The 'Coy' and 'Quaint'

Today in class I got thinking about a segment from the film Adaptation when "sparagmos" and dismemberment by dogs came up.

Donald Kaufman: Anyway, listen, I meant to ask you, I need a cool way to kill people. Don't worry, for my script.
Charlie Kaufman: I don't write that kind of stuff.
Donald Kaufman: Oh, come on, man, please? You're the genius.
Charlie Kaufman: Here you go. The killer's a literature professor. He cuts off little chunks from his victims' bodies until they die. He calls himself "the deconstructionist".

This is the stuff that men, the rapists and pillagers, come up with since the times of Ovid. Even the nice, pious guys like Saint John lose control over themselves, and who's fault is it? In John's case, he thinks it's his fault after the deed is done because he punishes himself by becoming bestial, which is the nature of raping and pillaging, and walking on all fours. On the flip side Frye might say it's the woman's fault in that "her policy of lying is advantageous to the author...craft and fraud is the animating spirit of the comic form" (74) and prolong the current adventure or creates another challenging adventure which the characters are "threatened by disaster" and yet they get away. By Frye calling this misadventures 'comic' this makes me think that the nature of 'Romance' is assembled by an accumulation of comedic happenings. With this said in "A Pagan Hero and A Christian Saint" the first sexual act happens before the end which Frye says should be postponed "at least, until after the birth mystery in the plot has been solved." (72-73) In this case what would we call "A Pagan Hero and A Christian Saint"? I surely didn't find it romantic nor comedic. More allegorical or dramatic.

With all this said I'll point out one last passage from Frye, page 77, who shows Rosalind's character from Shakespeare's As You Like It; "Her remark at the end of the fourth act might be a motto for such heroines: 'I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him.'" This points shows true in APH&ACS in that there's an apparent death and the violated woman after having been shoved off a cliff was saved by God who "'bore me up, so that I came to no harm." (59) That makes Frye's contention fit in a bit better.

A Displaced Fairy Tale: Reworked and Rather Realistic

Before I get to the displaced tale and augmented adaptation there are some other tidbits to should stick in our back pocket.

The Necessities of Romance: (1-Primary, Basic//2-Peripheral, Secondary)

1-Happy ending, quest, apparent death/last-minute substitution, revelation/remembrance/apocalypse,

2-Marriage/sex, misogyny, cross-dressing, birth and attempt to kill/adoption/exposed infants, senex/wisdom, intoxication/hypnotism, pirates, oracles, violence/rape, idyllic, seasonal cycle

Romantic lingual mantras (well, something to think about at least):

Chaste/Chase[d], Naive/Knave/Knive, Wooed/Wood, Eros/Arrows

Art:Nature::Heaven:Earth

The Displaced Tale

There is a farmer living the middle of the state somewhere in a valley who bears a plot of farmland, a crop providing immense sustenance for the immediate area distributing produce such as corn, potatoes, carrots, and lettuce for a small taste of what’s in store. The value of his assets grew so quickly that he established a beautiful country home along with his fruitful countryside. Life was good, complacently good until one summer day when doing rounds in his large garden he found a single dandelion and without hesitation picked it from the ground because he doesn’t like this particular flower knowing it’s essentially a weed. In the business it’s a rule of thumb: mow it if you want to grow it, pluck it or you’re stuck with it. This specific particular dandelion was dead so without panic and failure he brought it straight inside his house and threw it in furnace so it couldn’t spread like wildfire. All he could think was ‘be agile and be nimble, it’s fragile and it’ll kindle.’ Then somehow enlightenment came upon him, he thought about how much his business ran his world and what needed to change. The dead flower’s spherical shape of fluffy seeds reminded him that he doesn’t have enough fluff in his life, and with all that fluff he will be able to fly like any other dandelion sprout. His life is too rooted and weighed down so of course the first thought is to lighten up and get out in the world. And in doing so, naturally he grabs some cash and lightens his pockets by going to town with it [the relatively nearby mountain towns for starters]. Then as any other dandelion does well, he met a lovely, petite blonde lady who he loved verily and spread his seed. In due time she had a son, and together they three permanently settled in their isolated estate for many years and lived in prosperity. The farm’s production increased each year along with the health and growth of their son. He became stronger and smarter until one day near the end of summertime, easily the hottest season in recent memory, the boy was overcome with an unusual sense of curiosity about the outside world beyond home on the range.

So naturally, after home school while harvesting the corn, he asks his dad what he wanted to be growing up. His dad jokes that he only ever wanted to be ‘stalk broker,’ but assures his son understand that there are finer things in life than your job. He suggests that his son find a fine girl and leave the valley behind for some time to do so. His last words were, “When you take off that’s when everything will ignite.” The boy wanted to talk more over supper, and that evening he asked his mom what she wanted to be when she was younger. She instinctively joked that she wanted to be fireman, but then admitted that she just wanted to find true love and maybe also once wanted to be a ski bum is all. She looks over and winks at her worried hubby then utters, “By the way honey this corn is uncomfortably delicious. Its sweetness might keep me up all night! Oh, and honey bee please tell more about what you and your father have talked about.” The boy talks of plans to find a wife and stuff, plans he’s plotted since their prior chat. His father suggests that if he leaves so soon then he do it for the three winter months and return to his duties on the farm come the fourth month whether he has a wife or not. On a warm November day the family went to town for business, to distribute their crop and drop their son off in one of the mountain towns to travel for three months with two full pockets and one small goal.

Unfortunately for much of the winter over much of the land there wasn’t much snow buildup. The winter months came and went, but their typical climate didn’t carry with it and the lack of moisture imminently lead to a drought early in the spring sparking a forest fire nearby a surrounding mountain town which alarmed life on the farm. The son came home soon after, and drought had seemingly stricken his quest and exhausted his thirst for love. The luck wasn’t there, and this trend continues and then one day a flash wildfire threatened some homes in a mountain town forcing much of its community into the nearest valley. Since there was nowhere else to go aside from the plot’s perimeter a small mass of townspeople came to farmer’s home asking for temporary aid. The mom wasn’t too happy with these developments because she hasn’t even got the chance to catch up with her son who has his eyes locked on a pretty girl in the small crowd who catches him staring. As for the dad, for some reason all he can think about is a particular flower and without debate offers his hospitality. Although the family didn’t have enough beds to go around they made makeshift mattresses with resources such as sacks of potatoes, hay bales, and pelt blankets, things of that sort. The boy expresses to his mother his intrigue for this particular girl, but the mother disagrees and extends his comparison;

“She’s just dandy, mom, just dandy like the flower.”

“If she’s a dandelion my dear then she’s a weed and her kind only spreads like wildfire.”

“This sounds like dad’s story, but it’s like negative instead.”

“Well she and her posse are here exactly because of that fact, and now somehow she’s your love? You had three straight months for sport, and now that you’ve come all the way home here is where you’re going to start playing, in front of your mother who hasn’t seen you in three months?”

“Mother, I’m not arguing with you and do I have to remind you that beside those three months we spent my entire life together. Let’s just get a bed ready for her, please.”

“Well then she’s getting a cot stuffed of that awful sweet corn, not potatoes like the others. If you let her sleep in these conditions then I’ll not question her any longer.”

“At least give her extra straw.”

“That’s fine, she’ll need it.”

They halt their bargaining and go greet the pretty girl who allows the mother to show her to bed where she’s insured that her cot is ‘as comfy as peas in a pod.’ Then the next morning after everyone was awake and eating breakfast the mom asked the pretty girl how she’d slept.

“Not well, my back is quite stiff and my dreams were a little eerie.”

“Ah, well I’m so sorry to hear that. There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.” She concludes in concession to the wishes of her son who is summoned over.

He anxiously approaches the pretty girl and timidly asks is she’d like to hear a corny joke.

Possessed at the approach

"A friend of mine, at the beginning of his teaching career, was faced with teaching a 'creative writing' course to students of very limited literary experience. One of his devices was to give them a Grimm fairy tale and tell them to displace it, turning it into a plausible story in which every detail of the original world be accounted for." (Frye, 69)

Since the beginning of these classes I've been obsessed over this 'sea of stories' concept. There is a sea of stories from which we may partake, and each sip tastes different, a unique sedimentary flavoring. Surely we've all heard one story from two different people [who may or may not know one another], although individual storytelling ability [and stories themselves] cannot be duplicated. A story is a momentous occasion because much of the story is unconventional in and of a specific rendition. Uniqueness is embedded within individual interpretation and such such features of communication as nuance, emphasis, abridging, addition, etc. These variables are all essential when composing a story and, according to the brief meat and potatoes of the argument, denies the ability to precisely recreate any story. In this case, to recreate a story's unique nature is to duplicate a storyteller altogether; and this is what I feel is our theme when telling our displaced fairy tale. What's funny is it feels like my classes are overlapping, as all stories do. It's like they're sharing the same sea, but each course leaves a similar salty residue on the tip of my tongue. Traces of heard, word-of-mouth remembrances come out in every class, but the quote above really got me thinking. This is me, I'm in a fiction 'creative writing' class so I assume the role as the student 'of very limited literary experience.' There's also the fact that I sometimes lose sense for each of my classes from feeling in that sometimes they overlap because they are ultimately and intimately associated. Class stories, lessons, mantras, etc. routinely complement everyday life whether in class or not, yet when I have to catalogue what I've learned then that information inevitably indistinguishable. Subject matter to comprehension is as the senses to synesthesia. It all bundles and blends together. Like...those who hear my voice on paper get a taste of what I feel, sniffing out the intended vision and eat up what I'm saying; or I'm just talking out of my ass. Nevermore, now for the sake of argument, if I used the story [from the previous blog] without edit and turned it into creative fiction class then my professor would love it. The problem is that the story is inadequate for our class on romance, the one in which the assignment was given. The story's not written right, it's too romantic and needs less of what I'll call 'beauty beef.' Don't: rewrite the taste of the sipping pond by dipping your roots drooling of organic fuel despite admitting to it's soiling from pissing in the pool. Do: write a realistic story. Leave the narrative bare-boned; it'll go 'he said, she said,' and contain very little of 'he saw, she saw.' As derived from Frye and said in class, get rid of that 'fairy tale language.' That's where the quote above applies, because this sounds like an assignment for the wrong class. Yet, maybe it's the exact assignment I need to get my fundamental storytelling down and facts straight. That's where the remnants of another oral traditions course will aid; placing everything in sequence. What I've come to understand is this displaced story should try to sound like the others' in class. So my goal is to adapt a story that anybody else could conjure, but come showtime I'm going to let the story speak for itself. When it comes down to it I'll expect the audience to recognize a story's origin yet let the language separate itself from the sea we share.

Displaced Fairy Tale Romance

Based on what? The Princess and the Pea & The Well of the World's End

Needs which motifs?

3 minutes

Far, far away there is a promising place, a magical land, in which there lived at that time a most ideal family. Aleif is the father and keeper of the crop, a farmer by trade, consumer of exploration, and connoisseur of adventure. His beautiful wife Ally has gone great lengths to the purchase, beyond reasonable strengths to be with her person of choice. These two loved one another dearly, and thought life couldn't be better, that the world was at their fingertips. Until one midday an unbearable late spring heat hit their countryside beating their backs and socking the crops, devastating the cultivation as a sudden suffocating dust storm. Soon after this rich land has been stricken by drought, abhorring any attempt at agriculture. The espoused sought out water and for new places, their thirst together was too precipitous. For seven days they traveled, from the vastest valley's unmapped grounds to the highest mountain peaks around, and they found within no nook not one such brook. Then, on the eighth day, they gave up. They lost hope, they thought this was a new age, a blank page, but no dice. Instead they missed their dreams, lost their magic touch, as if they never even took any ink and put it between their life story's seams. They think and together outrage at their wisdom of the world's cruel rules as if they couldn't escape the sincerity of vulgarity. Then one day they saw true with clarity that they would go somewhere never thought of before, to leave for nowhere. They're stuck chasing a destiny, somewhere, but then together losing it in that decisive moment they realized that their destiny isn't somewhere else. It's right here and now, put it not nowhere but now here. Their last path has come to pass because it's not where you're going but who you're with. Tender footed knaves chasing one another through the woods in romantic escapades. And they verily loved one another. Then, in no time on their deserted path they stumbled an oasis, paradise to most pairs of eyes. It's greenery goodly glares of divinity and streams' soothing sound lends the sight sublimity. Down to the river they went to quell their thirst, for a quench here to stay and the stench washed away. While washing themselves...uh huh

Then what happens? (Spoilers):

-Aleif and Ally celebrate their providence and procreate, they then try on and make fun of one another's garments

-Ally the faithful dies (some time) after her baby is born, who is called Lance/Girl

-Aleif, her loving and honorable husband, becomes bitter with the world although he has a new son to raise, who he raises well and teaches him all the tricks of the trade

-Aleif mourns until he meets a spellbinding and vulturous woman, called Morgan the mage, whose plumage is too pretty to see clearly through her deceit. Once Lance/Girl has come of age Morgan gives him a cup made of glass and riddled with holes as a sieve. Lance asks his stepmother of this nonsense, and she bids him that he leave and not come back unless he brings a girl or a cup full of...his tears?...She then casts him out.

-On his quest Lance is stricken with the same bad luck on the road and concedes as his parents once did, then he comes upon a castle. Inside he is asked to stay by the maiden who Lance thinks may be a princess. Luckily he brought a pea with him to test and see if she's a princess knowing good and well that their royal kind are sensitive to even the slightest of uncomfortable sleeping conditions.

-She can't sleep well, and he knows so good and well. He asks for her hand, and she accepts.

-They return to his father's land.

vulgar, idyll, Alcestis, plumage, nekid, phallocentric

Stealing Scripts

Much alike how stories are described in Rushie's novel, stories are thrown around within seas of people. When we're young our parents tell stories, some you remember while others are sifted from your sea of knowledge. Frye with regards to psychology contends,'"transactional" therapy, we are told that we take over "scripts" from our parents which it is our normal tendency to act out as prescribed and invariable rituals, and that all possible forms of such scripts can be found in any good collection of folktales." (57) As kids we stow away the good stories in our head, and then they're there for forever to tell to whoever. As we grow older we meet lots of other people who we know because they tell us of their tales. As adults we see these stories on display, developing and fraying. They're all around everyday, the stories you know from your childhood, and you find other ways to keep the lot of stories in play by the sea of associations.

In this chapter Frye is explaining the context and tradition of romance. Frye quotes Milton and agrees that within romantic language there is a sense "where more is meant than meets the ear." (59) This supports the notion of romance having an allegoric nature, and ocean of notions. Within the realm of allegory and the romantic [happy ending] structure there is still sometimes a blur referred to as the '"symbolic spread," the sense that a work of literature is expanding into insights and experiences beyond itself...'

I'm going to break off from the quote here for a moment. Here I want to incorporate another person I know who is traveling through Chile to Peru as an exchange student. His character is full of insights and experiences beyond himself. He's full of bullshit, it's his bread and butter. Many call him a pathological liar, but the bottom line is he's a hell of a storyteller. His new adventures of awesome epicness are churned out like clockwork. "Got hit by a car last week and had to shake that shit off." Or "Then, f#&*ing dude I won 800 bucks last night, we were at the bar and I bought a round of drinks for the house and threw the rest of the cash in the street." These type of tales seldom strike me as believable or romantic, but they are full of symbolism and realism. Though, in our context here is realism present in his symbolism?

Next the end of the quote says, '...The symbolic spread of realism tends to go from the individual work of fiction into the life around it which it reflects: this can be accurately called allegorical. The symbolic spread of a romance tends rather to go into its literary context, to other romances that are most like it in the conventions adopted.' (59)

This friend of mine has conventions adopted from the world around, he's inheriting those stories as we do when we're younger hearing bedtime stories from our parents. Are his hyperbolic storytelling tactics worth merit, his shared imagination and ad libbed fibs? Are these fair game and intelligibly allegorical? Are hyperbole and dishonesty analogous or is there merit his shared imagination and ad libbed fibs? I don't think I have an answer to these. There is a very fine line between allegory, dishonesty, symbolism, and context, and I find it hard to believe that language ever escapes context. My answer to whatever I'm asking as Frye would say "where more is meant than meets the ear" quothed Milton.