<div class="page side-photo"> <article> <div class="image" style=" background-color:#fff; background-image:url(/uploads/53ce66eb9fc55.jpg); "></div> <div class="container" style="background-color: #fff;"> <header style="font-family: Lato; color: #000;"> <h1>Half-Sick of Mere Spooky Shadows at a Distance </h1> </header> <!-- /header --> <div class="main"> <p class="summary" style="color: #000;"></p> <p class="byline">Karissa Alcox</p> <p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">"The real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be interested in realities and not in imitations," said Plato in The Republic.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span>"Or when the moon was overhead,<br>Came two young lovers lately wed;<br>'I am half-sick of shadows,' said<br>The Lady of Shalott” (via Tennyson)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span>"spukhafte Fernwirkung," exclaimed Einstein, whimsically describing Quantum Entanglement as "spooky action at a distance"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I don’t know if the Lady of Shalott was supposed to know anything about Plato, but I can’t help but hope that she did. We all know Plato’s Cave Allegory: humans sit facing the wall of a cave, watching as their own shadows, and the shadows of animals pass in front of them. To them, the shadows are the only reality. It is the task of the enlightened to show reality to those obsessed with reflections, to those who believe the shadows are reality. The shadow metaphor was a favourite of Plato, who also famously banned poets from his Republic (see Book X<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/1497/1497-h/1497-h.htm" style="font-family: Georgia;"></a> if interested), for creating “mere shadows” and distracting from reality. Poets are not only useless, they are contaminating.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">For those of a literary disposition, the Lady of Shalott offers a much more compelling story. A beautiful woman is trapped at the top of a tall tower, and cursed so that she may only view the world through the reflection of a mirror. Bit by shadowy bit she falls in love with Sir Lancelot, watching his fleeting reflection from a distance. At this point, this made-up literary character in Tennyson’s carefully constructed poem, is herself a reflection of Plato’s banished poets. Although aware of her distance from reality, she too is damned to experience only the reflections of life. But the poem takes a turn. When she exclaims, “I am half-sick of shadows” perhaps she becomes a commentary against the poets as well. A piece of poetry commenting on the space in between reality and reflection? Some may call this hypocritical, some may say ironic. I think both are the same, and hypocrisy, only if aware of its own irony, should be encouraged in artists and others alike.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I'm no Lady of Shallot, but I can’t help but notice that I am half-sick of shadows too. Much of what I spend my time with is reflection: photographs of beautiful abandoned monasteries that I write about, books about experiences I’ve never had that I keep reading, a new friend that I get to know over text messages. These are all a few steps removed from reality. There is a spooky distance between me and the reality I want.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Even in that last sentence I've handed you a reflection. I’ve been trying to write a poem entitled “Spooky Action at a Distance” which also happens to be the name of an Einstein theory. It’s about this distance. And it is hypocritical.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">The other day I lay in the grass and looked up. I noticed how the pollen fluffs swirled towards me, both chatoic and peaceful. I was very hot. I shivered. i had been removed from the internet for over an hour. I realized this was the first real experience I'd had in a few days. I thought of the poem I've been trying to write. I shivered again. <br></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I like the idea of being enlightened by experience. Of being one of the humans set free from the cave, one of the humans who doesn’t take reality in through a computer screen or a shadow. The task of trying to collect people together and show them experiences is one that I love. I try to do that all the time. I also stare at word processor screens all the time. Typing about books I’ve read about things I’ll never see. About shadows.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“Just such another - a creator of apperances.” am I not?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">"The curse is come upon me" cried The Lady of Shalott.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Monospace;">Image manipulation and illustration done by Danny Fast.&nbsp;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span></p> </div> </div> </article> </div><!-- /page-->
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