Tuesday, December 1, 2009

In which ferocious glory is ground into a soggy mash of language

Apotheosis The Vug

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."
- Winston Churchill


Episode IV
In which ferocious glory is ground into a soggy mash of language

Prolegomenon

We all recently passed through a date which I consider to be one of the most profoundlysignificant of the greater holiday season. It is a day of celebration - a day on which to give thanks for the great things in life. I am referring, of course, to the shared birthday of Samuel Clemens and Winston Churchill, celebrated by us all on November 30th. These were great men, and the world is a better place for them. A happy Twainhill day to all.

Chapter I
Guv Eht Sisoehtopa
A (poorly) coded message

I have been asked what "apotheosis the vug" means. A part of me - one of those parts of me which no one really likes - feels as if to simply give an explanation would be to destroy the mystery - the romance, if you will - in a most base and despicable way. It would, in short, lower us. It would be much like showing the ghost (in the machine) in the horror movie - the choice of over enthusiastic and under talented film makers which invariably eradicates all hopes of genuine fear. So, instead of a soul-crushing explanation, I present instead a brief catalogue of an assemblage of parts:
I discovered the word "apotheosis" when I first read William Faulkner's "The Sound and the Fury." It occurred (at least most strikingly to me) in an exchange between Quentin and Mr. Compson. It unfolds, in part, as follows:

you are not thinking of finitude you are contemplating an apotheosis in which a temporary state of mind will become symmetrical above the flesh and aware both of itself and of the flesh it will not quite discard you will not even be dead and i temporary and he you cannot bear to think that someday it will no longer hurt you like this


The word "Vug" I discovered in conjunction with my colleague in heroic absurdity Mr. Joshua Elwin Gaillard Smith Esq.
At some point I became enamored of one Mr. Douglas Hofstadter (this is not to say that I have since ceased to be enamored with the man). Due in part to my several attempts to make it through any one of his books, I took during my stay in germany a low level philosophy class titled "Theorien zum Wesen der Erkenntnis und zum Verhaltnis von Geist und Koerper."
At the risk of alienating the religious, I will admit that I am fascinated by the naturalizing of humankind by neuroscience and consciousness studies. In my defense I do hold to the truism taught me by my epistemology professor that the most devastating line of argument to take with any strict behaviorist is to look them deeply in the eye and declare "you are wrong and you know it."
And with that, as I tell many of my students, you have all the tools you need to solve the problem (except, as many of them note, any justified, pragmatic, or genuine motivation to seek the answer out).

Chapter II
Orphan's Thanksgiving
yellow journalism

At my fathers house the day after Pilgrim's Thanksgiving we celebrate Orphan's Thanksgiving. Although, much to our (and Sun Tzu's) shame, we were precluded from bathing in turkey blood this year by the rashness of our foray into the turkey's home, the greatest holiday celebration of the year (a distinction won due to its marked lack of disconnect between any supposed significance and the celebration itself) was a striking success.
The food included standard Thanksgiving fare, from both deep fried and rotissary prepared turkey through gravy and "heart attack" mashed potatoes to sweet potato orange bombs and traditional holliday beer. The guest list included (but was not limited to) the Stalwart Gregory "Large Gulp" Whitney, the aforementioned peripatetic Mr. Smith, the charming and romantic Titus Cain and his new assistant Monsieur L'incissor, and the ever irrigative Mr. Hank t. Cat. For coversation topics we were supplied with voluptuous peruvians, psychosis in young children, exploits in fermentation science, the prolonged and dramatic unveiling of antipersonality (featuring such diction as "lubricant," and "parade"), and organic farming techniques. To close the evening many of us visited the local kiln firing for beer and discussion of clay types and heat flows. There is nothing quite as magical as Orphan's Thanksgiving.

Epilogue

Although my crypto-czar father would be ashamed of my coding, and I have deftly side stepped all those alleged "purposes" I sutured to the underthigh of this blog in its neonatal state, we will be content with this instantiation of vugal apotheosis as is. My (likely vain) hope is to gain enough control over technology to have some arts ready for internet before the next full blog. Until then, though, take care of yourselves, your loved ones, and your deeply entrenched convictions regarding a robust ontology of numbers.