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“Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.” William Butler Yeats I’ll end this tripart mythological excursion with elements that are probably not the most obviously connected to mythos and can be viewed as more general to various doctrines and theories, but for me they work extremely well in this context as well. Whether or not they are the cause of myth, vice versa or just purely go hand in hand with it. With Daoism/dualism and hierarchy, we are essentially dealing with two ideologically prevailing factors. What Daoism represents in philosophical and religious terms, the issue of hierarchy adds in a more natural, secular light. Whether you take mythology as other people’s religion or religion as other people’s mythology (arguments can go both ways), the stance between mythology and religion in this context is that of one being the aspect of another. Daoism is a Chinese philosophical/religious tradition stemming from the 5th century BCE, founded by Laozi through his seminal work and apart from the Christian Bible the most translated written account in the history of humanity: Dao De Jing. Characterized by the eponymous yang/yin symbol, the teachings of Daoism reflect a return to natural, fluid states of being, where spontaneity is king and one’s essence becomes part of nature itself. The term Dao is as elusive and all-encompassing as its subject matter, since it can be referred to everything from meaning, method, word, god, life, principle, yet its most common translation is the Way (the true path of life). (In a perfectly paradoxical way, I use the Dao, not the Tao spelling, because having obviously had vast experience in writing capitalized Ds for all my life, it just flows more naturally that way. Wink wink nudge nudge.) However, definitions are not central here half as much as mere understanding/feeling about the tradition is, so dwelling on the word and its possibilities means straying off the Daoist path. The complexity of either explaining or even understanding Daoism lies in a central paradox that Daoism can neither be explained nor understood per se. The very first lines of Dao De Jing deconstruct its own subject matter and reflect upon the arbitrariness of language and writing. As the Dao that can be understood is not the true Dao, the central paradox of comprehending the incomprehensible extends to many aspects of philosophy proper as well, since comprehension and the ability to describe are not always straightforward. The paradox within the Daoist mainframe is generally more a paradox to the Western rationale or at least seems paradoxical to the untrained eye. A crude and somewhat out of context parallel can be made to the mastery of a particular subject, where an art critic can for example immediately see the grandeur of a painting where a layperson cannot perceive anything exceptional about it whatsoever. Even study of myth in an academic factuality can becomes subject to spontaneous, natural realization of either-you-get-it-or-you-do-not type. What I mean is that even if you grasp the parameters or modes of mythic/folktale survey that Jung, Levi-Strauss or Propp have come up with for example, this nevertheless tells very little about the actual depth of those stories, their cultural meaning and a somewhat natural way that they impact future storytelling. Even de Saussure’s duad comes to mind, but the parole part in terms of mythology and Daoism extends into spiritual aspects and life itself, which are about as elusively non-formalistic as you get. That’s partly why we still haven’t answered the question of what is the meaning of life for example. And who knows, maybe that’s a good thing. Daoist influence over my research in general, however, primarily extends to the yang/yin dualism that emphasizes wholeness (of the mythic paradigm), spontaneity that reflects the natural talent and beauty (of the artistic, comic paradigm) and the middle way (Aristotelian golden mean) that urges the understanding of extremes and even contradictory theoretical approaches. The middle way symbolizes a free-flowing “doctrine” which states that life’s balance (and its consequent essence) is to be found through subduing the extremes of one’s existence; between hedonism and asceticism. The yang/yin symbol is among the most common and widely used icons of humanity, where the circle’s unity and eternity is equally divided between the forces of light (yang) and darkness (yin), male and female, heaven and earth, etc., respectively. (Hence the reason, why yang comes first, although this doesn’t mean it’s more important.) The fluidity and transference of the two principles are strengthened by the symbol’s wave form, while the smaller circle of the opposite element within each half sphere further stresses the presence of one element within the other (in Jungian terms: each male has its anima, each female its animus). Visually, this symbol represents the perfect contrast and balance, since it reflects absolutism and void, stasis and flow. Despite the fact that for most of us the term duality implies rigid division and linear straightforwardness, Daoism embodies perfect dualism with all the bells and whistles (or just dualism galore!). Consequently, it reflects stasis just as much as it does hierarchy for example … it just always depends on context. And context is always key. The concept of hierarchy, on the other hand, may seem out of place in this context, yet, through the (dualist) Daoist objection of Confucianism and through the view of the Indian caste system, all these elements become intertwined. Confucianism was the most dominant political, social, philosophical and national doctrine in the formation of China. It stresses correct order and social virtue; in Daoist terminology, Confucianism is the yin (society) to the Daoist yang (nature). Confucian hierarchical system is based on the perfect family unit, which extends into the ideal social order. As such, it stresses virtue and embodies the Eastern aspect of society as opposed to the Western ideal of individuality (a bit clichéic, but still pervasive). The hierarchical aspect that is most pertinent within the interplay with Daoism, reflects the ideals of each tradition: where Confucianism stresses ritual and social order, Daoism reverses this abstract position and places ritual as the bottom of the scale that follows justice, kindness, virtue and finally Dao as the highest goal. This position not only deconstructs Confucianism but myth and religion per se as well, since ritual is rooted as the central social function (inducing order) that the stories and their ideology promulgate. Consequently, the concept of hierarchy (even as a thought system) is a necessity which allows humans to take gradual steps towards higher goals of either teachings or life in general. There is a quite pragmatic reason why a child does not start studying the English language with the complete works of Shakespeare for example. One cannot even begin to comprehend such complexity without the basic understanding of language and culture themselves, which is a huge understatement at that. Similarly, comprehension of religious thought and even pictorial language (unless one possesses innate understanding and has revelatory affinity to the subject matter) must be trained in order to dwell into come complex aspects of the traditions in question. There is hierarchy or prominence on the pictorial plane just as much as within the mythological narrative. The only question is its respective application and meaning. Hierarchy as such becomes present even in Buddhism as the eightfold path for example reflects the higher goal of (self)understanding and consequent liberation. We can even draw parallels to the notion of masterpieces; while the Buddha’s fundamental endpoint extends beyond any connections to the human system of governing and beyond the Self itself, he paradoxically and (in)advertently becomes the highest hierarchical ideal for his followers. Further, while we can account for future bodhisattvas and buddhas, the process began with the original “masterpiece” of the Buddha. The masterpiece in any art field spurs the future development of that tradition. In comics for example, Watchmen has forever changed the game of the superhero genre, while The Epic of Gilgamesh still echoes epic mythological narrative in works today (even if indirectly). And to give probably the most famous example of how ancient concepts carry on even in the mainstream, we can look to the teachings of Yoda in the Star Wars film series, where either the Dao or the Buddhist awakening reflect the Jedi concept of oneness with the (sacred) universe. The master clearly read the Dao De Jing, said ‘nuff. Finally, a hierarchy of thought and understanding is present is the postmodern mainstream thought as well. The central concept is dualistic and devised between unknowing and knowing. Once we take the first step towards teaching, we embark on the “threefold path” of information (the basics), knowledge (individual, internal application of what was learned) and wisdom (external, truths extending beyond the individual), each concept providing higher and higher insights of ourselves and our world. Information are the rudimentary building blocks, the crude, yet vast array of stimuli that are already in itself subject to the binary opposition of signifier and signified. The realization of this pairing, however, can only begin to form as part of learning, gaining intelligence, knowledge. Wisdom adds further layers of comprehension through life experience, understanding of the self, the social and the general spatio-temporal dimension; in other words finding peace in yourself and contributing to both the inner and the greater social reality of your existence. This ▲ of information, knowledge and wisdom is the learning and living curve of humanity as I see it. Just like Peter Barger’s and Auguste Comte’s respective social theories for example, this model in not necessarily merely progressive. Ideally, one’s evolution and comprehension of the self and the world should maintain a steady growth (akin to constant learning), regression and stasis of understanding can also be possible. On the other hand, hoarding knowledge (even books) becomes as arbitrary as not giving a rat’s ass about anything other than yourself. In essence, you can find comfort on the level of not knowing or ignorance just as much as you can struggle with the weight of the wisdom of the world. There’s no real magic cure or path as such, because it’s all relative to your being, what makes you tick. There are just guidelines. Hence the greatest of Buddhist teachers instill lessons without words and appropriately to the level of your own self. As observed, all of these complex philosophical notions are essentially rooted in dualism, which reflects contrast as a creative force. Among all mythologies, the Hindu tradition provides probably the most comprehensive view of the world (in all of its manifestations … or lack thereof), particularly through its open-ended, pluralistic and adaptable view of the divine. Among the most elemental aspects is a relatively straightforward incorporation of seemingly opposing notions into its rich subject matter, such as the perception of the Buddha and thus Buddhism as one of Vishnu’s avatars (a similar claim can be made regarding Jesus and consequently Christianity, but the term “stretching it” comes to mind as well). In this light, it is important to note that in many instances the Eastern religious conception differs from the Western model also from a personal pluralistic position; namely, it is not uncommon for a person to share Buddhist, Daoist and Confucian beliefs within a single lifetime as part of syncretistic interchange. The complexity of the dual nature of the divine Hindu triad of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva is for example evident in their equal transcendence and mortality. They encompass everything, while equally reflecting nothingness. Vishnu is ever-present, yet dies as each of his avatars. Brahma is the all-creator, yet Shiva decapitates one of his five heads for not recognizing his greater transcendence, only to be paradoxically punished in turn. The end result, however, is the emersion of Banaras, the city of light. Mainstream (mis)understanding of the Indian gods is akin to misapprehending comics merely as childish, comical or an appendix of literature. While Shiva is certainly mostly characterized as the destroyer god and Vishnu the preserver, they nevertheless also embody creative and destructive functions, respectively. (Broad dictionary definitions in this case don’t really hold much water. Similarly, Aphrodite has been seen more as the goddess of love, instead of sexual passion, which is far more apropos. Her Roman incarnation is another matter, because as Venus, she has taken on a motherly role for the whole Roman nation.) It becomes a question of one’s belief and interest; while the Hindus have 330 million gods, the worshippers of Shiva within this tradition are nevertheless monotheists (or rather henotheists, if not monolatrists). Shiva for them embodies the totality of the life process of destruction and creation. Equally, many readers of graphic novels stay true to their belief in this particular genre, yet the graphic novel is but a form of the larger, pluralistic comics pantheon. Returning to the issue of duality, to an extent this can be applied to the ancient Greek pantheon as well, however, in an entirely different light. The Greeks’ dual nature is evident in their embodiment of natural forces and their personifications; Aphrodite is thus not only the personification of sexual passion, but IS sexual passion as well. (If you ever wandered, why Zeus couldn’t keep it in his pants – or under his toga – now you know.). Hence, the modern observers’ apparent contradiction of how to view the ancient gods was entirely mitigated during their heyday. Further, understanding that the Olympians typically embodied both sides of the coin, it is easier to comprehend how Apollo could for example be the healer as well as the harbinger of death; both notions represent the extreme positions of life and the sun god’s power appropriately extended in both directions. I briefly mentioned the Indian caste system before. It reflects the hierarchical nature that is not merely present in every aspect of human endeavor, but the world itself. Humans are mere cogs in the social system, in the greater wheel known as the Earth, which is a plain rock in our Solar System that occupies a small edge of the Milky Way galaxy, which in turn is a mere spec in the galactic supercluster called Laniakea that is of course a tiny part of the known Universe (whose possible boundless state perplexes the understanding of the limit-driven worldview of humankind). We play our roles in one way or another, whether or not we are lucky enough to have an occupation that defines us, so we can live a life that fulfills us. Just like humanity in general plays a role in the natural world, heroes play their roles in myths, which in turn are central human communication devices. The only difference is that human aspiration for (self-imposed) greatness has put us on the trajectory to escape nature and rival the divinities that we have speculated and worshipped ever since we first marveled at the lighting in the prehistoric sky. The reality of the universal hierarchical system is based around a generally weak and simple, yet, extremely pervasive process; gravity, through which the transference of energy shapes the order of things in the cosmos. As such, bodies with bigger mass attract smaller objects; what the hierarchical pyramid typically represents in a two-dimensional model, is essentially a spherical, cosmic dance that the rich Hindu tradition has postulated for countless generations. To end this post in more cosmic terms, we are quite literally made of star stuff, remnants of dying stars that exploded a long time ago and spread their material into space. What one of the mythic theories about the conception of Being describes as divine semen or celestial fertilizer, becomes through the workings of modern scientific insights the poetically perfect menagerie. The modern profane-based cosmological theory – the Big Bang – essentially presupposes a beginning from a single starting point and expresses a massive expansion, which in the long run implies a reversal in the so called Big Crunch, where all information reverts back to the singularity. (At least that’s one theory. And if parallel existence is a fact, things get complicated even further.). The consequences are twofold: the state of being in the Universe seems to be in constant motion, plus the information (essentially energy) as such is always conserved. From the perspective of the philosophical/religious traditions of the East, we can transcribe these two notions through the principles of duality (the eternal yang/yin flow) and the divine breath (Atman equals Brahman, or the soul being divine), respectively. While such an idealized rhetoric ideologically places humanity within this “divine” cosmos, we are both nevertheless physically and conceptually dependent on the greater cosmic hierarchy and not the other way around. Like in all myths, universal cosmology comes first and humanity comes last (and not because it would be the most important part). Pragmatically, the caste that is humanity has started at the lower possible levels, before evolving into the highest caste on this planet and is now actually breaking out of this worldly system by trying to overpower the natural cycle and control nature itself; a profound reversal of the Indian caste system, where the “untouchable” Dalits actually fall outside the hierarchy. Humanity is becoming a self-consciously untouchable Leviathan, voraciously craving the divine power ... just brimming with everlasting mythic remnants … and it’s quite simply beautiful.
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“One might say that Zeus declared that love and soul were one – a unit that cannot be broken.” (Foley and Banerjee 2009: 81) This post serves two points: continuing the discussion of the essential components of mythology (at least as I see it) and somewhat clarifying a pair of terms that may have become too interchangeable in modern use (again, at least for my liking). The comics/picture books pairing is in the works, but at this time it’s a bit more juicy to poke at the myth/folktale distinction. While folktales have nowadays become interchangeable with fairytales, I prefer the first term, since the latter has a distinct linguistic connection to stories about fairies. We could further argue that the folktale/fairy tale pairing is somewhat akin to the comics/graphic novel pairing; however, the latter case is more complex still. The term folk in this case reflect better the nature of these stories (their social, cultural influence), their origin and consequently their original adult nature, where the fairy aspect has become distinctively suited more to the Disney generation of cuteness, princesses and happy endings. The most obvious similarity between myths and folktales can be traced to the seemingly universal appeal and application of the so called heroic journey, which draws heavily on Rank’s and Campbell’s monumental research of mythology proper (a topic that will probably get its own post as well in the future). The model of the heroic journey pits either the mythic or the folktale protagonist against a foe, creating a conflict that (for the most part) finally gets resolved in the end. This heavily abbreviated notion is, however, where the similarities between myth and folktale end, since mythological storytelling reflects greater uniqueness and severity of the mythic narrative. The ideologically greatest difference that can be (paradoxically) because of its intrinsic nature most frequently overlooked is the worldview in which a particular hero lives. For each folktale hero, who achieves a local, microcosmic success, there is the mythic hero, who transcends on a more global, macrocosmic level. While the folktale hero is localized to the point that the world revolves only around his or hers microcosmos, the mythic hero is the transcultural power that affects the macrocosmos itself. There is no denying the entertainment value of folktales and transcultural symbolism of myth, but the two characteristics are much too intertwined, so this alone cannot be the distinguishing factor between the two traditions. As much as myths can be used for the purposes of entertainment, so can folktales touch upon universal issues of upbringing and its consequent phobias. Nevertheless, the mythic figures of cultural importance still cast a longer shadow. Therefore, Cinderella’s predicament shapes only her own existence, while Heracles is the Pan-Hellenic hero whose actions liberate the (progressive Greek) world from the savage surroundings. While myth provides a particular hero with particular traits, we typically find more general, “stock” characters in the realm of the folktale. There is only one mythic Heracles (Hercules, for the borrowed Roman version), yet, there are plenty of Jacks (of all trades) in folktales. What is more, sometimes the protagonist is relegated to merely a position or a title, such as the king or the princess. The second main difference can be seen, is the use of magic in folktale as opposed to skill in myth. While both traditions make use of helpers and guides (essential figures in the heroic model), the Cinderellas of the world rely more heavily on the magic-wielding fairy godmothers and their unparalleled beauty. Staying in the Greek mythic world, the Hellenic tradition was especially wary of extremes of any kind; hence the “two commandments” at the Delphic oracle: nothing in excess and know thyself. Consequently, extreme beauty that is the main attribute of many of the folktale heroines becomes a burden in the mythic world. At least for the originally (beautiful) Medusas of the world, who get raped and transfigured into monsters … or you can call them obstacles for the heroes to overthrow. (This, coincidentally, is a profound reversal from those demons such as gargoyles, which have been turned into guardians.) The two Delphic instructions especially refer to the mortals in connection to the Olympian gods. Knowing oneself is not the modern mantra of actually knowing yourself in hopes of bettering yourself. Back then this was NOT the idea that you should be all you can be, a common (and quite big a) mistake that people still make ... in hopes of connecting the great thinking of old to the modern individualism. Greeks were a lot of things, but they were still political animals. No, knowing oneself refers to knowing the limitations of mortality and consequent lower status as opposed to the gods. Thus, the mortal should not dare to rival them in any shape or form, or they will swiftly deal with such blasphemy. You had to have known yourself, so you would keep your ego in check and not fuck up … like Niobe for example, whose fourteen children ware struck down by Apollo and Artemis, since the mortal woman was too brass to point to her self-imposed greatness as the mother of more than just two “mere” twins of the goddess Leto. The Niobe example is particularly striking, since she exhibits hubris (excessive pride), another principle not to be trifled with, as well as breaking the nothing in excess rule by having her litter and raving about it. Interestingly and despite its underlying superficial character portrayal and the deus ex machina resolution, the folktale approach to storytelling seems nevertheless as popular (if not more) than myth. Where myth is labeled as fictitious and fake, the folktales are more readily taken as they are. Perhaps the Hollywood incorporation of the latter has played a large role in the mainstream acceptance of the stories, yet their underlying role in upbringing of any child may prove to have an even greater role. It is easier to accept folktales (especially as fairytales) as child-friendly, while myth occupies a more adult realm and essentially caters more to adults. (It’s a similarly underwhelming issue that comics go through because of the lack of comprehension of their subject matter.) We have to be aware that folktales as we know them now are essentially watered down versions of the original, darker stories (of the brother Grimm fame), where devourings, decapitations and mutilations were the “happy-ever-afters” of the time, representing an extreme educational and pedagogic tool that parents in the middle ages had in their repertoire. Paradoxically, myth in its truest form is precisely a story meant to teach children of the tradition of the time. Myth, however, was centered in ritual and carried a greater cultural and religious weight, so the stories were designed not merely “for all ages” but were treated extremely serious. While the original grim folktales come closer in their seriousness, the mythic narrative in its essence still desires and needs to be viewed seriously. The scientific era has, however, deconstructed the overbearing factuality of most myths of the world. While the folktale has been adopted by becoming more acceptable and “baring” to the sensitive, liberal minds of the present time, myth has in its original, ever influential form, remained steadfast in its serious resolve, which has gravely downplayed its importance (except within the original religious tradition). From a technical perspective and bearing in mind the model of simplification for amplification, we can actually be quite precise as to why folktales are so readily accepted. While the folktale characters may be less defined, this simplification is the very driving force of appeal. Through them, the (young) readers can reflect their human nature and the story allows them to (subconsciously) incorporate basic human aspects of their development. The reader becomes the hero of the story titled Less is more that s/he tries to complete through the cooperation with the characters of the folktales, where the implementation of magic becomes the wish fulfillment and the desire of children to be at the level of adults. The physical powers and mental skills of mythic heroes serve a similar purpose. We can view them as better role models, since the stress is more on hard work and bravery than reliance on supernatural aid as in folktales … but there’s plenty of passive mythic character with silver spoons far up a certain crevice, so tread lightly. After the mythic stage and the magic state, the superpowers of superheroes in comics represent the next stage in this development. As such, myth, folktales and comics are popular reads for the younger audience, yet superheroes share the same mythic “deformity” in trying to implement magic realism to the fact-oriented adult culture bereft of the natural affinity towards open-mindedness and imagination of the younger generations … It’s nice to day daydream, but reality tends to slap you upside the head, if you’re not careful. The relationship between myth and folktale is a fascinating account that requires future in-depth study, since it extends many a generation and spreads through various cultures. Such an analysis is bit too extensive, but I can briefly touch upon a story that may be the purest example of the separation of the mythic boundaries and emersion into the folktale tradition; namely, the Roman story of Cupid (the Greek Eros) and Psyche, originally found in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses or The Golden Ass. (I suggest you read the story for yourself, otherwise the following analysis could be a bit dreary.) Forbidden love in a common romantic motif that has been glorified and dispersed through Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. (Ol’ Will’s mythic underbelly is a story in itself.). The mythic core of the story in centered round the beauty of Psyche (a clear violation of the Hellenic “nothing in excess” criteria), Cupid’s love for the mortal girl (against his mother’s wishes in a typical Greek dynastic struggle) and Venus’ jealousy of her, because of which Psyche undergoes three Heraclean tasks and achieves immortality (an honor bestowed to only few morals). The folktale elements include positioning Venus as the wicked stepmother, attempting to trick and destroy her self-imposed younger foe, Psyche’s three jealous sisters, her succumbing to their will, her despair over seemingly impossible tasks and (magic) helpers rooted in the natural world, plus Cupid’s beseeching of Jupiter to overstep his bounds and not only reversing Psyche’s punishment after again succumbing to temptation but granting her immortality. Despite the fact that Zeus was the most powerful Greek god, the Hellenic gods had power over particular areas and did not meddle in each other’s affairs. Further, certain rules, such as oaths and promises were considered universal and unbreakable. Roman adaptation of such notions follows suit, in this case in Jupiter, the Roman Zeus. Jupiter’s imposition and seemingly excessive use of power for the sake of love (which was virtually nonexistent in the divine Hellenic world that the Romans have adopted) and marginalization of Venus (a prime Roman goddess) seems to suggest either some Christian influence or a less serious treatment of the “old” gods. Typically, the story places in the limelight the union of opposites that reflects the relationship between myth and folktale, soul and love, sacred and profane. A very unsympathetic reading of the story, however, sees Psyche earning everything by not only doing anything remotely worthy, but despite repeatedly failing on her “heroic quest”. Beauty, her main attribute, is held in the highest regard, while her self-perceived distress marks her as the poster child for the over-romanticized damsels in distress. On the other hand, Cupid’s unwavering love for the mortal girl is self-imposed and relates more to his own desire to break free from his overbearing mother, the divine wedding serving as the final nail in the coffin of Venus’ “vampiric love” for her son. If the story has a moral, the combination of the passive waiting for prince charming and mistrust in him, are not on the list. The only rational explanation of the overabundance of good fortune for Psyche lies in her name – meaning soul. If the soul is immortal and eternal, its place is among the gods; however, the realization of this seemingly farcical heroic journey opens another possibility and begs the question of whether or not the soul as such transcends both the mortal and the divine. The eastern notion of the divine breath revolves around the celestial exchange and the cycle of life. However, if mortal beauty becomes sublime, the gods are no longer needed, since their divine presence resides in the human. The heroic journey becomes a mere means of experiencing one’s life; however, it is this very life cycle that can inevitably lead to immortality through one’s deeds and through art. Subtly, this story moves more towards this direction, since the Roman culture (through which the Greek myth emerges) had a more pragmatic nature, while the aspect of metamorphosis in Apuleius’ storytelling (akin to Ovid’s) embraces political and satirical tones as well. This heavily abridged analysis of the story of Cupid and Psyche marks a clear shift from traditional Hellenic myths, whose charge was more cultural than political. While transformations were common in Greek myths as well (cf. Apollodorus), the main distinction of the story in question is not so much rooted in the Greco-Roman syncretism but in the emergence of a new genre that will forgo the gods as a supernatural backdrop for a more nature and magic based folklore elements. In either case, the heroic quest remains essentially the same, since its archetypal roots do not merely grasp the subject matter as its own source of imaginative power, but are in fact part of the human condition called life – the proverbial immortal state of constant change. References: Apollodorus. (2008). The Library of Greek Mythology. New York: Oxford University Press. Apuleius. (1999). The Golden Ass. London: Penguin Classics. Campbell, J. (2004). The Hero with a Thousand Faces (Commemorative ed.). Princeton: Princeton University Press. Foley, R., & Banerjee, S. (2009). Stolen Hearts: The Love of Eros and Psyche. New Delhi: Campfire. Ford, C. (2000). The Hero with an African Face: Mythic Wisdom of Traditional Africa. London: Bantam Press. Thury, E., & Devinney, M. (2009). Introduction to Mythology: Contemporary Approaches to Classical and World Myths. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vandiver, E. (1991). Heroes in Herodotus: The Interaction of Myth and History. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang Publishing. “He is the archetype who attacks all archetypes. He is the character in myth who threatens to take the myth apart. He is the “eternal state of mind” that is suspicious of all eternal, dragging them from their heavenly preserve …” (Hyde 2008: 14) The trickster is the most ominous figure to grace the mythic narrative. This endless buffoon, the proverbial black sheep, the ever-present, yet never-obvious force, represents the bottomless, childish, naive nature hidden in every one of us. Despite of these unflattering characteristics (or perhaps because them), trickster high relevance and culture hero status in myth may quite easily come as a surprise. While trickster is also a Jungian archetype, the position of this character should be elevated beyond linearly-viewed negative elements, since it represents an essential balancing component of the social sphere rather than merely acting strictly as a personal deceiver. It is precisely the fringes and the extremes of a society that become the driving force of a given tradition’s (unconscious) need for change. While this change may be both positive and negative, from the perspective of the established culture it comes as a shock. The reshaping of the status-quo and its stasis is as welcomed as the overthrowing of a king or a political party (especially from the position of the ones in charge), yet necessary and “natural” as the flow of a river or the constant flux of the universe (or the Dao, as I’ll talk about in a future post). The trickster thus becomes not the buffoon, not even the Shakespearean wise fool, but a much more elemental, magnetic force that forever remains at odds with what we may think we know. The unwanted, misunderstood fool occupies a high level in a society that is by far more foolish. Tricksters are traditionally male, reflecting the predominantly patriarchic societies from where they originated and perhaps even the masculine aspect, which the tricksters psychologically exude by their seemingly counter-cultural nature. To a large extent they can in fact be viewed as androgynous or figures beyond the gender. If the fans of Marvel’s Loki only knew of that time, when the original Norse Loki got himself impregnated in the form of a mare … for reasons, of course. We notice similar gender “swapping” and “feminization” in the greatest of heroes as well, such as Heracles and Achilles – to name the two probably most butch bad-boys of the Ancient Greeks. (I wouldn’t say that this gender swapping is the source of the current no-gender/multiple-gender liberal craze, or perhaps nonsense, but some parallels could indeed be drawn.) Androgyny reflects the initial unity of male and female, so the trickster serves as the balancing force between the two sexes/aspects of life. Trickster’s cultural domain represents the microlevel, while the gender issue reflects the macrolevel of his endeavors (and not the other way around, since gender reflects the duality found in nature, while society is nevertheless “merely” a human domain). Albeit trickster’s methods can be obscene and antiheroic, he essentially lives in a world beyond this one, so he sees things greatly differently. Trickster should not be mistaken for a Batman-like dark hero, a Joker-like antihero or just a deceitful character that makes his way through the world playing tricks on his unsuspecting victims. I mean, trickster can indeed be all of that and can play tricks on himself as well, but his essence lies in his placement between the worlds, which allows his to see everything equally beyond conceptions typical in those respective worlds. Trickster is the god that is neither human nor divine, neither mortal nor immortal; he is the force of (un)wanted chance that swoops the world like the winds or the currents. Similar, yet very different to the hero, the hybrid who links the mortal and the divine realms. Like the great minds of our times that could conceptualize the world on a higher level, the trickster is rooted in everything that we cannot see or understand. He is the messenger, the guide between the sacred (the world of the gods) and the profane (the human realm), for only he can transcend both forms. As such, the trickster is on a macrolevel much more important than the hero. While the hero saves the world from external forces from without, the trickster saves the world from within and from itself. The reason why the reader of myth for the most part places more importance to the prototypical hero, is because the hero is essentially still a human force, which means the hero is us, while the trickster is the global X-factor and monkey-wrench at the same time. (If this seems too paradoxical for your liking, it’s probably straightforward in hindsight, because explaining Daoism is even iffier.) This is similar to the way all great mythologies of the world begin with cosmogonies … the issue of humanity is strictly secondary. In other words we are not as important as our collective ego would lead us to believe. In the cosmic scheme of things, we are currently still insignificant specs … if and when we reach the “divine” level, we can talk turkey. The dividing line between hero and trickster is thus (in keeping with the Saussurian model) both clear and unclear. It is undoubtedly clear that the default hero is the epitome of positive attributes and is centered in the mundane reality in order to bring achieve positive change (bearing in mind the morally questionable characteristics of Greek heroes or less grandeur, stock-value characteristics of heroes in folktales). Even if the hero breaks new ground, s/he is nevertheless still within the world or within the status quo, while the trickster’s extreme appetites and need for change in fact place him outside of this world and mark him as a force beyond what is mundane. While tricksters are more often than not “unsuccessful” in what appears to be their intentions as their trickery fails and they are caught, it is their very actions that are productive in the long run and they tend to get their way. (Like the baby Hermes forcing his way into the Olympic pantheon despite being caught stealing Apollo’s sacred cattle or Loki devising a fish trap that essentially enables the Norse tradition to survive, yet is the source of his own undoing and entrapment). While the heroic model gives us morality and inspiration, the trickster gives us change, pure and simple. This is the very reason why the trickster occupies a higher place than the hero (whether we want to admit it or not). The champion is centrally human and reflects the human concerns and ideals, yet the buffoon is a natural phenomenon (or rather the natural phenomenon) that is part of the cycle of life. We may not like it and even if he brings death into “our” world, the trickster is the eternal force to the heroic mundane ideal. If mythology has untold secrets and hidden gems to reveal to its readers and listeners, the position of the tricksters is where the focus needs to be placed more often. The emphasis on this shaman-like character reflects a strong psychological element that contradicts the rational and the social life, since what the trickster does, is quite simply in his nature. The trickster is part of our very nature, the child in us: the instinctual, natural and (most importantly) genuine relation we have with this world, beyond the constraints of society and even beyond our own limited worldview. The trickster is quite simply the cure for the disease-ridden existence that fails to comprehend the crux and flow of the Universe. While not God, he radiates divine presence, demands attention and draws the observer in just as he takes center stage within the mythic narrative. The shock value of a trickster refers back to the basic human nature and upbringing; a child must be faced with a “shock”, otherwise an oedipal complex can plague their future life. Thus, you become aware of the other, darker, colder and harsher side of existence. Even more so, by realizing death, you can perhaps cope with it like the Buddha and you can find the middle way only by experiencing the positive and negative extremes of being. In essence, the trickster figure resonates deeper notions of our psyche and (in)directly affects our conception of where we are, what we are doing and who in fact we are. As the trickster stirs the pot of status-quo and ushers in changes that constantly keep the fire of diversity and progression going. He is the spark that (ideally) opens the eyes of others of the greater reality that encompasses all aspects of being. A culture which has a trickster acknowledges its own flaws and strives to keep the scales of natural justice and order balanced by implementing this figure as the self-scrutinizing force. This seemingly inconspicuous, controversial, extremist character marks an important change in the conception of humanity, as his actions and consequent veneration point towards our understanding of the universal balance. As the forces in the universe seem to function because of a reciprocal relationship (in a perpetual cause and effect cycle), the trickster is implemented as the “necessary evil” to uproot the ruling king who may have gotten too strong or too greedy. But the trickster does not do it for himself, but for the society which is dependent on him … whether he knows it or not. While the effect is global, the consequent lesson of trickster myths is extremely personal, because this lesson is at the level of the reader (or the listener), where knowledge is to be implemented, so that wisdom can be applied on the grander scale. References: Apollodorus. (2008). The Library of Greek Mythology. New York: Oxford University Press. Hyde, L. (2008). Trickster Makes This World: How Disruptive Imagination Creates Culture. New York: Canongate Books. Leeming, D. (2009). Oxford Companion to World Mythology. New York: Oxford University Press. Sturluson, S. (2006). The Prose Edda. London: Penguin Classics. It seems fitting that I begin with a disclaimer of sorts; namely, this isn’t fantasy storytelling, this isn’t click-bating, this isn’t philosophical shenanigans, this isn’t self-pity and it’s not a cry for help either. This is quite simply as real as it gets, so I’ll try to be as honest as my psyche will permit at this time. This is about depression … or better yet this is about my depression. As far as I’ve read about the subject in general, I’m fairly certain that other depressed people experience different emotional/psychological pain, but the general premise of this mood/state/disorder and the personal entrapment which it inevitably brings stays the same. The discussion of whether depression is merely a mood swing, a more pervasive state of mind or it falls into the (clinical) disorder category is kind of irrelevant for this brief insight into my mind, because when depression strikes, the formalistic explanations at that time really don’t matter anymore. Logic, comprehension, realization and whatever else you want to cite as means of “grasping reality” or “snapping out of it” don’t mean squat. When it hits you, you can’t find an adequate explanation of how you feel, because you are too crippled to have a discussion with yourself or anyone else for that matter about whether you’re anxious, helpless, irritable, tired, empty, suicidal or anything else that can become associated with depression. You simply feel overpowered … and in most cases in more ways than one. In a lot of ways, we comprehend the world we inhabit and the beings that we are through explanations and comparisons (associations in general). I could say that I feel the weight of the demon that is my mind, the demon that is my shadow, the demon that is my self and the demon that crawls in the social environment … and I feel each of them differently … and yet disturbingly similarly. It’s hard to explain, because I’m trying to capture the essence of what I’m actually sensing, while trying to retain a level of readability and narration. This isn’t as straightforward as for example saying that comics are to literature what MMA is to boxing. That one is easy, you can elaborate on it in logical detail and it makes perfect sense. What depression is to my mind is something completely different. The idea of sullying this attempt of a serious discussion about depression with comics (an interest of mine) may seem paradoxical to some of you or may take away from the severity of the issue, but I really don’t care. This is how my mind works: I try to (subjectively) connect everything about me and (objectively) around the word beyond me. You can’t fight the stream of consciousness of your psyche, but you can learn to float along the current of your mental river and trying your damn hardest to get over the many rapids as unscaled and dry as you possibly can … While the demon of depression is persistently chasing you. And whatever you do, you inevitably get ensnared by the demonic traps along the way. You basically succumb to the undesirable vices and destructive desires you conjure up along the more and more rapid stream of your mental river. Why do you do that? Because you can’t just sit there and do nothing. You can’t just allow the demon to devour you bit by bit … And yet, by struggling, you are in fact making the bite marks bigger and deeper. You can’t just paddle ashore, because the oars turn into snacks that you insatiably shove down your throat, in the process making yourself more obese and even more susceptible to the taste buds of the darkness that follow you. And gluttony is a particularly tasty demonic appetizer. You can’t just yell to the person you just happen to float by to help you get ashore, because they don’t really hear you and they certainly don’t see the dire predicament you find yourself in. You are just driftwood to their stability on land. Good for them, bad for you. The most distressing part about it is that this largely applies to family, friends and colleagues just as much as it does to blissful strangers, to whom you are merely a car wreck they just happen to witness … a shocking spectacle that at least is not happening to them. And that’s the other part of it: sometimes the demon of depression can be hidden right before your eyes, yet at other times it can be shockingly appealing like the dumbest film you’re even had the (dis)pleasure of seeing. It’s not just that someone will never see what’s happening to you, but sometimes they do, yet still can’t understand or do anything about it. It may not make sense to them as much as it may be confusing to whoever is reading this, but paradoxes are part of life … and I’m sure they are part of death as well, because overall experience of life extends beyond these basic dual extremes of being (or non-being) right here and right now. A lot of the issues of depression may be self-imposed, at least if you’re a person like me, you will tend to take it as such and not just attribute blame to everything and everyone around you to cater to your fragile, irrelevant and ecstatically narrow-minded ego. As much as you’re being destructive in all sorts of areas: from your relationship, career to overall experience of life in general, even this is an experience of life. It may be a shitty one, but even this self-deprecation must serve a purpose. I like to say that you can’t really know life until you experience different, extreme aspects on it, so you take the good with the bad. As beautifully mythological and philosophical as this is, we are just cogs in the machine. If we manage to become experts in a given subject, we can mostly hope to make ourselves proficient in that one field. The shock factor here is that each field is just a grain of sand on the beach of life … Which means we are individually dumb as shit and complaisant as we ever were. And that is literally and figuratively depressing. My aspirations and incapabilities go hand in hand far too often. Maybe my self-destruction and rebuilding is synonymous to the way war and peace have both respectively plagued and propelled humanity forward. Both are just temporal states and neither seems to live (or die) long without the other. A strenuous, parasitic relationship at best. Similarly, I essentially try to fight the demon within me with some sort of productivity; writing is only a minor part of it. Even if the narrative lines are crooked at best … if not torn at places. The blissfully ignorant irony here is that the damn demon is in many cases the main source of inspiration … or rather spite … not sure about that one yet. I don’t know for the love of me if ignorance of my destructive nature could in fact be called bliss, or if this dualistic comprehension of everything about me and around me has become an integral part of what I am (and cannot hope to become any more). Before I conclude this, I have to touch on something that happened a couple of years ago that I feel wasn’t understood appropriately enough. Although received with sympathy and pity, empathy (which involves deeper comprehension and connection) nevertheless flew under the radar of perception. I wasn’t the only one who was shocked when Robin Williams passed away. His suicide was in large part connected to severe depression. I rewatched Dead Poets Society, Good Will Hunting and a couple of his stand-up appearances. You can call it what you will, but the eyes never lie. While pausing the videos, I vividly remember getting chills in seeing some of his expressions or rather feeling some of the pain that was present there … at least in my own way, because what he felt was his alone to bear. What I felt was only an approximation of his darkness, as much as my describing the darkness within me expressed thought these letters is superficial at best. Having rationally though about (my own) suicide, I know very well it’s hardly a laughing matter. The ultimate negativity bias. People stray away from it because it’s hard to understand why you would end “everything”, or you succumb to taking pills that dull your senses even more. While death may be the only certainty of life, to actually cut the string of life is a whole different beast. The issue is even more crippling when neither life nor death seem to be the trajectory you are on, especially when the demon is chasing you. I don’t want to call it purgatory, because if you’re read Dante that essentially implies a positive outcome … principally just a lengthy struggle that inevitably leads to Heaven (or ends there). Ideological, the shit that’s overcome me isn’t necessarily about a positive outcome. I have accepted the waxing and waning of life in general, not just personally. It’s about not fitting in, not fitting in personally as much as socially. If you know you are different, you will have a hard time in life and in death. That’s why you feel consumed by yourself and everything around you (which can be either good or bad). And again, this isn’t a temper-tantrum of a spoiled brat who just wants to be special, for me this is very serious and very personal … and the hardest thing I’ve ever written so far … despite the fact that I haven’t even gone into specifics too much, because I’m quite simply not there yet. While all of this probably won’t change much for the time being, the only difference is that if you do find yourself is a state of mind that has been crippling you for far too often, as much as you need to find a way to live with your fear of the demon, you have to push through as times as well. When and where is up to you to act upon, if you can. Whether it’s something only you feel or whether it’s more widespread, maybe reading this diluted exposé will offer some reassurance that there are twisted people in the world … and that doesn’t necessarily mean a bad thing. Either way you take it or understand it, depression is long-lasting process. It can be very dire, but what it will become of it or what it will morph into, is yet to be seen. Thank you. A rough outline of what I discussed in my lecture at my alma mater. Some of it is rehashing, but it’s becoming an autogenic training of how to keep it short and sweet … and still retain the depth of meaning. If nothing else, it’s just for shits and giggles. Comics is a medium/art filed that uniquely combines pictures and words, two central modes of human communication. Pictures and words in comics are arranged (and merged) in such multi-layered ways that in the comics equation the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Comics convey a more complex connection between words and pictures, whereas the pictures in picture books for example generally express the same meaning as words for the obvious pedagogical reason of strengthening the meaning of what is being shown, aiding to better understanding of younger readers. The comics make use of the two basic means of visual communication known to humankind: pictures and words. Since words are just as visual as are pictures, we have to distinguish between verbal/linguistic elements and pictorial/artistic elements in comics. Comics can be called sequential art or more specifically juxtaposed sequential images. This refers to the nature of moving from one panel to another (like from one sentence to another in literature or from one frame to another in film), connecting the dots between what is being shown between two or more panels. The basic and visually most obvious comics unit is the panel, which represents a specific area or a window through which the artists try to capture a moment in time. This is not necessarily just a snapshot, but it can imply movement. We can compare a panel to a sentence in linguistic terms. Both constructions represent a structure of smaller units. The balloons (or bubbles) are the most striking, cartoonish elements, reflecting the original nature of comics as funny, easygoing stories. This especially holds true for the thought balloon and its gentle cloud-like child-friendly shape. While the thought balloon is used for indirect speech and inner monologue, the speech balloon is used for direct speech and general dialogue between characters. Words in comics are arranged in the process of lettering. In numerous cases they are not mechanical typefaces, but resemble handwriting, indicative of a more personal voice of either the character or the narrator. The caption is the “narrative box” that is often used at the beginning to establish a scene. Predominantly rectangular, reflecting a more serious voice of a character, who is often absent from the panel in which this caption is placed. While the panels can continue (bleed) one into another, they are mostly separated by the gutter, one of the most powerful elements in a comic and by far the least obvious. Gutter is simply the space between panels, but it reflects the nature of our brain, which in a lot of ways makes educated guesses and inferences from our surroundings (in light of oversaturation of visual stimuli). The “magic” of comics happens in the empty space of the gutter, because this is where the reader co-creates the story with the author. Think of it as a storytelling puzzle: the author provides some of the visual puzzle pieces, while the reader visualizes the missing ones, making the comic into the film in his/her mind. We do that with literature as well. P1 shows two panels separated by the gutter. The text without balloons or boarders reflects the narrator, while the text in the first two balloons in the right panel (through the balloon tail) points to the character Mithras. The smaller balloon points to a character, who is not present in either of the two pictures (because s/he is not important for the story itself … apart from providing a response to Mithra’s tongue-in-cheek comment). P2 uses a combination of speech balloons and captions, the latter used as Hellboy’s narrative voice. This means that the dialogue in speech balloons between the two characters here happens in present time, while the captions reflect future events and Hellboy’s internal monologue, so we get various levels of narrative flow. The complexity of this panel is extended though what I call intentional conflict. Since picture and words in a panel do not always carry the same meaning, IC can be a powerful tool for narrative complexity, as it forces the reader to look closer and really think what is happening in the given panel. IC can be context-dependent, unnoticed, partial or unwanted (a dreaded mistake). The Mithra’s example (P1) displays a context-dependent conflict, because the authors in the first panel begin describing a character that the western Christian tradition typically recognizes as Jesus. The revelation (or the joke) of the second panel is striking and conflicting with the description, since Mithras has some of the same characteristics as Jesus. IC in this case is more ideological and cultural. P2 exemplifies the sophistication of conflicting imagery. Hellboy, the dark, visually dominating, shadowy figure in the background dwarfs a seemingly feeble older man, whose pale disposition and bowed head add to the pictorial danger he seems to be facing. The dark silhouette towers over him, reflecting the fearful unknown, while the red eyes point to unnatural, even sinister nature of the creature. Since this is the first panel in which Hellboy interacts and speaks with another character in the story, the reader is also kept in the dark (pun intended) as to his intentions, resulting in greater unease and expectations. The linguistic elements, however, suppress danger in favor of Hellboy’s respect and perhaps even awe towards the old man. Conflict achieved! P3 depicts the most straightforward example of IC. The constrained verbal explanation of the emotional response of the female in this panel clashes with the powder keg of anger boiling inside of her. This is pictorially stressed by the angularly more unnatural, stronger, dangerous and darker lines that the reader immediately notices … and bears in mind, as s/he is reading the caption and slowly but surely discovering the visually powerful conflicting situation. Comicana refers to the onomatopoetic expressions, sound effects and the rest of the signs used in comics: like the lightbulb over a character’s head indicating an idea, stars indicating a blow to the head or wavy lines coming from a coffee cup indicating that the coffee in it is hot. While this can be seen as cartoonish, reading comics lacking these elements can be quite unnatural or even flat … depending on the genre and styles, of course. Context is always key. As P4 shows, onomatopoeic expressions are not just visual fillers. They can carry the story forward just as much as any dialogue can. They can reflect everything from time to space and in this case visual entrapment, creating a subtle background “noise” that carries profound emotional meaning. The captions on this page also act as thought balloons, since they reflect the child’s mental state. Because the comic in question has a more serious/philosophical theme it does not use thought balloons (as the norm is more and more). The search for happiness in P5 is an excellent example of visual complexity that only comics can display … or at least neither pictures nor words can alone convey. The ability to pictorially erase the modality/want goes hand in hand with the shock factor of the monk’s breaking the fourth wall, since metause and deconstruction of basic comics elements such as the word balloon is not the norm in most comics. The Buddhist decree to restrain oneself from desire is clearly stated here, perhaps even reinforced by the use of the light blue color, which has strong association to meditation. The so called circadian blue is further associated to alertness and this four-panel comic can certainly open the reader’s eyes (or the third eye) both through the unique use of comics parameters as well as the interplay of psychology, philosophy and mindfulness. The two characters are immediately disassociated on many levels merely through the contrast between the orange and blue. Note also the monk’s firm stance despite the man’s outburst in the first panel. Overall very simple and very effective means, but the idea behind it, its execution and reception are anything but straightforward. |
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November 2017
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