Literary Analysis of Life in 2018

I have a series of ideas floating about in my head. They all seem to be loosely connected, and maybe by articulating them, I’ll see something that runs between them. I’m not confident in these yet. In fact, I’m fairly certain that I’m wrong on some things which I’ll be stating as fact. But it’s important to state things without the compulsive need to backtrack.

The Initial Vision.
Initially, I called this Mt. Nebo. In reality, I think that I should call it the Bodhisattva.
Wait, I remember why I wanted to call it Mt. Nebo.
I think that there are people, amazing people, who experience life as we do. Then they transcend that existence into a reality where things function on an entirely higher level. They cross the barrier into a metaphysical existence through a new conception of reality. In Buddhist terms, they are Enlightened, but I suppose that I mean it in a more secular way. It’s a realization of things as they are and as they are not. The radical reshaping of boundaries as a narrow slice of a 2D puzzle is suddenly an MRI slide of a 3D image. The ability to see and unsee connections and separations.
Some of these people, then, have the capacity to articulate this worldview into ideas which we can attempt to comprehend, yet the experience of this other being is experiential. Language is simply the means to achieve another state of being rather than having any value in itself. Even beautiful language, to some extent, may only be beautiful as a means of conveying, or creating, the impact or meaning within the human soul.
In Buddhism, the Bodhisattva ranks below a Buddha because while they could become a full Buddha, they choose to remain in our world due to their love. Their love is what makes them lesser, but also what makes them approachable. I suppose that I disagree with this ranking, but I’ve never been close enough to enlightenment to offer any kind of valid critique.
Where my idea of Mt. Nebo comes in.
I think that I’m standing there. Looking out into a world that I, for various failings, never enter. I feel like I can be a guide and a judge, I feel as though I can be a leader and a shepherd sometimes. But I never feel as though I am able to cross the river. I can see far into a world that I cannot experience, and I speak of it, and maybe that’s where some of this resentment comes from. But in this story, I am Moses, the people, and the force controlling them both. And yet I am locked in a perpetual iron triangle with myself.

Deconstruction
I am tired of deconstruction and I am tired of cleverness. I am tired of things which are temporary and I am tired of things which are contemporary. I am interested in the stories that achieve a kind of Platonic reality through their universality. A lot of this has been coming as I’ve thought more and more about Star Wars and how I want to rewatch the old Trilogy. But also as I’ve listened to analysis of comics and as I’ve gotten deeper into the acolytes of Joseph Campbell.
I never saw The Last Jedi, and I never plan on it. The director did a deconstruction. He did it because deconstructions are what intellectuals do. I know this because when I was an intellectual, and 13, I wrote a Sailor Moon deconstruction Fan Fiction. Because deconstructing things is clever. It is an entirely intellectual exercise. It is something which requires no heart and which requires no creation. It is the torture of a child which was lovingly brought into this world by some terribly clever Mengele who takes delight in screams.
Deconstructions can be beautiful, and they can be interesting. They can be beautiful and interesting when a deconstruction understands the fundamental meaning of something, and when the deconstruction reveals a unique truth which was already present in the work or individual. It’s not torture. It’s tough love. Deconstruction should never be easy, and I do not believe that meaningful deconstruction ever is. Deconstruction ought to be heart wrenching. We ought to offer a bit of ourselves to the flames in order to see the truth in a new manner. We should not mistake our intellectual superiority over an inspired madman to be anything resembling merit. The divine inspiration of poets is something of more than human capacity, and it should not be blasphemed lightly.
To that end, I am disturbed in the news. People want to destroy history. The present is what matters. The general forward thinking nature of the US is, of course, famous. But I am disgusted by the popularity of condemning the past. The condemnation of the western canon is shortsighted. I am reminded of the images I saw of ISIS gleefully destroying the lamassu. I imagine the stories I have heard from The Cultural Revolution. I am disgusted by the idea that current whims ought to dictate the wisdom of the past. I am disgusted that people frankly believe that their bending of universal reality to particular reliance will achieve anything. At least, in the long term.
Listening to Ryan Johnson talk about The Last Jedi was sickening and frustrating. He set out to make a movie that the fans didn’t want by simply setting out to do the opposite of what they expected. A legacy, a message, a universal, and so much more was sacrificed on the altar of cleverness. I’ve spend a lot of time lately listening to various critical analysis of the superhero and science fiction genres. To a lesser extent, even fantasy. I’m fascinated by the depth of analysis that goes in, and so much of it seems to be articulating my vague impressions.

Association
Connecting both of these is the problem of association. I have a hard time viewing works as works anymore. They are symbols of some other thing. A work is a politicized act, and this seems to be a cruel and unjust fate for any art. I do not know that I would argue that all art ought to be useless, as Wilde did. However, I feel that art is that against which we can measure ourselves, on some level, and to become more. Art is, in a way, demonstrating that distant land that we can never reach. This can be unpleasant, this can be difficult. That’s a part of our story. I find that I cannot focus. And part of it is the smart phone. Part of it is the emotional disconnect. Part of it is being older. And part of it is that I can no longer appreciate things as things. I am compelled to find a context. And this is miserable and unforgivable.

Narrative vs. Descriptive analysis.

I find that as I look at my life, I am more motivated to do things when I accept a narrative and place myself in the center of a story. In fact, the “story” around my life collapsing in 2009 may have been more devastating to me than the Rachael situation ever was. Narrative motivates and inspires and guides. It clears away uncertainty. Yet, it is also, very often, WRONG. And it impossible to verify a narrative when in the depths of it. The power of a narrative, and the power of narrative art, is that it allows us to briefly become other people. And, by doing so, we go on our own hero’s journey and return to our somehow-semi-static-selves and bring back the boon to improve our lot in life. I am torn these days between my desire to craft another grand narrative for myself versus my desire to continue as I am, obsessively seeing the truth. There’s a fine line between confidence in ones self and a narrative. I’m not sure where to go or what to do in this department.

There’s a lot more I’d like to say, but it’s late and I’m sleepy.

Goodnight.