If I were one for futile and presumptuous causes, I might embark upon convincing the world, via a graduation dissertation, that there are a lot of cool people in this world whose last name begins with "De". You laugh. Surely you jest! as the acadmic community probably would say. But the mass markets of bookstores bordering French-Canadian "spheres of influence" would gobble up such a premise for brunch.
What is in the "De"? Well, on a deep level it means that the owner is subtly or not-so-subtly Frenchified. They may or may not like French Fries. They may or may not like French Fries better when they're called Freedom Fries.
No really! there are a lot of cool "De" people. Think about it, there's my good friend Joe Debiec, somewhere between here and Japan. He's cool. And then there's my friend Adam DeFayette, who has a great ear for music, and a good heart too. He's helping people out in the Nuiqsat, perhaps the northernmost town of Alaska. I've never read Dafoe; I hear he's pretty overrated, and besides he's an imposter, not a part of this group. In fact, neither am I, having no blood relation to the name. Lest you sense a conflict of interest.
But there is one "De"'s work that I'd like to share with you now, since he's written something I find contemplative and potentially, just potentially, just potentially if you stretch the grey stuff a bit, helpful in understanding the phenomena of lake-monsters:
Several days later Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the most photographed barn in America. We drove twenty-two miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the signs started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were forty cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides - pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.
"No one sees the barn," he said finally.
A long silence followed.
"Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn."
He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced at once by others.
"We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies."
There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.
"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. This literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism."
Another silence ensued.
"They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said.
He did not speak for a while. We listened to the incessant clicking of shutter release buttons, the rustling crank of levers that advanced the film.
"What was the barn like before it was photographed?" he said. "What did it look like, how was it different from other barns, how was it similar to other barns? We can't answer these questions because we've read the signs, seen the people snapping the pictures. We can't get outside the aura. We're part of the aura. We're here, we're now."
He seemed immensely pleased by this.
Hope you enjoyed that. I'll leave the lake-monster connection up to you; my dinner is losing its heat. This was page 12-13 of Don DeLillo's work, White Noise.
That's some great stuff. Reinforces my will to avoid overly-touristy sites while travelling (unless going there to make fun of the ridiculous camera-wielding fannypack-wearers).