Day 12: Short Essay for Ecocriticsim

I am midway through this course and I feel as though I am lost.  The strange stranger surrounds me.  The concepts are slippery, just out of reach, yet my fingers brush by them, feeling that there is something to grab onto, something to help hoist myself up over the ledge of misunderstanding.  Just as I start to believe that I will be seated upon the plateau of knowledge, basking in the glow of understanding, the strange stranger passes my peripheral vision; shattering the illusory idea that ecocriticism can be nailed down and dissected.

Ellen Meloy, in her essay “The Deeds and Suffering of Light” divulges that she suffers from a neurological disorder which causes “’a reduction in mental acuity’” (5).  Though I am unaware of having any neurological conditions that could be clouding my understanding, I can relate to this statement:

“because there is the possibility of an abrupt slide into chronic befuddlement, I thought it might be useful to acquire some basic motor and tactile      skills, like pushing around cool, gooey paint in mindless, repetitive motions, as preparation for that freshly vacated space, that airy void between the   ears” (5).

This course is a blank canvas, stark white and waiting for an image.  As the weeks pass by, I apply “cool, gooey paint” yearning for a familiar pattern to emerge.  With each new paint that I am provided, my frantic fingers rush across the canvas.  I stand back and I am not satisfied with the blobs I have produced.  Perhaps it is the angle.  Perhaps it is the lighting.  I must come at this canvas sideways; casting aside my expectations of the image I thought I would produce.  It is time for me to abandon the rules of painting and create my own guide on how to see the world surrounding me.  Shattering categories is hard work.

How can one create a “visual aphrodisiac”? (226). For Meloy, the color red is ecstasy, passion and a signal of reproduction.  Squeezing the cold metal tube of red paint, I dab a small circle in the center of my canvas.  I create a focal point.  I create a place to fall into when the outer edges blur out understanding.  And perhaps that is the point, to abandon the notion that the “Name ha[s] to match reality, and reality [has] to be made uniform in samples, chips, and swatches” (229).  The image I create does not need to be codified to that which is recognizable.  The red circle is the truth I have created on the canvas.  It has become the place that I dwell in to seek understanding of the slippery concept of reality.

My time is spent staring at a canvas, taking shape in unrecognizable ways.  The canvas demands to be worked upon quickly, though I find myself begging for time to slow down so that I can lean into the red splashes.  I beg for the strange stranger to reveal itself, but Buell thwarts any time devoted to the uncanny.  Oppermann insists that I examine paints I have not yet touched.  Yet I find myself comforted by Meloy’s words,  “Our sense of wonder grows exponentially; the greater the knowledge, the deeper the mystery and the more we seek knowledge to create new mystery” (243).  When ideas sweep past my fingers, when the red dot comforts an unsure mind and as each theory is placed before my befuddled mind, I am comforted that it is creating a mystery. I now paint on a canvas that must be viewed sideways.

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under My thoughts, School

One response to “Day 12: Short Essay for Ecocriticsim

  1. Fascinating, Marcy. “Reduction in mental acuity” … I find myself frequently realizing these days that I have disconnected from some component of the outside world; or else, I am merely breaking through to pieces of the world that I have never connected with before, discovering for the first time that they are there. Sometimes this happens as a social gaffe, uttering my opinion in a way that offends someone, who then reacts, and I “wake up” to their reality, and my place in it, and discover that I had been encapsulated in my own head up until that moment.

    The most beautiful thing about a canvas is that it is not the only one. A blank canvas begs the existence of other blank canvasses. A lost focus begs the question of the purpose of that focus. Begs the meaning of focus itself. Have you ever found yourself walking along a dirt trail, watching the trees or mountains or insects in the grass, and realized that you had navigated the trail completely unaware that you were stepping over and around obstacles, completely without consciousness, without focus, the non-conscious parts of your brain using peripheral vision to tend to the details of not falling down? Painting can be like that.

    It’s a strange line I’m playing with a lot lately–do I live in the trail-walking way of focus, or the conscious, jarring impact of becoming aware of the world and the way I am in it?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s