Sometime in the past few years, the news-media picked a new favorite word: "tomorrow". Headlines read, "President to veto Children's Health Care tomorrow," or "Company expected to announce bid for contract tomorrow." The news-media practices a dual art: journalism and divination.
They're not the only entity eagerly foretelling the future. Bush favors the word "pre-emptive"; business analysts use "forecast"; weeklies like Newsweek and Time extrapolate "trends" decades into the future.
We, their audience, encourage them. We check the weather forecast as if a human or computer could actually predict a sunny day. They might guess correctly, but we can't call them accurate until we feel the deep warmth of the afternoon sun on our necks.
We increasingly trust these modern day diviners, repeating the news as if the anchor surely knows what will happen tomorrow. We accept their guesses like the ill wishing for a cure.
We are, like Dave Bazan sang in his "Priests and Paramedics", the hemmoraging wounded on the stretcher screaming to the paramedic, "Am I going to die?" We're happy to hear, "Buddy just calm down, you'll be alright."
Not that they, or anyone else, knows for sure.
I can only hypothesize why we're willing to trust people who clearly know as little about the future as we. Perhaps we've accelerated the availability of information so much that we now demand the news before it happens. Perhaps we want to know what will happen to us so intensely that we'll trust anyone who appears confident. Regardless of our reasons, we trust too much.
We live too dependently on our diviners. When some soothsayer predicts a housing bubble, we act as if they know certainly, thus fermenting a self-fulfilling prophesy. When our Presidents promise us we'll suffer if we don't invade weaker nations we acknowledge we can't know the future and thus can't prove them wrong; so we trust their vision for the future more than ours.
We abort potential works of art because they might not succeed. We scrap potential children because they might mature into criminals.
We have empirical data to support our predictions. Of course, our data occurred in the past and Hume among many others have shown that no past empirical data proves future causality. Every time you toss a ball into the air a miniscule probability increases that the ball will not descend. Just because an action caused an effect once, or a million times, does not mean it will the next time.
Further, I'm increasingly certain nothing is certain. So, if we have no certainty about the past or present, which we have seen and now see, how do we justify making certainty claims about the future? I don't think we can justify our modern divination. We make the future, but "we" contains 6.5 billion people each exerting their own influence, besides the influence of non-human forces. So many inputs make forecasting 99.99999% impossible. Of course, one may predict accurately, especially in controlled situations with far fewer inputs.
Yet, the risk of pre-emption -- of anticipating and then changing the future -- far outweighs the risk of letting que sera, sera.
Or does it? Does potential predicate a right or obligation to opportunity? Must a mother birth the fetus in their womb if they expect the potential child to suffer? Or may the artist discard that incomplete artwork because it may potentially fail? If no mind exists with a precise knowledge of what will happen, than does modifying the future pre-emptively make any difference -- if no one has a plan, then how can you wreck the plan?
It seems there is a general, universal plan infered from universal human rights. The plan entails in every case humans continuing to live. So we do wreck the plan when we trust the soothsaying media, analysts, presidents and economists so much that we will invade and murder other humans in reaction to the "experts'" predictions.
Can we call pre-emptive action "just"? If in hindsight we see certainly a diviner predicted accurately, can we justify our belief and our actions based on those predictions, especially if those actions harmed another in order to protect ourselves?
(I hereby predict someone will bring up Minority Report :P).
December 28, 2007
December 18, 2007
Mini-Jesuses thrive, even with their discredited name
Reading on Revolution in Jesus Land and Thom Stark's Semper Reformanda I find hope that Christians do not take lightly the hijacking of their name. Even when poison calls itself dessert, the dessert makes itself unmistakable.
Though some congregations shoot those who assail them, others choose Jesus' way. I'm specifically considering the Amish who last October suffered five deaths in their community. I'm sure they considered their response with excruciating care -- the public relations and news-media megaphone crouched over their shoulders, poised to trumpet the actions of the Amish to perhaps a large portion of the world. What a crucible in which that community chose.
The leadership at New Life Church in Colorado Springs certainly faced a similar gravity in their deliberations. Yet the two congregations chose divergent paths.
New Life Church shored up their defenses and then shot the single assailant who fired on them.
The Amish -- they stepped onto the world stage and forgave. Pardoned. Jesused. "Forgive them father," Jesus said of his assailants, "for they don't know what they do."
Though some congregations shoot those who assail them, others choose Jesus' way. I'm specifically considering the Amish who last October suffered five deaths in their community. I'm sure they considered their response with excruciating care -- the public relations and news-media megaphone crouched over their shoulders, poised to trumpet the actions of the Amish to perhaps a large portion of the world. What a crucible in which that community chose.
The leadership at New Life Church in Colorado Springs certainly faced a similar gravity in their deliberations. Yet the two congregations chose divergent paths.
New Life Church shored up their defenses and then shot the single assailant who fired on them.
The Amish -- they stepped onto the world stage and forgave. Pardoned. Jesused. "Forgive them father," Jesus said of his assailants, "for they don't know what they do."
Wolves in Jesus' clothing
I'm a ballerina. No, I've never taken dance lessons, but I'm a ballerina. True, I've never danced in the Nutcracker or Swan Lake or any other ballet, but I'm a ballerina.
In English, as in many languages, entities are defined by what they do or what practical purpose they perform. Would you call a phonebook a knife? Of course not! If you did, you'd ask your friend for a knife and she'd hand you a phonebook (if she patronized your silly semantics). You'd have trouble making your sandwich.
We want our language as precise as possible for efficiency. Philosophers have spent the past century striving for a language refined enough to convey both the simple and the sublime. One, Wittgenstein, devised a method for ensuring each word in a language had only one meaning. He failed miserably, but we accuse ourselves if we fault him for trying.
It's clear, if I don't do ballet, I'm not a ballerina. In the same way, I'm not a Muslim, because I don't practice Islam. Nor am I a Christian, since I don't do what Christians do.
Now to my point: it is constantly apparent a number of people call themselves Christians who do not perform the actions of Christians (and a similar argument could be made for Muslims and Conservatives -- i.e. Bush). Perhaps I should rephrase that: maybe these "Christians" act just like "Christians" but they don't act like Jesus. Christian, I learned in my class on Shalom this fall, means in Greek, "little Christ". So it seems we may agree on a standard: that those who call themselves by the word "Christian" should fulfill the same role Jesus did. Maybe I'm asking too much.
Yet, the recent actions of "Christians" do not even closely approach in likeness to Jesus' admonitions, much less his acts. "Christians" ignore guidelines like 'Turn the other cheek' and 'Lay down his life for his friends' and 'Care for the sojourner in your land'. Instead, "Christians" shoot assailants in their churches. They obfuscate Jesus' clear teachings into complex, borderline gnostic doctrines, Melissa Scott-esque non-sequiturs, and prosperity "gospels" -- for profit! -- and they whip earnest humans into harnessed oxen by which they power political ideologies.
I feel sick to write of it. Oftentimes the conspiracy theories about the Masons and Knights Templar seem so credible -- they hover like locusts demonstrating irrefutably the devised nature of this monotheism -- and so tangible -- I know I can touch their modern day counterparts by dialing ten numbers on my phone -- that such obvious hogwash appears more plausible than a virgin birth and a resurrection.
I'm not in a place to make any predictions about these "Christians" and their relation to any God they claim to serve. Jesus said he himself did not come to judge. Wiser learners than I have argued to me any imperative extrapolated from Jesus' assertion applies only to eternal judgment. Their advice allows me the freedom to say I do not approve of those "Christians" who do the opposite of what Jesus did. I feel they discredit those who strive so intensely to live up to all the
responsibility associated with Jesus' name, just as I discredit all ballerinas when I claim a likeness to their grace.
In English, as in many languages, entities are defined by what they do or what practical purpose they perform. Would you call a phonebook a knife? Of course not! If you did, you'd ask your friend for a knife and she'd hand you a phonebook (if she patronized your silly semantics). You'd have trouble making your sandwich.
We want our language as precise as possible for efficiency. Philosophers have spent the past century striving for a language refined enough to convey both the simple and the sublime. One, Wittgenstein, devised a method for ensuring each word in a language had only one meaning. He failed miserably, but we accuse ourselves if we fault him for trying.
It's clear, if I don't do ballet, I'm not a ballerina. In the same way, I'm not a Muslim, because I don't practice Islam. Nor am I a Christian, since I don't do what Christians do.
Now to my point: it is constantly apparent a number of people call themselves Christians who do not perform the actions of Christians (and a similar argument could be made for Muslims and Conservatives -- i.e. Bush). Perhaps I should rephrase that: maybe these "Christians" act just like "Christians" but they don't act like Jesus. Christian, I learned in my class on Shalom this fall, means in Greek, "little Christ". So it seems we may agree on a standard: that those who call themselves by the word "Christian" should fulfill the same role Jesus did. Maybe I'm asking too much.
Yet, the recent actions of "Christians" do not even closely approach in likeness to Jesus' admonitions, much less his acts. "Christians" ignore guidelines like 'Turn the other cheek' and 'Lay down his life for his friends' and 'Care for the sojourner in your land'. Instead, "Christians" shoot assailants in their churches. They obfuscate Jesus' clear teachings into complex, borderline gnostic doctrines, Melissa Scott-esque non-sequiturs, and prosperity "gospels" -- for profit! -- and they whip earnest humans into harnessed oxen by which they power political ideologies.
I feel sick to write of it. Oftentimes the conspiracy theories about the Masons and Knights Templar seem so credible -- they hover like locusts demonstrating irrefutably the devised nature of this monotheism -- and so tangible -- I know I can touch their modern day counterparts by dialing ten numbers on my phone -- that such obvious hogwash appears more plausible than a virgin birth and a resurrection.
I'm not in a place to make any predictions about these "Christians" and their relation to any God they claim to serve. Jesus said he himself did not come to judge. Wiser learners than I have argued to me any imperative extrapolated from Jesus' assertion applies only to eternal judgment. Their advice allows me the freedom to say I do not approve of those "Christians" who do the opposite of what Jesus did. I feel they discredit those who strive so intensely to live up to all the
responsibility associated with Jesus' name, just as I discredit all ballerinas when I claim a likeness to their grace.
December 16, 2007
Stranger to Oneself
I finished reading Camus' The Stranger a couple of days ago. He makes this eeriest point clear: whether you die at 30 or 70, you die. Which leaves a thoughtful person (such as myself) utterly confused. If death is the end, then there's little point in prolonging life. Nor do we feel compelled to act, whether murderously or altruistically. Yet, we do act altruistically and murderously. It seems clear why humans developed murder -- to defeat a threat to their lives. But why altruism? A recent article in the Atlantic argued altruism developed through typical adaptive cycles where communal, selfless species survived, thus reproducing philanthropic genes. Which seems to say, scientifically at least (and most religions would argue the same), we act kindly because we prioritize existence over non-existence.
So, if we murder and assist both in accordance to our belief that we prefer to exist, what do we do when life becomes entirely absurd, meaningless and death seems no different than life (for life and death mean the same)? Do we go on living? And if we live, in what manner do we live if we may die in another moment? As Pascal wrote: "Between us, and Hell or Heaven, there is only life between the two, which is the most fragile thing in the world."
Sartre posited an answer to the questioning of Camus' era (and ours): there's no compulsion to do anything, yet we're not dead, so we must choose. Even suicide is a choice. Even standing still, inactive, is choosing. There is no imperative to choose one way of life, say serial-killer, over any other, say philanthropist.
However, Sartre notes that when we choose, we choose for all people -- we demonstrate our preferred course of action and others may choose to follow it if it produces the sort of life they desire. So, Sartre essentially appeals to Kant's categorical imperative: Act as if all humans will be forced to act as you do. Another philosopher said similarly, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
I give away my disposition by setting murder and altruism in opposition. Clearly I pose a dichotomy that prefers generosity and service to totem-murder, incest and patricide -- Freud's three universal taboos.
As long as I recall, I have been biased towards altruism. Only recently have I learned words to describe my reasoning. John Rawls, another philosopher, proposed a thought experiment to help us decide how to act. He suggested when faced with a decision, we imagine a veil separates us from the situation, so we do not know what party we will play in the situation. We may be the king; we may be the pauper (there is equal chance). Since we may be the pauper, naturally we will ensure that should we be the pauper, we will be well respected, protected and happy. We want the most benefit for ourselves in the case we should be the least of the society. Rawls called his principle MiniMax: the maximum benefit for the minimum person.
My selfishness masquerades as altruism. I only act to provide an example I hope others will choose to follow. I want the least to be cared for in case I one day am the least. It's why I pick up hitchhikers: to build up my hitchhikers' Karma so I'll get picked up next time I'm thumbing.
I've laid out a couple of viable ways to a satisfying, altruistic life. However, I do not know if I live them, though I try.
Countless questions bother me. Here are two: first, if life is absurd and we evolved, why do we create? There seems no point in striving to make sculpture, music, epic photo montages, poetry and novels. Friendship and altruism are explained by the Atlantic article, but creativity has yet to receive much treatment in philosophy (please, if I overstate, direct me to a place to read).
Second, why does music affect some people so much? Past a philosophy of aesthetics (proportion is related to health and health to survival, so it seems explainable by Darwin's theories), music seems to have little evolutionary value. From my reading in philosophy of music so far today, it seems that music in recent years (enlightenment on) was intentionally developed to express emotions which words and other visual symbols could not, due to a veil of language and bias which separates us from what Kant called "das Ding an sich" and Wallace Stevens called the The -- reality.
But music precedes these theories, and even after these theories, practitioners adapted music to match the human ear, rather than modifying humans to appreciate the music. There are exceptions: it seems it took the human ear time to understand the meaning of compositions like Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" -- people didn't understand innately. In the normal cases, when music was orchestrated to excite pre-existing biases in humans towards certain meanings for certain timbres of sound, where did those interpretations in humans develop?
I wish I could word this more simply but it's very complicated in my head and, of course, language is an ill-fitted tool to expressing deep pathos.
So, if we murder and assist both in accordance to our belief that we prefer to exist, what do we do when life becomes entirely absurd, meaningless and death seems no different than life (for life and death mean the same)? Do we go on living? And if we live, in what manner do we live if we may die in another moment? As Pascal wrote: "Between us, and Hell or Heaven, there is only life between the two, which is the most fragile thing in the world."
Sartre posited an answer to the questioning of Camus' era (and ours): there's no compulsion to do anything, yet we're not dead, so we must choose. Even suicide is a choice. Even standing still, inactive, is choosing. There is no imperative to choose one way of life, say serial-killer, over any other, say philanthropist.
However, Sartre notes that when we choose, we choose for all people -- we demonstrate our preferred course of action and others may choose to follow it if it produces the sort of life they desire. So, Sartre essentially appeals to Kant's categorical imperative: Act as if all humans will be forced to act as you do. Another philosopher said similarly, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
I give away my disposition by setting murder and altruism in opposition. Clearly I pose a dichotomy that prefers generosity and service to totem-murder, incest and patricide -- Freud's three universal taboos.
As long as I recall, I have been biased towards altruism. Only recently have I learned words to describe my reasoning. John Rawls, another philosopher, proposed a thought experiment to help us decide how to act. He suggested when faced with a decision, we imagine a veil separates us from the situation, so we do not know what party we will play in the situation. We may be the king; we may be the pauper (there is equal chance). Since we may be the pauper, naturally we will ensure that should we be the pauper, we will be well respected, protected and happy. We want the most benefit for ourselves in the case we should be the least of the society. Rawls called his principle MiniMax: the maximum benefit for the minimum person.
My selfishness masquerades as altruism. I only act to provide an example I hope others will choose to follow. I want the least to be cared for in case I one day am the least. It's why I pick up hitchhikers: to build up my hitchhikers' Karma so I'll get picked up next time I'm thumbing.
I've laid out a couple of viable ways to a satisfying, altruistic life. However, I do not know if I live them, though I try.
Countless questions bother me. Here are two: first, if life is absurd and we evolved, why do we create? There seems no point in striving to make sculpture, music, epic photo montages, poetry and novels. Friendship and altruism are explained by the Atlantic article, but creativity has yet to receive much treatment in philosophy (please, if I overstate, direct me to a place to read).
Second, why does music affect some people so much? Past a philosophy of aesthetics (proportion is related to health and health to survival, so it seems explainable by Darwin's theories), music seems to have little evolutionary value. From my reading in philosophy of music so far today, it seems that music in recent years (enlightenment on) was intentionally developed to express emotions which words and other visual symbols could not, due to a veil of language and bias which separates us from what Kant called "das Ding an sich" and Wallace Stevens called the The -- reality.
But music precedes these theories, and even after these theories, practitioners adapted music to match the human ear, rather than modifying humans to appreciate the music. There are exceptions: it seems it took the human ear time to understand the meaning of compositions like Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" -- people didn't understand innately. In the normal cases, when music was orchestrated to excite pre-existing biases in humans towards certain meanings for certain timbres of sound, where did those interpretations in humans develop?
I wish I could word this more simply but it's very complicated in my head and, of course, language is an ill-fitted tool to expressing deep pathos.
December 10, 2007
Oh. No.
I think I may be failing two classes. If I do fail them -- the two most detested classes I've taken at Whitworth -- I'll likely go to Poland and not return to graduate.
My friend Daniel noted tonight, Colleges are accreditation systems. I'm tired of vying for accreditation.
Increasingly I feel I've learned little academically here, though I have learned much socially and euecoicly. That's partly my fault, as I've not pursued my studies as rigorously as I could. But I was busy elsewhere, learning.
My friend Daniel noted tonight, Colleges are accreditation systems. I'm tired of vying for accreditation.
Increasingly I feel I've learned little academically here, though I have learned much socially and euecoicly. That's partly my fault, as I've not pursued my studies as rigorously as I could. But I was busy elsewhere, learning.
December 3, 2007
At it again
I'm blogging again, but over here.
I will likely begin writing on this blog again once I move to Poland. This and a travel blog? I don't know.
My interests right now: ecosophy, Herman Hesse, human collaboration.
As I finish at Whitworth, I feel ill-prepared to continue onto grad school. However, I feel ready to go.
I will likely begin writing on this blog again once I move to Poland. This and a travel blog? I don't know.
My interests right now: ecosophy, Herman Hesse, human collaboration.
As I finish at Whitworth, I feel ill-prepared to continue onto grad school. However, I feel ready to go.
August 31, 2007
Home again
I'd meant to write more about the interesting things I saw and experienced in New York, but
New York just wasn't that interesting.
The interesting was astonishing beyond categorization and thus birthed poems. Essays would have been muddled. You wouldn't have understood the tastes.
My stories will emerge gradually, I'm sure.
New York just wasn't that interesting.
The interesting was astonishing beyond categorization and thus birthed poems. Essays would have been muddled. You wouldn't have understood the tastes.
My stories will emerge gradually, I'm sure.
July 19, 2007
flashes in pans
A bit of an interesting day in New York. A steam pipe exploded near Grand Central. The initial steam geyser rose higher than the Chrysler tower (77 stories). At my restaurant we turned on the news for a few minutes to figure out what happened before we switched to the Yankees game. No one was paying attention to the news.
After I got off work I was walking to the Village Ma for music when there was a shooting in Washington Square Park. I was on MacDougal street, about half a block away. It sounded like two fire crackers. A couple of people and I stopped to watch two chubby NYPD pant up the sidewalk to the park. People poured out of the park, which is a pretty popular, very safe spot next to NYU. Four of five patrol cars drove into the park, but by that time we had all moved on.
Spectacular events in New York are like boats. They leave a wake: a couple people get hurt, a few people will talk about it; but, as soon as the initial disturbance passes, the event and the affected people are absorbed into the sea.
After I got off work I was walking to the Village Ma for music when there was a shooting in Washington Square Park. I was on MacDougal street, about half a block away. It sounded like two fire crackers. A couple of people and I stopped to watch two chubby NYPD pant up the sidewalk to the park. People poured out of the park, which is a pretty popular, very safe spot next to NYU. Four of five patrol cars drove into the park, but by that time we had all moved on.
Spectacular events in New York are like boats. They leave a wake: a couple people get hurt, a few people will talk about it; but, as soon as the initial disturbance passes, the event and the affected people are absorbed into the sea.
July 9, 2007
missing misanthropy
I narrowly avoided misanthropy today.
I surely hold a kind view of humanity in general and I've been enjoying myself thoroughly as a still "innocent and wide eyed" optimist. Just last night my friend Adina explained how New York builds a cynicism into people over time. I shrugged: I haven't been calloused much at all. She explained that every time I talk to a girl, the girl will inevitably assume I'm picking her up.
That's set up. Today I was at my friend Emily's cafe. I noticed a girl reading a book on Heroes and Tombs. Having just come from the Mythical creatures exhibit at the Museum of Natural History I was curious as to whether the book was non-fiction or a novel. I asked another question, which was again politely answered. The third question received no answer and a disdainful look. I went back to sketching poems. Later I realized what I must have appeared to her as: just another guy trying to pick her up. That's when I nearly slipped into pessimism.
It fucking bugs me that this girl assumed the worst of me, considered me merely another man to fend off. And here I was, apparently one of the few guys in New York willing to take each person as a person and not a sex object. I took an interest in her because she was interesting, not because she was beautiful. And so she dehumanized me even as I attempted to humanize her. I hurl my broadsword through swaths of people, severing them with my wit. No, I have no scathing wit. To be so endowed.
The rescue: still hating every person I encountered I purchased Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray. Then I watched Ratatouille, perhaps one of the lightest, charmingest movies I've recently seen, much less endured. I'd give it 5 stars for success on all counts. So that cheered me up a bit. I went to sushi, blah sushi, but still sushi, which cheered me up more. On the subway ride home I ended up in a car full of bibliofiles, discussing literature. There were at least 5 different parties, all interacting. As I got off the subway with two of my new found neighbors, one of the girls said "Goodnight subway friends."
That's this city. The friendliest people in the world, all of them misanthropes.
I surely hold a kind view of humanity in general and I've been enjoying myself thoroughly as a still "innocent and wide eyed" optimist. Just last night my friend Adina explained how New York builds a cynicism into people over time. I shrugged: I haven't been calloused much at all. She explained that every time I talk to a girl, the girl will inevitably assume I'm picking her up.
That's set up. Today I was at my friend Emily's cafe. I noticed a girl reading a book on Heroes and Tombs. Having just come from the Mythical creatures exhibit at the Museum of Natural History I was curious as to whether the book was non-fiction or a novel. I asked another question, which was again politely answered. The third question received no answer and a disdainful look. I went back to sketching poems. Later I realized what I must have appeared to her as: just another guy trying to pick her up. That's when I nearly slipped into pessimism.
It fucking bugs me that this girl assumed the worst of me, considered me merely another man to fend off. And here I was, apparently one of the few guys in New York willing to take each person as a person and not a sex object. I took an interest in her because she was interesting, not because she was beautiful. And so she dehumanized me even as I attempted to humanize her. I hurl my broadsword through swaths of people, severing them with my wit. No, I have no scathing wit. To be so endowed.
The rescue: still hating every person I encountered I purchased Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray. Then I watched Ratatouille, perhaps one of the lightest, charmingest movies I've recently seen, much less endured. I'd give it 5 stars for success on all counts. So that cheered me up a bit. I went to sushi, blah sushi, but still sushi, which cheered me up more. On the subway ride home I ended up in a car full of bibliofiles, discussing literature. There were at least 5 different parties, all interacting. As I got off the subway with two of my new found neighbors, one of the girls said "Goodnight subway friends."
That's this city. The friendliest people in the world, all of them misanthropes.
June 25, 2007
Staying in
The Bronx is a ten minute walk from where I live. I've yet to go there. I haven't visited the park near my apartment. I haven't eaten at the highly rated restaurants in my neighborhood.
Mostly I work or sleep. I'm a bit of an insomniac, so when exhaustion eventually drags me prostrate, I remain there as long as possible. Often I find myself waking up at noon or one. The only thing that lifts me from bed is work or outings with friends. The outings with friends are rare, so I get up for work.
Not to say I'm unproductive: during my sleepless nights I read good books and write.
Literature. I went to the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe on Friday night. I basked in the movement of people back and forth -- the men tended to slam about politics and the women about social injustice. I've just flipped through my music collection, looking for an artist with the passion or honest eloquence I saw on the Nuyorican stage. Bright Eyes may be the only comparison; but for his whiny scrawl, substitute the cursive rhythms of east coast rap.
Here's the poem I sketched the next night about one of the poets:
Mostly I work or sleep. I'm a bit of an insomniac, so when exhaustion eventually drags me prostrate, I remain there as long as possible. Often I find myself waking up at noon or one. The only thing that lifts me from bed is work or outings with friends. The outings with friends are rare, so I get up for work.
Not to say I'm unproductive: during my sleepless nights I read good books and write.
Literature. I went to the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe on Friday night. I basked in the movement of people back and forth -- the men tended to slam about politics and the women about social injustice. I've just flipped through my music collection, looking for an artist with the passion or honest eloquence I saw on the Nuyorican stage. Bright Eyes may be the only comparison; but for his whiny scrawl, substitute the cursive rhythms of east coast rap.
Here's the poem I sketched the next night about one of the poets:
this is the persuasive
sermon ... this diatribe
from the bottle of this
Atlanta acreage, bared
like this woman's chest -- with
that honesty of address.
this is the finally
ill invalid facing
her demise with shocking
regard for these invalids.
her upheld hand cups a
lucent mantel ... and a
white knife she drives through her
leather coat. Her black-skinned
blood salves bored cancers -- red
coughs do not enrage by
vague triviality.
Her blood punctually
succors small kids and plants goats.
not for the lack of tithe
in her other hand, not
for the lack of glory
in blueprints and plans, not
even for my poems of
her anonymity
she slides to her knees, casts
the mantel of light -- she
crescendos. We, all and
I, hear as she bares her
palms righteously, holies
the mic. Her eyes beg. Her
tongue heaves. She breathes -- to old
tenements and invalids.
June 15, 2007
Random collisions
The day after I visited the Pig and Whistle Pub in midtown I explored an entirely different part of the island. A door opened in front of me and one of the bartenders from the pub walked right in front of me. I was so shocked to see him that I didn't even say hello.
With the vast, anonymous movement of people throughout this city, for strangers to chance upon each other twice requires serendipity. One kind girl I met on the subway rides the same train I do every day, but the chance of us actually crossing paths is very low odds. Our train runs every ten minutes, most of the day. Our schedules differ daily. Even if we happened to end up on the same train, each train has maybe twenty cars. Each car holds maybe 60 people during off-peak and upwards of a hundred during rush hour. We could be on the same car and never see each other.
But even with the improbability of accidently happening upon the same person twice, it's happened to me twice already. There is a social network that links people. Besides running into the bartender two days in a row, I met one of my roommate's old coworkers when Andrew and I went bar hopping. Then, when I started work today at the place Andrew manages, the old coworker came in to eat. Even that occurance required chance, as I could have worked a different shift and it may have been weeks before the coworker came in again. Yet, it's clear our connection through Andrew made it more likely we'd meet again.
My friend Emily explained New York as a big city made up of small communities. Likewise, one of the bartenders at my new job mentioned she liked working there because the community was full of locals who were regulars. Perhaps people go to the same places repeatedly for the familiar faces. Perhaps it's the way to make friends.
I tried out the local bar on my own tonight, which was blocks away. I felt so uncomfortable walking into what was obviously a close knit community that I left immediately. Bar hopping on my own was not a success. I couldn't get up the nerve to actually sit and wait and order drinks alone. I forgot how draining it is to make friends.
With the vast, anonymous movement of people throughout this city, for strangers to chance upon each other twice requires serendipity. One kind girl I met on the subway rides the same train I do every day, but the chance of us actually crossing paths is very low odds. Our train runs every ten minutes, most of the day. Our schedules differ daily. Even if we happened to end up on the same train, each train has maybe twenty cars. Each car holds maybe 60 people during off-peak and upwards of a hundred during rush hour. We could be on the same car and never see each other.
But even with the improbability of accidently happening upon the same person twice, it's happened to me twice already. There is a social network that links people. Besides running into the bartender two days in a row, I met one of my roommate's old coworkers when Andrew and I went bar hopping. Then, when I started work today at the place Andrew manages, the old coworker came in to eat. Even that occurance required chance, as I could have worked a different shift and it may have been weeks before the coworker came in again. Yet, it's clear our connection through Andrew made it more likely we'd meet again.
My friend Emily explained New York as a big city made up of small communities. Likewise, one of the bartenders at my new job mentioned she liked working there because the community was full of locals who were regulars. Perhaps people go to the same places repeatedly for the familiar faces. Perhaps it's the way to make friends.
I tried out the local bar on my own tonight, which was blocks away. I felt so uncomfortable walking into what was obviously a close knit community that I left immediately. Bar hopping on my own was not a success. I couldn't get up the nerve to actually sit and wait and order drinks alone. I forgot how draining it is to make friends.
June 13, 2007
digame
On my first night in New York my roommate Andrew took me bar hopping.
On the way down I noticed talking on the subway is like watching silent movies: you can see their lips move, but you can't hear the syllables. It's an eerie disconnect. You have to shout, even face to face. If you don't, your words are garbled by the clunk and gimbling of the car. I dart my eyes between eyes and lips to try to read what I can't hear.
Sociology students should be required to take trips on subways. I rode the A train from JFK to my stop. At the last Brooklyn stop a young Chinese man hopped aboard. As he silently took a seat, I noticed he was the only non-black person on my car, besides me. However, the first stop in Manhattan, a few Slavic whites got on. By midtown the car was evenly mixed. By my stop, the car was predominantly Hispanic and Irish white. It wasn't the race that through me off, but the progression. Is the city ghettoed? Or was it the time of day? In a city so diverse, the delineations seemed too stark.
Not that race dehumanizes much in New York. Here, the divider between people (and there seems there's always a divider) is language. In my neighborhood you'll see very dark skinned people speaking Spanish to very light skinned people. The same will happen between those speaking English. There are white people dressed in the same attire as black people, and Hispanics dressed in the same attire as Irish or Jewish people. But it seems that two people speaking a Slavic language are set apart from the three speaking French and the two chatting away in Hindi or Swahili. Race doesn't make people inaccessible, but it seems language might.
Speaking of language, I went to the UN today. Not interesting at all. I imagine it would be fascinating if you could do more than stand in the lobby or examine the gift shop.
It's a lonely city, this city is. I walked for six hours today, yet I only spoke once briefly to passers-by and once to a girl on a subway to ask for directions. When she found out this was my second day in the city, she said, "Oh that's why you look wide eyed and innocent." We chatted for a bit and her advice to me was Don't tell people where you live. You don't know who you can trust, here in New York.
On the way down I noticed talking on the subway is like watching silent movies: you can see their lips move, but you can't hear the syllables. It's an eerie disconnect. You have to shout, even face to face. If you don't, your words are garbled by the clunk and gimbling of the car. I dart my eyes between eyes and lips to try to read what I can't hear.
Sociology students should be required to take trips on subways. I rode the A train from JFK to my stop. At the last Brooklyn stop a young Chinese man hopped aboard. As he silently took a seat, I noticed he was the only non-black person on my car, besides me. However, the first stop in Manhattan, a few Slavic whites got on. By midtown the car was evenly mixed. By my stop, the car was predominantly Hispanic and Irish white. It wasn't the race that through me off, but the progression. Is the city ghettoed? Or was it the time of day? In a city so diverse, the delineations seemed too stark.
Not that race dehumanizes much in New York. Here, the divider between people (and there seems there's always a divider) is language. In my neighborhood you'll see very dark skinned people speaking Spanish to very light skinned people. The same will happen between those speaking English. There are white people dressed in the same attire as black people, and Hispanics dressed in the same attire as Irish or Jewish people. But it seems that two people speaking a Slavic language are set apart from the three speaking French and the two chatting away in Hindi or Swahili. Race doesn't make people inaccessible, but it seems language might.
Speaking of language, I went to the UN today. Not interesting at all. I imagine it would be fascinating if you could do more than stand in the lobby or examine the gift shop.
It's a lonely city, this city is. I walked for six hours today, yet I only spoke once briefly to passers-by and once to a girl on a subway to ask for directions. When she found out this was my second day in the city, she said, "Oh that's why you look wide eyed and innocent." We chatted for a bit and her advice to me was Don't tell people where you live. You don't know who you can trust, here in New York.
June 12, 2007
off guard
I arrived at 8:20am. The weather at JFK reminded me of Oahu -- balmy and sunny. On the subway, ten stops apart, two men boarded with umbrellas. I decided it was a fashion statement. Just this morning my Dad and I talked about my ability to predict the weather. Needless to say, it's hailing now and those two fashionable men are the dry ones.
I was going to go out for groceries. I didn't even bring a raincoat... or an umbrella.
June 11, 2007
The ineffable inner cheer
John Nemo Galt posted a response to my post which decried our correlation of economics and happiness.
If you read Galt's response you probably noted he sought very precise, objective answers to questions about measuring success. Is success making friends? What kind of friends? Is it not cutting in line? Is it children sharing? Is it the depth of conversations?
All of his questions were in response to assertions I made in my post. I listed alternative methods for measuring happiness. Galt's questions forced me to reconsider. I admit, he caught me saying something I didn't mean.
In attempting to fend of economic measurements I missed the core issue: it's not how we measure, it's measurement itself.
Success is subjective. To Maslow it was scaling a heirarchy to attain self-actualization. To Freud it was acknowledging the subconscious. For Nietzsche it was discovering one's will-to-power and chasing it down. To Aristotle it was achieving an end one was designed for -- the entelechy. Mill saw success as the most happy people possible, which depended on means of measurement. To Frankl success was the demand society or individuals placed on a person -- not fulfilling the demand, but merely a person realizing they are necessary. To Marx it was reconnecting the laborer to his product. To Gandhi it was living in harmony with people and environment. To the Hebrews and to Jesus it was a similar harmony with all beings and circumstances. To Carson McCullers, Albert Camus, John Steinbeck, etc, success was in the struggle.
Some of these subjective concepts of success can be measured objectively, especially Maslow's, Mill's and Marx's. However, many others are immeasurable.
In consideration for the various ideas of success, perhaps all measurement should be eliminated. The heralding of economic growth as success does not appear as success to me, nor perhaps to many others.
I would be saddened to see someone who held harmony as their success be disregarded because their success was not profitable. The trend is changing, as more often, successful harmony with our environment is lauded. The end results of the Green movement are measurable -- the temperature or the concentration of greenhouse gases in our atmosphere -- but the human element of collaboration and innovation is not.
I find myself identifying with Frankl, Nietzche and Gandhi (ironic, no?). I think the Western world identifies itself with Mill and thus we measure the economy to measure success as it provides the most good for the most people (theoretically, capitalistically, at least).
If you read Galt's response you probably noted he sought very precise, objective answers to questions about measuring success. Is success making friends? What kind of friends? Is it not cutting in line? Is it children sharing? Is it the depth of conversations?
All of his questions were in response to assertions I made in my post. I listed alternative methods for measuring happiness. Galt's questions forced me to reconsider. I admit, he caught me saying something I didn't mean.
In attempting to fend of economic measurements I missed the core issue: it's not how we measure, it's measurement itself.
Success is subjective. To Maslow it was scaling a heirarchy to attain self-actualization. To Freud it was acknowledging the subconscious. For Nietzsche it was discovering one's will-to-power and chasing it down. To Aristotle it was achieving an end one was designed for -- the entelechy. Mill saw success as the most happy people possible, which depended on means of measurement. To Frankl success was the demand society or individuals placed on a person -- not fulfilling the demand, but merely a person realizing they are necessary. To Marx it was reconnecting the laborer to his product. To Gandhi it was living in harmony with people and environment. To the Hebrews and to Jesus it was a similar harmony with all beings and circumstances. To Carson McCullers, Albert Camus, John Steinbeck, etc, success was in the struggle.
Some of these subjective concepts of success can be measured objectively, especially Maslow's, Mill's and Marx's. However, many others are immeasurable.
In consideration for the various ideas of success, perhaps all measurement should be eliminated. The heralding of economic growth as success does not appear as success to me, nor perhaps to many others.
I would be saddened to see someone who held harmony as their success be disregarded because their success was not profitable. The trend is changing, as more often, successful harmony with our environment is lauded. The end results of the Green movement are measurable -- the temperature or the concentration of greenhouse gases in our atmosphere -- but the human element of collaboration and innovation is not.
I find myself identifying with Frankl, Nietzche and Gandhi (ironic, no?). I think the Western world identifies itself with Mill and thus we measure the economy to measure success as it provides the most good for the most people (theoretically, capitalistically, at least).
May 30, 2007
Friends don't count money
How come a country's measure of success is its economy? What makes one country more successful than another isn't the economy; it's the happiness of the people. Newspapers should have headlines like, "Mexicans make more friends" or "Moroccans don't cut in line" and "Chinese children share more." Economic headlines give a false impression of success. "The economy rallies" has no bearing on the quality of our friendships or the depth of our conversations.
May 28, 2007
yes! let's chat.
In response to Matt's comment (this felt too long for a comment box):
Matt noted the complexity of the immigration issue and insisted the dichotomy of "leave them alone" or "kick them out" is too simplistic.
I'm agreed, of course. These issues are incredibly complex.
However, we need to aim for the highest possible goal: fair, humane, just treatment of every person. Which to me means letting more immigrants in legally, and offering amnesty to those who apparently are desperate to live here.
Perhaps the largest population is Mexican, but there are other nations to whom we are not offering amnesty. For instance, Iraqis. This article in the Boston Herald notes that Iraqi's who have helped Coalition troops in Iraq are threatened, yet the U.S. is not offering them visas for entry to the U.S. Last month we offered one Iraqi a visa.
If we start with guiding principles that hold all humans as irreplaceable and equally valuable, instead of arguing from standpoints of "profit" and "anti-terrorism", I think we'll discover our goals and the goals of legal and illegal immigrants are similar and could benefit from collaboration.
I take my main issue with the devil-saint model of immigration: illegal immigrants are not enemies. They're future citizens.
Matt noted the complexity of the immigration issue and insisted the dichotomy of "leave them alone" or "kick them out" is too simplistic.
I'm agreed, of course. These issues are incredibly complex.
However, we need to aim for the highest possible goal: fair, humane, just treatment of every person. Which to me means letting more immigrants in legally, and offering amnesty to those who apparently are desperate to live here.
Perhaps the largest population is Mexican, but there are other nations to whom we are not offering amnesty. For instance, Iraqis. This article in the Boston Herald notes that Iraqi's who have helped Coalition troops in Iraq are threatened, yet the U.S. is not offering them visas for entry to the U.S. Last month we offered one Iraqi a visa.
If we start with guiding principles that hold all humans as irreplaceable and equally valuable, instead of arguing from standpoints of "profit" and "anti-terrorism", I think we'll discover our goals and the goals of legal and illegal immigrants are similar and could benefit from collaboration.
I take my main issue with the devil-saint model of immigration: illegal immigrants are not enemies. They're future citizens.
May 27, 2007
Immigrant bill could break up families
Immigrants Learn of the Impact of the new bill in Congress
The new immigration bill will separate families, according the the Seattle Times article linked above. I'm growing more and more concerned about how we treat immigrants, both legal and illegal. They're people too. And generally beneficial people. More on that if I can find the article I was reading yesterday.
Any thoughts on how to convince congress AND the general US population that mistreating immigrants is just poor sport?
The new immigration bill will separate families, according the the Seattle Times article linked above. I'm growing more and more concerned about how we treat immigrants, both legal and illegal. They're people too. And generally beneficial people. More on that if I can find the article I was reading yesterday.
Any thoughts on how to convince congress AND the general US population that mistreating immigrants is just poor sport?
May 26, 2007
May 9, 2007
Fictionating words
"Mussine"
A set of sounds without definition. I like it though.
How to go about making this mis-read word mean something?
Editors of dictionaries would insist if I can get enough people to agree that a set of sounds means something, then they do.
What should "Mussine" mean? Here is the context I misread it in:
"Michael Wesch speculates that the accessibility of the internet to add and receive content is leading to a mussine paradigm shift in human thought and society."
It seemed to me to bear connotations of "novel" "ineffable" "chaotic" "capricious" "uncontrolled" "active" "self-motioned" without being able to be defined concretely.
It's as if we know there is a gigantic change occurring but can't imagine what shape this change might take.
Mussine: adj. impredictability, as in an unimaginable result of a currently occurring change.
A set of sounds without definition. I like it though.
How to go about making this mis-read word mean something?
Editors of dictionaries would insist if I can get enough people to agree that a set of sounds means something, then they do.
What should "Mussine" mean? Here is the context I misread it in:
"Michael Wesch speculates that the accessibility of the internet to add and receive content is leading to a mussine paradigm shift in human thought and society."
It seemed to me to bear connotations of "novel" "ineffable" "chaotic" "capricious" "uncontrolled" "active" "self-motioned" without being able to be defined concretely.
It's as if we know there is a gigantic change occurring but can't imagine what shape this change might take.
Mussine: adj. impredictability, as in an unimaginable result of a currently occurring change.
March 27, 2007
Things bloody fall apart
Supposedly in Chaos there's a strange attractor -- a point of gravity around which all the random particles coalesce. In my life I think the strange attractor is non-leaving-America. Every time I try to get out of this country, something breaks down.
I was going to study in Finland, but a professor advised me against taking that much time away from my friends at school. During my enforced year off I attempted trips to Greece and Costa Rica. Greece ended up being too expensive. I couldn't find anyone to go to Costa Rica with me and I wasn't comfortable traveling alone yet. Most recently I've been planning summer trips to ireland, scotland, england, france and morocco. But I just found out my job might actually be a volunteer position, based on my financial aid award. I might not have work study, and so might not be earning the $400 a month I thought I was. Soo... if I am volunteering and not earning... I need to either get another 10-20 hour a week job, or I need to can Europe.
I was reading an old journal entry and it noted that things have always fallen apart like this, usually with better results. Something better usually comes up.
Here's hoping. I really want to learn about other cultures and people. It's too homogenous around me. Unstimulating really. It's been time to go for two years now.
I was going to study in Finland, but a professor advised me against taking that much time away from my friends at school. During my enforced year off I attempted trips to Greece and Costa Rica. Greece ended up being too expensive. I couldn't find anyone to go to Costa Rica with me and I wasn't comfortable traveling alone yet. Most recently I've been planning summer trips to ireland, scotland, england, france and morocco. But I just found out my job might actually be a volunteer position, based on my financial aid award. I might not have work study, and so might not be earning the $400 a month I thought I was. Soo... if I am volunteering and not earning... I need to either get another 10-20 hour a week job, or I need to can Europe.
I was reading an old journal entry and it noted that things have always fallen apart like this, usually with better results. Something better usually comes up.
Here's hoping. I really want to learn about other cultures and people. It's too homogenous around me. Unstimulating really. It's been time to go for two years now.
February 19, 2007
January 14, 2007
snowfall between the bars
breath through ruffled skirts escapes me
like contentment the earth whispers bedded in snowfall.
people, this cavalcade, a parade of kids with flags, calendars marked with names
of friends, blankets, winter coats, cashmere, wooing me to sleep.
all is right now.
a life intermittently examined and enjoyed is worth living.
like contentment the earth whispers bedded in snowfall.
people, this cavalcade, a parade of kids with flags, calendars marked with names
of friends, blankets, winter coats, cashmere, wooing me to sleep.
all is right now.
a life intermittently examined and enjoyed is worth living.
January 13, 2007
and life as it is once we find our diseases are permanent and benign
For those who find their concern overwhelming: i'm not dead.
Even better, the drugs I'm taking have far more side effects than the disease. so i'm going to figure out how to wean myself off of them. I'll take temporary facial paralysis over constant insomnia, obesity, moodiness, high blood pressure, possible diabetes, weakened bones (read: yes men can get osteoporosis), decrease in my body's ability to produce steriods and hormones, and a weakened immune system. A major warning on the MayoClinic was, "Don't take this if you have a virus or infection." Yes I have a virus. Which is why I'm on anti-viral drugs. So while the drugs go on fighting each other, I still can't smile or close my eye.
I'm not bitter. It's the steroids. They make me moody.
Your love and concern have made me feel the richest of all men. If I really were dying, it'd be an honor to have each of you present at my cremation and sprinkling. For the record, said sprinkling should be on a certain secret beach, where last days are suns setting.
In other news: to end the contest for best pet, which has been between dogs and cats, I nominate the new best pet in the world: electrons. Tricky little buggers they are, and so poetic.
Speaking of which, poetry's grandeur astonishes me by the lack of detail it conveys with such succinctness. I mean that in a good way. I appreciate the way it doesn't propose to have any data for the unexplainable, instead leaves it out in lieu of foolishness. I started 6 poems today. That was a release. Not yet. You can see them later. They're still half-dressed.
Rilo Kiley, Johanna Kunin, Bonnie Prince Billy, George Winston.
It's 3am and less than 0.
Even better, the drugs I'm taking have far more side effects than the disease. so i'm going to figure out how to wean myself off of them. I'll take temporary facial paralysis over constant insomnia, obesity, moodiness, high blood pressure, possible diabetes, weakened bones (read: yes men can get osteoporosis), decrease in my body's ability to produce steriods and hormones, and a weakened immune system. A major warning on the MayoClinic was, "Don't take this if you have a virus or infection." Yes I have a virus. Which is why I'm on anti-viral drugs. So while the drugs go on fighting each other, I still can't smile or close my eye.
I'm not bitter. It's the steroids. They make me moody.
Your love and concern have made me feel the richest of all men. If I really were dying, it'd be an honor to have each of you present at my cremation and sprinkling. For the record, said sprinkling should be on a certain secret beach, where last days are suns setting.
In other news: to end the contest for best pet, which has been between dogs and cats, I nominate the new best pet in the world: electrons. Tricky little buggers they are, and so poetic.
Speaking of which, poetry's grandeur astonishes me by the lack of detail it conveys with such succinctness. I mean that in a good way. I appreciate the way it doesn't propose to have any data for the unexplainable, instead leaves it out in lieu of foolishness. I started 6 poems today. That was a release. Not yet. You can see them later. They're still half-dressed.
Rilo Kiley, Johanna Kunin, Bonnie Prince Billy, George Winston.
It's 3am and less than 0.
January 9, 2007
hypochondria
i think something's wrong.
i have a constant headache. my skin is ultra sensitive. my upper lip won't close, on one side. i can't close my right eye without my left closing as well, and the right eye doesn't close when i blink. the tip of my left ring finger has been numb for over 24 hours. my eyes hurt.
i don't trust doctors though. the last one tapped my lungs, prescribed me drugs and sent me home. two weeks later, i'm still coughing doc.
bad timing really. but aren't all illnesses inconvenient?
i have a constant headache. my skin is ultra sensitive. my upper lip won't close, on one side. i can't close my right eye without my left closing as well, and the right eye doesn't close when i blink. the tip of my left ring finger has been numb for over 24 hours. my eyes hurt.
i don't trust doctors though. the last one tapped my lungs, prescribed me drugs and sent me home. two weeks later, i'm still coughing doc.
bad timing really. but aren't all illnesses inconvenient?
January 3, 2007
I fell in love tonight
with these:
I'm excited for the next two days of drinking fine beer and discussing and reconnecting.
For the Jan-term I've anticipated for two years
For the lofty visions and folly of our own optimism
For a year without resolutions, yet a year of resolution
My future is vague and unsafe, like emotion and poetry. That makes sense. Poems confuse me at first, until my heart beats quicker and my mouth opens, and my body language tells me that I understand something my mind cannot. The vagueness is like that. I have one confidence: I am getting closer. The hair on my arms is standing on tiptoe, to see what impends.
Here's to 2007 and a bit of aesthetics mixed with our practicality. Cheers!
- George Winston's version of Pachelbel's Kanon in D
- Ordinary People, a 1980 film by Robert Redford
- Pablo Neruda, especially his poem, "I'm explaining a few things"
- My family's house, finally a home.
- Friends who smile, haunt, hug, humble, reflect, champion, commission, cheer and snuggle me with their lives
- The aural properties of the Charlotte's Web soundtrack
- The steps I take which, tracks across a page, appear, in hindsight, poetry.
I'm excited for the next two days of drinking fine beer and discussing and reconnecting.
For the Jan-term I've anticipated for two years
For the lofty visions and folly of our own optimism
For a year without resolutions, yet a year of resolution
My future is vague and unsafe, like emotion and poetry. That makes sense. Poems confuse me at first, until my heart beats quicker and my mouth opens, and my body language tells me that I understand something my mind cannot. The vagueness is like that. I have one confidence: I am getting closer. The hair on my arms is standing on tiptoe, to see what impends.
Here's to 2007 and a bit of aesthetics mixed with our practicality. Cheers!
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