class.

Egad, why write a dirty limerick when there are entire ribald novels waiting to be composed...!

So do not let my jest paint her in a poor light.  For all that, upon consideration, I misread her instructions and therefore did at least part of the test improperly (wups), all in all I think everyone did well.  All her students knew what they were in for, and walked away wiser for having taken her class.  It is the apparent contrast in directions that amused me.)

And that being said, just as phrasing can paint anyone in any light, good or ill or indifferent, let us remember the joys of context, innuendo, and incomplete data this coming season.  The Politics are coming upon us once again - or still - and disinformation continues to be the world's biggest business.  And, like cars cranking out rap tunes with too much bass, it is everywhere.






Sometime again,
--Coyote

(Calvin and Hobbes are (c) Bill Watterson; ACME and WILE E Coyote are (c) Warner Brothers.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

The Two-Minute Hate of Victim and Beast

By now, everyone has heard about the verdict of the George Zimmerman trial, how he was found Not Guilty of the second-degree murder of Trayvon Martin.  This post is the only thing I have to say about the trial and its subjects, and I will likely never speak of it again.

Much has already been said about both men, through pictures and words.  Martin's most famous photo shows him as a smiling fifteen-year-old (the date the picture was taken, like so much else in this case, is disputed).  Zimmerman's shows bloody injuries to the back of his head.  Jonathen Capehart of the Washington Post wrote some famous and influential opinion pieces that added to the racism fury, and many others have cited different reasons that the entire case is rife with racism-- against Martin, against Zimmerman, maybe against them both.

The people of the United States don't need a Big Brother to manufacture their Two-Minute Hate.  They are perfectly capable of creating their own.

There are people who make their living distorting facts and fancies into useful illusions, and like the mercenaries of old they may sell their services to whomever can afford them.  Such persons, in and out of lawyers' offices, have thrown more mud into an already hazy divining pool.  Martin's school record was brought into light, including a suspension for having an empty baggie with traces of cannabis in it.  Also shown was that Zimmerman was on prescription meds.  Martin might have gotten into fights at school.  Maybe Zimmerman hated African-Americans.  The prosecution says he did.  The FBI says he didn't.  Footage from the 7-11 was compared to Martin's famed "red T-shirt" photo  in an attempt to shake off the "innocent child" image the first photo conjured.  Forensic evidence showed that Zimmerman was in a fight (they call it "defending himself").  A witness says she saw Martin on top of Zimmerman, hitting him repeatedly.  There has been disagreement as to who, exactly, was recorded screaming for help.

None of this shows the one important element in the whole puzzle.  That being: who started the fight.

None?

None.

This isn't a relatively clear-cut case of a SWAT team in full gear breaking into an apartment and gunning down an old man armed with a steak knife, or of a sniper shooting a woman holding her child as she's trying to surrender.  This is two young men (one seventeen, one twenty-eight) getting into a nighttime brawl, one of them killing the other.

If someone were to attack me, they shouldn't be surprised to find themselves on the ground being battered senseless.  Likewise, if I have a weapon and I am satisfied that its use is the only way to survive when they attack me, rest assured I will use it.  Neither circumstance makes me the instigator.  Thus, neither of these men can be safely assumed to be the culprit.

Further, pot use doesn't make someone a thug, being on meds doesn't mean a person is unstable, and chasing after an alleged criminal, regardless of how ill-advised the act may be, doesn't make someone an assailant.  Likewise, screaming for help doesn't mean you're innocent; it just means you're getting beaten.  Or, it might mean you know you're being recorded, and you think you're being clever.  It really doesn't matter who screamed.

We live in a time and place where the Victim is most often seen as the hero of the story, and placed on a pedestal for their pains.  It's a sad state of affairs, but there it is.  The person who kills in self-defence, with few exceptions, is only a hero if they were terrified beyond all reason, preferably broken by what they were "forced to do", and hopefully threatened with rape.  Otherwise - even if restraint genuinely would have meant death - society oft condemns those who destroy their attackers as frightening, hateful, uncontrolled Beasts.

On February 26, 2012, Zimmerman and Martin got into a fight.  Zimmerman killed Martin.

The petitions followed.  Then the media and the lawyers descended, each side building pedestals to prove that their boy was the Victim, and pasting horror-masks on the other fellow to show he was the Beast.  It would be a lovely world if law offices and information-smiths existed only to inform, and to see that the truth was revealed to the world.  But in actuality, lawyers make their living by doing what they can to control and sometimes suppress information before court even convenes.  These people, and those who work with them, must trust in the adversarial system to use them like cogs in a greater machine to find and reveal the truth.

But any system is as corrupt as the worst people can make it, and as the majority of people will allow.

Thus, various agencies have surrounded the case with so much illusion, hearsay, innuendo, and half-truths that we will likely never know who started that tragic fight.  And after all is said and sifted, that's what it was.  In and of itself, it was a fight.

There is a saying among martial artists: "When two tigers fight, one may die... but both will be hurt."  People do die in fights.  It's a sad truth, but there it is.  People die in fights.   Starting a fight doesn't make you racist, or a thug, or any number of things these men have been called (although it does make you stupid).

Some people chose to associate a conviction of Zimmerman as a victory for civil rights.  They believe that the killing must have been racially motivated, and that any acquittal could only be caused by further racism.  Others have maintained that it was plainly self-defence, and therefore acquittal was the only justice possible.  There is enough fear just in the trial alone to keep the flames burning over Trayvon Martin's grave for years to come, on both sides.  The trial may be over, but the war has only begun.

If Martin started it, then he got what he paid for.

If Zimmerman started it, then it's a damn shame Martin didn't get the gun away from him.

But after all is said and sifted, all we know - all we can know - is that two men got into a fight and one of them died.  And that in the aftermath, two families have had holes punched in their lives that will never be mended.

So, if you truly feel the need to get involved with a case so shrouded with smoke and mirrors, set aside your Two-Minute Hate.  Because no matter how compelling one theory or another might be, you don't know who the Bad Guy is.  None of us do.  Therefore, if you must do something, do something constructive.  Send the survivors your support, and if you're into prayer, pray for them.  And work towards a society where the question of racism becomes one of absurdity.

Sometime Again,

--Coyote.

Lotus, Tree, and Little Dragon

(This is a post I initially put up last year while I was taking Karate classes at Wossamotta U.  While I don't usually repeat myself in this fashion, this is something I feel very strongly about and it has come up recently in several conversations.  Though my major is no longer in Physical Therapy, training damage is still a serious and widespread problem.  I hope one day to be in a position to address it.)

There are advantages and disadvantages to having Karate class right after dance.  The advantage, of course, is that I don't have to go anywhere right after dancing.  Class actually comes to me.  The disadvantage is that I just finished a dance class and now Sensei wants to make sure everyone works out.

Lauren told me once how she was in a Writing class, and the people there were talking about how great it was to be back in a classroom setting, so they could get writing done again.  “It always seems to make it easier, don’t you think?”  I imagine Lauren doing her best to not look at them all as if they had just grown extra heads.  If you love to write, you’ll write.  Classwork gets in the way – rather than writing your own ideas, you’re working on someone else’s.

Which is how I feel about the first part of almost any Karate class I’ve ever taken.

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I love the martial arts.  It’s part of my life.  I’ve been passionate about it since . . .

Okay, let’s just say a long time.

But it seems that just about every martial arts instructor in the US is absolutely convinced that the only time his or her students exercise is in class, and so Sensei needs to make you sweat blood in the dojo.  Which would be bad enough (and for some students, at least, this may be true), but the philosophy of the workouts seems to revolve around the whole “no pain no gain” mentality.  And the idea that you have to be built like a weightlifter and do a hundred pushups every day in order to be a good martial artist is complete bullrush.

I’ll say that again.

The very idea that you can measure a martial artist’s prowess by his or her washboard abs and the number of crunches they can do is a tragic fallacy.  Moreover, it is a fallacy that results in time being lost that could be spent training in class.  Learning new moves and footwork, fine-tuning old ones, endlessly working on the synthesis between body and mind in motion.

In one of his books I read (I think it was Basic Training, but don’t quote me), Bruce Lee mourned that most of the martial artists focused too much on technique, and not enough on physical conditioning.  He set about to correct this imbalance.  And that is admirable.  He not only brought the Eastern martial arts to the west in a very accessible way, but he contributed the philosophy of Jeet Kune Do, a new dedication to physical health in the martial way, and through his experimentation established a connection between fitness and diet that was years ahead of anyone else.

I maintain that Bruce Lee should be considered a polymath.  Lee was a linguist, an historian, an actor, a writer (text and screen), a martial artist, and a teacher (plenty of martial artists cannot teach).  He had a piercing wit and a highly analytical mind.  So don’t think that I do not have a high opinion of the man.  I respect him a very great deal.

But just as Einstein denounced an entire field of theoretical physics, saying it was impossible because “God does not play with dice,” so too has Mr. Lee held back some ideas, and done damage in the process.

Bruce had me up to three miles a day, really at a good pace. We’d run the three miles in twenty-one or twenty-tow minutes. Just under eight minutes a mile [Note: when running on his own in 1968, Lee would get his time down to six-and-a-half minutes per mile].
So this morning he said to me “We’re going to go five.”
I said, “Bruce, I can’t go five. I’m a helluva lot older than you are, and I can’t do five.”
He said, “When we get to three, we’ll shift gears and it’s only two more and you’ll do it.”
I said “Okay, hell, I’ll go for it.”
So we get to three, we go into the fourth mile and I’m okay for three or four minutes, and then I really begin to give out.
I’m tired, my heart’s pounding, I can’t go any more and so I say to him, “Bruce if I run any more,” — and we’re still running — “if I run any more I’m liable to have a heart attack and die.” He said, “Then die.” It made me so mad that I went the full five miles.
Afterward I went to the shower and then I wanted to talk to him about it. I said, you know, “Why did you say that?” He said, “Because you might as well be dead. Seriously, if you always put limits on what you can do, physical or anything else, it’ll spread over into the rest of your life. It’ll spread into your work, into your morality, into your entire being. There are no limits. There are plateaus, but you must not stay there, you must go beyond them. If it kills you, it kills you. A man must constantly exceed his level.

          from Bruce Lee: The Art of Expressing the Human Body by John Little (1998)

Bruce Lee believed in forcing the body to exceed all limitations, in hammering at the limitations of life until something broke.  And in many ways, that's exactly what he did.  And he hammered at his body, making it stronger, faster, and more painful . . . until it broke.

Many people forget that Mr. Lee really started writing while he was flat on his back after training improperly.  He was an innovator, and not all his ideas worked.

"Tut, tut, tut," the doctors said.  "Your back is torn completely.  You may walk again if you're careful, but you will never be active again, and the martial arts will be closed to you forever."

"Watch me," Bruce may have said, and proceeded to force himself out from his bedridden state and back into circuit training and the Art in a matter of months.

Of course, he had chronic back pain and headaches that would kill a wooly mammoth at a hundred yards, but who cares - he'd bulldozed through the injury.  He spent the rest of his life on a variety of painkillers, some for background pain, and the others for the breakthrough pain, and kept on going.

Bruce Lee died at the age of 32 from an accident with painkillers.

When you use your will like a hammer, your body becomes a nail.

Nails are disposable construction devices.  Your body is not.

Or, to put it another way . . .

I started practicing yoga, as I have stated before, at around the age of eight.  I am not in danger of becoming a master yogi – that’s not my goal.  But I couldn’t afford martial arts classes as a child, and yoga was a tool for self-mastery I could learn out of books.

Some time ago, I started finally taking lessons in karate.

Aftersome time in training (who keeps track?), I was sparring with the lead student.  By which I mean I was learning a lot and getting intimate with the mats on a regular basis.  I got a few good licks in, and I like to think that it was at least as much from my being a good student as his being a good teacher.

Now, my Sempai was a huge man, and built like a tank.  He worked out on the weights, and he hit them hard.  And then he'd come straight from working out to the dojo.  And he'd take all comers.  He held fast to the opinion that yoga weakened the body, and that meditation was falling asleep while sitting on your ass.  Work hard, play hard, resting is for pussies and force is the way to the martial arts.  So we both held back enough to avoid serious injury, but we both enjoyed being able to open up on one another at least a little.  And we disagreed on almost everything else.  Good, fine times.

After a while, I bowed out.  I was tired, and by neddy-jingo I knew my body well enough to know when to take a break.  And after a bit of good-natured teasing, he let me go.  I grabbed some water and wandered over to the bench, and started to sit when he shouted, "Coyote!  Don't sit down!"

I froze.  What the hell? I thought, is the paint wet?

"Don't sit down," he continued.  "You'll freeze up."

I blinked.  "I beg your pardon?"

"No, trust me.  You've been moving around a lot, and if you stop now you'll freeze up, you'll lock up.  Hell, I have to warm up and stretch in the mornings just to get moving, and again when I get off my bike.  Trust me.  When you get to be my age, you'll know what I'm talking about."

He did have a higher rank than I.  His belt was brown, mine at the time was blue.  So you may think he knew far better than I.

He was also, at the time, about twenty-seven years old.

I was thirty-nine.

I am now forty-two.  I have continued my studies of the martial art.  And I have yet to experience what he was describing.

If Bruce Lee had lived into his eighties, the US might have a more well-rounded approach to physical training in the martial arts of today.  I cannot speak for the rest of the world, but around here, just about every martial artist I've met is an exercise fanatic.  They run, do reps, do weights, and force their bodies to do more and more of the most creative techniques to strain the human form imaginable.  And it's amazing how many of them habitually take pain medication before they are thirty.

"No pain, no gain."

The world is full of competitive martial artists and athletes who must retire in their thirties, who must leave what they love behind before they even reach old age, just because of the damage done by their training.  Coaches and teachers who want the "win," students who think it's the only way to succeed.  And it's not.  In the short run you may do some impressive things.  But there are women who, as softball pitchers, blew out their arms because their coaches did not have them rest.  There are men who have to be careful of their legs or their shoulders from highschool football training.  There are retired pro baseball pitchers and football stars who cannot throw a ball to their kids or grandkids without pain. 

So, when I take karate classes, yes, I do the workouts.  And, like Lauren, I find it does interfere with my own regimen.  Tired after class, it's harder to focus on my asana, and I can feel my agility and balance suffer despite my best efforts.  But I do my four hundred various crunches, my two hundred squats, my hundred leg lifts, and my significantly less than one hundred push-ups.  I do the drills.  Not my dojo, not my rules.  But my body is my own.  I and I alone decide when I will cry, "hold, enough."  And I wait for the lessons in techniques that come after. 

Because the pendulum has swung the other way now.  The dojos of America, at least, are obsessed with their forceful approach to physical fitness training, and value it over the techniques of the Art.  And I will need credentials and greater knowledge than I have now, in physical health and martial arts both, before I can push that tired old counterweight the other way.

Non serviam,

--Coyote

 

(Ranma Saotome and Genma Saotome are (c) Rumiko Takahashi; the movie Quest for Fire was written by Gerard Brach, based on the book by J.H. Rosney; Bruce Lee poster from motifake.com; "no pain no gain" image from mumstheboss.co.uk; yoga pose courtesy ofmindovermatternyc.com)

Gods of the Curriculae, Spring 2013

The After-Finals Party

And so, it is done with at last.  The fanfare has died down, the audience has begun to file out, ignoring the mix of soda and popcorn grease that stick to their soles.  The clowns are taking off their make up, and the musicians are putting away their instruments and bidding farewell to the orchestral pit with well-earned tears in their eyes.

And, ladies and gentlemen, I slept.

Summer has crept up on us all, here in these red lands.  Spring was a delicious tease, but summer is nailing us to the bloody wall.  Summer, with its heat, rain, wind storms, and lack of classes.  And having had time to pour my dripping psyche back into my skull, I would now like to present to you my Gods of the Curriculae for 2013.

(((SHRUBBERY)))

This was a tricky time.  None of my professors were easily named, seeming so mercurial across the semester.  It was fascinating getting to know each one, as much as one can in so short a time.  Even the one I knew from a class before I had to give careful consideration before dedicating my shrine to her properly.  And so, without much further ado, I reveal to you the secret identities of these ancient and hoary gods to whom I have been bending knee, within their dark domains . . .

Self-Reprogramming For Fun and Profit (or,"You're Doing It Wrong.")

"Okay, that's all the Freud books, right?"

Mondays were rife with good times and provocation in Self-Reprogramming For Fun and Profit.  I'd gotten the impression for the class description that this would be a class examining cultural phenomena and advertising, as well as current events, to see how they affected and reflected the human mind and society.  Introspection would also be used to better understand how mass media and culture affected us as individuals, and how we as a society affected culture and media.

Instead, it was a class on human development and psychic healing with an emphasis on self-reprogramming, a self-help class with a mouth full of fangs and an unhinged jaw.   Modern humanistic psychology holds dearly to the notion that one should be accepting of one's patient, and in fact there is one theory that says the psychologist should be completely accepting and supportive of the client (if not of what they do), no matter what . . . or else the client won't be at ease enough to completely confide.

My honoured professor missed that memo, I think.

She made it abundantly clear that she cared about her students, of course.  And none of us doubted that her main goal in being there was to help us grow and make ourselves better.  She also made it abundantly clear from the first class that she was right, she was always going to be right, because she was a doctor with many years of knowledge behind her.  And she was very, very comfortable with confrontation.  With being right, no room for argument, and with detractors being wrong.

This makes it sound as if I didn't enjoy her class.  Actually, I did.  She also encouraged others to speak their own minds, and was incredibly encouraging and supportive towards everyone and their goals.  In addition, I have the experience to fall back on for the future, should I council others.  Just as I think any judge should spend time in prison before sending anyone there, so too should a counselor or any stripe spend time being counseled.  We spent the semester studying each other, I think, and ultimately we both walked away richer for the experience.  There were times, after all, where she was right.  She truly is in the business to help people grow, and learn how to heal themselves.  While there were times that my hackles distinctly went up and my tail got all poofy, she understood the value of play and encouraged it, and she did teach very well.

Millennia ago, there was a TV series called MASH, and one of the characters was an army shrink named Sydney Floyd.  Every now and then he would pop by, sometimes to help someone re-thread their heads, sometimes to take five and re-thread his own.  His patients sometimes learned to hate him by the time he was done, but they were always on good terms by the time they parted ways, and his presence was pivotal to several events in the series, most famously a cathartic, bon-type fire.



Thus, she is Sidney Floyd.  Always studying our habits as we studied hers, she showed humor, questions, some confrontation, and bonfires.  Lots and lots of bonfires.

Final Grade: A.


Other People's Writings (or, "Everything is Literature Somehow and I Can Prove It.")

"We hear you, Flaming Spear!"

Tuesdays were Other People's Writings class.  The syllabus was a living document, and the rest of the  class was pretty free-form, including grading.  When a class is set up as an amorphous improvisation, often it's going to be either insanely cool . . .



Or mostly useless . . .



In this case, it was insanely cool.

Guided by his own enthusiasm and love of literature, we started out chronologically with ancient Greece, and ended with A Raisin in the Sun and Sonny's Blues.  The class revolved around comprehension, discussion, and thought-out examination.  He was always encouraging the class to explore the meanings of literature, and to challenge his notions with our own, well-thought out arguments.  We discussed and made journal entries on not only books and poetry but music as literature.  Paintings.  Perhaps even sculpture.

Take chances.  Make mistakes.  Get messy.

He . . . is Ms. Frizzle.



Final Grade: A.


Why White People Suck II (or, "The North Won the War and the South Won the Peace.")

"The history of the United States is the history of the debate over the definition of Liberty."

I was lucky enough to get a class with the same History Teacher I had for Why White People Suck I.  Picking up with the American Civil War, we studied and examined history from reconstruction through the Nixon administration, and then read the chronicles and studied as much as we could up to present day.  Alas, when history is too recent, the repercussions of pivotal actions still cannot be seen, and the causes are at least in part only guessed at.  Indeed, just how pivotal an action will be is yet to be determined.  But we did out best, bearing this in mind, and read up through modern day.

Her enthusiasm and her love of Socratic circles are undiminished, as is her dedication to the ideals of history, knowledge, and the joy of learning.  Two tests, two essays, tons of discussion and a variety of summaries later, the class is done, and far too soon.  I'm going to miss this class most of all.  Seriously, if I could have kept taking it through the summer I would have.

I had given her a god-name before, but the first day of class she brought to my attention that her high school students gave her one the year before, and she found it amusing.  I should have seen it myself, really.  After all, what other master teacher is small, more agile than he should be, inspired by wisdom and history, older than all his students combined and still going strong . . .?

"When 600 years you are, look this good you will not!"

Judge her not by her size.  She is Yoda.  And she will crush you to the wall with her historical knowledge.

Final Grade: A.


Paper Writing For Careers and Colleges (or, "Commas are of the Rakshasa!")

". . . and now edit . . ."

To put this class into perspective, the entry I showed you on the Butter Battle Book was an assignment in this class.  On the up side, the Professor encouraged people to think about new things.  One assignment was a research paper on our own career paths.  Another was a film analysis using Campbell's Hero Cycle and Archetypes.

On the down side, my first major paper was brought from an A to a high C because of comma use.  In general, writers and those who teach writing fall into one of two camps.  First, there are those who love commas and think that the semicolon should be pulled out of the keyboard and thrown away.  Second, there are those who love semicolons and think that commas are an abomination to humankind . . . and therefore should almost never be seen.  Ever.

She is solidly in the second camp.

"My grade was dropped down to WHAT?"

On the other up side, she is more concerned with the overall learning experience than testing her students to destruction   So we were allowed to rewrite papers to show our growing understanding.  Which means I not only got a good grade, but learned from the rewriting process things that will benefit me in my paper-writing on future campuses for years to come.  All I needed was a few extra sets of arms and a half-dozen machetes.  Right.  I'm on it.

She delights in challenging all her students think they know.  She finds new weaknesses they didn't even know they had and explodes them, and so the weak points are strengthened.  And for all that she may seem exiled for a time, and her lessons mastered, she will somehow return to trouble her students in new ways, forcing them to learn more.  She . . . is Loki.  And though I have not seen Ragnarok, I will freely confess as I sit before you now that she smacked the hell out of my happy rainbow bridge.

"Next paper, I'm focusing on the Works Cited page.  Better brush up."

Final Grade: A.

And so, thus concludes my gazette on my professors for this semester.  And to Professors Floyd, Frizzle, Yoda and Loki, if you should ever read this, I thank you for your teachings.  In the meantime, for those of you keeping score, this also means I got my 4.0 GPA.  Come the fall, I'll be taking Spanish and Algebra, and will be much less focused on grades for a while.  But I wanted to hit that mythical "FOUR" at least once.  Partly because I never had before, partly because I've been told not to bother trying . . .

"Hah.  Told you."

. . . and partly, I will confess, as a middle finger to the system that keeps trying to kick me out.

The 4.0 managed to bring my net GPA up to a 2.06, and in theory that eliminates the various probations and other strangeness that has surrounded me this last year or so.  In theory.  In effect, we will see what happens next and I will keep you appraised.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

The Hierophant's New Clothes

The story you are about to read is true.  More accurately, it is an amalgam of stories that I have seen repeated in various forms over the years.  The names I have changed for the usual reasons.

* * * * *

Many years ago, when this ancient land was not quite so ancient, there was a priestess named Wind. Not Wind like in watch, she told the chat-rooms and forums, but like the Air.

As High Priestess of Zephyr Coven, Wind loved the respect that this brought her, sometimes to distraction.  She and her beloved coven-mates could often be found in the sunny glens of Renaissance festivals and psychic fairs, dancing in ritual garb or clad in the sky, showing to all the world their confidence and their ease with themselves.  Wind loved celebrating the freedom her faith gave her, with friends and with lovers, and of watching the auras of those around her: the mixings of gorgeous reds, purples, blues, and yellows.  She was especially fond of helping others in psychic or magikal distress, and of sharing her visions and insights with others. 

Most priestesses are busy women indeed, and they must keep a difficult balance.  They give help to those they can, seeking to help others learn and learn from those others and to walk always with Goddess in whatever way their path calls for.  Wind, however, was always busy showing the world how free and humble and insightful she was, and thus she became very popular.  Many people came to visit Wind and her coven, and her life was full of celebration.

One day, Wind and her sister-in-heart Sybil were lazing in a clearing, Wind playing her pan-pipes.  A stranger came up to them both, ignoring their nudity, and complimented Wind on her pipe playing.  Smiling, she pointed out that she had no training, but had merely been playing what was in her heart.  Even as she thanked him for the compliment, he looked at her in amazement.

“I had thought perhaps another had taught that tune to you,” he exclaimed, “but now that I see you more closely, I understand.  For you see, fair ladies, I have a gift: I not only know all my own past lives, but I can see the past lives of others, as well.  I see now that you are both sisters, or were hundreds of years ago, and daughters to me.  That song was known only to our tribe, and has not been played for over a century.  We were wiped out, all of us, by a grim betrayal.” 

At that moment, his calm broke.  Even as he wept openly, the two sisters moved in vain to comfort him.  Asking him more about himself, they learned that he was Roivas, a wanderer in this life, destined never to know a place of true rest.  This was because of the call of the Naililih, the guardian-spirits whom he served.  Being house-mates, and compassionate to his plight, the two sisters invited him to their house at once. 

Wind and Sybil gave Roivas their blessings and protection, as he was their guest, and introduced him to the rest of their coven.  Raven, Heather, She-Wolf and Delilah all received him, and made him welcome.  After Roivas brought the conversation to numerology, Heather noted that his addition brought their number up to seven, a very potent number.  Roivas interrupted, saying that he could never join any coven.  The powers that flowed through him were only for the protection of women, he told them, and would overpower and outbalance any circle’s harmony.  He then retired to his guest-room, to perform his rituals of prayer according to his vows to the Naililih.  There was a brief time of silence, and then the room exploded with questions and conjecture.

Which was, of course, how Roivas had wanted it.

Day and night, he stayed in his room, working his mighty magicks on behalf of the coven that had welcomed him.  “You see,” he explained, “only I, or another trained as I have been, can perform such rituals.  I dare not perform them before you, or you could be harmed by their power, having not been consecrated to them as I have.  Please, allow me to do this, in gratitude for all you have done for me.”  His conduct seemed to give credence to his claims of a sanctified life, and the coven gave him his space.  But when he was alone, he rested and laughed heartily.  Already, the coven was coming to trust him and his mystery more than they trusted themselves.

Wind had a nagging feeling that something was awry, but she did not want to seem either rude or a fool.  Therefore, she asked Raven to speak with Roivas in his room, and quietly scan the energies therein.  She shared none of her misgivings with Raven, and told no one else in the coven of their actions.  It seemed the wise thing to do.

Raven knocked, entered, and looked about.  Lord and Lady! thought she, I can’t see what he’s been doing at all!

She strained to see, and thought that perhaps she did see something.  So fearing to lose the respect of Roivas and of her coven, she pretended to see the energies and rituals he had been creating.

“What do you think, Lady?” asked Roivas, “I tried to tone it down a little, to be subtle. Did you notice the way I wove the elemental powers together, here and here?”

“Yes indeed,” said Raven, now half-believing that she saw what he spoke of. 

“I’m glad,” he said warmly, “that you think it might help. You know, most people couldn’t grasp the intricacy of this work, as you have done . . .”  They spent the next few hours talking, and Raven returned to Wind and told her how marvelous his magik was.

A few days later, Wind was again curious about how the work was progressing. Something seemed not quite right.  Still, she didn’t want to offend her guest, or hurt Raven’s feelings.  Therefore she quietly sent Heather to view his craft, again telling no one else in the coven of her concerns.  As had happened with Raven, Heather could see nothing, but betwixt her uncertainty and his flattery returned to Wind aglow with tales of Roivas’ power and insight.  So it went with She-Wolf and Delilah, as well. 

Over the next few weeks, Roivas further revealed that Heather had been a Highlands wise-woman, and his lover in a past life; that She-Wolf had always been a hunter and warrior, and that Delilah had been a priestess of Atlantis, helping him with the sacrament of the Old Gods.

Then Jane came to visit.

Jane was not a pagan, nor a witch, nor a sorceress of any stripe or hue.  She was the owner and operator of a health food store down the street from Wind and Sybil’s house, and had been friends with them for years.  The sisters told her how wonderful and insightful Roivas was, and Jane immediately smelled a rat.  She said as much, and advised them both to get rid of him.  Shocked by their friend’s attitude, they of course refused.

Jane shook her head.  “I don’t trust him.  It’s your business, you’re both adults, but for God’s sake be careful.  This sounds a bit too down pat, somehow.”  As a compromise, the two sisters invited Jane to their house to meet Roivas.  Surely if anyone could bring out her hidden talents in the mystic arts, it would be he. 

The evening went well at first, if a bit guardedly.  Then, Roivas began talking of the difficulty in mastering more than one style of magik, as he had. 

Jane didn’t care, and wasn’t concerned with spells.

“Of course not,” Roivas agreed.  “You have always been pragmatic.  Centuries ago, when you were in the Italian court—”

“I’m Christian,” Jane cut in.  “I don’t have past lives.”

Still later in the discussion, Roivas told her of his vows to use sex only in its highest, most pure and magikal form.  Jane didn’t care if he was found naked in a bathtub of lime Jell-O with two hippos and a hummingbird, and said as much.  Dinner went on in this vein for some time, and ultimately Jane left only after quietly asking her friends to kick out the fruit cup, sooner rather than later. 

When Wind and Sybil returned to the living room, they found Roivas sitting on the couch, hands clasped together, devastated.  Looking up at them with horror-struck eyes, he confessed that he had seen his worst fears realized.  For the traitor that had killed their tribe lifetimes ago had returned, masquerading as their friend!  This was why Jane denied having any past lives, he explained, and why she pretended not to be magically active.  It was the fate she had bound herself into—to destroy them all, life after life, so long as she got the chance.  She had probably tried to turn them against him, divide the three of them, hadn’t she?  So much the better pick them off later, now that they had re-united as a family.

That night, Wind slept badly, her few dreams sorely troubled.  Yet, morning found her awake and with newfound resolve: she would see his spells and energies herself, and judge him by his actions rather than by anyone’s words.  She gathered the whole of the coven together, and as one they went to see Roivas in his room.  There were serious charges on both sides, and it was time to see for certain.

She knocked.  He answered.  When she explained, he let them all in with good grace, understanding and compassionate.  All were in awe at Roivas’ magikal workings.  Even Roivas himself half-believed his stories by this time, and he joined them in the dance of words, always adding but never contradicting, describing the mastery of his magikal works.  “Magnificent!” said Wind’s coven-mates.  “How elegant, yet so simple . . . no wonder it takes so long to prepare!”

Wind, in the middle of it all, saw nothing.  Inwardly, she moaned, thinking the fault must lie in her.  Yet she put on a brave face and joined her voice with the others.  ”It’s dazzling, beautiful,” she chimed in.  And everyone agreed.

Change came quickly over the days that followed.  As Roivas’ vows forbade him from ever working against a woman, the coven worked without him.  They crafted spells against Jane in the name of defense and justice, and sure enough, her health began to suffer.  For his own part, Roivas spent little time in his room anymore.  He had explained that the magikal structure therein needed the space to grow during its last stages, and so he alternated sleeping in Wind’s bed and Sybil’s.  Of course, he knew that this would only be for a short while.  The rest of the coven was nearly convinced that his magik could only be taught through lovemaking, and soon he would reveal that the original, Atlantian Great Rite was an act of group sex.

* * * * *

The months passed for the coven in a rushed, dreamless sort of way.  Between lessons in Atlantian sorcery, Ninjitzu, and sex magik, not to mention all their jobs, there was little time for reflection—or thought at all, for that matter.  All too soon, it was weekend of the great Faire.  Here the protections he had placed upon them all would doubtless be most sorely needed, the training he’d been giving them best displayed.  

They walked out in full glory, proud of the powers they had gained from beloved Roivas, wishing he had accompanied them.  Practitioners of a hundred arts, not to mention a variety of groupies, fell silent to watch Zephyr Coven pass by.  Word had spread of their newfound powers, of their angelic auras and impenetrable shields, and everyone strained to witness.  No one could quite see these shields or angelic auras, of course.  There were echoes, born from their belief, but that was all.  But as each person there was afraid to be thought a fool or headblind, everyone strained to see, and many “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” sighed through the crowd.

Children had been brought to the fair, of course, as they were every year.  One little girl kept jumping up and down, trying to see as the procession went by.  At last she made her way to the front of the crowd.  And there, head cocked to one side (and in a much louder voice than she thought she used), she exclaimed, “But there’s nothing there!”

Slowly at first, but with rising speed and clarity, all present began to realize the truth.  The magikal wards were only dream-stuff and shadow, no more substantial than a promise made in wine.  Wind realized the truth, as did her coven, but they kept their heads held high as they finished their procession.  They would count on short memory to repair their tarnished reputation and ease their humiliation, made no less painful for having been shared.  By the time they returned to Wind and Sybil’s home, Roivas was gone.  So was all their cash, many of their valuables, and several credit cards.

Wind fled to her room and locked herself in.  “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, “I’m not a priestess!  I’m not worthy of anything!  I’m nothing!  I should die!”  

Eventually, Sybil managed to pick the lock.  The sisters held each other until the tears stopped, and they could think again.  Late that night, the coven met, purified the house top to bottom, and somberly cast circle.  And, after much discussion, each member resolved never to allow herself to be duped again.

* * * * *

Zephyr Coven still exists today, though it has never been the same. It‘s the Walking Wounded Coven now, and while people meeting them can see the love and trust to be found there, it’s nothing like it was. 

Wind stepped down from her role as High Priestess the night that Roivas left, despite her friends’ protests.  She has never forgiven herself for “betraying her friends.”  Later, she left the Craft and the Goddess behind her entirely, and went into a business partnership with Jane.  To this day, she tries not to think too much about her days as a priestess, or the friends she needlessly left behind.  Jane is still trying to get Wind to talk about what happened, to no avail.  Wind trusts herself little, loves herself less, and is weaker for it. 

Sybil is High Priestess now, as she has been ever since Wind stepped down.  She rarely laughs anymore.  She takes full responsibility for her own decisions, and for the decisions of everyone around her.  This leaves scant time for laughter.

Raven and Heather were married six months after the Faire disaster, and are completely devoted to one another.  Raven trusts no one now, save for Heather.  Heather, for her part, continually looks for ways to force her wife to trust again.  Between them, they have established a cycle that could go on forever.

After Roivas, She-Wolf learned to harden her heart, and resolved that all men are evil.  She holds now that love, especially love for a man, is a weakness that corrodes the will.  This is the creed that she taught her daughter, Lilith, born nine months after Roivas fled.  Her coven-mates have always done their best over the years, but there’s a limit as to how much they can do to soften such bitterness.  Further, while Lilith knows she can talk to the rest of the coven, she dreads the day her boyfriends are discovered.

Delilah can no longer feel whole or loved unless she is in a sexual relationship, basing her self-image solely on the pleasure she can give men.  She and She-Wolf are still friends, each determined to help the other learn and grow through these trying times. 

All these psychic scars naturally caused their own problems in due course.  But, that is a story for another time.

(Thanks to Ms. Pamela Coleman-Smith, who illustrated A. E. Waite's designs for a tarot deck, as published by the William Rider & Son of London in 1909.)

Curiosity

Curiosity is a fine name for a cat.  A friend of mine has a wizard character with a familiar named Curiosity.  Curiosity is an elven cat and a tracker, and leads her to clues, riches, and trouble.  We all appreciate the art in her irony.



I'm sitting in the library of Wossamotta U, watching the snow fall like flakes of ash from an eruption, and I'm considering the matter carefully.  I remember the old saying they'd say every spring, "March: in like a lamb, out like a lion; in like a lion, out like a lamb."  I haven't heard that in years now, and no wonder.

March used to be the month of Spring.  April was known for its rain, May for its flowers, and March for its transitional period.  You could count on March to be cool like a couple of little Fonzies at night, bright and warm by day, and to have its dilemma sorted out by the time May rolled around.  Because lucky for us March didn't want to kill us, it wanted to help us.  Generally, anyway.  Surety is a myth, but every myth has some seed that gave it its power.  We've had a couple of springs this year, and now we're finally getting our winter's snow.  In March.

"Normally, both your asses would be dead as fucking fried chicken . . ."

Doomsayers are calling for a change in how everyone lives (I wouldn't mind), and Naysayers are insisting that it's all just nature's way and that we should do nothing.  As long as they can keep the argument going both sides will be set for life as lakes dry, and storms rage, and seaside cities drown. And in the meantime, keep a pocket full of posies so it doesn't happen to you.

I was born in March.  To say that having it snow on my birthday was unusual would be like saying that a poultry doesn't usually have a full set of teeth.  Could it happen?  Of course, this is Kansas.  But it was bloody rare.  By the time March ended, we were usually well into spring weather.  Now polar bears are facing extinction for the ice caps melting, shore lines are being redrawn for the rising water, ice cliffs that hasn't melted for aeons or more are suddenly vanishing.  According to samples taken from Antarctica, this type of change, to this degree and rapidity, is unprecedented.

And the bees are dying.



In addition, I remember how I was very unusual growing up, because I got sick as much as I did.  There were three mildly overweight kids in my grade (after 1st grade I was one of them), and arthritis was a thing for old people.  But lately I have met teenagers with arthritis, and it's not unusual any more.  Childhood obesity is considered practically an epidemic, right along with childhood diabetes.  When I was a kid, diabetes was a mystery to almost anyone who didn't have diabetic grandparents.  Now almost everyone, of all ages, knows about it - it's a grade school problem.  I run into twenty-five-year-olds who complain they're too old to do things that I do for fun.



Ashes, ashes.

The snow looks like an eruption, and the world is full of people who are dying or just not living.  The current generation of teens to twenty-somethings are the first known generation that are expected to live a dramatically shorter lifespan than their parents.  Some of it is the garbage they eat, some is the lack of movement in their lifestyle.  But why all the ADD and ADHD?  Why the spike in autism?  In autoimmune disorders?  In cancer?  Yes, in some cases it's just because medical technology is advanced enough to identify more illnesses, but that doesn't account for an upswing this dramatic.

So I watch, and I wonder, and I try not to feel too disaffected.  Humans are not separate from their planet, after all.  And it is ironic that so many struggle to be a social gestalt while insisting that they are biological islands.  It all feels to me like an overarching system breaking down somewhere.  Season balance, ecological balance, medical balance.  And if it needs be said, emotional, mental, and spiritual balance.

Something is breaking down, and I think it has been for a very long time.  On the one hand, I think it is far more important to focus on fixing things than argue how they got broken.  On the other hand, I really don't expect that to happen.  Instead, curiosity leads me to wonder how it all did get started, what the system might look like from the outside, and what will happen next as it all falls down.



And in the meantime, I help things grow.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

(Elven Cat illustration courtesy of tumblr.com; Jules pic with Fonzie courtesy of whatculture.com; bee pic courtsey of reddit.com;  old/young pic courtesy of bitsandpieces-sonja.blogspot.com; David Bowie created himself, but the Goblin King was a changeling.  All rights reserved by rightful owners and all that.)

A Thought

Greetings, all.

I know this post is a little late.  I got wrapped up in my studies again and lost track of time.  But just the same, I would like to post an invitation.

My readers generally comment to my Facebook page regarding my posts here, but I would invite you all to make an exception if you would.  And those of you who don't usually comment, feel free.  And though this question applies chiefly to the US, I'd like to see if we can start a discussion on this including my international readers.

I heard some time ago that folks were looking at making the Library of Congress a digital database.  And it is no secret that funding for education in the US gets slashed more every year.  Recently, I was grabbing ebooks for my new Kindle (thank you, Dormouse!) and I thought a thought.

What if the Library of Congress maded all non-copywrited works available for download?  It would take time to arrange, of course.  But they could sell ebooks for a small fee each, or charge a monthly membership, and have all proceeds go to fund education.  No, it wouldn't be a huge amount... but every little bit helps.

So there is my idea.  I invite all of you to post your thoughts, knowledge, and whatever else on this.  If it can be hammered into a workable concept, I'll propose it properly.

Are you game?

Sometime again,

--Coyote.



(Infinite library pic courtesy of a post pruittfpgirl made on blog.freepeople.weblinc.com.  All rights reserved by original right holder.)

Gods of the Curriculae II: Fall of 2012

This has been one hell of a semester.

Greetings, all.  Yes, this post is a day late.  My apologies.  I had been going to post yesterday as is my custom, but when I finally made my way home . . .

Lo, the wages of finals week.

So instead it will be today, Tuesday December 11, that I reveal at long last the secret identities of my various professors, this twisted pantheon at which I have been studying on bended knee, for lo these many months.  And as this identification is so late, I will also give my customary summary of the shrines they haunt as I go.

Jazz Ballet (or: "Keeping up With the Birds")

In retrospect, I should have called this one “Keeping up With the Seelie.”  Gad.  Not that my dance instructor is flighty, exactly.  But I asked her once if there were sites or dancers on YouTube I might examine, to help with my dancing.  Alas, no.

“I make up a lot of this as I go,” she explained.  “You’ll just need to practice.”  And then we would flit on to another move, this one having been covered twice – which should be enough for anyone to master, it seems.  For me, trying to “practice” under these conditions was an exercise in frustration.  Her advice was to take notes, but as aforementioned, I don’t have a background in dance.  

Just the same, I did take her advice once, or at least I tried: I sat out of class and watched, notebook in hand.  What I learned that day was that taking notes on individual moves in an ongoing dance is like watching a Black Ops tournament and trying to jot down weapon serial numbers.

Below is an excerpt from such an attempt:

Mincing about to the right

Something tribal

Lop sau from the hip 8 count or so

Then a miracle happens

On to floor work

Spin somehow

More miracles

Kick like a ballet mule

Groucho Marx with steps

. . . and so on.  Mercifully, two of my class mates saw my distress and were willing to help.  Otherwise, the final performance would have been an even darker comedy than it was.

Happy only when dancing, she has been dancing so long I think she has forgotten what it was like to do anything else.  In class, I was surrounded by Seelie revelers, dancing their dreams made flesh.  And in giving birth to such dreams, she is the fairies' midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomies over men's noses as they lie asleep.

Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs, the cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; her traces, of the smallest spider web; her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film . . . her chariot is an empty hazelnut, made by the joiner squirrel . . .

Yes, she is Professor Mab, Goddess of the Demi-Fey and the Mistress of Dreams.  And for all that her class was an experience of frustration, so too was it one of learning, and I tip my hat to her in salute.

Karate for Grownups (or: "Conan, What is Best in Life?")

Right after Jazz Ballet was Karate for Grownups.  Fortunately, both were in the same room.  Gad, I am such a genius.  But perhaps I should have noted the room number more closely.  When your classes are held in Room 007, it can be either very good or very bad . . .

Lauren once had a classmate in Composition ask her something along the lines of: “Don’t you love coming back to class?  It’s so hard to write without someone giving you an assignment, isn’t it?” 

And then I imagine Lauren looking at them as though they had just grown a second head, carefully not saying something along the lines of, “No.  Actually, these classes get in the way of the real writing.  I write on my own, constantly, thank you.”  I found myself in the same position regarding the workouts in this class. 

Sensei loves his physical drills.  I mean he loooooooooooves his physical drills.  Pain is good.  Yes, Sensei.  Pain is your friend.  Yes, Sensei.  Very good, I am proud of you.  And now, your reward: more push-ups!  Yes, Sensei.  Thank you, Sensei.  And then, at the end of class, he strikes you with his lightning.

Thank you for your grandmotherly kindness, Sensei. 

We would eventually get to stance and style, at least a little.  But for the most part each class focused on working out.  I am told that Professor Thor customarily uses the workouts to weed the class down to a manageable size, and then focuses on the style itself.

But that didn’t happen this time.  How could it?  Who can afford to drop a class in these times?  Drop a class and you could lose your funding – and then you’re out, with a fat, hungry college debt drooling at the door and no way to pay it.

So on we went, stamina drills and working out taking anywhere from half to four-fifths of the class, until only a few weeks were left.  Then we finally focused on moves.

The staff work was good, and so was the self-defense.  I did learn, never doubt.  He helped me find a hole in my punch, and a few other things, and told me how to fill it.  I am walking away richer for having taken his class.

But while the style of Karate that Professor Thor teaches is a good one, and while he is a fine and honourable fellow, his teaching style is very much the No Pain No Gain approach.  His hammer is mighty and his lightning always strikes true.  But while this is treasured by some martial artists, it is not for me. 

Study Smart Not Hard (or: "How to Take All Your Other Classes")

Study Smart Not Hard is taught by Professor Clockwork, from whom I had taken Dignified Gibberish before.  Everything online, pre-recorded, and at your own pace.  The angels were on hand to give guidance as always, the Prof himself could be reached via email as needed.

I sought out his class on purpose, and I was not disappointed.  I still believe in a clockwork god.

Still, it was a sobering experience.  For one thing, the text books assured me that memory was impossible without writing.  Wow.  Really?  I mean, really really?  What of the bards of old, what of the oral traditions of countless cultures, passed on generation after generation through the ages?  Apparently that never happened. 

Disappointing.  I liked Homer, too.  Oh, well.

Another point: while the class was brilliant for learning short term and test taking strategies, anything I wanted to apply to long term memory I had to figure out on my own.  Apparently, while going through the motions of learning is a carefully treasured art, long-term comprehension is simply not considered important.  This was a familiar realization, but no less chilling for that.

About half way through the class, I attended a seminar Professor Clockwork was holding.  After not twenty minutes, there was a kind of moaning that rose up around me.  Strangely discoloured, my fellow colligates were looking around, blank-eyed, mouths open.  Flesh peeled down, soft, revealing muscle and in some places even bone.

A few had just started reaching towards me in a half-remembered hunger when Prof. Clockwork said, “I know, it’s okay.  Thinking hurts.  We’ll take a break and then come back to it.”  And then they were all nodding and slowly rising from their seats, some clutching their smoking cerebrums, others shambling blindly away for water, brains, or cable TV, just to take the edge off.

The angels were brilliant as always, and Professor Clockwork’s curriculum was excellent as I expected.  But looking about me, zombies of the Illiterati pressing in on all sides, I felt very much a stranger in a very strange land.  This was not the first time I had felt so.  I am sure it will not be the last.

Memory Tactics (or, “It Worked For the Romans.”)

A fitting companion to Prof. Clockwork’s class, Memory Tactics started almost the day that Study Smart Not Hard ended.  Sometimes my brilliance almost astounds even me. 

The class went in depth regarding techniques for memorizing data for tests.  It was small class, four people in all.  But the Professor used the small size of her class to all our advantages, going into depth regarding different things that the mind might seize upon – colours, images, and so forth – and how to use them in our studies.  Note cards, mnemonics, loci, interlocking visuals, all of these and more were covered on an individual level.

It was a short class, and the assignments were, quite simply, to use whatever she was teaching in studying for other classes.

The Professor is a bit ADHD, by her own admission, and she uses this as an asset in her teachings, weaving a loose-seeming tapestry of ideas and then drawing the net in tightly to show how everything truly does fit together, and her high energy was a driving force that was wonderful to see.

She is Professor Luna, for she is the moon.  Ever changing, always in motion, yet she is always herself.  And her light is a guide through the dark and tangled wood.

Body Parts and Functions (or: "Thank the Gods for Dignified Gibberish")

I have spoken of this class before, an online class with lab.  It was this class to which I dedicated some thirty hours a week alone.  And were it not for my Dignified Gibberish class, times would have been much harder yet.

The lectures, though pre-recorded, were of another professor teaching to another class.  The study sheets were rather vague, and though the exams did get easier as we went along, that mostly meant that they got easier once our grade was all but set.

The Professor was always available to answer whatever question his students might have had, but, being a mostly online class, you had to know what question to ask.  He seemed to enjoy throwing us curves, actually, and his exams reflected this. 

In short, my experience with this class was the opposite of my other experiences with online classes.  But the Professor is by no means an evil man, and can be very funny and warm in person.

Still, there was a point in class, while taking an exam, I looked up at an inopportune moment and saw something I think I should not have seen.  I had been working on a question on the relationship between muscle neurons and a certain neurotransmitter.  Deep in thought, I raised my eyes, and beheld a sight I will not soon forget.  

As I watched in horror, the Professor’s face grew longer, more skeletal.  His eyes shrank slightly as his features protruded downward, beak-like.  Hunched over, his frame shrank in on itself as his fine shirt lengthened down over him, transforming into the tattered remains of robed finery.  His hands, dark and skeletal, clutched the hem of his garment as he met my gaze with his own, saying,

“You’re very lucky, slave – only the Emperor gets to drink your essence!”

I let loose a small cry - "Ack!" - but by then his glamour was back in place, and my fellow students were frowning at me for disrupting their concentration.  He went on as though nothing had happened, nothing at all.

But he knew that I knew.

I have come to the realization that medical classes are my own Dark Crystal: flawed, powerful, and corrupted by those who rule.  And, like the mirror in the Alchemist’s chamber, Professor Skeksis’ class reflected their light into me.  It was a soul-sucking experience, and only by calling upon my own gifts did I survive.

Head Shrinking 101 (or: "Jung Was a Dirty Old Genius")

This was by far my favorite class.  The quizzes were online, the textbook was fantastic (a rental, alas.  What boob thought up rental textbooks?), the tests were multiple choice.  All so that time could be properly spent on class discussion.

This is a professor who values the human mind and its inquisitive potential.  She reaches out and encourages her students to speak, question, and learn.  Yes, her tests are multiple choice.  But the questions are structured such that you must have comprehension to answer them, not mere memorization.  I treasure that.

She was very encouraging when I contemplated changing my major to Psych, and happy for me when I did.  The book review – the one paper for her class – revolved around thought and understanding of the material, and a willingness to ask questions.  Also a treasure.

All through the semester her class has been a light to look forward to at the end of the week.  I have watched her time and again seek to kindle the fires of imagination and analytic thought, encouraging her students to share those fires with others.  

She is Professor Prometheus, one of the Bringers of Light.  A true teacher, it is my hope she continues as she has for some time to come.  And if the time comes when she is, for her efforts, chained to a mountainside, I trust she will bear it with dignity.

And so my journey ends for the moment, and next month will be taken up again.  There are new shrines waiting, with new Powers within to guide and instruct.  And, no doubt, it will be an exciting time.  But for now, with my finals all but spent, I look forward to a brief respite in my travels.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

(Night on Bald Mountain image is (c) Disney Studios; sleeping coyote photo courtesy of robandbee.com; the faerie ballet photo is courtesy of classacttutu.com; Queen Mab illustration is courtesy of romeoandjulietjanzen.wikispaces.com, and is credited to Ms. Amy Brown; Ranma ½ was created by Rumiko Takahashi, and you either get the cursed springs reference or you don’t; Thor in this incarnation is (c) Marvel Comics; the clockwork brain photo is from the Clockwork Man, a character from Dr. Who that is run and owned by BBC; Clockwork God is by a person called Romek and can be viewed at stripgenerator.com; Roman Dinner painting is by Neel Burton, courtesy of outre-monde.com; Luna picture courtesy of dailywicca.com; the Torture Chamber was painted by an unknown artist around 1736 CE; the Skeksis were created by Jim Henson Muppets, say thank ye; Carl Yung created himself, more power to him; Prometheus picture by Heinrich Friedrich Fuger.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.  No intent is made or held to infringe upon those rights whatsoever.)