Thursday, September 25, 2014

Beautiful Filth

Below is my abstract for the 2015 Medieval Congress at Kalamazoo:

Beautiful Filth: Cleanness’s Sensually Appealing Sins and the
Dirtiness of the Incarnation

Cleanness begins with a seemingly straightforward distinction—clean things are beautiful and filthy things are not.  If we could trust the poet’s logic, we would safely be able to assume that an object must be clean if it appeals to our senses through its “fayre formez.  The poem’s first biblical allusion, the parable of the wedding feast, seems to continue this argument by proposing that ugly things do not have a place in the kingdom of heaven, but those that are “frely and fresch fonde” and “fetyse of a fayr forme” are acceptable in God’s sightThe poem’s succeeding exempla each present to the reader sensually enticing descriptions that stand out from the text’s emphasis on filth and destruction through the detailed precision of the poet’s language; however, the beauty of these things is realized as damnably dangerous—as the very snare that leads to the sinners’ destruction in the poem.  The poet’s sensual appeals to the readers are, in fact, acts of violence: the shining glory of Lucifer, the fair faces of the antediluvian races, the sway of the beardless angels’ hips as they enter Sodom, and the intricately detailed description of the Solomonic vessels at Belshazzar’s feast each appeal to the readers’ senses, and we, too, want to touch, to smell, to taste, to know, the delights that such forbidden fruits possess behind their shining exteriors.  We become sympathetically entangled with the most damnable figures in Biblical history, and we must repeatedly experience the horrific ugliness of God’s wrath, directed toward our newfound acquaintances.  The poet has seductively violated us by forcing us to confront our own filthy desires.

God’s own cleanness is not very pretty, and only by recognizing the offensiveness of the filth of his incarnation (born in the rottenness [rote] of a stable) can we begin to understand the complexities of filth and beauty.  Only by following the circumlocutionary logic of beautiful filth (or filthy beauty) can we begin to discover how to play safely with the sensually appealing things of the world, like a lover’s body or the Roman de la Rose.  Cleanness’s own form, the messiness of which continues to challenge scholars, resists the sterile, idolizing fetishizations found within its exempla and demands a closer, more fruitful analysis on its proper use.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Æþelðryþe

Maybe the island is herself.

And the eels, everywhere.
Is it even an island?  Water?
Or maybe it’s not-water.
She longs for, she desires, the shore
Following the shipwreck.

God keeps wrecking the ship, though.
And he keeps asking her to get back on the ship.
And he keeps wrecking the ship.
Does he wreck the island, too?

The sea is too deep.
The stream is safe.
The stream is contained.
The stream has borders, and I can see the other side.
These marshes don’t even merit the name of a stream.

Can I trust you in the sea?
I don’t see the other side.
I’m scared of drowning, but here we are.

Jouissance.  Or maybe only partly.

Do you love me?
If you love me, you will keep my commandments:
Get back on the boat.
But the sea is so deep--

Isn’t it?  Don’t you know?

If we are the island, can we ever drown?


I’m scared

Friday, March 14, 2014

Seductive Seashores: St. Aethelthryth and the Transformative Promise of Seduction

Below is my abstract for the 2014 BABEL Working Group Conference "On the Beach: Precariousness, Risk, Forms of Life, Affinity, and Play at the Edge of the World":

            In the twelfth-century Liber Eliensis, Queen Aethelthryth’s flight away from her super-sexualized husband leads her to a marshy desert that is also a sea, a mountain/island/womb, an English countryside that looks uncannily like Egypt, Canaan, Nazareth, filtered through Bede’s eighth-century Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum.  Standing within the protection of a cleft rock, Aethelthryth and her two maiden-companions watch as a raging sea encircles them, separating them from the maniacal lust of King Ecgfrith while transforming the desert of their hearts and wombs into flowing, life-giving fountains.  Aethelthryth flees from her husband, and she flees from earthly desire, not because she has no desire, but because she has too much.  Like the sea “pouring forth its water in many directions,” Aethelthryth’s desire is uncontainable, exceeding its boundaries, even (especially) as she “transferred all her yearnings towards the powers above.”
In her introduction to Towards a Theology of Eros, Virginia Burrus develops a metaphor introduced by Anders Nygren, by which agape compares to a well-defined stream and eros compares to an always-overflowing river.  According to Burrus (in opposition to Nygren), eros and agape must sometimes mix; the rivulet of agape must, at times, overflow its banks “in order to reopen its congested channels” (xv).  Aethelthryth’s agape surges like the sea of eros, rapt from its beach/marriage-bed, and transferred violently to a marshy wasteland, a damp landscape (not even meriting the name of a stream) in desperate need of the transformative waters of (erotic) passion.
Standing in the protective womb of the rock, surrounded by the waves of her own passion, Aethelthryth becomes a virgin mother who is also a figure of Moses, God’s vessel and mouthpiece, ready to lead God’s chosen people to the salvational shores of Paradise, an island very much like the cleft rock within the constant embrace of the passionate sea—the island of Ely
*       *       *
Are erotic discourses dangerous to the study of theology?  Should we assume that the author of the Liber Eliensis simply wrote in a traditional register, or hope that Aethelthryth’s desire for God is nothing more than a (safely) sublimated desire?  Or could we learn something by allowing ourselves to read the text for what it actually says, even allowing ourselves to be swept away by its overwhelming currents, where our embodied reading practices might feel the erotic presence of a just-beyond-reach, promissorily satiating Godhead?  Maybe we first need to surrender ourselves to a sea of passion in order to explore more fully the nuances of the Passion of Christ.