dannydmc

I'm feeling a bit embarrassed. I've read my last few journal entires over on here and I'm coming to the rather sobering conclusion that....I'm an intellectual. I've suspected it for years, true, but I've railed against it with all my might for fear of becoming one of those pretensious blowhards who sit around coffeeshops all day, smoking cigarettes, having 'deep' conversations and really having no idea how people really live of being able to communicate with those of us who appreciate Friday Night Fish Frys, Polka Dances, and a good cold beer.

Shit.

Next thing you know, I'll be wearing a beret and smoking unfiltered cigarettes! Woe!



Further Embarrassment: I'm thinking of reading James Joyce.

I have claimed to hate Joyce since my stay in Ireland. Its difficult to live in Ireland for any length of time and not feel the pressure to read the "Greatest Irish Writer of the 20th Century", and yet I was able to stave off the urge. You see, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" was part of our curiculum; required reading. I think I got through the first chapter or two before throwing the entire work across the room in disgust.
"And down the road baby Tucus saw a Moo-Cow", I can hear myself hollering, "what the hell is this crap!?"
Oh yes, "A Portrait of an Artist" quickly found a place right next to "The Great Gatsby" (once decribed by my cousin, perfectly as, "Nothing just a god damn book about the god damned rich, pissing and moaning about their damn rich problems; and they all deserve a place against the wall the day the Revolution comes!" Ah, Tom; bless my Brother/Cousin) as literature I absolutely refused to read.
I once walked through a Barnes and Noble and read the first page to my Mother, emphatically muttering my disgust and taking some pleasure as she rolled her eyes and said "Yah, thats pretty bad. My God"

The truth, however, wasn't that the writing style offended me that deeply. No, it wasn't that at all. The real root of my irritation, and I've only told this to a friend or two, is that the book scared me.
Yes, it scared me. Down right terrified me.
It was written about me.
Or, at the very least, the main character, Stephen Dadalus, reminded me so much of my self that is was truly uncomfortable. At that point I'd yet to really come to grips with who I'd been in Middle and High School and would often take intellectual (and sometimes physical) flight from any reminder of the horrid "16-year-old-self" who I thought still lurked within me somewhere (He does, actually. Although we get along better now. He actually was, and is, a poor little kid who just wanted to be understood, after all).

A few years later I started reading Joseph Campbell and became enthralled; the man was brilliant and he has since become one of my heros (finding a ranking place up there with my Father, Robery LaFollette, Teddy Roosevelt and RFK. Good company, I'd like to think). The only problem with the good Dr. Campbell is that he was an unmittigated Joyce fanatic; his first published work was a Skeleton Key to Finnegan's Wake.
"Well, no one's perfect" I thought when I discovered this.
But the more I read of Campbell, and the more I read his glowing and touching talks about Joyce (It would seem that Joyce had a huge transforming effect on the young Campbell; oddly enough, the same effect that JC had on me!) I began to wonder.
So, I'm going to take the plunge and try to read either Ulysseus or FInnegan's Wake. I'm leaning towards Finnegan's Wake, despite its complexity, simply for the fact that Stephen Dadelus is no where to be seen in it. Although I may just bite the bullet and take Ulysseus out from the library and see if my alterego is a little bit easier to stomach now that I've made some effort at reconciliation with my past.

Another Indication of joining "Intellectualhood"

I was driving around today, looking for a gift for my Dad's birthday which was last week (I'm going to see him in a few days, and can't wait! Anyone who's read my journal has picked up on the fact that I'm very close to my family; and my Father is one of my heros. Yes; a bit embarrassing at the age of 25, but there you go) When I let my mind float back to Middle School and High School; I've been thinking about those years quiet a bit lately. The other week I was unpacking soem boxes and found one of my journals from thos years; I was equal parts bemused, horrified, and heart broken to read some of what I'd written.
Anyway, it suddenly hit me that, roughly around 6th grade, I'd fallen in love with Artemis.

*blushes*

Ok, let me explain that a bit more. Please.....before you roll your eyes and send for the doctors in nice white coats.

I've been reading Mythology since I was a young kid (as I recently wrote about in Societyspliar's journal actually) Now, when you read a lot of this stuff, you begin to find stories that you enjoy more than others, of course; and you also find that certain Gods of Goddesses appeal to you more than others.
For years I'd always been rather fond of Apollo and Athena. Looking back at it, this seemed loaded with meaning; but thats entirely different post.
It was about 6th or 7th grade though that I began to discover Artemis.
It was a few months later that I actually met her. This Artemis-in-the-Flesh actually went by the name of Donelle (and what a name there! Its an old Irish name, the female version of Donal and means "Ruler of the World; the name suited her and still does, actually), but I wasn't the least bit confused as to what she really was. Not one bit.
I fell, and fell hard. About as hard as a 12 year old boy can, and if anyone reading this can remember back to that age, you know that its pretty damn hard.
I chased that girl for 5 years; and just like Actaeon who had the same difficulty thousands of years earlier, she ripped me to peices. I suppose, when you think of what I was projecting onto her, there was no other way; we had our roles to play out, and she played hers with an impressive relish.
I really can't hold it against her; I was the driving force there, and there must have been a part of me that wanted, in fact, needed it to happen that way. I was a real bitch to myself back in the day
The odd thing is, however, that that all happened about 10 years ago; and I don't really think that I knew I was over it all until a few months ago! I'd stayed in contact with this girl off and on over the years and she ended up inviting me out for New Years Eve; I agreed, although a part of me was scared that I still harbored some of the same feelings for her that I'd proudly set aside after High School.
I really hadn't any need to be worried. We had an alright time, but I still remember coming home, looking at my sister and exclaiming "I really don't know what I ever saw in her."
Jen's response: "Finally!"

So, in closing, it would seem that I've managed to become an intellectual over the past few months; or, at the very least, am coming to terms with and allowing my intellectual side out. I'm still going to have to watch him, though; no matter what, I'm still going to enjoy my Polka Dances, Country Music, and Fish Frys! Also, I'm trying to quit tobacco (don't even get me started on that one) and I can't afford to start smoking unfiltereds now!