My voice is the voice of privilege. Want a specific breakdown? It's a white voice, a male voice, a Christian voice, a voice whose parents are still married after 27 years. This voice owns a car, pays rent, affords luxuries. This voice gets his grad school tuition paid for. This voice complains about things like having too many clothes. This voice stops counting his blessings because he can't count that high. If you could listen to The Man talk, he would probably sound like me.
(Is the self-doubt too subtle? It might be too subtle.)
Let's detour to Marion, Illinois. The year is 1996 or thereabouts. I am tall for my age, with gigantic faux-horn-rimmed glasses and protuberant buck teeth.
My grampa and gramma live half an hour away, in Carbondale. They live in the same house their parents lived in for years. It's great that they live so close--sometimes my grampa, an amateur geologist, comes over and demonstrates how fold mountain ranges are formed. He uses a bath towel to show us.
Marion winters come slowly but with strange violence. High winds and heavy snow-dumps happen regularly, and as regularly the drifts are swallowed by muddy, grassy earth. My mother tells us we may not play in the snow when it's below zero. We immediately become very interested in finding out every day's temperature.
The first snowfall of every winter, my gramma makes us snowflake soup. It's awesome and thick and creamy, and I feel sleepy after I eat it. Snowflake soup becomes as ritual as Thanksgiving, sometimes happening before, usually after.
What a sweet story. Here's another. When I was running regularly this summer, my evening route would take me past a certain bus stop on the corner of 8th and Wells. I knew to breathe through my mouth as I rounded that corner every evening, because the homeless woman who slept on the bench of the bus stop smelled rather pungent.
Another detour. This one won't take you far, Dear Reader--just two weeks ago today, to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The first snowfall of the year, and somehow I remember a tradition I had nearly forgotten: snowflake soup.
My towel-folding grampa passed away more than a year ago, but my gramma still lives in the ancestral mansion. I don't contact her often enough, but this time the chain of connection is obvious: first snowfall, snowflake soup, gramma. I send her an email reminiscing about snowflake soup--a memory, not a request, but she sends me a box with snowflake soup mix, a recipe, a piece of glassware shaped like a snowman. She even sends imitation bacon bits, which I had forgotten were an absolutely fundamental part of snowflake soup.
She didn't forget.
I get the box on Saturday, but I wait until it snows again--we must hold fast to the traditions of our forefathers, you see. It snows today, and I look forward to the snowflake soup all day long. And then I make it, and eating it fills me up just like it used to. It's so awesome and thick and creamy, you see. Memory in a bowl.
Should I feel guilty for being privileged? I'm not sure. Should I feel guilty for judging that homeless woman, even implicitly? Absolutely. Could I give more to those less blessed than me? Most likely. Should I be doing more to help the smelly ones, the hairy ones, the ones who mutter to themselves? Of course.
Answering those questions--that's easy. But in the first draft of this post, in which I asked rhetorically how the homeless men clustered outside the Milwaukee Rescue Mission would react to my idyllic story, I generalized. I assumed that all of those men have had bad, un-idyllic lives--that because they're smelly now they always were smelly.
That's wrong, I'm pretty sure. And maybe if I had ever been smelly, I would be more aware of the breadth of catastrophe that can make people smelly. I would be less willing to generalize. Maybe my privilege means I'm fundamentally unable to understand them. Maybe my privilege even manifests in the fact that I think about them as them.
But snowflake soup is so awesome, and thick, and creamy.
"O, speak to me no more!
These words like daggers enter in mine ears."
(Hamlet, III.iv)
Monday, November 25, 2013
Sunday, July 28, 2013
I Am The United States Marine Corps
I need to write this down so I remember it.
I need to write this down so I can begin to forget it.
I need to write this down so I can understand it.
This actually happened.
She: relaxed, cute, articulate. She asks me for a brewed coffee. I treat her with the deference she deserves: a polite customer ordering a simple drink. I meet her eyes and smile, then break off after no more than a few seconds. Look at customers too long and they get uncomfortable.
He: clothed in dull red shorts and, incongruously, a red sweater, white-bearded, stooped. He lurches from the right into my field of vision. I look in his direction. He is no customer. I see them a lot: the ones who come in to day-drink at one of the bars in the building. As a matter of course I nod mildly at him.
He stops, turns, moves toward the counter. Perhaps I was wrong? No: "Can I just smell the flowers once?" He gestures at the vase of zinnias. I nod. He eases into her personal space. Elastically she shifts away from him, imperceptibly re-establishing her bubble.
He sniffs the flowers perfunctorily. Turns to her: "do you like how they smell?" She could be his daughter. She says, "I haven't smelled them yet."
"United States Marine Corps," he says to her. "That's me. I'm the United States Marine Corps." I make some motion, because his attention shifts momentarily, grudgingly, to me. He holds out his hand to me. "I'm the United States Marine Corps." I take his hand; it has that banded wiriness of muscle built long ago. He squeezes my hand.
Then he's back to my customer. "You should smell those flowers." He moves his arm up and touches her back. It is a strange touch; familiar suggesting intimacy, or the proposal of intimacy, but brief suggesting camaraderie. He does not clap her on the back. He does not trace her shoulderblade. He touches, and then his hand drops.
Now she steps away from him. "You take care of your business now," he says to her, and she just nods. I watch, frozen. He turns back to me. "I'm the United States Marine Corps. You take care of your business now," to me. I nod too, with false cheer. "I sure will!" I chirp. He's moving away from us. I almost dare to breathe again, when he stops and turns back.
"I fought in the war," he says. "I fought overseas, in the war. I'm the United States Marine Corps." I nod again. "You take care of your business now," he says. "I take care of my business. I can prove it. You want me to prove it? I got my shotgun in the truck."
I swallow something in my throat. I manage to shake my head. "That's all right. I believe you."
He steps back toward us, and despair rises like my gorge. But he only wants to repeat the importance of taking care of our business. "I will, I will," I say. I hope my growing panic doesn't sound in my voice. "Have a good night, sir."
"Take care of your business," and then he is out the door. I see him talking to someone outside--another innocent buttonholed? but no, it is his female doppelgänger, and his body language tells me she and he are together. I am mildly surprised that he should have someone, anyone.
I turn back to my customer. Still cute, no longer relaxed. I lean across the counter, attempt to re-establish that rapport which so often leads to a dollar tip in the jar. "I am so sorry about that," I say. Then I realize what I have said.
She shakes her head, hands me her money, takes her coffee, walks away. Not another word. No tip, no smile, no connection. A repeat customer slipped through my fingers. And why did I apologize for that man, for the United States Marine Corps?
I go into the kitchen and breathe great deep shocked breaths until I have calmed myself. Then I return to my counter to smile, to banter, to serve, and, it seems, to apologize.
Long live solubility.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Talking Into Thin Air
On February 26, 2012, George Zimmerman shot Trayvon Martin in the chest, killing him.
On April 11, 2012, Zimmerman was charged with second-degree murder.
On July 13, 2013, a six-person jury found Zimmerman not guilty on all counts.
Today, I read an intriguing op-ed on CNN.com, discussing whether the US justice system has failed African-Americans. It draws a connection between Atticus Finch's closing argument in To Kill A Mockingbird and the decision of the court in the Zimmerman case. Austin-Hillery's thesis is persuasive, because her research is sound, and her insights are worthwhile.
Reading her column, and scrolling through tweets and posts on Facebook over the last two days, I realized why the debate over the case has raged so viciously. Some praise the rule of law--"they had to acquit, given the evidence"--and others condemn the unfairness of Florida (and, indeed, more broadly, American) procedure--"and yet this woman gets 20 years!" And the two sides talk past each other, as is so often the case. They fail to realize that their conception of What Courts Do is different.
Many--Austin-Hillery among them--believe that the legal system has a responsibility to discover, implement, and enact justice. With Atticus Finch, they call for a morally/socially responsible judiciary, one that sees to the heart of cases and determines what is right. (The complexities surrounding that word are too great to contain in one blog post, perhaps, so we will leave it alone.) In their eyes, the 18th Circuit Court's response to Zimmerman's actions perpetuate a historical precedent of white prejudice in the legal system.
Others see America's justice system as interpretive, translating the laws created by legislature and enforcing them in individual cases. They expect a passive judiciary, neither imposing its will on other branches of government nor seeking anything more than a formulaic comparison of evidence and case to precedent and statute. In their eyes, the 18th Circuit Court's response to Zimmerman's actions was its only possible response.
The former group seeks a possibly unattainable ideal--the enacting of Real Justice. The latter group seeks a probably heartless result--the precise interpretation of the Law of the Land.
I don't know where I fall. Except this: we humans have major issues. We think ill of each other, we speak ill of each other, we hate each other, sometimes we kill each other. We may not be as violent as George Zimmerman, or as equipped for violence, but we enact emotional violence in our hearts every day--to that moron who just cut us off in traffic, to that terrible customer who sends back his entrée four times because it's not hot enough, to the colleague or coworker or classmate or friend or enemy who gossips about our personal shortcomings. Humankind is a mess. Expecting some kind of silver out of that dross--whether the silver of real justice or the silver of precise interpretation--may be an exercise in futility.
Now I'm depressed.
Long live careful consideration.
On April 11, 2012, Zimmerman was charged with second-degree murder.
On July 13, 2013, a six-person jury found Zimmerman not guilty on all counts.
Today, I read an intriguing op-ed on CNN.com, discussing whether the US justice system has failed African-Americans. It draws a connection between Atticus Finch's closing argument in To Kill A Mockingbird and the decision of the court in the Zimmerman case. Austin-Hillery's thesis is persuasive, because her research is sound, and her insights are worthwhile.
Reading her column, and scrolling through tweets and posts on Facebook over the last two days, I realized why the debate over the case has raged so viciously. Some praise the rule of law--"they had to acquit, given the evidence"--and others condemn the unfairness of Florida (and, indeed, more broadly, American) procedure--"and yet this woman gets 20 years!" And the two sides talk past each other, as is so often the case. They fail to realize that their conception of What Courts Do is different.
Many--Austin-Hillery among them--believe that the legal system has a responsibility to discover, implement, and enact justice. With Atticus Finch, they call for a morally/socially responsible judiciary, one that sees to the heart of cases and determines what is right. (The complexities surrounding that word are too great to contain in one blog post, perhaps, so we will leave it alone.) In their eyes, the 18th Circuit Court's response to Zimmerman's actions perpetuate a historical precedent of white prejudice in the legal system.
Others see America's justice system as interpretive, translating the laws created by legislature and enforcing them in individual cases. They expect a passive judiciary, neither imposing its will on other branches of government nor seeking anything more than a formulaic comparison of evidence and case to precedent and statute. In their eyes, the 18th Circuit Court's response to Zimmerman's actions was its only possible response.
The former group seeks a possibly unattainable ideal--the enacting of Real Justice. The latter group seeks a probably heartless result--the precise interpretation of the Law of the Land.
I don't know where I fall. Except this: we humans have major issues. We think ill of each other, we speak ill of each other, we hate each other, sometimes we kill each other. We may not be as violent as George Zimmerman, or as equipped for violence, but we enact emotional violence in our hearts every day--to that moron who just cut us off in traffic, to that terrible customer who sends back his entrée four times because it's not hot enough, to the colleague or coworker or classmate or friend or enemy who gossips about our personal shortcomings. Humankind is a mess. Expecting some kind of silver out of that dross--whether the silver of real justice or the silver of precise interpretation--may be an exercise in futility.
Now I'm depressed.
Long live careful consideration.
Friday, June 7, 2013
It's Not About The Journey, It's About The Destination
As the final minutes of Game 1 of the 2013 NBA Finals ticked through their petty pace, I found myself in an unfamiliar situation: caring about the result. GameCenter couldn't update fast enough, I felt. I caught myself whispering encouragement across thousands of miles to My Team, begging them to hold on, hold on, hold on.
They did. I went to bed euphoric. I awoke confused: whence the euphoria? The NBA holds little allure for me, and apathy is easy in the city that is home to the Bucks. The season is too long for Every Game To Matter, but too short for tickets to be frequently affordable.
It's the Spurs, I realized. San Antonio is the only reason I care at all.
Popovich and the Spurs have held my imagination ever since that magical run in 1999. My 9-year-old jaw was firmly on the floor throughout the series, one-sided though it was: the dominant play of the Twin Towers, the (alleged) villainy of Latrell Sprewell, Avery Johnson's giddy postgame interview after his clutch shot to win the series ("I believe in me, my momma believed in me, the Lord Jesus believed in me!" he laughs). The Spurs were the first pro team I could call my own.
They're still my team, though my reasons have changed. As the history of their not-quite-dynasty has unfolded throughout the last decade-plus, Popovich and his core have made their priorities clear: they play for the result. For Popovich's Spurs, success isn't bought; wins aren't stolen; victory isn't happily accidental. Everything is earned, and it's all part of a larger plan.
This deliberation has cost the organization: the first time the Spurs met the Heat in the regular season came at the end of a grueling road swing for San Antonio, so Popovich made the decision to rest his starters in a game that meant little for the Western Conference seeding race. Unfortunately for the Spurs, the game had been labeled a marquee matchup by a league seeing dollar signs, given national television coverage, and expected to be brimming with drama. The canny Popovich started his bench and was fined by the league for it. (The reserves still almost pulled out a win, falling 100-105.)
I don't watch the NBA; I follow it. I read box scores, accounts, recaps, rather than viewing the product. So I don't give a fig for claims that San Antonio is "dull" or that Miami is "entertaining". Prioritizing the spectacle is fine for David Stern and his money-grubbing ilk. I'm interested in the scoring of actual points, rather than of style points. Gregg Popovich was San Antonio's GM before he picked up the head coach's clipboard; he knows how to play the long game. I like that.
As I finish my first year of graduate school and launch into the second, there are a few solid predictions I can make for the future: I won't be done soon, I'll have to work hard, I won't be flush financially, I'm working towards a specific, achievable goal. Perhaps why I'm rooting for the Spurs is because I can identify with them. In my experience, success is earned, not purchased. San Antonio shows me that hard work can pay off.
Long live superimposition!
They did. I went to bed euphoric. I awoke confused: whence the euphoria? The NBA holds little allure for me, and apathy is easy in the city that is home to the Bucks. The season is too long for Every Game To Matter, but too short for tickets to be frequently affordable.
It's the Spurs, I realized. San Antonio is the only reason I care at all.
Popovich and the Spurs have held my imagination ever since that magical run in 1999. My 9-year-old jaw was firmly on the floor throughout the series, one-sided though it was: the dominant play of the Twin Towers, the (alleged) villainy of Latrell Sprewell, Avery Johnson's giddy postgame interview after his clutch shot to win the series ("I believe in me, my momma believed in me, the Lord Jesus believed in me!" he laughs). The Spurs were the first pro team I could call my own.
They're still my team, though my reasons have changed. As the history of their not-quite-dynasty has unfolded throughout the last decade-plus, Popovich and his core have made their priorities clear: they play for the result. For Popovich's Spurs, success isn't bought; wins aren't stolen; victory isn't happily accidental. Everything is earned, and it's all part of a larger plan.
This deliberation has cost the organization: the first time the Spurs met the Heat in the regular season came at the end of a grueling road swing for San Antonio, so Popovich made the decision to rest his starters in a game that meant little for the Western Conference seeding race. Unfortunately for the Spurs, the game had been labeled a marquee matchup by a league seeing dollar signs, given national television coverage, and expected to be brimming with drama. The canny Popovich started his bench and was fined by the league for it. (The reserves still almost pulled out a win, falling 100-105.)
I don't watch the NBA; I follow it. I read box scores, accounts, recaps, rather than viewing the product. So I don't give a fig for claims that San Antonio is "dull" or that Miami is "entertaining". Prioritizing the spectacle is fine for David Stern and his money-grubbing ilk. I'm interested in the scoring of actual points, rather than of style points. Gregg Popovich was San Antonio's GM before he picked up the head coach's clipboard; he knows how to play the long game. I like that.
As I finish my first year of graduate school and launch into the second, there are a few solid predictions I can make for the future: I won't be done soon, I'll have to work hard, I won't be flush financially, I'm working towards a specific, achievable goal. Perhaps why I'm rooting for the Spurs is because I can identify with them. In my experience, success is earned, not purchased. San Antonio shows me that hard work can pay off.
Long live superimposition!
Monday, January 14, 2013
Flip Side
Today I went back to school.
I've done this nine times, and there's always the same complex, convoluted taste in my mouth. The bitterness of work-dread and the sourness of regret and the sweetness of new challenges anticipated, they all mingle and swirl, and I don't know which one is dominant. I can tell they're all there, because I've learned to recognize them. They muddy themselves into a new taste, something ambiguous and unnerving and dangerous.
But today there was a new flavor, a new taste element twining and blending with the others.
Today I sat in my office, answered student emails, read texts for class, battled (unsuccessfully) with the procrastination troll that lives on my desk and looks just like the Internet. Colleagues stopped by the office intermittently to distract me. I thawed a block of spaghetti for lunch and I ate it. I printed my lesson plan. I went off to teach with subtle butterflies fluttering in my intestines. And it felt normal.
I felt normal. I felt like things were back as they should be. The world had returned to its usual method of rotation. Life went on, as usual. And--here's the surprise--that was a relief.
Last night a friend claimed that I value uniqueness above all else. I agreed; so my realization, that The Usual is a good thing, confuses me.
Maybe it's because my current Usual is a good thing. I like my setting, professionally speaking.
Vocation. Calling. Career. These words are weighed down with connotation, and I shrink to use them lightly, because they imply some sense of certainty of the future. That certainty just don't exist, folks; but the niche into which I nestled again today, breathing a sigh of comfortable relief, is something else. It's something different from the coffee shop or mowing lawns or cashiering at Wal-Mart. It feels...tailored.
Long live the dawn!
I've done this nine times, and there's always the same complex, convoluted taste in my mouth. The bitterness of work-dread and the sourness of regret and the sweetness of new challenges anticipated, they all mingle and swirl, and I don't know which one is dominant. I can tell they're all there, because I've learned to recognize them. They muddy themselves into a new taste, something ambiguous and unnerving and dangerous.
But today there was a new flavor, a new taste element twining and blending with the others.
Today I sat in my office, answered student emails, read texts for class, battled (unsuccessfully) with the procrastination troll that lives on my desk and looks just like the Internet. Colleagues stopped by the office intermittently to distract me. I thawed a block of spaghetti for lunch and I ate it. I printed my lesson plan. I went off to teach with subtle butterflies fluttering in my intestines. And it felt normal.
I felt normal. I felt like things were back as they should be. The world had returned to its usual method of rotation. Life went on, as usual. And--here's the surprise--that was a relief.
Last night a friend claimed that I value uniqueness above all else. I agreed; so my realization, that The Usual is a good thing, confuses me.
Maybe it's because my current Usual is a good thing. I like my setting, professionally speaking.
Vocation. Calling. Career. These words are weighed down with connotation, and I shrink to use them lightly, because they imply some sense of certainty of the future. That certainty just don't exist, folks; but the niche into which I nestled again today, breathing a sigh of comfortable relief, is something else. It's something different from the coffee shop or mowing lawns or cashiering at Wal-Mart. It feels...tailored.
Long live the dawn!
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
The Chameleon
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| Image via |
Last week I drove from Sheboygan to Milwaukee on Christmas evening, and I drove through the town my parents live in on my way to the highway. I've done this before, and it affected me last time I did it. There's something quickening about solitude.
As I drove through Sheboygan Falls, I noticed something: I was changing.
I am one person when I am with my family. I laugh at our inside jokes, I adhere to certain standards of behavior and interaction integral to the family-community, I am Ian-At-Home.
When I am in Milwaukee, I am another person. I am different. I find different things amusing; my discourse is different. I am Ian-In-The-World.
Of course, this change is illustrative of what I taught my Rhetoric and Composition I students last semester. I told them about discourse communities, different bubbles of relation with different standards of interaction. I tried to communicate to them the importance of facilitas, Quintilian's conception of community-jumping--intellectual agility--the ability to switch between discourse communities with self-aware grace.
That's all very well, but I'm gradually realizing that I am what I say. My identity is determined by my interaction. Does that mean that when I pass through Sheboygan Falls, morph from Home-Ian to Elsewhere-Ian, my identity is shifting?
Or am I a chameleon? Am I the same person beneath my ever-changing skin? Do I alter my outside to fit in? And if so, who or what is underneath?
Is there anything underneath? What if my cyclical skin is all there is?
Long live the cold sweat.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Oblivious
I did a good thing today. I really want to tell someone about what I did, because it's a really good thing. I don't often do altruistic things. Not this altruistic. The good things I do usually benefit me somehow.
Some of the hows, because who doesn't like a numbered list? (Don't answer that.)
1. They make me seem more cool and/or awesome.
2. They make people like me more.
3. They make my superiors think I'm more cool and/or awesome, and therefore like me more, and therefore I am more successful.
4. It would be super-awkward not to do the good thing. (An example: I'm going somewhere with friends, and I'm the only one with a car, and all of a sudden the question "Wait, how are we getting there?" drops into the conversation like a stone thrown into a still pond, and nobody looks at me, but I know they're all thinking at me, so I offer.)
5. I have an image to maintain, a helpful, good-thing-doing image, and it's getting kind of rusty and disrepaired.
6. I feel sorry for someone, so in order to stop feeling sorry for them I do a good thing for them. It seems like it's altruism, but it's actually just selfish, because I'm doing it to make myself feel better.
See? Not really good. These all help Ian the Pontificator.
Some of the hows, because who doesn't like a numbered list? (Don't answer that.)
1. They make me seem more cool and/or awesome.
2. They make people like me more.
3. They make my superiors think I'm more cool and/or awesome, and therefore like me more, and therefore I am more successful.
4. It would be super-awkward not to do the good thing. (An example: I'm going somewhere with friends, and I'm the only one with a car, and all of a sudden the question "Wait, how are we getting there?" drops into the conversation like a stone thrown into a still pond, and nobody looks at me, but I know they're all thinking at me, so I offer.)
5. I have an image to maintain, a helpful, good-thing-doing image, and it's getting kind of rusty and disrepaired.
6. I feel sorry for someone, so in order to stop feeling sorry for them I do a good thing for them. It seems like it's altruism, but it's actually just selfish, because I'm doing it to make myself feel better.
See? Not really good. These all help Ian the Pontificator.
But today...today I did something good, and I can't tell anyone what it was, or it'll stop being good.
"Why?" you ask in an inexplicable Polish accent.
"Because, dear Olaf, the only real reason I'd tell you would be to make me look better, and that would just be a strange sad mess of failure," I reply.
If I say what I did, and if I spread it around, it won't be a good thing any more. Which is indeed bothersome.
More bothersome, though, is the thought that perhaps even this blog post, vague though it be, divests my good thing of goodness. That would be an unhappy birthday.
Long live sneaky goodness.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Why Is He Wearing That?
The last day of the semester, I wore ratty clothes to teach. I usually dress pretty well, so the fact that I wore jeans and a t-shirt to class was peculiar. As a "fun" "cool" "awesome" end-of-the-semester activity, I asked my students to come up with creative reasons for my change of garb. Their responses, as they were written, are below.
…because it’s Friday. Not only is it Friday, but it’s the last Friday of class and comfort was in order to tackle it.
…because he was running late after returning from his secret life of fighting crime. He and his nemesis Fierce Frosty were engaged in a viscious battle and lasted a little too long.
…he wanted to demonstrate the importance of appearance, or he wanted to be casual, or he wanted to show us what we looked like when the class began.
…because he is letting us know that relaxation is nearing quickly. Christmas break will be very relaxing, which is reflected by Ian’s clothing.
…college. -_-
…because he ran out of clean “teacher” clothes and his laundry machines are broken.
…he either forgot about laundry Tuesdays or he has given up more than his students have.
…because he is conducting an experiment testing the psychological effect of unprofessional clothing.
…he’s feeling like relaxing on the last lecture of the semester. He dressed up almost every day during the semester, therefore he wants to wear some non-fancy clothes. It also is the last lecture so it really does not matter, the semester is basically over.
…he wants to camp out for the men’s basketball game tomorrow night. He wants good seats so he’s leaving right after class to go get a good spot in line.
...because his closet full of suits was taken by the dry clean workers and thereby putting a halt to his undercover spy business attire.
…it all boils down to the occurrence at Ian’s favorite drycleaners on 12th and State St. He often takes the large van of his there weekly to dry clean and press his impressive array of dress clothes. This morning, however, when he went to pick up the laundry, he was very disappointed because…
…either you’re too busy working on grad school things or you got beat up by a hobo on your way to class and you don’t have any more nice clothes.
…this morning Professor Dejong got attacked by a pack of wild dogs while walking to his car outside of his house. He began to run and eventually found a tree that he could climb. Turns out the dogs were more interested in his clothes than him. He took off his suit and threw it to the dogs. They took his clothes and ran off with them. He ended up taking his clothes from the next guy he saw.
…because it’s the end of the semester and it’s a Friday. There is no need to provide any further explanation.
…because he can not only dress as a classy gentleman everyday of the week, but he also has a down to earth look. Casual Friday allows him to dress like a humble barista. Even professors need to let their hair down and kick off their dress shoes for a bit. They work harder than the students do in some instances.
…because it is the last day of class he wanted to dress more casually. Or, last night Ian was preparing to go to bed, but he realized he had no toothpaste. He threw on his current outfit and ran out the door. On the way to the store he passed the nurse’s dummies. They chased him all night and he fought for his life, then came to class.
…because he decided, “What the heck, it’s Friday!” Or maybe his dress clothes decided to wage a battle against each other, trying to figure out which were warmer in this approaching winter. I like option 2—battling clothes.
…because all of the rest of his clothes randomly burst into flames when he looked at them. He may have super powers that he doesn’t even know he has where he can suddenly make things burst into flames when he’s bored. OR he just didn’t want to wear a suit because jeans and a t-shirt are more comfortable. Personally, I think it’s the super power reason.
…because he can. Because it’s comfortable and it’s pretty much the last day of school. And the shoes aren’t that holey…I have a much older junkie pair of shoes. Maybe he’s dressed like this because he’s going to work at the “Roastery” and has to wear it. Or…he’s painting…who knows…
…because he wants to dress how he feels.
…because it’s the last day of the semester and he wants to be comfortable knowing the end (finals) is near. I mean I would do the same thing.
…I believe there is a secret society in Marquette University, that the last day of class is national jeans day for teachers because my physics teacher, along with Ian DeJong. They are all probably going to party and celebrate that they don’t have to be with us any longer.
…I have no idea why Ian is wearing such an outfit today rather than his usual apparel. As much as I wish I could think of a significant reason I can not rationalize any cause for this. Instead I shall impart upon thee the knowledge of chemistry jokes. Wanna hear a joke about nitric oxide? NO
…because Fridays are chill days. Plus he ran out of time do to his laundry while grading our Unit 4 papers. He only had dress socks that were clean. No button-ups or nice pants.
…It is clearly casual Friday or it may be due to his knowledge of the bring back courts. If that’s the case, then Daniels better watch his back. Ian is already ahead in the count based on his position to the scoring of his shoes with the holes. This creates a water that brings up the question of how is Daniels still around. This will all conclude at the bring back courts later tonight during the first time for slime!
Creativity at work. What a fine source of joy.
Long live the end.
…because it’s Friday. Not only is it Friday, but it’s the last Friday of class and comfort was in order to tackle it.
…because he was running late after returning from his secret life of fighting crime. He and his nemesis Fierce Frosty were engaged in a viscious battle and lasted a little too long.
…he wanted to demonstrate the importance of appearance, or he wanted to be casual, or he wanted to show us what we looked like when the class began.
…because he is letting us know that relaxation is nearing quickly. Christmas break will be very relaxing, which is reflected by Ian’s clothing.
…college. -_-
…because he ran out of clean “teacher” clothes and his laundry machines are broken.
…he either forgot about laundry Tuesdays or he has given up more than his students have.
…because he is conducting an experiment testing the psychological effect of unprofessional clothing.
…he’s feeling like relaxing on the last lecture of the semester. He dressed up almost every day during the semester, therefore he wants to wear some non-fancy clothes. It also is the last lecture so it really does not matter, the semester is basically over.
…he wants to camp out for the men’s basketball game tomorrow night. He wants good seats so he’s leaving right after class to go get a good spot in line.
...because his closet full of suits was taken by the dry clean workers and thereby putting a halt to his undercover spy business attire.
…it all boils down to the occurrence at Ian’s favorite drycleaners on 12th and State St. He often takes the large van of his there weekly to dry clean and press his impressive array of dress clothes. This morning, however, when he went to pick up the laundry, he was very disappointed because…
…either you’re too busy working on grad school things or you got beat up by a hobo on your way to class and you don’t have any more nice clothes.
…this morning Professor Dejong got attacked by a pack of wild dogs while walking to his car outside of his house. He began to run and eventually found a tree that he could climb. Turns out the dogs were more interested in his clothes than him. He took off his suit and threw it to the dogs. They took his clothes and ran off with them. He ended up taking his clothes from the next guy he saw.
…because it’s the end of the semester and it’s a Friday. There is no need to provide any further explanation.
…because he can not only dress as a classy gentleman everyday of the week, but he also has a down to earth look. Casual Friday allows him to dress like a humble barista. Even professors need to let their hair down and kick off their dress shoes for a bit. They work harder than the students do in some instances.
…because it is the last day of class he wanted to dress more casually. Or, last night Ian was preparing to go to bed, but he realized he had no toothpaste. He threw on his current outfit and ran out the door. On the way to the store he passed the nurse’s dummies. They chased him all night and he fought for his life, then came to class.
…because he decided, “What the heck, it’s Friday!” Or maybe his dress clothes decided to wage a battle against each other, trying to figure out which were warmer in this approaching winter. I like option 2—battling clothes.
…because all of the rest of his clothes randomly burst into flames when he looked at them. He may have super powers that he doesn’t even know he has where he can suddenly make things burst into flames when he’s bored. OR he just didn’t want to wear a suit because jeans and a t-shirt are more comfortable. Personally, I think it’s the super power reason.
…because he can. Because it’s comfortable and it’s pretty much the last day of school. And the shoes aren’t that holey…I have a much older junkie pair of shoes. Maybe he’s dressed like this because he’s going to work at the “Roastery” and has to wear it. Or…he’s painting…who knows…
…because he wants to dress how he feels.
…because it’s the last day of the semester and he wants to be comfortable knowing the end (finals) is near. I mean I would do the same thing.
…I believe there is a secret society in Marquette University, that the last day of class is national jeans day for teachers because my physics teacher, along with Ian DeJong. They are all probably going to party and celebrate that they don’t have to be with us any longer.
…I have no idea why Ian is wearing such an outfit today rather than his usual apparel. As much as I wish I could think of a significant reason I can not rationalize any cause for this. Instead I shall impart upon thee the knowledge of chemistry jokes. Wanna hear a joke about nitric oxide? NO
…because Fridays are chill days. Plus he ran out of time do to his laundry while grading our Unit 4 papers. He only had dress socks that were clean. No button-ups or nice pants.
…It is clearly casual Friday or it may be due to his knowledge of the bring back courts. If that’s the case, then Daniels better watch his back. Ian is already ahead in the count based on his position to the scoring of his shoes with the holes. This creates a water that brings up the question of how is Daniels still around. This will all conclude at the bring back courts later tonight during the first time for slime!
Creativity at work. What a fine source of joy.
Long live the end.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Gotye Is A Pig
For the record, I don't consider myself a feminist critic, but this was just too great to pass up.
Truth is...over the past eight months I've become familiar, too familiar, more familiar than I ever wanted to be, with Gotye's ubiquitous single Somebody That I Used To Know. And, unfortunately, over that period of time, I've become fairly conversant with the song's lyrics. But they're just lyrics, ya know? Lyrics don't mean anything. They're just words that happen to fit with the music.
Somewhere in the last month I actually started thinking about the lyrics. What I've decided is kind of shocking and kind of hilarious: the "I" in the song is at best emotionally abusive, at worst some kind of chauvinist pig.
Evidence.
Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
First, almost too obviously, note the different attitudes toward this relationship. She feels happy, and She is willing to say that out loud. She talks about the relationship, expresses Herself, interacts. By contrast, He talks to Himself, does not engage with Her. His discourse is negative, too; He only sees Her relative to himself, as an item to improve His situation. She is open, positive; He hides His misgivings about the relationship behind a cloud of angst and terrible music.
Not only that, but...
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember
He feels lonely when She's around. Once more, He denies Her personhood, consciously or unconsciously. She is physically there; He can tell that--but emotionally He is detached. Why? Because "that was love". He misleads Her about His feelings because of some misguided application of an arbitrary emotion-construct He's seemingly plucked out of thin air.
You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end
He focuses on the end of their relationship obsessively, addictively. What kind of healthy relationship has one person planning an exit strategy?
So when we found that we could not make sense
Well you said that we would still be friends
But I'll admit that I was glad it was over
Once again, the dialogue between the principals in this relationship is a model for how NOT to do relationships. After the breakup, She attempts to retain some level of civility, some measure of maturity, by trying to avoid bitterness and finger-pointing. He does not respond to Her--again--rather acknowledging to himself that He's glad that the whole mess is over. But He says "admit"! Isn't that a step in the right direction?
It would be, if the song were written as communication. If this were ostensibly a letter from Him to Her, such an admission would be responsible, though hardly pleasant. But this is an introspection, a journal entry rather than an email. The format of this song is private, personal, not communicative.
But you didn't have to cut me off
Well, She did. You were emotionally withdrawn and obsessed with "the end".
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing
It's called "moving on". Try it.
And I don't even need your love
Yeah, see, that's why She cut you off. Because YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT HER.
But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough
Quick counting exercise. How many times has He mentioned His feelings of pain? Six times. Six times in 2 stanzas and this chorus. He obviously cares about how He feels; it doesn't occur to him that possibly, just possibly, She might have feelings too. Feelings that might bring forth these "moving on" and "getting past Him" actions.
No you didn't have to stoop so low
It's true. She didn't. But do you blame Her for "stooping so low" when you were doing things like not talking to her and building up your exit strategy?
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number
Hmmm, now this is interesting. For the first time we get hints of major, significant problems. Why does She change Her number? Could it be that He keeps calling Her, contacting Her, trying to get things going again? Is She actively trying to defend against someone who won't take "no" for an answer? Is He an obsessive ex?
Perhaps not. Perhaps this is Her way of emphasizing to Herself that She is done with Him. Perhaps She's even trying to hurt Him by emphasizing their separation. But changing one's number is a significant process. It's a lot of work. It's far more likely that She's changing Her number because He won't stop bothering her.
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know
Again, He refers to Her relative to Himself. He defines Her by Her interaction with Him, by Her impact on Him. In His mind, She exists because of Him.
Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
The voice of Her: and She begins by mirroring Him. But there is an important difference between their two voices: as we might expect of Her, She points to specific reasons their relationship did not last. No, She doesn't specify how exactly He screwed Her over, but we do glean that She felt betrayed, frequently, within their relationship. This is another important difference between the two of them: Her negative feelings spring from problems within the relationship, and He seems bothered by how She responded to the breakup.
But had me believing it was always something that I'd done
I'm no psychologist or counselor or anything, but I'm pretty sure this is abusive behavior. Convincing someone that what you're doing to them is their fault? Manipulative at best, abusive at worst.
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
So She tries to move on. She has grown tired of His uncommunicative, angsty stupor, and she's done with it. So She tries to move on (which eventually sparks His unreasoning wrath).
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know
And that's the trifecta: He's uncommunicative, He's abusive, and He cheats on Her. This is a bit more oblique, but it's pretty clear for a' that: She did catch Him messing around with a former ex.
A disclaimer--this stanza is from Her point of view, and therefore subject to Her bias. That being said, Her ethos is much more acceptable than His; She uses examples and simple language, and makes Her priorities clear.
There are multiple repeats after this section, things we've already discussed. What seems clear is that He, the primary speaker in the song, is emotionally abusive, does not communicate his feelings, does not approach relationships correctly, views Her as less than a person, and cheats on her.
She, on the other hand, has her faults, but seems to be a well-adjusted human being, for the most part. She copes well with the breakup, apparently. She clearly enunciates her problems with Him, and She has a plan to move forward without Him.
And now we come to the really serious point of this blog. Because Gotye has made it clear that the male voice in the song represents his voice. He draws on previous experiences, emotions he's felt, pain he's endured. While art must not be assumed to be 1:1, documentary-style representations of aspects of the creator's mind, this piece of art has particularly been linked, by the creator himself, to his mind.
Hence, Gotye is a pig.
Long live wild overexaminations.
Truth is...over the past eight months I've become familiar, too familiar, more familiar than I ever wanted to be, with Gotye's ubiquitous single Somebody That I Used To Know. And, unfortunately, over that period of time, I've become fairly conversant with the song's lyrics. But they're just lyrics, ya know? Lyrics don't mean anything. They're just words that happen to fit with the music.
Somewhere in the last month I actually started thinking about the lyrics. What I've decided is kind of shocking and kind of hilarious: the "I" in the song is at best emotionally abusive, at worst some kind of chauvinist pig.
Evidence.
Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
First, almost too obviously, note the different attitudes toward this relationship. She feels happy, and She is willing to say that out loud. She talks about the relationship, expresses Herself, interacts. By contrast, He talks to Himself, does not engage with Her. His discourse is negative, too; He only sees Her relative to himself, as an item to improve His situation. She is open, positive; He hides His misgivings about the relationship behind a cloud of angst and terrible music.
Not only that, but...
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember
He feels lonely when She's around. Once more, He denies Her personhood, consciously or unconsciously. She is physically there; He can tell that--but emotionally He is detached. Why? Because "that was love". He misleads Her about His feelings because of some misguided application of an arbitrary emotion-construct He's seemingly plucked out of thin air.
You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end
He focuses on the end of their relationship obsessively, addictively. What kind of healthy relationship has one person planning an exit strategy?
So when we found that we could not make sense
Well you said that we would still be friends
But I'll admit that I was glad it was over
Once again, the dialogue between the principals in this relationship is a model for how NOT to do relationships. After the breakup, She attempts to retain some level of civility, some measure of maturity, by trying to avoid bitterness and finger-pointing. He does not respond to Her--again--rather acknowledging to himself that He's glad that the whole mess is over. But He says "admit"! Isn't that a step in the right direction?
It would be, if the song were written as communication. If this were ostensibly a letter from Him to Her, such an admission would be responsible, though hardly pleasant. But this is an introspection, a journal entry rather than an email. The format of this song is private, personal, not communicative.
But you didn't have to cut me off
Well, She did. You were emotionally withdrawn and obsessed with "the end".
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing
It's called "moving on". Try it.
And I don't even need your love
Yeah, see, that's why She cut you off. Because YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT HER.
But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough
Quick counting exercise. How many times has He mentioned His feelings of pain? Six times. Six times in 2 stanzas and this chorus. He obviously cares about how He feels; it doesn't occur to him that possibly, just possibly, She might have feelings too. Feelings that might bring forth these "moving on" and "getting past Him" actions.
No you didn't have to stoop so low
It's true. She didn't. But do you blame Her for "stooping so low" when you were doing things like not talking to her and building up your exit strategy?
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number
Hmmm, now this is interesting. For the first time we get hints of major, significant problems. Why does She change Her number? Could it be that He keeps calling Her, contacting Her, trying to get things going again? Is She actively trying to defend against someone who won't take "no" for an answer? Is He an obsessive ex?
Perhaps not. Perhaps this is Her way of emphasizing to Herself that She is done with Him. Perhaps She's even trying to hurt Him by emphasizing their separation. But changing one's number is a significant process. It's a lot of work. It's far more likely that She's changing Her number because He won't stop bothering her.
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know
Again, He refers to Her relative to Himself. He defines Her by Her interaction with Him, by Her impact on Him. In His mind, She exists because of Him.
Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
The voice of Her: and She begins by mirroring Him. But there is an important difference between their two voices: as we might expect of Her, She points to specific reasons their relationship did not last. No, She doesn't specify how exactly He screwed Her over, but we do glean that She felt betrayed, frequently, within their relationship. This is another important difference between the two of them: Her negative feelings spring from problems within the relationship, and He seems bothered by how She responded to the breakup.
But had me believing it was always something that I'd done
I'm no psychologist or counselor or anything, but I'm pretty sure this is abusive behavior. Convincing someone that what you're doing to them is their fault? Manipulative at best, abusive at worst.
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
So She tries to move on. She has grown tired of His uncommunicative, angsty stupor, and she's done with it. So She tries to move on (which eventually sparks His unreasoning wrath).
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know
And that's the trifecta: He's uncommunicative, He's abusive, and He cheats on Her. This is a bit more oblique, but it's pretty clear for a' that: She did catch Him messing around with a former ex.
A disclaimer--this stanza is from Her point of view, and therefore subject to Her bias. That being said, Her ethos is much more acceptable than His; She uses examples and simple language, and makes Her priorities clear.
There are multiple repeats after this section, things we've already discussed. What seems clear is that He, the primary speaker in the song, is emotionally abusive, does not communicate his feelings, does not approach relationships correctly, views Her as less than a person, and cheats on her.
She, on the other hand, has her faults, but seems to be a well-adjusted human being, for the most part. She copes well with the breakup, apparently. She clearly enunciates her problems with Him, and She has a plan to move forward without Him.
And now we come to the really serious point of this blog. Because Gotye has made it clear that the male voice in the song represents his voice. He draws on previous experiences, emotions he's felt, pain he's endured. While art must not be assumed to be 1:1, documentary-style representations of aspects of the creator's mind, this piece of art has particularly been linked, by the creator himself, to his mind.
Hence, Gotye is a pig.
Long live wild overexaminations.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
You're My Only Hope
Violence pervades art from its earliest iterations. Cave drawings? DEERS GET STABBED. Seminal literature? Let's go kill Humbaba. Even the Bible gets after it pretty quickly: the second generation of humans get all fratricidal on each other.
I'm in a graduate school class discussing the representation of violence in literature. Our final project involves looking at two films depicting violence in America. (There are more guidelines, but those are the bare bones.) Now, I've got some ideas for films to examine. Films like The Departed, There Will Be Blood, No Country For Old Men, Heat, Zodiac, Terminator 2, Road to Perdition, Miller's Crossing, The Silence of the Lambs, The Boondock Saints (just kidding)...
My problem is that those are the stock films. Those are the easy ones. Those are the simple answers. Of those nine films, 6 got Academy Award nominations. All of them have been recognized as important and vital. So I won't be saying anything new when I point how awesome these films are at representing violence.
That's where I need you, friends, neighbors, enemies, and conscripts. I need your input. When you think about "violence in America", what films come to mind?
I covet your responses. Tweet me @thepontificator. Email me. Leave a comment here. Contact me on Facebook.
You don't have to say WHY your film represents violence in America. I just want to know WHAT film comes to mind when you think of violence in America.
Long live collaborative inspiration!
I'm in a graduate school class discussing the representation of violence in literature. Our final project involves looking at two films depicting violence in America. (There are more guidelines, but those are the bare bones.) Now, I've got some ideas for films to examine. Films like The Departed, There Will Be Blood, No Country For Old Men, Heat, Zodiac, Terminator 2, Road to Perdition, Miller's Crossing, The Silence of the Lambs, The Boondock Saints (just kidding)...
My problem is that those are the stock films. Those are the easy ones. Those are the simple answers. Of those nine films, 6 got Academy Award nominations. All of them have been recognized as important and vital. So I won't be saying anything new when I point how awesome these films are at representing violence.
That's where I need you, friends, neighbors, enemies, and conscripts. I need your input. When you think about "violence in America", what films come to mind?
I covet your responses. Tweet me @thepontificator. Email me. Leave a comment here. Contact me on Facebook.
You don't have to say WHY your film represents violence in America. I just want to know WHAT film comes to mind when you think of violence in America.
Long live collaborative inspiration!
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Let's Get Into Small Groups Now
Today I taught: today they learned.
A strange feeling of warmth...
A novelty? No. I have heard the click of understanding locking into place, multiple times, before.
What dazzled me today was that they enjoyed it. They interacted not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
I have prepared for sullenness. When I need to, I will pull out my sheaf of cards with their names and call on them.
I have yet to pull out the cards.
They know more than I expected! And they make connections I did not expect! And they care, which I expected least of all!
This is special. The joy I feel now may ebb, come October or Thanksgiving or even next week. It may last all semester, only to vanish next spring.
It may last until I die. It may crescendo and never stop crescending.
I will grip the joy I feel tightly, with both hands of my mind. I am good at this. I am fit for this. I am called to this.
I was born to this.
Long live euphoria.
A strange feeling of warmth...
A novelty? No. I have heard the click of understanding locking into place, multiple times, before.
What dazzled me today was that they enjoyed it. They interacted not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
I have prepared for sullenness. When I need to, I will pull out my sheaf of cards with their names and call on them.
I have yet to pull out the cards.
They know more than I expected! And they make connections I did not expect! And they care, which I expected least of all!
This is special. The joy I feel now may ebb, come October or Thanksgiving or even next week. It may last all semester, only to vanish next spring.
It may last until I die. It may crescendo and never stop crescending.
I will grip the joy I feel tightly, with both hands of my mind. I am good at this. I am fit for this. I am called to this.
I was born to this.
Long live euphoria.
Monday, August 27, 2012
What Hath Ian Wrought
It's strange to sit here and realize that my life is not fiction.
My life is a tiny hot dilapidated office, and a tiny hot cluttered studio apartment, and elderly feces-smelling men rooting in the dumpsters, and new friends who are actually part of my discourse community because they want to be, and getting official student/teacher emails--except I'm the teacher now--and looking at the online course management system and being scared stiff by the assigned readings for graduate classes, and texting colleagues (colleagues!) to ask if I can use their powerpoints for my classes.
Fiction is an essential part of who I am: I read it obsessively, I critique it obtusely, I write it poorly. I watch fictional films. I play fictional video games. I even performed fiction, theatrical fiction onstage, before I got busy and old and cetera. I imagine; I create; I dream.
I know the fictional tricks. All that schlock about escapism and whatnot is only partially true. We enter (read, watch, write, play) fictional worlds because they are fresh and new and different. We escape Real Life, yes, but our enjoyment of fiction is not spurred by its non-Real Life-ness. Rather, fiction enthralls positively, because it forces us to re-evaluate how we look at our Real Life world. By changing the rules, it reinforces the rules.
But all that's a sidebar; my point is that I'm conversant with fictional construction.
And my life right now seems like a story. It seems like something I'd come up with on an especially dreary coffee-shop day, some fanciful fable to make java-slinging more livable. No, let me correct that: it is something I have dreamed about. The story I'm living is a story I wrote in my mind over and over and over as I sold scones and steamed soy milk.
Except--it's not a story any more. It's real.
I enjoy making fictions. I just never thought anything I crafted in my imagination would actually, y'know, come true.
Creation is an intimidating tool.
Long live contemplation!
My life is a tiny hot dilapidated office, and a tiny hot cluttered studio apartment, and elderly feces-smelling men rooting in the dumpsters, and new friends who are actually part of my discourse community because they want to be, and getting official student/teacher emails--except I'm the teacher now--and looking at the online course management system and being scared stiff by the assigned readings for graduate classes, and texting colleagues (colleagues!) to ask if I can use their powerpoints for my classes.
Fiction is an essential part of who I am: I read it obsessively, I critique it obtusely, I write it poorly. I watch fictional films. I play fictional video games. I even performed fiction, theatrical fiction onstage, before I got busy and old and cetera. I imagine; I create; I dream.
I know the fictional tricks. All that schlock about escapism and whatnot is only partially true. We enter (read, watch, write, play) fictional worlds because they are fresh and new and different. We escape Real Life, yes, but our enjoyment of fiction is not spurred by its non-Real Life-ness. Rather, fiction enthralls positively, because it forces us to re-evaluate how we look at our Real Life world. By changing the rules, it reinforces the rules.
But all that's a sidebar; my point is that I'm conversant with fictional construction.
And my life right now seems like a story. It seems like something I'd come up with on an especially dreary coffee-shop day, some fanciful fable to make java-slinging more livable. No, let me correct that: it is something I have dreamed about. The story I'm living is a story I wrote in my mind over and over and over as I sold scones and steamed soy milk.
Except--it's not a story any more. It's real.
I enjoy making fictions. I just never thought anything I crafted in my imagination would actually, y'know, come true.
Creation is an intimidating tool.
Long live contemplation!
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Look Around
The following are unconnected, rambling observations: proceed at your own risk, dear reader.
I am quickly coming to believe that one of my favorite aesthetic experiences at Marquette will be driving past the Al McGuire Center at night, when it's empty. There's low light in the building, and the championship banners hang like two-tone textile idols in a deserted temple.
In the apartment complex north of mine--just up the street--there lives a man who likes peanut butter. He has a huge jar of JIF sitting in his windowsill. His obvious poverty makes him my brother. Perhaps I will high-five him when next I see him.
Cedarburg, where I lived for the last 15 months, diminishes in my rearview mirror. The leaving has been hard, I believe, because for the first time I felt native to a place, rather than merely resident in it. I've lived throughout the Midwest, but no place felt as comfortable as Cedarburg did.
I went to the State Fair tonight, and I saw more than my fair share of the following:
I am quickly coming to believe that one of my favorite aesthetic experiences at Marquette will be driving past the Al McGuire Center at night, when it's empty. There's low light in the building, and the championship banners hang like two-tone textile idols in a deserted temple.
In the apartment complex north of mine--just up the street--there lives a man who likes peanut butter. He has a huge jar of JIF sitting in his windowsill. His obvious poverty makes him my brother. Perhaps I will high-five him when next I see him.
Cedarburg, where I lived for the last 15 months, diminishes in my rearview mirror. The leaving has been hard, I believe, because for the first time I felt native to a place, rather than merely resident in it. I've lived throughout the Midwest, but no place felt as comfortable as Cedarburg did.
I went to the State Fair tonight, and I saw more than my fair share of the following:
- overweight people
- people in motorized wheelchairs
- tattoos, but not, like, cool tattoos, more like gross, stupid tattoos
- families
- livestock, especially sheep
- quilts
I also ate a cream puff.
One of the classes I'm teaching is full. No more people can register for it. I'm officially In Demand. I am exhilarated.
Where is Captain Hammer when you need him?
Long live re-establishment!
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Taking The Plunge
Briefly, then:
My apartment complex has a pool. I have written elsewhere of the Pod of elderly, obese, Speedo-wearing men that infest it, of their whuffling and spouting. I have written of the small children that never seem to be in the pool, but exist in a constant state of I-AM-ABOUT-TO-CANNONBALL-THEREFORE-I-SQUEAL. I have written of my unwillingness to expose my pasty midsection to the withering glare of my esteemed neighbors.
Today is my last day in this apartment. Tomorrow I move.
I swam today.
The pleasure of finally conquering my self-consciousness contrasted finely with the distaste I felt for Shamu, who very pointedly ceased walking laps when I entered the pool. The exhilaration of not caring how many people see my torso was tempered by the fact that six-and-a-half-foot-tall people must struggle to submerge themselves in pools whose deepest point is 5'. The overwhelming delight I felt in splashing balanced precariously against regret that I hadn't done this sooner.
Carpe diem: for one never knows if the next apartment will have a pool.
It doesn't. And my trunk will be pastier than ever.
Long live the moment!
My apartment complex has a pool. I have written elsewhere of the Pod of elderly, obese, Speedo-wearing men that infest it, of their whuffling and spouting. I have written of the small children that never seem to be in the pool, but exist in a constant state of I-AM-ABOUT-TO-CANNONBALL-THEREFORE-I-SQUEAL. I have written of my unwillingness to expose my pasty midsection to the withering glare of my esteemed neighbors.
Today is my last day in this apartment. Tomorrow I move.
I swam today.
The pleasure of finally conquering my self-consciousness contrasted finely with the distaste I felt for Shamu, who very pointedly ceased walking laps when I entered the pool. The exhilaration of not caring how many people see my torso was tempered by the fact that six-and-a-half-foot-tall people must struggle to submerge themselves in pools whose deepest point is 5'. The overwhelming delight I felt in splashing balanced precariously against regret that I hadn't done this sooner.
Carpe diem: for one never knows if the next apartment will have a pool.
It doesn't. And my trunk will be pastier than ever.
Long live the moment!
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
As Far As I'm Concerned, They're Just Doing Their Job
I promised myself I wouldn't reference Reservoir Dogs, and I didn't even get past the title. Disappointing.
I work at a coffee shop. We have a tip jar. People put tips in the jar.
Some customers don't tip. They might be paying with gift cards, they might be making a small transaction, they might be out of singles. They might be trying to save money. They might be cheapskates. I don't care. I really don't care when a customer doesn't tip me.
Some customers do tip, in a sort of off-hand fashion. They tip because they feel they should. Or because they don't want to carry the change around with them. Or because they believe tipping is part of the transaction. ("Tip" is slang. "Gratuity" imposes, intimidates, legitimizes.) Some people tip as a matter of course.
Some people TIP. TIPping is where they hold up the dollar and drop it in the jar, very conspicuously. Or they put the coins in one at a time. They call attention to the fact that they're TIPping.
I am grateful for every gratuity that comes my way, but something about the TIPping, the overtness of it, rubs me the wrong way. When a customer TIPs, it's reflexive. To me, TIPping says "look at me, aren't I great? I'm giving you free money! I'm a better person because of that!"
Giving as a means of feeling better about oneself isn't giving at all. It's a transaction: I'll put a dollar in your jar, then I'll feel generous. It's buying self-esteem. When a customer TIPs, it's not altruistic--it's selfish. It's not giving anymore; it's trading.
Before I sign off, let me reiterate that I am in no way ungrateful to customers who tip, or even customers who TIP. A tipped dollar spends the same as a TIPped dollar. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
Long live convolution.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
A Collage
UPDATE: If you're here to read A Collage, my latest nonfiction piece--well, time's up. To minimize the chance of plagiarism (or perhaps merely to soothe my own suspicious heart), I decided to leave it up for about a week.
In that time, I've gotten significant and constructive feedback from multiple and various people. To everyone who's commented, I thank you. To everyone who's given me their input through other channels, I thank you. To everyone who put up with my incessant promotion of this piece on Facebook and Twitter, I thank you.
I'll stop now. But one last point: if you really want to read A Collage, contact me on Facebook, on Twitter (@ThePontificator), or by leaving a comment here on the blog.
Long live The End!
In that time, I've gotten significant and constructive feedback from multiple and various people. To everyone who's commented, I thank you. To everyone who's given me their input through other channels, I thank you. To everyone who put up with my incessant promotion of this piece on Facebook and Twitter, I thank you.
I'll stop now. But one last point: if you really want to read A Collage, contact me on Facebook, on Twitter (@ThePontificator), or by leaving a comment here on the blog.
Long live The End!
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Look Left, Look Right
Back in April, I did something pretty special right here in the Uninformed Opinion. I posted a piece of my creative writing here, in my blog, for anyone to read and critique. It was called Exit Ramp. It was a thundering success, and a powerful learning experience for me.
Now it's summer. And I'm moving. Moving means packing, and packing means I need distraction. Now, over the past 13 months I've kept a haphazard log of my life--my life in this apartment building, my life at the coffee shop, my life in Cedarburg. To call it a diary is disrespectful to diaries everywhere. It's more of a collection of experiences, of impressions, of mental snapshots written down.
I've been working for the past few weeks to wrangle these snapshots into something cohesive--a collage, if you will, a larger image of the last year of my life. It's nonfiction, which is strange; I don't often write nonfiction. It's coming together well. I'm proud of what it's becoming.
Maybe it won't matter to people who aren't me. Maybe it'll be something only I find interesting, or meaningful, or powerful. Maybe not. I don't know. I do know that when I published Exit Ramp, I grew. I like growing. I want to grow again.
So, in ten days' time, I will publish my collage here, in the Uninformed Opinion. As with Exit Ramp, it will only be available for a limited time, to minimize the chance of plagiarism. It'll be published at noon on Sunday, July 15, and it will be removed at midnight on Saturday, July 21.
Start anticipating! Eagerly!
Long live taking not-very-risky risks!
Now it's summer. And I'm moving. Moving means packing, and packing means I need distraction. Now, over the past 13 months I've kept a haphazard log of my life--my life in this apartment building, my life at the coffee shop, my life in Cedarburg. To call it a diary is disrespectful to diaries everywhere. It's more of a collection of experiences, of impressions, of mental snapshots written down.
I've been working for the past few weeks to wrangle these snapshots into something cohesive--a collage, if you will, a larger image of the last year of my life. It's nonfiction, which is strange; I don't often write nonfiction. It's coming together well. I'm proud of what it's becoming.
Maybe it won't matter to people who aren't me. Maybe it'll be something only I find interesting, or meaningful, or powerful. Maybe not. I don't know. I do know that when I published Exit Ramp, I grew. I like growing. I want to grow again.
So, in ten days' time, I will publish my collage here, in the Uninformed Opinion. As with Exit Ramp, it will only be available for a limited time, to minimize the chance of plagiarism. It'll be published at noon on Sunday, July 15, and it will be removed at midnight on Saturday, July 21.
Start anticipating! Eagerly!
Long live taking not-very-risky risks!
Save Sydney Hih
Every time a building is razed, a tiny chunk of history crumbles to dust. Architectural identity...cultural impact...social significance...it vanishes in a cloud of diesel fumes and rubble. Sure, the building lives on in the memories of those who experienced it. But memory is a poor substitute for reality.
In Milwaukee, there's a complex of buildings called the Sydney Hih complex. The Sydney Hih buildings have seen it all--from showcasing the Smashing Pumpkins and Pearl Jam in the Unicorn to housing Prophet William Blackmon's Revival Center Shoe Repair and Shine Parlor. And now Sydney Hih is on death row: the bulldozers' blades gleam menacingly, the wrecking balls swing like ominous pendulums, ticking away the hours until Sydney Hih will be no more.
A group of preservationists is trying to save the complex, as it has been saved multiple times in the past. They've been fighting to get Sydney Hih designated as historic--and therefore undemolishable. The city of Milwaukee has overturned the historic designation, and unless some savior were to come forward, there will be nothing in the way of the encroaching bulldozers.
I've blogged before about America's illogical approach to political problem-solving. We seem to think that the process has two steps, when in fact it should have three. The popular approach is as follows:
In Milwaukee, there's a complex of buildings called the Sydney Hih complex. The Sydney Hih buildings have seen it all--from showcasing the Smashing Pumpkins and Pearl Jam in the Unicorn to housing Prophet William Blackmon's Revival Center Shoe Repair and Shine Parlor. And now Sydney Hih is on death row: the bulldozers' blades gleam menacingly, the wrecking balls swing like ominous pendulums, ticking away the hours until Sydney Hih will be no more.
A group of preservationists is trying to save the complex, as it has been saved multiple times in the past. They've been fighting to get Sydney Hih designated as historic--and therefore undemolishable. The city of Milwaukee has overturned the historic designation, and unless some savior were to come forward, there will be nothing in the way of the encroaching bulldozers.
I've blogged before about America's illogical approach to political problem-solving. We seem to think that the process has two steps, when in fact it should have three. The popular approach is as follows:
- Identify the problem.
- Remove the problem.
- The third step is nothing. There is no third step.
The correct approach goes like this.
- Identify the problem.
- Remove the problem.
- Provide a positive solution.
There is a solution. John Raettig and his group Raettig Redevelopment have come forward with a positive solution, a way to remedy the concerns about safety and economic impact raised by the city. The process is complete.
There's a petition you can sign (of course there is) requesting the Milwaukee Common Council to have pity on Sydney Hih. This isn't just about history, this isn't just about cultural heritage; it's about rewarding entrepreneurship. It's about using common sense. It's about not missing opportunities.
Sign here, so Sydney Hih can be saved.
Long live citizenship!
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Dynamic Exposition: Or, Whedon's Universes Annoy Me
Whenever somebody writes fiction, they create a new world, a new universe in which the events of their fiction take place. Sometimes the world is nigh-indistinguishable from ours (the novels of John Grisham spring to mind), and sometimes it's not (Discworld, I'm lookin' at you). Either way, the created universe of any work of fiction is, at some level, distinct from our own.
I recently finished The Windup Girl, by Paolo Bacigalupi. It's near-future science fiction, and it won some awards. What attracted me to it was the completeness of its universe; Bacigalupi weaves together issues of race, politics, religion, industry, sexuality, substance abuse, and more, to create a whole, believable universe. There seems to be no detail left unvarnished. Air travel? Handled. Disease? Discussed. A genetically engineered breed of elephant? Megadonts.
In contrast is what I call Whedon Syndrome. Joss Whedon has a different approach to the concept of universe-creating. He seems to be more concerned about what happens in his universe rather than how it can happen. He creates his universe by discovery from the narrative.
Whedon's famously short-lived TV show Firefly provides an example. We get a glimpse into the technology the Serenity's crew uses; we even get some jargon from Kaylee; but do we ever really see the inner workings of the 'Verse? Mal uses a Moses Brothers Self-Defense Engine Frontier Model B; but Moses Brothers is nothing more than a name. In the 'Verse, there is no Moses Brothers Armaments. Whedon doesn't need it. For all Whedon cares, Mal's gun could be the only gun Moses Brothers Armaments ever produced.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer doesn't need exposition as such; whatever exposition is necessary arises organically from the narrative. We gradually come to learn more about the Buffyverse as the series progresses, but again, the information comes indirectly, at a slant. And the knowledge we gain is never because Whedon wants to fill us in on his universe. Rather, exposition serves to justify narrative hijinks.
Part of my problem with this backhanded exposition is that I feel shortchanged. I feel that the universe being created does not actually exist the same way ours does. When a creator is allowed to tack on a scientific law here, a bit of history there, racial tension over in that corner--how can I feel comfortable? How can I accept that I have comprehended this universe? Why should I care about these new rules? They might be negated or made moot in a few months because of another, larger, manufactured scientific law.
Whenever I encounter a creator who is satisfied with this organic, haphazard exposition, it raises doubts in my mind about the completeness of the universe in the mind of the creator. Does the creator have a strong mental image of the universe being created? Or is the creator doing his work of creation as he constructs the narrative?
Part of the reason The Lord of the Rings is so compelling is that J. R. R. Tolkien seems to have had a fairly concrete conception of the universe he was creating, before he created it. Middle-Earth was by no means complete in his mind, but his creation of The Hobbit and, more importantly, The Silmarillion, meant that he was writing about a place that already existed, in his mind. Rather than creating as he wrote, he created first, then set characters into that creation.
Universe-creating is a tricky business. It varies across medium and genre--I'm sure part of Whedon's aversion to flat-out exposition is necessitated by the time constraints imposed by television. And there's something to be said for the dynamic nature of indirect exposition: it's intriguing, it draws viewers in. Me, I like seeing the bones of an universe. I like taking the cover off of the watch and seeing gears and springs interacting. I like knowing how things work, not just knowing that they work.
Long live nine lives!
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
The Adventure of the Janeist Horror
Warning: this post might alienate some of you gender-neutral nouns.
I have a friend who recently discovered Jane Austen. I respect this friend very much, so when she began to express her heartfelt adoration for Ms. Austen's works, I grimaced mentally. I was hearing Janeist words coming out of her mouth. I don't like Janeism one bit. To my mind, my friend's enthusiasm for Ms. Austen's works was hurting her credibility.
(We talked it out. She's not a Janeist. Our friendship is intact.)
For some reason, I really don't like Fans as a demographic subset. You know--the ones who find a way to turn every literary conversation back to the Brontë sisters. The ones who can recite Timon of Athens in Klingon. The ones who can and do fill you in on the socio-evolutionary history of the Tusken Raiders. The ones who can tell you the batting average of the Mets' third baseman in 1977. The ones who hotly debate the quality of David Bowie's later material compared to his earlier years.
I have friends who are Fans. Some of my closest friends are Fans, in fact. Just because I hate Fandom doesn't mean I hate individual fans. I dislike the adjective, not the noun.
Maybe it's the Fan's narrowness of focus. I used to be a Lord of the Rings Fan. I could sort of write Khuzdul. I had firm and well-developed opinions on the spiritual-symbolic nature of the mallyrn trees in Laurelindórenan. I could recite most of the Hobbitic poetry from Fellowship.
Somewhere along the line, that went away, and I began to see myself as having more eclectic tastes. Maybe I got lazy (because being a Fan does require quite a bit of hard work and dedication), or maybe I actually did find out that there's a lot of cool stuff out there. My point is this: I began to see myself as the anti-Fan. Someone with opinions on everything, rather than on only one thing. Broad-minded, that's what I was. A man of the world. Conversant in many different arenas.
Truth is, though, I'm not. I'm still a Fan. Want proof? Look here. If that's not a Fan's post, I'll eat my hat. That's not the post of a Cinema Fan, or an Avengers Fan, or a Criticism Fan. It's...
Well, first, another example. A shorter one, this time. Again: that's not a Bond Fan talking, or a History Fan talking...it's something else.
Oh, wait, I already blogged about this. I am a Words Fan. I like them broken into codey little shards. I like them re-assembled from those shards, humming with latent potency. I like them swimming into schools of organized poetic flash. I like them making worlds and galaxies and universes and gods and sins and death, and I like them making me cry.
So I guess I can't really look down on the Janeists. I can't despise the Trekkies or the Browncoats or the Ringers, because even though their Fandom is more focused, more limited, they're still the same as me. We're all Fans. Somewhere deep in every human heart there is a spark. Something that, given the right fuel, will kindle such a blaze of devotion and dedication and Fandom that other people stop to say, "Look at that weird dude who grew his mustache specifically to look like Rollie Fingers'!"
I'm a Fan. And I'm sorry, my gender-neutral nouns, if I ever ridiculed your Fandom.
(Except for Nickelback Fans. I am entirely prepared to burn them with flamethrowers next time I see them.)
Long live restitution.
I have friends who are Fans. Some of my closest friends are Fans, in fact. Just because I hate Fandom doesn't mean I hate individual fans. I dislike the adjective, not the noun.
Maybe it's the Fan's narrowness of focus. I used to be a Lord of the Rings Fan. I could sort of write Khuzdul. I had firm and well-developed opinions on the spiritual-symbolic nature of the mallyrn trees in Laurelindórenan. I could recite most of the Hobbitic poetry from Fellowship.
Somewhere along the line, that went away, and I began to see myself as having more eclectic tastes. Maybe I got lazy (because being a Fan does require quite a bit of hard work and dedication), or maybe I actually did find out that there's a lot of cool stuff out there. My point is this: I began to see myself as the anti-Fan. Someone with opinions on everything, rather than on only one thing. Broad-minded, that's what I was. A man of the world. Conversant in many different arenas.
Truth is, though, I'm not. I'm still a Fan. Want proof? Look here. If that's not a Fan's post, I'll eat my hat. That's not the post of a Cinema Fan, or an Avengers Fan, or a Criticism Fan. It's...
Well, first, another example. A shorter one, this time. Again: that's not a Bond Fan talking, or a History Fan talking...it's something else.
Oh, wait, I already blogged about this. I am a Words Fan. I like them broken into codey little shards. I like them re-assembled from those shards, humming with latent potency. I like them swimming into schools of organized poetic flash. I like them making worlds and galaxies and universes and gods and sins and death, and I like them making me cry.
So I guess I can't really look down on the Janeists. I can't despise the Trekkies or the Browncoats or the Ringers, because even though their Fandom is more focused, more limited, they're still the same as me. We're all Fans. Somewhere deep in every human heart there is a spark. Something that, given the right fuel, will kindle such a blaze of devotion and dedication and Fandom that other people stop to say, "Look at that weird dude who grew his mustache specifically to look like Rollie Fingers'!"
I'm a Fan. And I'm sorry, my gender-neutral nouns, if I ever ridiculed your Fandom.
(Except for Nickelback Fans. I am entirely prepared to burn them with flamethrowers next time I see them.)
Long live restitution.
