444 days or ajax and argo

Some thirty-five after their release on the cusp of the Iran-Iraq War, captives of the US-Iranian Hostage Crisis are going to receive compensation for their long ordeal—which was mostly spurned in the ensuing decades over the revolutionary government being granted immunity from prosecution. Passing through this hall on a daily basis, I am keenly aware that the place where I work was the evacuation point for the rescued hostages but at the same time keenly aware of my own ignorance in the incubation and execution of these events.  For me at least, the diplomatic intrigues like the initial coup to secure a bridge in WWII north Africa for the Allies but then descending into greed over oil, the US hosting of the deposed shah for medical treatment, citizens of the “Great Satan” being issued Canadian passports so they could be smuggled out of the country, US spy agencies attempting to broker power despite the fact no operatives spoke Persian, remain overshadowed by the complaint of Ronald Reagan that the release overshadowed his inauguration ceremony—though the timing may have secured his election.
In retaliation, Iraq was given materiel and intelligence support by the US to prosecute the attack on its neighbour, and off we go. Ajax, the Trojan anti-hero, was the code-name for the operation that originally toppled the regime of the shah, and Argo, in reference to the voyage of Jason and the Argonauts, was the cover for the caper that the Canadian embassy carried out that fronted the filming of a sci-fi movie—vis-à-vis shooting Tatoonie on location in Tunisia. Insofar as it’s knowable, this affair seems to figure quite large in the continuum of degrading relations and proxy warfare with unexpected and long-reaching consequences.

colour me purple

The latest instalment in Atlas Obscura’s rogue No One’s Watching Week—that winterval wherein the editors can publish their oddest discoveries with confidence that few will see—features the history of the adult colouring book and its sustained popularity in the early 1960s. Much like today’s passing fad, their attraction was short-lived (through with brief revivals when reintroduced, assured that enough time had passed), but their subversive subtext, I think, is far more edgier and original that forgotten nostalgia can conjure up—even if they were a gimmick to boost crayon sales. Check out the article in its entirety for links to more complete panels.

chain-letter, chain-mail

Though a little late for a Christmas gift—but well in time to gird one’s New Year’s dharmic security, PfRC presents Auroral Cat, whose super-absorbent halo will ward off any ill-effects and soured luck aggressively threatened for failure to repost the other talismans and charms that are in circulation. Of course, there’s no need for reciprocation, and should one choose to spread the cheer (unafraid) of other trinkets and anecdotes, Auroral Cat’s filter is discriminating enough to rebuff bad fortune and channel good luck through. You’re welcome. There’s nothing wrong with propagating prayers and well-wishes but one ought not agonise over it or feel compelled to, on pain of a ghost dog peeing on one’s bed.

de-icer

Though I’ve been peevish and a little fraught with worry over the balmy and unseasonable weather, scraping ice was not the challenge I was looking forward to this morning. It was that rippled, thick window ice too—I wonder if there’s some special Eskimo word for that… I commiserate with you, Sweet Brown.

homage or the hero with a thousand faces

Quiet a few vocal critics have accused the continuance of the Star Wars saga of being too derivative—and yes (sans spoilers) it would have been more enthralling to have a bigger constellation of strange fellows in some Mos Eisley dive or Jabba’s throne room to wonder about. a musical number or to see all the characters to gather together at the end like in previous parting shots and wondering whether it was “no bigger than a womprat” did sort of draw me out of the experience, I think unfairly. The arc of each episode—maybe to exclusion of the exposition—faithfully follows the monomyth, that boon of New England scholar Joseph Campbell for innumerable tales past and present that resonate as something whole and satisfying with tribute to something universal.
That terms is borrowed from James Joyce’s writing—sourced with another handy moniker, the quark. Campbell crafted the study of comparative mythology following an unending infatuation with CG Jung and his idea of the collective unconscious and the archetype and unvetted released his comprehensive thesis, The Hero with 1000 Faces, in the 1940s and echoes in the best of contemporary story-telling, drawing from the cues of classic myth. Episode III, point for point, unfolds as a monomyth—wherein a reluctant hero (Luke Skywalker, moisture farmer) is visited by a celestial messenger (the droids and Obi Wan Kenobi) to present his mission and hone his skills and embarks on a quest to find his muse and divine lady (Princess Leia—but thirty-eight year old spoilers: really his sister) but finds himself in the proverbial belly of the whale, like Jonah or Pinocchio (the dianoga in the Death Star trash compactor) before being forced to confront his father. All the best stories seem to twist in this wind, whether classical mythology, founding tales or biblical previsioning—tapping into formulaic stories that ring as believable and upbuilding. The Parnassus and individual instalments—as myth is fluid and not fixed practise self-plagiarism with certain and popular troupe. The authoritative editions are those most successful and resonate with our own collective unconscious. The re-telling is more than a reboot.