Mythology is like salt. A pinch or two, it can bring out a whole new dimension in an otherwise bland dish. It can unlock the meaty goodness, unveil the hidden sweetness. But who wants to eat salt straight up?
My feelings on mythology are not limited to the traditional tales, the ur-stories, the hand-me-downs of sages past. Modern mythologies have the same troubling temptation towards overindulgence, especially when sequels guarantee box office bank.
(“Modern?” I almost said “Invented!” But that would bring up a whole new apologetic conundrum – for one man’s myth is another man’s lodestar and that’s far, far beyond the scope of this quick post. But anyway, to channel some Joseph Campbell, what’s the difference between a pack of questing Hobbits and a ship of voyaging Argonauts? Do they not fulfill the same purpose? Do they not both, by measure, entertain and inspire? One as well as the other?)
Again, in small doses, myth is wonder-working, magic-making. Myth gives meaning, injects spirit and soul, ties a tale to the ancient past, grants heft to concepts like duty, valour, and honour. Myth is the perfect prophylactic against cold, ir-romantic, material readings. Myth extinguishes the temptation to wallow in barren, bereft interpretations. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust if there’s no narrative connecting us.
In other words: Star Wars sans Jedis is just another schlocky sci-fi Saturday matinee.
I’ve been reading Neil Gaiman’s Norse Mythology for book club this week, and as you can imagine, we’ve had our ups and downs. A friendly read, but not exactly my cup of mead.
That being said, I’m glad I’ve indulged. Getting another take on “The Gods” will never cease to spur on some compare-n-contrast moments, some of those damp thoughts you only find in the shower. And of course this is why all of the myths, all the sacred texts, all the epic past poesy lives on. These scratchings make you think.
There’s a spot on page 97 that got my mind spinning. Odin is trying to figure out what do with Loki’s weird half-dead zombie daughter, Hel, and comes up with this:
“This child will be the ruler of the deepest of the dark places, and ruler of the dead of the nine worlds. She will be the queen of those poor souls who die in unworthy ways – of disease or of old age, of accidents or in childbirth. Warriors who die in battle will always come to us here in Valhalla. But the dead who die in other ways will be her folk, to attend her in her darkness.”
… and this went over well with Ms. Hel, so there you go.
If the Norse take on a righteous death is limited to getting chopped down on the battlefield – glorious and heroic as that may be – what’s our definition of a good demise these days? What’s the Christian-influenced, middle-American, 21st Century take on a timely exit? What’s the assumption that the average middle-aged middle-class guy from the middle-west is hanging on to? This isn’t a theological question. I’m not asking, What door gets you into heaven? I’m asking, What’s the culturally-approved way to go? What’s the bucket-kicking goal? What’s the thumbs-up end of your threescore & ten?
Here’s what comes to mind: Wise-cracking, smiling, tan retires; patrolling the greens in golf carts; chasing geese off the back nine. Basically Larry David.
And that ain’t too bad. It’s the payoff you get when you combine prudence, planning, and the protestant work ethic. Hard work for sure, but realistically attainable if you’ve kept up with your Dave Ramsey workbooks. Those that succeed in reaching such white-cleated heights have probably escaped the wages of many sins, which are indeed death. Therefore, we can assume that the polo-shirted have avoided most vice – at least in copious, scandalous quantities – and thus have been generally on the up-and-up. Christian enough, I suppose, though I can’t see the sea-faring, jail-breaking Saint Paul being too chill about the whole thing.
But as a Viking, your golf cart’s putzing along the Highway to Hell. Or Hel, as it were. The only way to make it to the top, to Valhalla, is to go out with a bang, a blaze of glory. As they say: ‘Tis better to burn out than to fade away.
I like that better.
We watched Kevin Spacey do a live talk a few years ago, when House Of Cards was still TV worth watching. He told the interviewer that his hope was to die on the stage, to keep doing what he loved to do, until the script finally sucked the last breath from his body. I loved that. That’s vocation. That’s what I’m looking for. When his past caught up with him a year ago, my first thought was sorrow because his dreamed-of death wouldn’t come true. Is that weird? Morbid? Just way off base? I don’t know.
For the record, I’m not looking to die anytime soon. But I’d like to think I’ll be doing noble, vital work until my last day on earth. Baring that, I wouldn’t mind going out like Ben Kenobi, like Gandalf the Grey. Hoary-bearded and craggy, cut down on the field, blasting out a last gasp from my shriveled bits, paving the way for tomorrow’s heroes to live another day. Let me die with my boots on, with my staff in my hand, and my robe rippling in the wind.
That’s myth enough for me.
