Sortes Virgilianae

In Literary Theory class, professor Potolsky introduced us to a concept called "Sortes Virgilianae" which he explained (as a model) was sort of common to conversion narratives, including that of St. Augustin. "Sortes Virgilianae"  according to wikipedia, is a form of divination derived from randomly selected verses of Virgil's Aenaeid. The conversion narrative parallel would be with a reader (for instance, Augustin) who, randomly opens the Bible and finds "the perfect text" - a moment of pure inspiration.

As an honest person, I recognize this form of divination as common both in myself and in my culture. Although I don't use my religious (or secular) texts to predict the future on that metaphorical level - most religious texts contain clear prophecy - I have sought inspiration from unconsciously selected pages or verses.

I don't believe in divination of any kind, and I don't consider myself superstitious, and yet I continue to put my faith in some few religious text. Within reason (there are always a few precious moments involving decapitation, blood, guts, sex, and other fascinating, historical moments), almost any piece of scripture in or out of context can provide inspiration as either an act of obedience as a way of "knocking" as it says in Matthew 7:7 (among other places), or as a moment of meditation, aligning one's thoughts with God's. Perhaps this was the inspiration of which Augustin spoke.

I also believe in a third possibility; that God allowed/created a miracle. When one shows willingness to go to the scriptures, sometimes the instead of pure inspiration or the communication of the Holy Ghost, the scripture itself is the object of prophecy. This kind of miracle should not be expected with every attempt, but I maintain that this kind of material manifestation of divine grace can and does happen. This kind of miracle is likely also restricted to specific holy texts.

"Blood Beneath the Skin"

Earlier today I watched the final episode of a brilliant British television series called Life on Mars (named for a David Bowie song). The ending, like Shakespeare's best, left me wondering, holding something bitter-sweet and not quite solid. Again, like Shakespeare's best, this piece of pop-culture made me think deeply about why I do this to myself, and why I enjoy programs that, at moments, feel like torture.

I immediately compared this show to my previous favorite, called Wonderfalls, which it doesn't at all resemble. I weighed the two, and decided which I prefer, but I couldn't let it rest there with a simple weight. Why am I attracted to these kinds of programs, full of uncertainty and twists? A critic called Life on Mars "surreal," and when I used that word to explain it to my friend Elizabeth, she immediately tossed the whole show off as undesirable. And yet, I find that that adjective entices me. It kept me watching the show when I felt discouraged.


Wonderfalls also had that surreal quality, and a character who was probably a little mad. The madness, as the only real link, must be key to my attraction. I enjoy characters who believe wholeheartedly what they perceive, even if that perception seems like madness to others. I identify with these protagonists who embrace, rather than deny, the evidence of their senses - even senses that defy previously acknowledged reality.

I watched a movie recently called Phoebe in Wonderland (which I review at www.silverinred.blogspot.com), and found it less satisfying simply because the child, the one suffering from her imagination, had to grow up, get diagnosed, and return to a very unpleasant reality. I appreciated the film for its depth and nuance, but mourned the loss of the imaginary. With A Beautiful Mind I sympathized much less with the imaginary characters, who were quite distinctly disrupting the world where the protagonist found his greatest satisfaction.

The great battle emerges when I contemplate the source of this article's title. In Stephen King's Rose Red, Professor Joyce Reardon, who studies the paranormal, believes so completely in a deeper reality that she antagonizes her colleagues. She gives a kind of monologue at one of them, illustrated by her own blood (from some kind papercut, perhaps?) She talks about empiricism, and how so often people only believe what they see with their eyes, but underneath lies a whole different world - the blood beneath the skin.

Joyce causes problems as a protagonist (she isn't, really), as she's more of an Ahab than a Sam Tyler.  Just like Ahab, though, her white whale truly exists, and those naysayers are all wrong (Forgive the imperfect comparison. I don't recall that anyone doubts Moby Dick's existence, only Ahab's ability to catch and kill him, or his wisdom in doing so). She's mad, but she's right. Her problem lies in her cruelty and lack of proportion, and not in the strength of her ideas.

I believe in the blood beneath the skin. I believe in the evidence of senses that scientists haven't discovered yet. I believe in a world - not 1973, which I consider a mass hallucination - of spirit and power. I have chosen to jump with both feet, and my eyes open, knowing that millions of atheists consider me mad, deluded, or just intellectually immature. Not only do I believe, I intend to carry that belief with me as a kind of armor into a place where it will be dangerous. I'm going to start a life amid atheists, agnostics, and academics.

And so I applaud any character who jumps with me - who chooses to live in a world more complete, full of emotion and feeling and truth, to know among those who think they can only guess.

Bloody hell. I'll be a bloody lightening rod for the ire of the aged. Wish me luck.