i have a fantastic relationship with myself. there rarely is any cognitive dissonance in my mind or soul, and my body and brain generally harmonize beautifully.
i think that's how many people start out, as children. all aspects of them understand when they are hungry and when they are tired and when they need to run around, and when they need someone soft to hold them, and neither mind nor brain have any compunction with this. all is well.
then slowly, often only subconsciously, one's brain realizes that one's body does not always come through when needed. that clever mental organ registers obstacles in a path, and charts routes around them, but the feet plod along, too large or too ill-coordinated to change course at the right moment, or to configure the correct trajectory adjustments, and the body stumbles. bangs its knee into a coffee table that the brain swears was just a little left of where those confounded feet were supposed to be. and if the mind is healthy enough, the brain figures out how to adapt to this realization about the body's limitations, to regulate the responses of the body and tune the reflexes in accordance with the way the brain processes stimuli. the soul copes, and all aspects melodize in sync once again, dissonance resolved.
then other people come onto the scene.
for some reason, many children come to believe that the views of society trump all other data/stimuli. in terms of sexuality, in terms of propriety, in terms of acceptable 'white' lies, in terms of acceptable 'blackballing' discrimination, etc. so if the body wants sex with men, or the soul is repulsed by an unwanted acquaintance, etc, society informs the brain that these needs and desires must be repressed, and whichever particular collective reality of 'the times' be maintained.
i never showed up for that lesson in civilization-building.
when confronted with constraints on my behavior, handed down to my brain from an entity outside myself, i would analyze each order. for every entreaty that was, once stripped bare of marketing, discovered to be bare also of logical structure, i tallied up another disobedience. in short, my rationally motivated mind realized that, if my body is not infallable, neither can my brain be. to all internal sectors, a message is conveyed - regulate how much the brain relies on input from other persons when formulating a decision. and that was all i needed to do. inner harmony stabilized, and checks & balances in place, i could get on with my life sans the identity crises that so commonly plague teenagers.
so i did.
Sunday, November 22
Wednesday, October 21
i am the seagull... no, that's not it. i'm an actress!
this is not a long post, but the quote is gargantuan, because the person who wrote the original is nearly as loquacious as i am.
once again Jacob, i love you, and your strangely philosophical recaps of a fucking tv show.
the thing about never being whole is what really gets me, because i interpret it like this:
being whole is about the essence of a person. the every reaction to any scenario. we are those little artsy coffee/tea mugs from Portugal; from the moment we are thrown into a specified shape, that is how we define ourselves. putting a handle on it, sticking it in the kiln and painting it, swirling little white spiral designs on the side, firing it up again, drinking out of it, etc - that's all a reaction to a mug. a cup. which really is still just clay, even if we never think of it as such.
i could go into Aristotle vs Plato, and the object vs the idea, but metaphysics is less important to my point than sociology. we label people. we set them aflame with the belief that they are how we perceive them, when really the perception only comes in after someone has moved, has acted, has shed light on a behavior and given our eyes something to work with in the first place.
i guess my point is this: to Live, instead of merely Existing, one must take charge of one's own movement. one cannot control how one comes out of the kiln anymore than one can control how light hits another's retinas, but one can manipulate the way shapes appear. failing that, one can affect the interpretation of an object, by confronting a person with differing images. one day you're a scrawny chessgeek with 42 posters of Jean-Luc Picard on your ceiling, and the next, there are three pairs of panties hanging from your bedpost and a Nobel Peace Prize on your wall. are you any more or less you than the day before?
sane, well-adjusted people do not concern themselves with the innermost thoughts and feelings of everyone around them. they are refractions of their parents and their friends, and will only ever focus on you when you give them a reason to. so show them someone you like.
****
once again Jacob, i love you, and your strangely philosophical recaps of a fucking tv show.
"Everything that rises must converge, and all that. Tending to one's own garden; being at peace. No, it sounds like settling when you say it that way. Living is not about complacency. But there comes a point when you realize some very important shit. I don't know all the things, I probably know very few of the things, but the things I know, which number exactly four, are as follows:1) Nobody is watching you on secret cameras, so stop worrying about it. You'd be surprised how much pointless shame you can shed every day just by looking at the fucked-up thing you did and thinking about how fucked up it was for a few minutes. Then, drink a glass of water and get the fuck over yourself.
2) Your reputation is everything, but it's also totally recoverable. People are more worried about their shit than they will ever be about yours, and are looking for any opportunity to cut you a decent break, just so they don't have to think about you anymore. Your reputation is made up entirely of acts and behaviors, as perceived by other people (only the ones whose opinions are relevant). Do a thing enough times, and that's the person you are. Everything that happens to you from the direction of other people is entirely a reaction to this person. If you don't like those reactions, do a new thing instead, and after just a few times you will magically become a new person. Monitor the new responses.
3) Generally, we only look closely at the situation when it has become untenable. That's rough, because when the situation is untenable is precisely the point at which your best bet is to accept it as it is, and think about ways to change it. Instead, when things are bad is when we're most likely to wig out and act like idiots. You can't change what is until you're willing to look at what is, the ingredients and causes, and the ingredients it contains for the next thing. It changes every second, so you might as well be in charge of that and utilize your vast opportunities to choose the next what is.
4) Every minute that goes by, one of your futures dies. That's scary and it's sad, but it also means clarity. That sense of purpose S was talking about last week. Getting older means splitting less of your hope and energy into those million possible futures, and keeping more of it for yourself -- right now -- to keep moving forward toward what you really do want. And that's what Lily means. It's not about giving in, it's about giving up the maybes, one by one, until you become whole.*
*(This part will never actually happen, but you have to keep pretending it's going to, for your entire life. That's what Blair's Voltaire quote means: Hoe your own garden, for the rest of your life, because it is art, and it is very simple, and it is very hard to pull off correctly.)"[TWoP recap of a Gossip Girl (yes you read that right) episode]
the thing about never being whole is what really gets me, because i interpret it like this:
being whole is about the essence of a person. the every reaction to any scenario. we are those little artsy coffee/tea mugs from Portugal; from the moment we are thrown into a specified shape, that is how we define ourselves. putting a handle on it, sticking it in the kiln and painting it, swirling little white spiral designs on the side, firing it up again, drinking out of it, etc - that's all a reaction to a mug. a cup. which really is still just clay, even if we never think of it as such.
i could go into Aristotle vs Plato, and the object vs the idea, but metaphysics is less important to my point than sociology. we label people. we set them aflame with the belief that they are how we perceive them, when really the perception only comes in after someone has moved, has acted, has shed light on a behavior and given our eyes something to work with in the first place.
i guess my point is this: to Live, instead of merely Existing, one must take charge of one's own movement. one cannot control how one comes out of the kiln anymore than one can control how light hits another's retinas, but one can manipulate the way shapes appear. failing that, one can affect the interpretation of an object, by confronting a person with differing images. one day you're a scrawny chessgeek with 42 posters of Jean-Luc Picard on your ceiling, and the next, there are three pairs of panties hanging from your bedpost and a Nobel Peace Prize on your wall. are you any more or less you than the day before?
sane, well-adjusted people do not concern themselves with the innermost thoughts and feelings of everyone around them. they are refractions of their parents and their friends, and will only ever focus on you when you give them a reason to. so show them someone you like.
Tuesday, October 13
when they intend to unname
i am enraptured by the near-universal abhorrence of hipsters.
simply put, hipsters are the grandchildren conceived by postmodernist bitchfest orgies.
as with all grandchildren who've been immersed in a culture vastly opposed to the oft-touted world from their ancestors hail, the hipster movement possibly began as a way for those attracted to the lifestyle to immerse themselves in the glories of the past they've only known vicariously. somewhere down the line though, the presumably honest attempt to embrace the riches of experiences past turned into a race to collect the most pop culture references. hence the constant condescending sneer of hipsters: they can rattle off the names of more 1970s musicians than any classic rock aficionado, even if they know nothing about band members, lyrics, or guitar tabs, and that dearth of pointless, contextually nullified information is what gives them power. or something.
it certainly gives them something to say anytime someone asks a member of the tribe a question. if the answer neither makes sense nor has any tangential relation to the topic at hand, the technicalities don't phase a hipster; true Art is not dreamt of in philosophy, but an awkwardly-cropped rendering of Sofia Coppola dressed as a pack of Parliaments in converses, printed out from the internet and pinned or pasted onto a dingy pair of cutoff jeans stolen from a hobo in NYC.
but let it never be said that hipsters aren't aware of their own tragedy.
whatever, hipsters; i maintain that there is always something unique and interesting waiting to be discovered and appreciated. there may only be five original stories ever, but the eyes that observe and are moved by them have yet to find a doppelganger. i've sifted through your last, lost generation and remain bored; i demand my beatniks back.
otherwise, i'll see you at the bottom.
The problem with hipsters seems to me{sic} the way in which they reduce the particularity of anything you might be curious about or invested in into the same dreary common denominator of how “cool” it is perceived to be....One must start with the premise that the hipster is defined by a lack of authenticity, by a sense of lateness to the scene, or by the fact that his arrival fashions the scene—transforms people who are doing their thing into a self-conscious scene, something others can scrutinize and exploit. The hipster is that person who shows up and seems to ruin things—then you can begin to ask why this person exists, whether he is inevitable, whether he can be stopped, and what it will take.["The Death of the Hipster"; Rob Horning]
simply put, hipsters are the grandchildren conceived by postmodernist bitchfest orgies.
Hipsterdom is the first "counterculture" to be born under the advertising industry's microscope, leaving it open to constant manipulation but also forcing its participants to continually shift their interests and affiliations. Less a subculture, the hipster is a consumer group – using their capital to purchase empty authenticity and rebellion. But the moment a trend, band, sound, style or feeling gains too much exposure, it is suddenly looked upon with disdain. Hipsters cannot afford to maintain any cultural loyalties or affiliations for fear they will lose relevance.
An amalgamation of its own history, the youth of the West are left with consuming cool rather that creating it.["Hipster: The Dead End Of Western Civilization"; Douglas Haddow]
as with all grandchildren who've been immersed in a culture vastly opposed to the oft-touted world from their ancestors hail, the hipster movement possibly began as a way for those attracted to the lifestyle to immerse themselves in the glories of the past they've only known vicariously. somewhere down the line though, the presumably honest attempt to embrace the riches of experiences past turned into a race to collect the most pop culture references. hence the constant condescending sneer of hipsters: they can rattle off the names of more 1970s musicians than any classic rock aficionado, even if they know nothing about band members, lyrics, or guitar tabs, and that dearth of pointless, contextually nullified information is what gives them power. or something.
He’s the one / Who likes all our pretty songs / And he likes to sing along / And he likes to shoot his gun / But he knows not what it means["In Bloom"; Nirvana]
it certainly gives them something to say anytime someone asks a member of the tribe a question. if the answer neither makes sense nor has any tangential relation to the topic at hand, the technicalities don't phase a hipster; true Art is not dreamt of in philosophy, but an awkwardly-cropped rendering of Sofia Coppola dressed as a pack of Parliaments in converses, printed out from the internet and pinned or pasted onto a dingy pair of cutoff jeans stolen from a hobo in NYC.
That there exists somewhere in the past an item, ostensibly useless to humanity now, that could become a necessary accessory, is only a matter of creativity and originality...looking even farther into the past to find something that could be a mark of hipness in the present.
but let it never be said that hipsters aren't aware of their own tragedy.
An artificial appropriation of different styles from different eras, the hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture lost in the superficiality of its past and unable to create any new meaning. Not only is it unsustainable, it is suicidal. While previous youth movements have challenged the dysfunction and decadence of their elders, today we have the "hipster" – a youth subculture that mirrors the doomed shallowness of mainstream society....We are the last generation, a culmination of all previous things, destroyed by the vapidity that surrounds us. The hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture so detached and disconnected that it has stopped giving birth to anything new.["Hipster: The Dead End Of Western Civilization"; Douglas Haddow]
whatever, hipsters; i maintain that there is always something unique and interesting waiting to be discovered and appreciated. there may only be five original stories ever, but the eyes that observe and are moved by them have yet to find a doppelganger. i've sifted through your last, lost generation and remain bored; i demand my beatniks back.
otherwise, i'll see you at the bottom.
Saturday, September 12
the youth is starting to change / are you [Being and Nothingness]
one of my favorite episodes of television, ever, is Firefly's "Objects In Space", written by the inimitably fantastic Joss Whedon. i have always adored finding philosophy in the everyday and the mundane (and, really, isn't that the point?); "OIS" is a study in Existentialism, which is a school of thought i'd salivated over long before i had ever discovered Whedon's peculiar space-western drama, so really this episode seems tailored to my adoration.
what i love most about "OIS" and masterpieces like it is that one can immerse oneself in it every year (every month, even, if one possessed a sieve-like memory) and come away from the experience with something new to ponder. The episode's surface premise is about a girl (called River); this is the story of how she finally folded into the family that found itself extending membership to her. this is the story of how she folded into the sense of self that started to surround her. this is the story of how she began building herself, more than simply a body, an object: this is the story of how people make themselves.
some people embody this concept. they compartmentalize their own characteristics; work stays at the office, and family stays at home. they transform themselves, but are they different people or simply different aspects of the same creature? does it matter?
regardless of an individual's answer to those questions, "OIS" can stand in as a template for finding oneself. perhaps the point is not that River was right, or that the young are the most in-tune with the universe. this was her episode, after all; if she didn't win this time, then she would have remained a stunted child. what one takes away from "OIS", what i always take away, is that whomever 'wins', or is best prepared for life as an object, is the person who controls what characteristics one exudes. if i aim to be the object that is the Writer, then i embody that, and relate to other objects whilst demonstrating the functionality of a Writer. of a Philosopher. of any other definition i wish to have attributed to me. if i am an object to be used, than i determine for myself how and why i am wielded.
(the word Early was looking for is 'imbue' by the way).
what i love most about "OIS" and masterpieces like it is that one can immerse oneself in it every year (every month, even, if one possessed a sieve-like memory) and come away from the experience with something new to ponder. The episode's surface premise is about a girl (called River); this is the story of how she finally folded into the family that found itself extending membership to her. this is the story of how she folded into the sense of self that started to surround her. this is the story of how she began building herself, more than simply a body, an object: this is the story of how people make themselves.
Jubal Early: So is it still a room when it's empty? Does the room... the thing... have purpose? Or do we.... what's the word?the truly masterful aspect of the episode is that, with simple sidenote questions like that, the climax of the plot is basically an epic battle of philosophical wits between two highly intuitive characters, River the psychic with a fractured sense of self, and Jubal Early the bounty hunter who views all things as props on which he can potentially rest his goals. lurking beneath the plot, "OIS" explores how these two perceive the impact of functionality; whether or not an object's purpose emulates its essence, or if the two concepts are intertwined, but separate.
Jubal is driven by utilitarianism. The meaning of things is defined for him by the use they're put to. He can't see how River's claim on the room - its identity through her - can exist when she's not using it - the meaning of the space flows from its purpose.beneath even that? the aforementioned coming-of-age story. existentialists insist that everything is absurd. meaning is always symbolic, always imparted. we are all just objects, making up aspects of ourselves to better relate to one another in the space we share. and yet, when no one else shares our space, when the room is empty, to whom do we relate? who are we when without an audience? is that even a valid question, or are we always performing, even for ourselves?
River experiences the Being, the Sein, of the object; she conceives of it in a way that brings awareness of the worldhood of the world. Early, however, seems to be approaching the world in a more utilitarian way, in that he understands objects to have an essence in the work that they do, in the way that they are used. What is interesting, however, is that Heidegger specifically says that the essence of a thing is discovered in its usage: a tree only becomes itself when it is transformed into lumber and built into a house, for example.so who are people? when we are alone, are we the same as when we are surrounded by others, by their expectations? or does the definition of who a person is rely on actions, not perceptions; when i type this sentence, i am a Writer, and a Philosopher, but once i turn off my computer and go to sleep, do i cease to be either of those things?
some people embody this concept. they compartmentalize their own characteristics; work stays at the office, and family stays at home. they transform themselves, but are they different people or simply different aspects of the same creature? does it matter?
regardless of an individual's answer to those questions, "OIS" can stand in as a template for finding oneself. perhaps the point is not that River was right, or that the young are the most in-tune with the universe. this was her episode, after all; if she didn't win this time, then she would have remained a stunted child. what one takes away from "OIS", what i always take away, is that whomever 'wins', or is best prepared for life as an object, is the person who controls what characteristics one exudes. if i aim to be the object that is the Writer, then i embody that, and relate to other objects whilst demonstrating the functionality of a Writer. of a Philosopher. of any other definition i wish to have attributed to me. if i am an object to be used, than i determine for myself how and why i am wielded.
(the word Early was looking for is 'imbue' by the way).
Sunday, August 23
occasionally, there is productivity
strange, to be writing here again. i have been awash in a molten lavafall of academia. as proof, i offer a snippet of the loops my summer's been circling round me.
Upon initially delving into research for this topic, I expected to encounter many a demand for national uniformity, versus tales of discrimination and violated rights. In a few instances, I was right; author Ronald Schmidt, Sr. notes in his rather enlightening book Language Policy and Identity Politics in the United States, that there exists a lobbying group called ‘U.S. English,’ which has three goals: to make an official language amendment, to veto laws concerning the placement of multiple languages on voting ballots, and to constrain funding for bilingual education so that the programs are only short-term (31). This group, so explains columnist Guy Wright, fears that “this English-speaking nation [will be] turned into a poly-lingual babel” ( qtd, in Schmidt 31). James Crawford, author of several works on bilingualism and politics, scoffed at this suggestion. In an article called “What’s Behind Official English?” he points out that “98 percent of U.S. residents over the age of four speak English “well” or “very well,” according to the 1980 census…Under these circumstances, who would assert that “English is under attack” and needs “legal protection” from the ravages of bilingualism?” (171).
When I went in search of arguments for the other side, my first glance turned up mostly questions. According to Schmidt, “the most prominent and emotionally heated linguistic access issue has been that of providing ballots and other election materials in languages other than English” (19). The question concerning non-English-speakers is, in the event that an official language be set in place, how would that affect their civil rights? “Is knowledge of English a precondition for the exercise of these rights? Do the more general civil rights prohibitions against discrimination on the basis of national origin include language?” (Schmidt 19).
Yet more concerns of anti-English-only lobbyists are over the power that the government would be allowed in pursuit of “enforc[ing] this section by appropriate legislation” (“English-Only A Mistake” 139). Asked in a September 1988 editorial published on the subject:”Can legislature forbid he use of bilingual or multilingual signs…? What about hospital emergency rooms? What happens to someone who disobeys the law?” (140). These activists also claim that the amendment “will codify racial and cultural bias” (“Vote No” 141) by “sending a message that [America] doesn’t like people who don’t speak English” (“English-Only A Mistake” 140). However, even the ardent dissenters admit that “the legislature is unlikely to pass any draconian laws and, if it did, the laws would be vetoed” (140).
As if in answer to these concerns, a 1983 speech by then-Senator Walter Huddleston dismisses the importance of other languages in comparison to English – in the United States, anyway – by stating “so widely held is the assumption that English is already our national language that the notion of stating this in our national charter may seem like restating the obvious” (114). Huddleston furthers that the desire for an official language stems not from a sense of classism, but via a need to maintain our cohesiveness as a nation, and that ‘melting pot’ philosophy that has allowed the United States to merge together countless cultures and ethnicities into one American whole (114-115). His position is echoed by editorials on the subject of official language proposals throughout the years; from [SOMETHING] to earnest insistence that an officiated language will “work to the vast benefit of immigrants and others in our society whose prospects for livelihood too often are crippled by deficiency in the language that propels this country’s economic life and its major activities otherwise” (“Proposal 63” 136).
Even if the United States citizens all unanimously voted for an official language, the issue is further complicated by an extreme divide over which provisions should be included in such an amendment. An assimilationist perspective is one which believes any language that is not English, while entirely within a person’s rights to use, has no place in a public forum if English is the language of government and society (Schmidt, 149-161). One would seek to ensure that English was used in every aspect of public life, including the workplace with the secretary of state’s office or a polling locale as an aspect of that public arena. All other languages, an assimilationist would say, should be relegated to the personal aspects of our lives, and broken out only when at gatherings with family members or friends.
A pluralist, on the other hand, wants equal rights for all languages, believing that the First Amendment rights include the freedom to express oneself in whichever language one should happen to choose, and in any locale (Schmidt 147). Pluralists do not insist upon any loyalty to a person’s ethnolinguistic roots, but they view “requiring them to leave behind the social bases of their personal identity is destructive of their fundamental human and political rights” (Schmidt 146).
Proposals to institute English as the official language of America have been around for debate in Congress since April 1981 (Schmidt 28). In his revision of the Encyclopedia of Constitutional Encyclopedia of Constitutional Amendments, Proposed Amendments, and Amending Issues, 1789-2002, John R. Vile makes note of the first Bill’s divergences in the Senate vs. the House. “The Senate version of this amendment was fairly general, whereas the House version prohibited the use of languages other than English except as a means of teaching language proficiency” (174). Though some form of the Bill is continually reintroduced into Congress, the progression of English-only statutes has been all but halted on the federal level. Along the state level, however, English-as-official-language acts have been put in place by twenty-two states in the decade since the first introduction of the idea in Congress in 1981.
It seems clear to me that the nation would benefit from the stable sense of efficiency that an official language would provide. Instead of spending excesses of money and materials, and millions of minutes and efficacy translating every document or set of instructions, our resources could be better spent on building up multilingual education programs that help to transition non-English-speakers to an American way of life – one that includes participating in our unique dialect. What is called bigotry by those too afraid to offend other cultures to recognize pragmatism is simply the progression of a nation’s growth. As early as 1923, the United States was obsessed with making its own mark on the world, and with its own vernacular. Washington J. McCormick wrote “America has lost so much in literature by not thinking its own thoughts and speaking them boldly... It was only when Cooper, Irving, Mark Twain, Whitman, and O. Henry dropped the Order of the Garter and began to write American that their wings of immortality sprouted” (41). The first generations of immigrants acclimated themselves heartily to life as Americans, and the transition continues for every individual who becomes a citizen.
Controversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 171-177. Print.
“English-Only a Mistake: Amendment Sends Wrong Message to Tourists.” Language Loyalties: A Source Book on the
Official English Controversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 139-140. Print.
Huddleston, Walter. “The Misdirected Policy of Bilingualism.” Language Loyalties: A Source Book on the Official
English Controversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 114-118. Print.
McCormick, Washington J. “’American’ as the Official Language of the United States.” Language Loyalties: A Source
Book on the Official English Controversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 40.
Print
****
Whose Language Is It Anyway?
Long considered the ‘melting pot’ of the world, the United States is known for an interest in merging cultures and equalizing ethnicities – except where it doesn’t. Bigotry and ethnocentrism go hand in hand with the freedom peels America prides itself on, and nowhere is this dichotomy more evident than in the way native-born Americans seem to preoccupy themselves with their language. Often a complaint against an immigrant is over nothing more than a snide remark about the thickness of an accent, or the quality of stuttered English spoken by someone who has not long been in the practice of its use. Is this frustration racist, or simply fostered by a perverted sense of pragmatism; were English the official language of America, would the shared speech bring different peoples together, or simply make it easier for them to insult one another?Upon initially delving into research for this topic, I expected to encounter many a demand for national uniformity, versus tales of discrimination and violated rights. In a few instances, I was right; author Ronald Schmidt, Sr. notes in his rather enlightening book Language Policy and Identity Politics in the United States, that there exists a lobbying group called ‘U.S. English,’ which has three goals: to make an official language amendment, to veto laws concerning the placement of multiple languages on voting ballots, and to constrain funding for bilingual education so that the programs are only short-term (31). This group, so explains columnist Guy Wright, fears that “this English-speaking nation [will be] turned into a poly-lingual babel” ( qtd, in Schmidt 31). James Crawford, author of several works on bilingualism and politics, scoffed at this suggestion. In an article called “What’s Behind Official English?” he points out that “98 percent of U.S. residents over the age of four speak English “well” or “very well,” according to the 1980 census…Under these circumstances, who would assert that “English is under attack” and needs “legal protection” from the ravages of bilingualism?” (171).
When I went in search of arguments for the other side, my first glance turned up mostly questions. According to Schmidt, “the most prominent and emotionally heated linguistic access issue has been that of providing ballots and other election materials in languages other than English” (19). The question concerning non-English-speakers is, in the event that an official language be set in place, how would that affect their civil rights? “Is knowledge of English a precondition for the exercise of these rights? Do the more general civil rights prohibitions against discrimination on the basis of national origin include language?” (Schmidt 19).
Yet more concerns of anti-English-only lobbyists are over the power that the government would be allowed in pursuit of “enforc[ing] this section by appropriate legislation” (“English-Only A Mistake” 139). Asked in a September 1988 editorial published on the subject:”Can legislature forbid he use of bilingual or multilingual signs…? What about hospital emergency rooms? What happens to someone who disobeys the law?” (140). These activists also claim that the amendment “will codify racial and cultural bias” (“Vote No” 141) by “sending a message that [America] doesn’t like people who don’t speak English” (“English-Only A Mistake” 140). However, even the ardent dissenters admit that “the legislature is unlikely to pass any draconian laws and, if it did, the laws would be vetoed” (140).
As if in answer to these concerns, a 1983 speech by then-Senator Walter Huddleston dismisses the importance of other languages in comparison to English – in the United States, anyway – by stating “so widely held is the assumption that English is already our national language that the notion of stating this in our national charter may seem like restating the obvious” (114). Huddleston furthers that the desire for an official language stems not from a sense of classism, but via a need to maintain our cohesiveness as a nation, and that ‘melting pot’ philosophy that has allowed the United States to merge together countless cultures and ethnicities into one American whole (114-115). His position is echoed by editorials on the subject of official language proposals throughout the years; from [SOMETHING] to earnest insistence that an officiated language will “work to the vast benefit of immigrants and others in our society whose prospects for livelihood too often are crippled by deficiency in the language that propels this country’s economic life and its major activities otherwise” (“Proposal 63” 136).
Even if the United States citizens all unanimously voted for an official language, the issue is further complicated by an extreme divide over which provisions should be included in such an amendment. An assimilationist perspective is one which believes any language that is not English, while entirely within a person’s rights to use, has no place in a public forum if English is the language of government and society (Schmidt, 149-161). One would seek to ensure that English was used in every aspect of public life, including the workplace with the secretary of state’s office or a polling locale as an aspect of that public arena. All other languages, an assimilationist would say, should be relegated to the personal aspects of our lives, and broken out only when at gatherings with family members or friends.
A pluralist, on the other hand, wants equal rights for all languages, believing that the First Amendment rights include the freedom to express oneself in whichever language one should happen to choose, and in any locale (Schmidt 147). Pluralists do not insist upon any loyalty to a person’s ethnolinguistic roots, but they view “requiring them to leave behind the social bases of their personal identity is destructive of their fundamental human and political rights” (Schmidt 146).
Proposals to institute English as the official language of America have been around for debate in Congress since April 1981 (Schmidt 28). In his revision of the Encyclopedia of Constitutional Encyclopedia of Constitutional Amendments, Proposed Amendments, and Amending Issues, 1789-2002, John R. Vile makes note of the first Bill’s divergences in the Senate vs. the House. “The Senate version of this amendment was fairly general, whereas the House version prohibited the use of languages other than English except as a means of teaching language proficiency” (174). Though some form of the Bill is continually reintroduced into Congress, the progression of English-only statutes has been all but halted on the federal level. Along the state level, however, English-as-official-language acts have been put in place by twenty-two states in the decade since the first introduction of the idea in Congress in 1981.
It seems clear to me that the nation would benefit from the stable sense of efficiency that an official language would provide. Instead of spending excesses of money and materials, and millions of minutes and efficacy translating every document or set of instructions, our resources could be better spent on building up multilingual education programs that help to transition non-English-speakers to an American way of life – one that includes participating in our unique dialect. What is called bigotry by those too afraid to offend other cultures to recognize pragmatism is simply the progression of a nation’s growth. As early as 1923, the United States was obsessed with making its own mark on the world, and with its own vernacular. Washington J. McCormick wrote “America has lost so much in literature by not thinking its own thoughts and speaking them boldly... It was only when Cooper, Irving, Mark Twain, Whitman, and O. Henry dropped the Order of the Garter and began to write American that their wings of immortality sprouted” (41). The first generations of immigrants acclimated themselves heartily to life as Americans, and the transition continues for every individual who becomes a citizen.
Works Cited
Crawford, James. “What’s Behind Official English?” Language Loyalties: A Source Book on the Official EnglishControversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 171-177. Print.
“English-Only a Mistake: Amendment Sends Wrong Message to Tourists.” Language Loyalties: A Source Book on the
Official English Controversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 139-140. Print.
Huddleston, Walter. “The Misdirected Policy of Bilingualism.” Language Loyalties: A Source Book on the Official
English Controversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 114-118. Print.
McCormick, Washington J. “’American’ as the Official Language of the United States.” Language Loyalties: A Source
Book on the Official English Controversy. Ed. James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. 40.
Sunday, July 26
favour rites
when i was about fourteen, i remember being among a gathering of Christians discussing Jesus and his siblings. i could contribute with one thought only, as it reverberated within me so strongly it blocked out all other concepts; just how resentful of him must Jesus' siblings have been?
imagine it: light from a desert sunset spilling from the sunroof, pooling at the legs of the dinner table - or its first century equivalent - and Mary nags her daughters to quicker clean away the remnants of supper. "Jesus would have done it without being asked!" would she have needled? and Joseph; would he have overpraised Jesus' clever sanding technique on a cabinet meant for the richest merchant in town? "why can't you come up with creative solutions like that." or even "behold! Jesus saved the party, for now we needn't figure out who is sober enough to purchase and successfully return with more wine," must have been used at least once.
being Jesus' sibling would have been a nightmare.
not that parents don't try their best, mostly, but sometimes they cripple the children they aim to support.
i wonder if that's why the Jewish traditionally come of age at thirteen, and not when the last stirrings of pubescence finally subside, or the person in question is taught to drive; is considered old enough to marry and/or consent to sex, or old enough to vote. old enough to murder or die in the name of national symbolism. it's before all these milestones that a child begins to grow up, because it is around thirteen that parents are revealed as fraudulent gods. they are not perfect. they do not have every answer. they do not have A Plan, or if they do, the scenario is not necessarily the one which will best represent you and your talents/interests.
but what if they were gods?
there is a passage, in the unexplored wilds of the internet, that spins a fanciful reinterpretation of a semi-commonly known Biblical story. in the beginning, there was God, but there were also Angels, his beloved servants. one above a crowd blazed Lucifer, the Morningstar, and God cherished him, adored them all, and they worshipped Him. Harmony was.
then God did something unexpected. He took in His celestial hands stardust and spacerock, and fashioned a magnificent chamber, which He painted with colors and scents and leafy textures. in this spherical bedroom, He laid oh-so gingerly Man.
Space stretched out, and with it frolicked Time, and frumpled Man, so sensitive to such movements. Man giggled, and Man grew, and Man grasped a hold of Knowledge and clenched tight, while God's eyes twinkled. He visited often the colorful chamber, and Lucifer learned about distance. as Man grew outwards, so Lucifer grew downwards, sinking into sorrow, boiling into rage. perhaps envy had inspired his serpent's slouching toward Eve; perhaps pride, but it was bitterness that saw him flung from Heaven's turrets.
God had but sacked him. God had but castrated him. with derision and alacrity God had whipslashed awareness into Lucifer; there were to be no aspirations of grandeur for the Angels. Lucifer and his lot were servants first and always. simple, replaceable staff managing God's estate, and Man was the sticky child fingerpainting over the walls. is it any wonder that Lucifer revolted?
even if the myth is mere story, quite a thrilling tale it makes, and perhaps a heartwrenching one.
the quoted section is the 'sorrows of lucifer' work of gloriousness that a lovely creature calling himself Dzeytoun penned.
imagine it: light from a desert sunset spilling from the sunroof, pooling at the legs of the dinner table - or its first century equivalent - and Mary nags her daughters to quicker clean away the remnants of supper. "Jesus would have done it without being asked!" would she have needled? and Joseph; would he have overpraised Jesus' clever sanding technique on a cabinet meant for the richest merchant in town? "why can't you come up with creative solutions like that." or even "behold! Jesus saved the party, for now we needn't figure out who is sober enough to purchase and successfully return with more wine," must have been used at least once.
being Jesus' sibling would have been a nightmare.
not that parents don't try their best, mostly, but sometimes they cripple the children they aim to support.
i wonder if that's why the Jewish traditionally come of age at thirteen, and not when the last stirrings of pubescence finally subside, or the person in question is taught to drive; is considered old enough to marry and/or consent to sex, or old enough to vote. old enough to murder or die in the name of national symbolism. it's before all these milestones that a child begins to grow up, because it is around thirteen that parents are revealed as fraudulent gods. they are not perfect. they do not have every answer. they do not have A Plan, or if they do, the scenario is not necessarily the one which will best represent you and your talents/interests.
but what if they were gods?
there is a passage, in the unexplored wilds of the internet, that spins a fanciful reinterpretation of a semi-commonly known Biblical story. in the beginning, there was God, but there were also Angels, his beloved servants. one above a crowd blazed Lucifer, the Morningstar, and God cherished him, adored them all, and they worshipped Him. Harmony was.
then God did something unexpected. He took in His celestial hands stardust and spacerock, and fashioned a magnificent chamber, which He painted with colors and scents and leafy textures. in this spherical bedroom, He laid oh-so gingerly Man.
Space stretched out, and with it frolicked Time, and frumpled Man, so sensitive to such movements. Man giggled, and Man grew, and Man grasped a hold of Knowledge and clenched tight, while God's eyes twinkled. He visited often the colorful chamber, and Lucifer learned about distance. as Man grew outwards, so Lucifer grew downwards, sinking into sorrow, boiling into rage. perhaps envy had inspired his serpent's slouching toward Eve; perhaps pride, but it was bitterness that saw him flung from Heaven's turrets.
"Lucifer, Lightbringer, most glorious of Angels, you are the greatest of my servants, the most faithful of my creations. You have never veered from my commands. Ever you have obeyed my will. Now you come before me and speak the truth about Adam and his family, for they have defied me. They flout my will, they ignore my commands. In their hands my Plan for creation comes to naught.
"And yet I say to you Lucifer, Lightbringer, that were you ten thousand times as glorious, and they ten thousand times as vile, yet would they still stand in my esteem as far above you as the stars stand from the earth. For you are a servant, whose duty it is to obey my commands and carry forth my plans, and that is all you shall ever be. And Adam and his descendants are my children, who shall inherit my kingdom, and nothing will displace them from that right. For that is the nature of the servant and the child, of the master and the father. And now it is given unto you that you shall remain and accept your lot, and the rights of my children, or you shall depart from me into the darkness never to return.
"And I say further unto you Lucifer, Lightbringer, most faithful and glorious of Angels, that because you speak out of ignorance this once do I forgive you. But should you dare ever again to slander my children before me I will put you forth from my presence with my own hand, and neither your deeds nor your obedience shall stay my judgment. For it is not meet that a father should suffer his child to be slandered by a servant, even one such as you."
God had but sacked him. God had but castrated him. with derision and alacrity God had whipslashed awareness into Lucifer; there were to be no aspirations of grandeur for the Angels. Lucifer and his lot were servants first and always. simple, replaceable staff managing God's estate, and Man was the sticky child fingerpainting over the walls. is it any wonder that Lucifer revolted?
even if the myth is mere story, quite a thrilling tale it makes, and perhaps a heartwrenching one.
the quoted section is the 'sorrows of lucifer' work of gloriousness that a lovely creature calling himself Dzeytoun penned.
Thursday, June 4
you know that i try / try to tell you the truth
01. what is more difficult for you, looking into someones eyes when you are telling them how you feel, or looking into someone’s eyes when they are telling you how they feel?
i always look people in the eye when they're telling me how they feel. presumably as a sign of strength. plus, when i am talking i get all nervous sometimes about being looked into.
02. think of the last time you were really angry. why were you angry? do you still feel the same way?
i am always angry.
03. you are on a flight from honolulu to chicago, nonstop. there is a fire in the back of the plane. you have enough time to make one phone call. who do you call? what do you tell them?
there are so many things i would want to say, to so many people
...but they probably wouldn't pick up anyway.
so i would just text those i love who aren't local or known by a lot of people and tell them i love them and i will be dead soon. and then text Brandi and tell her to find my computer and how to find the passwords to everything that i own and to give them to Jamey. to whom i will give Megan's phone number and the things those passwords unlock, because he'll know what i mean by 'Speaker For The Dead.'
this is a really well-thought out scenario.
04. you are at the doctor’s office and he has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? what do you do with your remaining days?
i would only ever tell anyone if i needed to pull that card out in order to get something i couldn't just obtain another way.
i would get to crossing items off of my Cosmic To Do List. also i would make a will. then, on my last day, above scenario.
05. you can have one of the following two things: love or trust. which do you choose? why?
i would cheat and choose love, because with love, one trusts. not necessarily that everything is peachy, or one might 'trust' that one will be cheated on with a blond(e) or something, but to love is to do, and to know, and therefore is to trust, in self and in other.
06. you are walking down the street on your way to work. there is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. your boss has told you if you are late even once more, you are fired. do you take the time to save the dog’s life?
i would take a picture of the drowning dog, save it, and then get press coverage, wherein i reference my place of work and my lack of worry about my job stability over this deed i have done. then i would quirk an eyebrow and head off to my next shift.
07. you are unfaithful to your spouse/significant other. do you tell him/her? why or why not?
supposing i were ever actually to cheat, i would closely examine the circumstances and what i learned about myself and the relationship against which i acted. if i went further than a kiss/one instance or didn't stop because of my concern for my lover (or if it's a significant emotional affair), i would end the relationship, because i would clearly not be getting out of it what i needed. if the singular instance solidified my need for the person, i would perhaps inform them, but probably not. after all, that would typically cause the relationship to end/change, which i have in the scenario discovered i do not want.
08. are you the kind of friend that you would want to have as a friend?
absolutely. and no, i am not just saying that, because i would even take the crazy bits.
09. does love = sex?
hahahahaha no.
however, to be 'in love', as we colloquially coin it, one must have that layer of sexual attraction/intent, or the feelings stirred are simply of (committed) fondness for/attachment to the person.
10. when was the last time you told someone honestly how you felt regardless of how difficult it was for you to say? who was it? what did you have to tell the person?
i tend to be honest when confronting. it's when i have curled inward, because i feel confrontation would be pointless or my desires unachievable, that i speak in riddled truths.
11. what would be harder, for you to tell a friend you love them or that you do not love them back?
the former. one gives me power, and the other places it in the hands of whomever i am hypothetically confessing to.
12. excluding romantic love, when was the last time you told someone you loved them? who were they to you?
Brandi, earlier today.
13. imagine: it is a dark night, you are alone, it is raining outside, and you hear someone walking around outside your window. who do you wish was there with you?
someone wielding a crowbar. or maybe a Spartan warrior.
would you give a homeless person CPR if they were dying? why or why not?
of course. uh, the dude's homeless, not Hitler. presumably.
you are holding onto your grandmother’s hand and the hand of a newborn that you do not know as they hang over the edge of a cliff. you have to let one go to save the other. who do you let fall to their death?
both. i don't care enough for either to wrench my arm out of its socket.
are you old fashioned?
in what way?
i don't know what that means, contextually: be more specific.
when was the last time you were nice to someone and did NOT expect anything in return for it?
i don't really believe in altruism, so technically no one does, ever, but i regularly act kindly toward people with no other conscious motive then to help them (and therefore feel like a good person, which raises my self-esteem, which makes me happy, which is for my own benefit)
which would you choose: true love with the guarantee of a broken heart, or never loved at all? why?
if your heart gets broken, is it really 'true' love?
and i would always choose to never love anyone at all, because then anything could happen and it would slide off of my merry sociopathic shoulders.
are you scared of spiders?
not usually.
would you go back in time if you were given the chance?
i would want to know how that affected the timeline(s) as i know it/them now, beforehand, but probably yes.
what are your plans for this weekend?
working.
ever been swimming in a lake or a river?
yes.
last person you drove with in a car?
uh...Manduh? Brandi?
what did you last buy?
gasoline.
what radio station(s) do you listen to?
ipod.
are you afraid of the dark?
not really, other than the random bouts of paranoia.
do you like Chinese food?
if it tastes good, yes. =]
is there anyone you wish was still in your life?
yeah
was this the best year of your life?
not finished yet, come back later.
who are your best friends?
Brandi, Sam, Jamey, Erika.
is it easier to forgive or forget?
isn't it 'forgive AND forget', as in 'one who does not forgive dwells on it and eventually snaps and mutilates the offender, who by now has no recollection of the offendee or the offense itself'?
are you jealous of someone?
in an abstract way.
what last made you laugh the hardest?
i don't remember
would you live with someone without marrying them?
i have roommates.
have you ever had a dream about people you love dying?
no
who was the last person you cried in front of?
i don't do that.
have you ever changed clothes in a vehicle?
yes.
who was the last person that made you feel safe, why?
that's a loaded question i shall pointedly not answer.
have you ever broken someone’s heart?
all the time.
have you ever dated someone older than you?
yeah.
do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?
no
i always look people in the eye when they're telling me how they feel. presumably as a sign of strength. plus, when i am talking i get all nervous sometimes about being looked into.
02. think of the last time you were really angry. why were you angry? do you still feel the same way?
i am always angry.
03. you are on a flight from honolulu to chicago, nonstop. there is a fire in the back of the plane. you have enough time to make one phone call. who do you call? what do you tell them?
there are so many things i would want to say, to so many people
...but they probably wouldn't pick up anyway.
so i would just text those i love who aren't local or known by a lot of people and tell them i love them and i will be dead soon. and then text Brandi and tell her to find my computer and how to find the passwords to everything that i own and to give them to Jamey. to whom i will give Megan's phone number and the things those passwords unlock, because he'll know what i mean by 'Speaker For The Dead.'
this is a really well-thought out scenario.
04. you are at the doctor’s office and he has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? what do you do with your remaining days?
i would only ever tell anyone if i needed to pull that card out in order to get something i couldn't just obtain another way.
i would get to crossing items off of my Cosmic To Do List. also i would make a will. then, on my last day, above scenario.
05. you can have one of the following two things: love or trust. which do you choose? why?
i would cheat and choose love, because with love, one trusts. not necessarily that everything is peachy, or one might 'trust' that one will be cheated on with a blond(e) or something, but to love is to do, and to know, and therefore is to trust, in self and in other.
06. you are walking down the street on your way to work. there is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. your boss has told you if you are late even once more, you are fired. do you take the time to save the dog’s life?
i would take a picture of the drowning dog, save it, and then get press coverage, wherein i reference my place of work and my lack of worry about my job stability over this deed i have done. then i would quirk an eyebrow and head off to my next shift.
07. you are unfaithful to your spouse/significant other. do you tell him/her? why or why not?
supposing i were ever actually to cheat, i would closely examine the circumstances and what i learned about myself and the relationship against which i acted. if i went further than a kiss/one instance or didn't stop because of my concern for my lover (or if it's a significant emotional affair), i would end the relationship, because i would clearly not be getting out of it what i needed. if the singular instance solidified my need for the person, i would perhaps inform them, but probably not. after all, that would typically cause the relationship to end/change, which i have in the scenario discovered i do not want.
08. are you the kind of friend that you would want to have as a friend?
absolutely. and no, i am not just saying that, because i would even take the crazy bits.
09. does love = sex?
hahahahaha no.
however, to be 'in love', as we colloquially coin it, one must have that layer of sexual attraction/intent, or the feelings stirred are simply of (committed) fondness for/attachment to the person.
10. when was the last time you told someone honestly how you felt regardless of how difficult it was for you to say? who was it? what did you have to tell the person?
i tend to be honest when confronting. it's when i have curled inward, because i feel confrontation would be pointless or my desires unachievable, that i speak in riddled truths.
11. what would be harder, for you to tell a friend you love them or that you do not love them back?
the former. one gives me power, and the other places it in the hands of whomever i am hypothetically confessing to.
12. excluding romantic love, when was the last time you told someone you loved them? who were they to you?
Brandi, earlier today.
13. imagine: it is a dark night, you are alone, it is raining outside, and you hear someone walking around outside your window. who do you wish was there with you?
someone wielding a crowbar. or maybe a Spartan warrior.
would you give a homeless person CPR if they were dying? why or why not?
of course. uh, the dude's homeless, not Hitler. presumably.
you are holding onto your grandmother’s hand and the hand of a newborn that you do not know as they hang over the edge of a cliff. you have to let one go to save the other. who do you let fall to their death?
both. i don't care enough for either to wrench my arm out of its socket.
are you old fashioned?
in what way?
i don't know what that means, contextually: be more specific.
when was the last time you were nice to someone and did NOT expect anything in return for it?
i don't really believe in altruism, so technically no one does, ever, but i regularly act kindly toward people with no other conscious motive then to help them (and therefore feel like a good person, which raises my self-esteem, which makes me happy, which is for my own benefit)
which would you choose: true love with the guarantee of a broken heart, or never loved at all? why?
if your heart gets broken, is it really 'true' love?
and i would always choose to never love anyone at all, because then anything could happen and it would slide off of my merry sociopathic shoulders.
are you scared of spiders?
not usually.
would you go back in time if you were given the chance?
i would want to know how that affected the timeline(s) as i know it/them now, beforehand, but probably yes.
what are your plans for this weekend?
working.
ever been swimming in a lake or a river?
yes.
last person you drove with in a car?
uh...Manduh? Brandi?
what did you last buy?
gasoline.
what radio station(s) do you listen to?
ipod.
are you afraid of the dark?
not really, other than the random bouts of paranoia.
do you like Chinese food?
if it tastes good, yes. =]
is there anyone you wish was still in your life?
yeah
was this the best year of your life?
not finished yet, come back later.
who are your best friends?
Brandi, Sam, Jamey, Erika.
is it easier to forgive or forget?
isn't it 'forgive AND forget', as in 'one who does not forgive dwells on it and eventually snaps and mutilates the offender, who by now has no recollection of the offendee or the offense itself'?
are you jealous of someone?
in an abstract way.
what last made you laugh the hardest?
i don't remember
would you live with someone without marrying them?
i have roommates.
have you ever had a dream about people you love dying?
no
who was the last person you cried in front of?
i don't do that.
have you ever changed clothes in a vehicle?
yes.
who was the last person that made you feel safe, why?
that's a loaded question i shall pointedly not answer.
have you ever broken someone’s heart?
all the time.
have you ever dated someone older than you?
yeah.
do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?
no
Wednesday, May 20
one questions 'how to leap' and 'why' but never 'from where to what?'
a thought came to me today, while, as most do, i was amidst a task mundane. the simplicity of my work gave it ample spare space in which it settled, and still nests in my cerebellum; which am i, entirely faithless or utterly gullible?
one cannot have it both ways, after all, but i seem to vacillate on a scale in every given situation.
i would like to think i am not taken in like a fool, that i am of strong and skeptic mind, and that i follow logic and practicality to their conclusions before making mine.
i know that is not the case.
when someone lays down a statement as fact, i take it automatically at face value unless some instinct insists i disbelieve - what proves to be - the illusion. i latch on to the paranormal and supernatural with excitement and awe. i obey the heartstrings of my hopes and paranoia, churning my own insides at their whims.
it is this struggle to find poised balance on that scale which leads me to write this out. i have no answers for myself, only more concerns.
i abase myself before a God, but alternate complacent assurance with prideful hesitancy. the best argument i have heard for the Universe as nothing but a meshup of physical systems was something said about finding it a relief to assume life is not simply a test, and my response is only that one can learn a system's rules, and perhaps strategize to one's favor a handful of times, but one can manipulate a personality much easier, and with more regular results - especially when that personality provides one with tests by which to cheat.
even my faith in myself is skewed and circumstantial. is this a matter of pride? do i let my assumption that i can outwit, outcharm, or outsass my way around all obstacles overtake my ideas about what i believe in? should i do so more often, or less so? just how much should pride/faith inmyself should be a part of my worldview, and how much should i sacrifice to my God? or, if one takes the Atheistic standpoint, how much of my intention should i sacrifice for the (good)will of other people?
one cannot have it both ways, after all, but i seem to vacillate on a scale in every given situation.
i would like to think i am not taken in like a fool, that i am of strong and skeptic mind, and that i follow logic and practicality to their conclusions before making mine.
i know that is not the case.
when someone lays down a statement as fact, i take it automatically at face value unless some instinct insists i disbelieve - what proves to be - the illusion. i latch on to the paranormal and supernatural with excitement and awe. i obey the heartstrings of my hopes and paranoia, churning my own insides at their whims.
it is this struggle to find poised balance on that scale which leads me to write this out. i have no answers for myself, only more concerns.
i abase myself before a God, but alternate complacent assurance with prideful hesitancy. the best argument i have heard for the Universe as nothing but a meshup of physical systems was something said about finding it a relief to assume life is not simply a test, and my response is only that one can learn a system's rules, and perhaps strategize to one's favor a handful of times, but one can manipulate a personality much easier, and with more regular results - especially when that personality provides one with tests by which to cheat.
even my faith in myself is skewed and circumstantial. is this a matter of pride? do i let my assumption that i can outwit, outcharm, or outsass my way around all obstacles overtake my ideas about what i believe in? should i do so more often, or less so? just how much should pride/faith inmyself should be a part of my worldview, and how much should i sacrifice to my God? or, if one takes the Atheistic standpoint, how much of my intention should i sacrifice for the (good)will of other people?
Monday, May 4
Once confined to fantasy and science fiction, time travel is now simply an engineering problem. ~ MICHIO KAKU, Wired Magazine, Aug. 2003
lazy entry today. though i find myself boastful i have remembered to update at all. such low standards!
i assume that Time is the fourth dimension, and subscribe to the block theory that it's like space; we cannot be in more than one area of the dimension at once, and therefore cannot know both past and future. since we're in the middle of the tesseract though, instead of masters of it, as we are the third dimension, we can't see beyond the trees we've past and the ones we're currently staring at.
from that standpoint, time is a measurement not of the volume an object takes up, but the distance between the initial displacement of empty space and the replacement of it (as far as we can understand it, anyway). would manipulating the past then be like affecting an object's mass or girth: impossible (without understanding how to manipulate quantum mechanics)? we instead manipulate our recollection of time, via apologies and histories, much as we blur our account of space with guesstimates and analogies.
that's just talking about the actual possibility, though, not the potentiality.
i suppose the point of time travel (and anything into which effort is put) is to ensure that something of ourselves gets left behind, becomes irrevocably entangled with the universe as is, and therefore finds immortality. and for those who can't actually claim eternity through Achievement or Attachment (which leads into my presumably professional assumptions about human nature + moral psychology, as opposed to this topic, so i'll not detail that) time travel would just be an extension of faking it.
therefore, to answer your question, a perfect paragraph, short though it may be, is technically all we ever strive for. what do you expect to be written in your eulogy, a character testimony which only a relative few will ever hear, as opposed to your obituary, which seeks to notify complete strangers in few words and with little effort, that you have died, and perhaps they might give a shit (forgive morbidity) as opposed yet again to encyclopedic entries, which would detail your relevance in terms of objects/thoughts/etc that you have gifted to the general populace.
my questions are thus: for which reasons would we attempt time travel? to cement our place in the global history, or in the memories of those we have loved? and if we could all access time travel, would we learn to distrust even our own experiences in the face of the outside world? how would we relate to one another if everything was in flux? would we be bolder, knowing that we could simply buy a do-over? or would we cradle more closely our moments with one another, and a lover's promise become "i would never relive this day"?
the rest is all just me pontificating as usual. is also copy/pasted, because my facebook message conversations are like this by nature.If we could travel into the past, it's mind-boggling what would be possible. For one thing, history would become an experimental science, which it certainly isn't today. The possible insights into our own past and nature and origins would be dazzling. For another, we would be facing the deep paradoxes of interfering with the scheme of causality that has led to our own time and ourselves. I have no idea whether it's possible, but it's certainly worth exploring.
CARL SAGAN, NOVA interview, Oct. 12, 1999
****
i assume that Time is the fourth dimension, and subscribe to the block theory that it's like space; we cannot be in more than one area of the dimension at once, and therefore cannot know both past and future. since we're in the middle of the tesseract though, instead of masters of it, as we are the third dimension, we can't see beyond the trees we've past and the ones we're currently staring at.
from that standpoint, time is a measurement not of the volume an object takes up, but the distance between the initial displacement of empty space and the replacement of it (as far as we can understand it, anyway). would manipulating the past then be like affecting an object's mass or girth: impossible (without understanding how to manipulate quantum mechanics)? we instead manipulate our recollection of time, via apologies and histories, much as we blur our account of space with guesstimates and analogies.
that's just talking about the actual possibility, though, not the potentiality.
i suppose the point of time travel (and anything into which effort is put) is to ensure that something of ourselves gets left behind, becomes irrevocably entangled with the universe as is, and therefore finds immortality. and for those who can't actually claim eternity through Achievement or Attachment (which leads into my presumably professional assumptions about human nature + moral psychology, as opposed to this topic, so i'll not detail that) time travel would just be an extension of faking it.
therefore, to answer your question, a perfect paragraph, short though it may be, is technically all we ever strive for. what do you expect to be written in your eulogy, a character testimony which only a relative few will ever hear, as opposed to your obituary, which seeks to notify complete strangers in few words and with little effort, that you have died, and perhaps they might give a shit (forgive morbidity) as opposed yet again to encyclopedic entries, which would detail your relevance in terms of objects/thoughts/etc that you have gifted to the general populace.
my questions are thus: for which reasons would we attempt time travel? to cement our place in the global history, or in the memories of those we have loved? and if we could all access time travel, would we learn to distrust even our own experiences in the face of the outside world? how would we relate to one another if everything was in flux? would we be bolder, knowing that we could simply buy a do-over? or would we cradle more closely our moments with one another, and a lover's promise become "i would never relive this day"?
Friday, April 24
soon, robotic beings [or zombies] will rule the world, and none of this'll matter
today's anthropology discussion has my mind attempting to secure the gold medal.
roll your eyes and navigate away from this page if you can't sit through three paragraphs of this before i get to the topic at hand, but i just want to interrupt myself to interject that i think it's rational enough to believe in God and evolution. few people would disagree that evolution is the right course of scientific thought, but many have gotten it into their heads that once someone adds God to any equation, the person who did so expects everyone else to stop working with numbers and watch a bunny pop out from the other side of the equal sign.
one believing in God does not change what happens in the equation, only how the equation itself came to be. as no one really knows what inspired the Big Bang, God is as viable a source as 'one day the not!universe got really really bored...'.
i suppose the real dilemma comes in trying to figure out what to do about studying the origins of the universe if they did actually happen to be caused as opposed to random; some cosmologists might find themselves unable to continue working on their projects if even one answer was supernatural.
i suppose there's always evolution to fight about, which is the track i intend to switch to after this horrific excuse for a transition sentence is out of the way.
someone says "evolution" and i think of Darwin (and for some reason that puts me in mind of the Dewey Decimal system) and primates and the ol' Neanderthal vs. Cro-Magnon debate. i think of the only way we'll ever see it in action; through adaptation. i consider global warming and how which species will weather the storm (which is perhaps two puns for the price of one!) ahead.
what if it happens and all of our predictions turn out incredibly wrong? we wonder about our species and how it will evolve, but what if it develops all of these different traits - more alleles, a third strand of RNA - and eventually Homo sapiens sapiens splits into other subspecies? will it be, instead of environmental factors, due to a long line of the same sociological choices, like vegans propagating with vegans and producing children who eventually stop having canine teeth? or who's teeth and digestive systems develop into something more herbavoric than what we have now?
****
it's not just the future that's murky; the past is all in a fog as well. there are all sorts of wild theories about how modern-day humans got so modern (dandruff shampoo and the invention of the banana daquiri), but even the prevailing theory is mired in debate.
personally i think what happened was the RAO theory, except i would account for the differences in specific traits via a moderate level of interbreeding with the Neanderthals. i don't think there was enough mixing of subspecies to go the Multiregional route, however, because there just aren't enough people walking around with clearly Neanderthal traits.
i mean to say, the structure of modern-day human bodies is anatomically Cro-Magnon. if there was a significant amount of interbreeding - so much that a new species emerged in the wake of the other two - there would be evidence of it in our general population, not just in specific areas. unless i am much mistaken about the theory, the MRE posites that Neanderthals (and perhaps H. erectus?) mingled with the Cro-Magnons all over the globe, and that we have slightly varied traits (what traits, i'm never quite sure, which may be my problem) because of it. Were two different subspecies with subtle but noticable differences in cranium, shoulders, pelvis, leg proportions, etc to interbreed, i would expect their resulting children to have more than little variances; i would expect some people to have a longer skull and others to have a shorter one. i would expect variance to be everywhere, including bones, and therefore obvious in bone structure. i would expect this to be reflected in today's population.
evolution - we know it's about natural selection and the phrase "survival of the fittest" and the consequences of mutation. we know it's our only response to an ever-changing world, and that all evolution does for us is help us catch up, not keep up. we know it's involved with genetic drift and we can trace the matrilinial heritage of a species back to its ancestral representative millions of years ago, and plot a timeline of the past's changes.
we don't know how to plot the future. we don't know what sparks a new species from an old one, or where the biological lines blur between two already existing ones.
what is evolution, really? will we ever get the chance to find out - before it happens to us?
roll your eyes and navigate away from this page if you can't sit through three paragraphs of this before i get to the topic at hand, but i just want to interrupt myself to interject that i think it's rational enough to believe in God and evolution. few people would disagree that evolution is the right course of scientific thought, but many have gotten it into their heads that once someone adds God to any equation, the person who did so expects everyone else to stop working with numbers and watch a bunny pop out from the other side of the equal sign.
one believing in God does not change what happens in the equation, only how the equation itself came to be. as no one really knows what inspired the Big Bang, God is as viable a source as 'one day the not!universe got really really bored...'.
i suppose the real dilemma comes in trying to figure out what to do about studying the origins of the universe if they did actually happen to be caused as opposed to random; some cosmologists might find themselves unable to continue working on their projects if even one answer was supernatural.
i suppose there's always evolution to fight about, which is the track i intend to switch to after this horrific excuse for a transition sentence is out of the way.
****
someone says "evolution" and i think of Darwin (and for some reason that puts me in mind of the Dewey Decimal system) and primates and the ol' Neanderthal vs. Cro-Magnon debate. i think of the only way we'll ever see it in action; through adaptation. i consider global warming and how which species will weather the storm (which is perhaps two puns for the price of one!) ahead.
what if it happens and all of our predictions turn out incredibly wrong? we wonder about our species and how it will evolve, but what if it develops all of these different traits - more alleles, a third strand of RNA - and eventually Homo sapiens sapiens splits into other subspecies? will it be, instead of environmental factors, due to a long line of the same sociological choices, like vegans propagating with vegans and producing children who eventually stop having canine teeth? or who's teeth and digestive systems develop into something more herbavoric than what we have now?
****
personally i think what happened was the RAO theory, except i would account for the differences in specific traits via a moderate level of interbreeding with the Neanderthals. i don't think there was enough mixing of subspecies to go the Multiregional route, however, because there just aren't enough people walking around with clearly Neanderthal traits.
i mean to say, the structure of modern-day human bodies is anatomically Cro-Magnon. if there was a significant amount of interbreeding - so much that a new species emerged in the wake of the other two - there would be evidence of it in our general population, not just in specific areas. unless i am much mistaken about the theory, the MRE posites that Neanderthals (and perhaps H. erectus?) mingled with the Cro-Magnons all over the globe, and that we have slightly varied traits (what traits, i'm never quite sure, which may be my problem) because of it. Were two different subspecies with subtle but noticable differences in cranium, shoulders, pelvis, leg proportions, etc to interbreed, i would expect their resulting children to have more than little variances; i would expect some people to have a longer skull and others to have a shorter one. i would expect variance to be everywhere, including bones, and therefore obvious in bone structure. i would expect this to be reflected in today's population.
****
evolution - we know it's about natural selection and the phrase "survival of the fittest" and the consequences of mutation. we know it's our only response to an ever-changing world, and that all evolution does for us is help us catch up, not keep up. we know it's involved with genetic drift and we can trace the matrilinial heritage of a species back to its ancestral representative millions of years ago, and plot a timeline of the past's changes.
we don't know how to plot the future. we don't know what sparks a new species from an old one, or where the biological lines blur between two already existing ones.
what is evolution, really? will we ever get the chance to find out - before it happens to us?
Wednesday, March 18
the child is grown, the dream is gone
i felt the need to jot down the following observations i and a conversational partner made today, but i am too lazy to actually restructure the comments we said into paragraph format. therefore, you, Nonexistent Reader, shall simply have to muddle through the discourse.
Laskuraska:
Remember when cartoons used to have jokes in them that were meant for adults?
I miss that
New cartoons don't usually have them
but the older ones did, and watching them as an adult is just as fun
Zen:
well i love Butch Hartman cartoons
like Danny Phantom
Fairly Oddparents
they've got that thing where the audience isn't just kids but teens and adults too
not as cracktastic and glorious as Freakazoid or The Animaniacs, but they're the classics, so, you know.
Laskuraska:
yeah
Animaniacs was fucking great
I miss that show too
the thing is though- I don't want them to try to make new ones.
They'd ruin it ;-;
Zen:
indeed
the era has passed
it's like getting ska bands back into pop culture
Laskuraska:
yeah
Zen:
you can't. the need for them in america is gone
you can fuse some of the reggae sound, but the personality of america has changed
Laskuraska:
the question is what do we need right now, really. We're not getting it or we'd be less violent anf ig'nant.
Zen:
grown up.
indeed
Laskuraska:
We need to find out what we need and take it.
Maybe we need a big bowl of post-post rock
lol
whatever it is we need, it
's probably not here yet.
Someone needs to make it.
Zen:
hahah
we're just getting into post-postmodernism
give us time
Laskuraska:
hahaha
Yes. We're not ready for that many post-posts.
And see here is my issue with calling stuff "modern" or "post-___".
Now modern means like 60 years ago, and we're post-post-modern, And that's rediculous.
I mean, modern is supposed to be a word that refers to the state of the world right now, in'nit? As in "in modern times we use hummers instead of cars usually."
"- because we is ig'nant"
Zen:
pretty much yes
it was also supposed to be about the mindset though
instead of reminiscing about "the good ol' days" it was about moving forward
1950s was the supposedly Golden Era Of American Advancement
everything was supposed to shape up and we'd defeated the economy and hitler and we were heading to the stars
it was all go go go
until we realized some of us were falling behind
and some of us were chained to the floor
and still more of us said 'fuck you stars' and went off slamming their doors, playing loud music and practicing their Pretentious Twat Smirk in the mirror while salivating over "art" from marcel duchamp
Laskuraska: hahaha yes.
A few of us tried to build elevators
but they were like "hey no blacks and women allowed on my elevator" and then the other white guys pissed on the engine and broke the elevators because that's what you get for being a giant dick.
And the Asians were like "Hey can we not live in concentration camps anymore? The war's been over for like ten years"
and the white guys who peed on the elevators were like "Ok guys come on out"
Zen: precisely
you stole that from a history textbook.
Remember when cartoons used to have jokes in them that were meant for adults?
I miss that
New cartoons don't usually have them
but the older ones did, and watching them as an adult is just as fun
Zen:
well i love Butch Hartman cartoons
like Danny Phantom
Fairly Oddparents
they've got that thing where the audience isn't just kids but teens and adults too
not as cracktastic and glorious as Freakazoid or The Animaniacs, but they're the classics, so, you know.
Laskuraska:
yeah
Animaniacs was fucking great
I miss that show too
the thing is though- I don't want them to try to make new ones.
They'd ruin it ;-;
Zen:
indeed
the era has passed
it's like getting ska bands back into pop culture
Laskuraska:
yeah
Zen:
you can't. the need for them in america is gone
you can fuse some of the reggae sound, but the personality of america has changed
Laskuraska:
the question is what do we need right now, really. We're not getting it or we'd be less violent anf ig'nant.
Zen:
grown up.
indeed
Laskuraska:
We need to find out what we need and take it.
Maybe we need a big bowl of post-post rock
lol
whatever it is we need, it
's probably not here yet.
Someone needs to make it.
Zen:
hahah
we're just getting into post-postmodernism
give us time
Laskuraska:
hahaha
Yes. We're not ready for that many post-posts.
And see here is my issue with calling stuff "modern" or "post-___".
Now modern means like 60 years ago, and we're post-post-modern, And that's rediculous.
I mean, modern is supposed to be a word that refers to the state of the world right now, in'nit? As in "in modern times we use hummers instead of cars usually."
"- because we is ig'nant"
Zen:
pretty much yes
it was also supposed to be about the mindset though
instead of reminiscing about "the good ol' days" it was about moving forward
1950s was the supposedly Golden Era Of American Advancement
everything was supposed to shape up and we'd defeated the economy and hitler and we were heading to the stars
it was all go go go
until we realized some of us were falling behind
and some of us were chained to the floor
and still more of us said 'fuck you stars' and went off slamming their doors, playing loud music and practicing their Pretentious Twat Smirk in the mirror while salivating over "art" from marcel duchamp
Laskuraska: hahaha yes.
A few of us tried to build elevators
but they were like "hey no blacks and women allowed on my elevator" and then the other white guys pissed on the engine and broke the elevators because that's what you get for being a giant dick.
And the Asians were like "Hey can we not live in concentration camps anymore? The war's been over for like ten years"
and the white guys who peed on the elevators were like "Ok guys come on out"
Zen: precisely
you stole that from a history textbook.
i wonder what our descendants will say about post-postmodernism, once society has grown enough to shed the cultures of this era and don the idiosyncrasies of the next.
Wednesday, February 25
my fair lady
once, i laid down the bill for some customers, discretely as any dutiful waitress, and by some chance glanced down at my fingers, still gripping the corner of the bill holder. one of the men already had a hovering hand awaiting my self-removal from the tableside, and i recall thinking about the image in my mind of a thick hand on a bill vs. a smaller, softer one with chipped polish on the fingers instead of hairy knuckles. the juxtaposition seemed strange to me, like my hand shouldn't have been on it. it took me a while to realize why, but in all my time as a waitress, i have only rarely seen a woman pay for the food when her company also included at least one grown man.
my own father fits the same profile, so i suppose my socialization is to blame for why the reversal of roles would stand out to me. i don't assume something so daft as that a female breadwinner (or bread-payer-for, at any rate) would destabilize society, but it would certainly break a mold i still have yet to see reshaped.
****
actually, that's not true. i never imagined my wedding, which is what one hears about little girls, isn't it? a mother walking in on her daughter, all overdolled in makeup until she resembles more a clown than a lady, stumbling around in too-big heels and a trailing dress, and she doesn't frown at the hurricane that's blown through the room, but coos because her little girl has been properly socialized, and in the end that's the only job of a parent.
but such a comment is for another post.
i wonder how many girls thought about marriage, as opposed to the ornate quality of their wedding decorations. how many pondered who would raise the children; whose job would be the force behind any migration of familial location; who would do the driving and the paying and the speaking to members of society outside the family unit. because that's as much a matrix of choices in marriage as is picking apart one another's guest list when planning a wedding.
all this post-postmodern world has bequeathed to its generations is the cliquifying of individuality, the recognition of even the most obviously androgynous traits (and those who insist on viewing them as such) to the LGBT community's claims department, and the polarization of all behavior any woman exhibits (or inhibits) in light of the 'type' of woman it makes her. to someone with only two decades marked on the bingo scoresheet of life experiences, even the willingness to wear an engagement ring, as opposed to the demand that her fiance wear one as well, is some Epic Revelation Regarding Her Opinions Of Her Ancestors' Fight For Her Right To Be Masculine.
not-so-secretly, all i want to be is me, and to hell with gender roles and societal expectations, but even i can squint through my cloud of idealism well enough to recognize reality right before it boxes my ears. history is a tale spun by the victors, and if we aren't always fighting then the story isn't deemed interesting enough to tell, so sometimes we just make it up.
it's because we cannot let anything exist without letting everyone dig a fingernail into it that my marriage - assuming i ever actually meet someone i could imagining myself willing to spend a lifetime With Me as opposed to just around me, like my dearest and most prized friends - would be niggled at and prodded with and stipulated upon before i even agreed to undertaking it.
which, ok: writing the fine print before signing to the contract is always a wise idea, but i wonder just how many more conditions are set nowadays than in ye oldedayes, because so many women are under the assumption that if they list a quota on how many hours a week their husbands must allow them outside working and shopping, that they will be doing the foremothers of feminism proud. in the end, though, they're still defining themselves by their relation to men; drinking vodka martinis instead of beers on a raucous night out because they hold themselves at a higher class than men; wearing high heels and a slinky dress to work because they happen to have bodies that are less aesthetically awkward than men; hiring someone else to raise/watch/interact with the children because they refuse to be held down by domestic responsibilities any more than their masculine counterparts.
perhaps i am putting more thought into this than required (wouldn't be the first time i stuck philosophy in where it wasn't recommended), but i imagine the utmost a woman can do for marriage, or feminism, or for anti-discrimination movements anywhere, is to refine her self-concept (and her intentions, and certainly her values) internally.
****
if i marry, it won't be because that's 'what you do' or because i intend to listen to any biological clock, or because i am secretly waiting for the one person in all of creation who, by his battered lonesome, can finish my puzzle better than the jagged pieces i collect from everyone else who has ever influenced me.
if i marry, i won't change my name, and i won't ask my fiance to change his - not as some vehement feminist message about how i am tied but not bound, but simply because i've actively struggled against letting other people drape names on me like mantling.
unless it was a clearly superior last name, that is. then i would change it just to introduce myself and hear the syllables roll around in my mouth.
if i marry, i won't quit my job to raise children, and i won't pawn them off on a daycare center. mostly because i don't really want children (i rather expect to be an atrociously-tempered, inconsistent, impertinent mother, and why, if i could avoid it, would i burden anyone with whatever psychological scarring that would cause, thereby creating a vicious serial killer?).
if i do end up reproducing, my husband can take off time or work from home and rear them, because he would be the one who'd begged for them in the first place.
if i marry, i won't keep an immaculate house. i wouldn't even have a house, since i much prefer more cramped dwellings like inner-city apartments (i can sacrifice living in a tenement, though). i would wash dishes if what i needed at the moment was unclean. i would sweep/vaccuum if i couldn't walk barefoot across a floor without wincing at the sensation of dirt squishing itself between my toes. i usually don't ever really clean until i get disgusted or i find myself in an obsessive-compulsive fit of tidiness. instead of worrying about what a 'bad' wife that might make me, i just chalk it up to artistic nature and move on.
if i marry, i won't have dinner waiting on the table precisely at mealtimes. mostly because i don't have a set meal time, i just eat when i am hungry, but also because if anyone's going to be enforcing a family dinner, it's whomever happens to be the better cook.
if i marry, i will continue to have friends my husband doesn't share, and probably a few he hates. as i imagine he will. i never understood couples whose lives suddenly revolve around one another, who think love is spending nearly every waking second together. nor can i understand why they are so shocked that the spark dies after being throttled for twenty years.
...and so many other stipulations, but after a while that just becomes another random list, and not something that matters to this post.
Tuesday, January 27
so, yeah, I felt so scared
why, i wonder, are our lives so defined by cycles?
wake, shower, eat, brush teeth, go [to work, to school, to ever-present errands], return, eat, vegge out, sleep, wake...repeat.
repeat.
repeat.
glance, see, dilate pupils, smile, prowl, approach, negotiate, take, have, lose/break, cry, scowl, leave, glance...repeat.
repeat.
repeat.
breathe, cry, eat/sleep/shit, discover, laugh, love, grow, bleed, break, heal, learn, [live], migrate, procreate [, teach, settle, fade, wither, decompose]...repeat.
repeat.
repeat.
all we can hope for is that we are not hamsters in wheels; fixed.
roll down every hill, tumble blindly past each valley - enforce a cycle
move the subject forward.
wake, shower, eat, brush teeth, go [to work, to school, to ever-present errands], return, eat, vegge out, sleep, wake...repeat.
repeat.
repeat.
glance, see, dilate pupils, smile, prowl, approach, negotiate, take, have, lose/break, cry, scowl, leave, glance...repeat.
repeat.
repeat.
breathe, cry, eat/sleep/shit, discover, laugh, love, grow, bleed, break, heal, learn, [live], migrate, procreate [, teach, settle, fade, wither, decompose]...repeat.
repeat.
repeat.
all we can hope for is that we are not hamsters in wheels; fixed.
roll down every hill, tumble blindly past each valley - enforce a cycle
move the subject forward.
Saturday, January 17
get on with the fascination [each another's audience]
i wrote the following at 5am last week. the editing of my rough draft was a harrowing process, involving many a threat to just trash the whole thing and drop out of college. to forget i that i ever had such aspirations.
****
it's the red wine this time, but that is no excuse
you're going to tell Angie, because how could you not? Angie has always been privy to your blackest secrets (not your deepest, necessarily, but certainly your darkest) because Angie is the only person you know who could understand them, implicitly.
Angie used to fuck around. with men, with women, with random streetpeople she'd found in bars. with you, a few times, in the beginning. with acid-laced cigarettes, with vodka and anti-depressants; with rusted chains and never-dulled knives; she fucked around with everything she could mix and match. now she's on the up-and-up, with a brood of fresh-faced children and a handsome man with his hand on her lower back, steering her away from her demons.
you aren't so lucky.
or perhaps that's not fair; can one really blame luck for events that unfold because of one's own decisions, hastily-made as they might be? of course not. in the end, it's not luck - good or bad - that has you pressed between him and the creaking door of his flat, the shadows not distorting either of your faces enough for you to pretend confusion. you know exactly whose nimble fingers are rubbing circles into your spine. further: you know exactly whose aren't.
thinking of Andrew is probably not the best way to lose oneself in emotion, because it's David's fingers that entertwine with yours, David's skin getting grazed by silver and diamond. in an instant, the only thing flooding you is shame. you're flushing so fluorescently your mind supplies a bizarre image of yourself at this moment, glowing a vibrant red only observed by thermal vision. you imagine also, however, that David can see it (surely he must be able to feel it? you're so hot. you're burning with it - a twisted, post-modern interpretation of the scarlet letter, you suppose, but it's your brain, so you'll just chalk it up to something peculiar and repressed, and move on).
and perhaps he really can see it (you wouldn't put it past David to harbor superpowers, not after the way he'd sunk into your heart, even mere moments after you'd met him) because he's pulling away, palms cupping your neck, thumb tracing your jawline, and his hands are so cold you think it might be enough for you to just fling yourself on him, push out every last tendril of fever, until you've stopped shaking and can finally rest.
but the moment is over, perhaps (it never is. wasn't over the second after the second you met him, isn't over two years later, won't be over in twenty years' time) and he whispers your name with an entirely different timber than the one he'd used a minute ago. the black pools of his eyes have contracted, and you see a nightmare version of yourself - puffy-eyed and faintly squarish all around, (and oh God is that how he knew!? did he feel you bloating, gaining, the curse of your shattered self-control in times of panic?) - reflected in his irises.
he whispers your name again, and how is it that you don't even much mind how, tangled as you are, you can smell the merlot that accentuates every syllable rolling off of his tongue? there's something tranquilizing about his scent that you can never seem to bottle. you've tried, of course; mumbling half-remembered jokes he's made like mantras, grasping for anything to wield against that never-ending penchant for self-destruction that used to surface mostly when you were out with Angie. you suppose there's some dark irony in the fact that she got better after a few weeks of inpatient rehabilitation, and you just got worse.
Angie can't be your lifeline anymore. even if the anchor she'd provided had only tied you to a life of coke, larceny, and overdue rent, she'd been something to cling to when nothing else quite took the edge off. Andrew was supposed to be her healthy replacement. the solid food to which a child progresses in the natural order of things. what he has become is...what has he become? he's been supportive in all the right places, and repremmanding in every proper situation. he has entirely lived up to expectations. once again it's you that misses the mark.
"Mara!" David again summons your attention, and your obediant neck swings up to re-meet that nightmare version of yourself. you never could deny him more than twice. when you blink him into focus, the room is spinning. you really shouldn't have had that wine with dinner; mere affectionate friend or not, you've forever had trouble keeping the world behind him from sneaking away even without added distractions.
he lets leave a hand from its post holding up your jawline to brush your bangs from your eyelashes, and you start at the ice of his touch. you shiver, hoping the violence of the motion will shake free your fidelity from its cobweb cell.
you bat his hands away, an half-hearted attempt to push him the rest of the way off of you, and twist the knob, to place wood and stairs and miles of concrete between him and yourself.
in the end, you forget everything but your quest to catalog the various shades of his freckles.
are all writers this self-loathing?
also: the title is a line from an Arctic Monkeys song.
it's the red wine this time, but that is no excuse
you're going to tell Angie, because how could you not? Angie has always been privy to your blackest secrets (not your deepest, necessarily, but certainly your darkest) because Angie is the only person you know who could understand them, implicitly.
Angie used to fuck around. with men, with women, with random streetpeople she'd found in bars. with you, a few times, in the beginning. with acid-laced cigarettes, with vodka and anti-depressants; with rusted chains and never-dulled knives; she fucked around with everything she could mix and match. now she's on the up-and-up, with a brood of fresh-faced children and a handsome man with his hand on her lower back, steering her away from her demons.
you aren't so lucky.
or perhaps that's not fair; can one really blame luck for events that unfold because of one's own decisions, hastily-made as they might be? of course not. in the end, it's not luck - good or bad - that has you pressed between him and the creaking door of his flat, the shadows not distorting either of your faces enough for you to pretend confusion. you know exactly whose nimble fingers are rubbing circles into your spine. further: you know exactly whose aren't.
thinking of Andrew is probably not the best way to lose oneself in emotion, because it's David's fingers that entertwine with yours, David's skin getting grazed by silver and diamond. in an instant, the only thing flooding you is shame. you're flushing so fluorescently your mind supplies a bizarre image of yourself at this moment, glowing a vibrant red only observed by thermal vision. you imagine also, however, that David can see it (surely he must be able to feel it? you're so hot. you're burning with it - a twisted, post-modern interpretation of the scarlet letter, you suppose, but it's your brain, so you'll just chalk it up to something peculiar and repressed, and move on).
and perhaps he really can see it (you wouldn't put it past David to harbor superpowers, not after the way he'd sunk into your heart, even mere moments after you'd met him) because he's pulling away, palms cupping your neck, thumb tracing your jawline, and his hands are so cold you think it might be enough for you to just fling yourself on him, push out every last tendril of fever, until you've stopped shaking and can finally rest.
but the moment is over, perhaps (it never is. wasn't over the second after the second you met him, isn't over two years later, won't be over in twenty years' time) and he whispers your name with an entirely different timber than the one he'd used a minute ago. the black pools of his eyes have contracted, and you see a nightmare version of yourself - puffy-eyed and faintly squarish all around, (and oh God is that how he knew!? did he feel you bloating, gaining, the curse of your shattered self-control in times of panic?) - reflected in his irises.
he whispers your name again, and how is it that you don't even much mind how, tangled as you are, you can smell the merlot that accentuates every syllable rolling off of his tongue? there's something tranquilizing about his scent that you can never seem to bottle. you've tried, of course; mumbling half-remembered jokes he's made like mantras, grasping for anything to wield against that never-ending penchant for self-destruction that used to surface mostly when you were out with Angie. you suppose there's some dark irony in the fact that she got better after a few weeks of inpatient rehabilitation, and you just got worse.
Angie can't be your lifeline anymore. even if the anchor she'd provided had only tied you to a life of coke, larceny, and overdue rent, she'd been something to cling to when nothing else quite took the edge off. Andrew was supposed to be her healthy replacement. the solid food to which a child progresses in the natural order of things. what he has become is...what has he become? he's been supportive in all the right places, and repremmanding in every proper situation. he has entirely lived up to expectations. once again it's you that misses the mark.
"Mara!" David again summons your attention, and your obediant neck swings up to re-meet that nightmare version of yourself. you never could deny him more than twice. when you blink him into focus, the room is spinning. you really shouldn't have had that wine with dinner; mere affectionate friend or not, you've forever had trouble keeping the world behind him from sneaking away even without added distractions.
he lets leave a hand from its post holding up your jawline to brush your bangs from your eyelashes, and you start at the ice of his touch. you shiver, hoping the violence of the motion will shake free your fidelity from its cobweb cell.
you bat his hands away, an half-hearted attempt to push him the rest of the way off of you, and twist the knob, to place wood and stairs and miles of concrete between him and yourself.
in the end, you forget everything but your quest to catalog the various shades of his freckles.
Thursday, January 1
the over-long buildup to behavioural modification
one : i have a livejournal (please don't mock me) which i use embarrassingly often. i don't actually ever post or comment in any of the various communities i have joined. i can sit all day reading from communities where those who post do so to make note of some event that has happened, some emotion they needed to remember, some thought they needed to call attention to, because of its importance. because, for a second, it defined them. their reactions to such moments are the epitome of humanity, and i love to immerse myself in it, and write about every tangent these confessions lead me down. {1}
two : i must renew my commitment to Buddhism, and resolidify my trust in the God who's company i seek with it. i have toiled away for eons, handmolding my Zen into perfect rigidity. now i must build upon the foundations that i have left for cobwebs, before any crumbling of those stones which buffer me from all manner of howling winds.
three : i pledge to invest myself in my own academia. for too long have i let myself just topple from platform to platform, only picking myself up from the ground long enough to toddle straight off to lower heights. if i ever indend to accomplish anything, much less make of myself value via Achievement, i need to start climbing.
four : i will write more. i cannot grow into greatness if all i have to show for myself are fleeting fancies of faerietales and other flashes of fiction. {4} i cannot allow myself to put anything off, but i must improve myself in every fashion - particularly because i assume this mantle of Writer, and Philosopher, and Artist. i can't think of a single definition for any of them which includes a pervasive and ever-present slothfulness.
five : i shall not merely listen; i shall hear.
{1} and that is what i love about the Internet.
i can be completely alone, in a city where i know not a soul, and log on and immediately feel at home. at ease. surrounded, by the like-minded, by individuals so far outside my normal sphere of influence i would never be able to encounter (much less learn from) otherwise.
{4} i fear i have already damaged my Writer Muscle; caused it to atrophy beyond any level where i can retain full use of it again. further, i often read back on slop i've written and doubt i have ever even known such a thing.
but i never reveal what i think, even in commmunities about politics, or art, or music. among those who offer up their hearts, i lurk, on the brink of social interaction. previously, i have dared not inch a toe forward. now, i am determined to leap.
two : i must renew my commitment to Buddhism, and resolidify my trust in the God who's company i seek with it. i have toiled away for eons, handmolding my Zen into perfect rigidity. now i must build upon the foundations that i have left for cobwebs, before any crumbling of those stones which buffer me from all manner of howling winds.
three : i pledge to invest myself in my own academia. for too long have i let myself just topple from platform to platform, only picking myself up from the ground long enough to toddle straight off to lower heights. if i ever indend to accomplish anything, much less make of myself value via Achievement, i need to start climbing.
four : i will write more. i cannot grow into greatness if all i have to show for myself are fleeting fancies of faerietales and other flashes of fiction. {4} i cannot allow myself to put anything off, but i must improve myself in every fashion - particularly because i assume this mantle of Writer, and Philosopher, and Artist. i can't think of a single definition for any of them which includes a pervasive and ever-present slothfulness.
five : i shall not merely listen; i shall hear.
{1} and that is what i love about the Internet.
i can be completely alone, in a city where i know not a soul, and log on and immediately feel at home. at ease. surrounded, by the like-minded, by individuals so far outside my normal sphere of influence i would never be able to encounter (much less learn from) otherwise.
{4} i fear i have already damaged my Writer Muscle; caused it to atrophy beyond any level where i can retain full use of it again. further, i often read back on slop i've written and doubt i have ever even known such a thing.
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