The most recent JCF announcement made me realize that the next Austin RoundTable is scheduled for this Saturday, the 31st. Since I had completely forgotten about that date, I had already been planning on having the next RoundTable on June 7th. The formal announcement will be sent shortly. If you are not already on the mailing list, and would like to be, please send me an e-mail at priscilla@mythicthinking.org.
PS, the next topic is “literary alchemy.”
Robert Johnson, among others, cite the Grail myths - particularly Parzifal - are the myths of the modern, Western psyche. The Grail myths tell of a journey somewhere far away to find the boon of the Self. I call these masculine myths, any myth that sends the hero on a major quest to find his boon. The question I ask myself is: What is the feminine myth? My answer is that a feminine myth is one in which the hero either defends homebase (Harry Potter) or - more applicable to modern psyche - establishes and maintains roots. This means that she must marry, start a family, establish a living, etc. So what myth drives modern women? I believe it is Pride and Prejudice. Through the characters of Darcy and Elizabeth, Jane Austen shows us to be discriminating about whom we marry, encourages us to marry for love - bonus if he’s rich - and then to establish a living. Most of the women I can think of are searching for a Mr. Darcy, an engaging gentleman, and often wind up with Mr. Collins, a real doofus. So when the time comes, after years of wallowing in unhappiness, they leave and try again. What they fail to distinguish is that their Mr. Collins is really Mr. Darcy, but the power of animus projection always gets in the way.
Another way to regard P&P is that it is a feminine version of Beauty and the Beast. The masculine version is the one we all know - the Beast brings Beauty into his castle and must convince her to fall in love with him. He rips her from her family and places strict conditions upon her seeing them, swearing that his life depends upon it. P&P shows us something else: Elizabeth is at the age to marry and must find a suitable husband to secure her happiness. She does not kidnap him, but expects them to love each other based on their natural traits. Like Beauty and the Beast, Elizabeth has to learn to see beyond Darcy’s initially snobbish exterior to get at his good-intentioned interior. He affords her the room to make that conclusion on her own, rather than forcing it upon her.
In the other direction on the literary timeline, the last few years have brought us another version of Beauty and the Beast: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Twilight, both involving a romance between a girl and her vampire. Instead of the vampire wearing his external bad-behavior like a fir coat (Beast) or a stiff-collared suit (Darcy), the vampire wears his mythology and known habits for bloodsucking. Both Angel and Edward refrain from feeding on humans - Angel robs the blood bank and Edward feeds on animal blood - and both fight against their natures. The girls fall deeply and madly in love and the ensuing drama is about protecting their lives. Both girls are high school age and are about to graduate as of right now where I stand in their stories (Season 3 of Buffy and early into the third book of Twilight).
Apparently this falls under the archetype of the demon lover, something I will be exploring further in the coming weeks.
They always say to not get too attached to your stuff, because it is, afterall, stuff. It’s not a part of you, it’s not necessary for your survival, and most of all it shouldn’t define who you are. That’s all well and good, but what about forming an attachment with your stuff? Not the kind wherein you are defining yourself by it, but the kind where you look at your stuff as more of a good friend? Such is the life of the isolated introvert (me), who goes to the trouble of naming my toys and thinking they have little consciousnesses of their own.
One such toy is always my car. Ever since my first car, I have always had names for them: the 88 Mazda 323 was Connor, the NIN-mobile (after my then-current obsession with both The Highlander and Nine Inch Nails); the 89 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cierra was named Gandalf, because he was old and grey; the 90 Ford something-or-other was named Piece of Shit, because that’s very much what it was. And then I bought my first new car: a 04 Chevy Aveo. After a Livejournal survey, I named it The Space Egg, because the car is sort of egg-shaped. I have lots of good memories of that car. It had little in the way of abnormal maintenance; it was hardly a bother. I was driven away from my wedding in that car - it even matched my dress. My husband and I shared it for a couple years until he finally got his own.
I recently had to say goodbye to this old friend. We were driving down a curvy hill on a wet day and lost control. Poor Space Egg got totaled. I wasn’t hurt, but Space Egg went to car heaven in the process. They could have fixed it right up, but the repairs were far more than the re-sell value of the car and would have left me out of a deductible. I guess, it’s sort of like putting a pet to sleep, something I haven’t done yet and hope to avoid at all costs. I had the option of fixing him right up, but let him go instead.
So my Space Egg doesn’t define who I am. I don’t picture myself under any circumstances as a white, bubble sedan. But he was my friend, my companion, and my car-pool buddy. He knew my driving nuances, and I knew his.
Now I’m driving a new car, an 08 Toyota Yaris (sedan) named The Blue Meanie, because the paint is a really badass blue. I sort of feel as though this is the “rebound” car, but that’s another conversation for another day.
Friends appear in strange places, and it is difficult to gauge when one will appear and where. And it always sucks when they leave.
Goodbye, Space Egg. You will be missed.