The White Zone

Working Assumption

2008-07-06T15:34:00.003-04:00

Working Assumption: Development in social settings occur as a result of trends which are, in turn, a function of tendencies found in the agents involved. To understand tendencies, one may begin with macrological observations and proceed down a line of inquiry to the smallest units of construction in the agent that are available at the time.

excerpts from a work in progress (comments welcome)

2008-03-15T03:54:00.002-04:00

This is a story about people, and how they think, or how they thought, and how they talk, or how they talked, or how they whistle, or how they whistled. This is a story about how they laugh and laughed, and jump and jumped, and cry and cried, and so on and so forth.

This is a story that is also quite like a piece of pie. It's a small part of the overall whole, one -- one slice of delicious and well-prepared crusting over a wealth of scintillating, tantalizing, and juicy sweets to be tasted. As it enters you, you can chew it. Mull over it a little. Taste it bit by bit. Then let it slide down into the interior, where it will fill you. And maybe it will fill you. Or maybe it will leave you hungering for more. Watch that hunger. This story urges you to always keep a check on that hunger, for, as the cliche goes, you are what you eat, and there's always a danger that what you take into yourself may remain, and take root, and grow, and become yourself. And so it goes.

This is a story that also serves as a picture, a portrait, so to speak. It is a portrait of a generation. It is a portrait of a man grown outside of himself, with his unruly hair out brushing the stars, and his fingertips clutching the highest mountains, and his rough, weathered backside soaking in the ocean, spread-eagled out into the be all and the end all, the alpha and the omega, the infinity and the ether.

This is a story about a time, for without time there would be no story. This is not to say that this is the whole story -- no. Because this story is about a time, there is much outside of the story that will be left unsaid. We will not discuss, for example, how the greater universe came to be in this story, nor shall we talk of the wearing down of mountains, as cool, rushing rivers ground down their peaks, bursting forth, all foamy and frothy, from veins in the earth. This shall not be a story of starclouds at the dawn of time, with the whole uncolor pressing around the unthings in the farthest and nearest niches of the not-wheres. Nor shall this be a list of all the things that this story is not. No, it is up to your mind to decide what things I do not speak of. Our chains of cause and effect will be small by comparison. This story shall only tell you what it does speak of.

Only it doesn't speak. It lies here waiting. You speak to yourself.

You'll find that out too.

It began in those frosty mornings, when the gunshot and the reveille rang out and over our little rural town, and the droplets lolled lazily down the icicles. The crack and crunch of the ice underfoot sent the messages to Adam’s brain. Heed me, boy, heed me, no choice. Everywhere the elegant ice, sharp and chill and shaped to chisel your flesh and chip your bones. And down from the sky comes the grey fog to shroud you and hide the dangers, and form wraiths in the wind at which to gawk while the cold seeps through your outer layers and into your skin and down, down, down into your thoughts. And the gears freeze, and the machinery stops, and your faculties are paralyzed. And where to turn to in this winter?

The town had a military college in its center, and there was time to ponder inside the steaming cars nudging their way closer and closer towards the high school, as the recruits jogged their morning jogs, and the outside commuters filled the lanes with traffic on their way to class. And in-between the stops and gos and brakes and bumps, and underneath the freeze, Adam began to feel the creeping of shades and the blackening of shadows. The rocking of the car’s rough planes melted away, and Adam became aware of Darkness.

Darkness begins with light fading.

When light fades, there is no glow. Without light, there can be no understanding. Without light, there is no self. When light fades, familiar things become dark, and how can there be self without surroundings? Darkness seduces, darkness cushions, and darkness becomes heavy and stifling. Darkness envelops and weighs, darkness drowns and drags into abyss. Darkness is confusion. Abyss is insanity.

In abyss there is no light, and darkness bleeds darkness. In abyss, there is no joy. In abyss, your pleasures dull you and your pains sharpen you, darkly, darkly. Your failures mock you. Your successes cut you, sharply, sharply. Within abyss, kindness becomes loathsome in its hateful pity. Love becomes hateful. Everything hateful. Friends hateful. Friends are but companions to self, and self is but putrid dark. In dark and confusion, grasping hands brush grasping hands which become drowning hands. In abyss, you fear hands. Hands are but spite, and spite becomes hell.

Abyss becomes hell.
And everything dark.

But before Darkness there is twilight. And twilight was in the Summer, as three people lay quietly on the grassy hill, staring out into infinities. And Adam glanced again and again at the tall, blonde man with the short, dark-haired girl nestled between his legs, realizing again and again that the man was tender. One could see it in the way he stroked her hair, could hear it in the affection in his voice as he said her name. Adam remembered the tone of voice -- he’d used it many times in his youth, romping through the forests, dog running close by his side. There they sat, the boy, the girl, and the young man, and on that evening, the boy had felt cold, distant, and alone. There had been friendship with his companions, but he was also a visitor, an intruder, the man who awoke to find that overnight he'd grown an extra finger or nose. He was an oddity, a mutation, a parasite, and the sensations were proof of something dark growing, a hunger.

“Vanessa? Eric? How do you think the two of you will manage once school starts?” Adam asked. Awkward after so long in silence.

No answer, and the boy's cheeks burned. Something dark? He sat there digging into wounds. The two had seen each other frequently over the last week, but no movie, swim-hole, or lazy day could fix their problem. And in the boy's mind the thought, "without my car..." Vanessa sighed, said,

"We’ll get along”

And they would, knew the boy. All subtle and wary, with machination and manipulation, the college man and high school girl found ways. A glance, a hug, a kiss, a few hours together at the social gatherings of mutual friends. Muttered conversations on the phone, an after school meeting the duration of swift rain. A heartbeat, a handshake, and for both of them a hope that her parents hadn't seen, hadn't noticed. Hadn't heard.

A hope for both of them. And in the boy, something dark, something dimming.
“If you ever need any help…”
“We’ll call. But it shouldn’t be an issue soon. In a month I’ll have my license.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, just offering.” Adam stood up. “I’m a little hungry. You guys?”
“Famished,” said Eric.
“Not really,” said Vanessa. “I’d really like to stay here a little longer. More time to ourselves.”
Eric nestled his head into Vanessa’s hair. “I don’t mind waiting,” he murmured.
Adam sat down. And they looked up at the stars.

But the notion spiraled down in his head.
“What’s so special about him?” And even more insidious.
“Why not me??”

Why. Because you’re a damn fool and a liar. Because you’re no good, that’s why. Because your parents have control over you and she knows it and they know it and that’s no good, see. Because you don’t know enough stuff, see. A whole world you’ve got to see, see. And your jokes aren’t funny, and your stomach’s kind’ve pudgy, and you gurgle too loud when your mouthwash goes into the back of your throat and then out into the sink. And you don’t wipe well enough after you get off the toilet, and you don’t wash behind your ears. Because you can’t understand Calculus, and Kant makes no sense to you right now and because he can play an instrument and you can’t and you keep on yearning and yearning for simpler days your father knew and you never will, you fool, you pitiful fool.

Quiet, thought Adam.

Why? Because. Because of a childhood day under a lazy, dusty sun, out West somewhere with his father’s people. An Easter holiday, hunting eggs with the family, tall, dark-haired, tanned and wind-beaten. Shadow figures, and laughter, mocking laughter. His mother beside him, short and fair-haired, helping to find the eggs, his aunt also. There’s one behind the ladder, and one under the bucket, and one… up… in… the… tree…

He falls, and cries, rubbing his eyes. He hears words in the distance, as if half-remembered at the time they were spoken. “That’s what you get when--” they say. And laughter. Through the tears, dark-haired men and women with beer bottles, grins, and whipping sarcasm. The dull-red angry eye sun stares from its brown and torn sky down onto that cracked desert with the cracked family with their cracked laughs.

His mother says nothing, but takes the child, and washes away his tears. He cries as the bark scratches his eyes, but she washes, and says nothing but kindness. And his wounds tended he dries his eyes on his mother’s shirt, and runs down the hall towards the dull, dusty light outside, to find the eggs. Always more eggs to be found, and his mother sitting alone, behind, with cracked frowned brow turning into cracked head. And the whole egg cracks.

Why? thought Adam. I’ll tell you why.

Because you can’t drive a stick-shift and you can’t change the oil of the car that you do drive. Why? Your face is too thin. Your eyes are too far apart and your eyebrows are too bushy. Why? Because of your grandfather. Because of your grandfather you don’t know. Because of your grandfather who’s too religious. Because of your grandfather who won’t talk about his past. Because of your grandfather you imagine in foreign countries fifty years ago where fiery airplanes called his name, the pitching cry of the fire engine’s siren as it raced across the war-strewn air field shrieking his own defiance at the enemy’s measures. And the burn in the plane and the burn in his arms were his joy, and his uniform his pride, as he pulled forth the hoses and turned on the switches and brought everyone’s worries to rest. And then back to the States, where his marriage once failed, and his heart now too, and retirement always one step away, one step too far, and the bills, bills, bills, and nowhere a burn to be felt, a moment of pride, or even imagined shame-faced enemies to mock as the flames slowly die. Because of your shame. Because of your shame that you can’t accept that he accepts who he is. Shame.

When Vanessa was ready they arose and brushed themselves off and headed off to one of the town square’s little restaurants. They were paltry fare for the college students seeking a party, but it was all that was available unless one wanted to take the hour and a half drive south into the city. One was forced to choose between immediacy and grandiosity, and quite a few went south, but the restaurants were always packed at nights. That was one of the few entertainments available for a night out on the town -- the city sport was to dine. One could have pasta and salad, Italian ,or a fiesta, Mexican, or a cuisine Oriental (of the Chinese flavor, three separate establishments of choice), or if one desired, a gulash or cajun shrimp. There were burgers and fries of varying degrees of plumpness and seasoned delight at any time of the hour, though some of the best stayed open only during lunch. And of course there was the banquet of fast food, to be richened, if one would, with a scenic Appalachian setting. But on the square, if there was no alcohol, you were closed by five o’clock.

And there they sat and watched the people flowing by. Townspeople. College students and professors. Lawyers and real estate agents. Waitresses and musicians and secretaries and bartenders. Mechanics and workers from the carpet and ball-bearing factories. Convenience store owners and a few country politicians. And…

“Isn’t that Mrs. Recks?” asked Vanessa. It was. The school guidance counselor.

“It sure is,” said Adam. “Are you okay with eating here?”
“Yeah,” said Vanessa. “I don’t think she talks to my father.”
“Alright,” he said, and ordered the sandwiches, looking at the older woman through the corner or his eyes. She sat with her back to the three of them, glowering across the room at a bald gentlemen at the bar who was murmuring to two college girls giggling into their glasses of wine. “I wonder what she’s so pissed about.”
“Who knows,” said Vanessa. “She always finds something to be uptight about.”

They sat there for a moment in silence, then, “You never told me why your father has such a problem with you dating Eric, Vanessa,” Adam said. He’d been flirting with the idea of asking the question all night. He had a right to know, didn’t he? After all of his pains. And if they shouldn’t be together for a reason…

“It’s just the age difference,” Vanessa said, looking at him with that stare that told him quite firmly not to pry. None of your business Adam. This is our stuff.

“It’s more than that, Vanessa,” said Eric. Adam looked up. He hadn’t expected Eric to interject into the conversation, and any information forthcoming from him was a surprise.

“Let’s not get into that,” Vanessa said sharply, her lip pouting in that way Adam found so enthralling.

“Why shouldn’t Adam know? He’s been helping us out.”

“Whatever,” Vanessa said. Her feet tapped against the seat rhythmically, tap tap. Tap tap. Her pouting lip was turning into a grimace.

“Our grandfathers used to own lumber mills around here together,” said Eric. “They were business partners and pretty wealthy for awhile, for things starting getting bad in the Depression. All that land from the national park over there to the falls over to the west of the county? That was owned by our grandfathers. But for whatever reason, I guess it’s genetic, but depression runs in my family. Clinical depression. So a lot of men in my family get to being alcoholics. And when my grandfather started drinking he also liked to gamble.

“Now our grandfathers were pretty good friends, but there started to come a time where a lot of things started to go wrong. For example, one day they were out hunting and Vanessa’s grandfather’s gun misfired, and mine took some lead to the leg. It wasn’t a bad injury, and he got over it real fast with no hard feelings. But not too long after that, stuff starting going wrong at the mills -- something with the machines, or prices, or I don’t know what. Anyways, they started blaming each other for all the problems. And then one night, they got real pissed at each other over a deck of cards Vanessa’s grandfather was supposed to be cheating over. So worst comes to worst, but before they started fighting they decided they didn’t want anything to do with each other anymore and placed their bets in their last game. But their bets were all their shares in the mill business, and all the land related to the business. It seems pretty silly to me that grandpa would’ve done it if he already thought Vanessa’s grandfather was cheating.

“Who won?” asked Adam, sincerely curious now.

“Who do you think?” said Eric, smirking.

“Shut up!” Vanessa said. “It wasn’t like that.” Eric slouched in his seat.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. Vanessa’s grandfather won. Royal flush.”

“That’s a pretty lucky hand,” said Adam. He was beginning to see that the old family rivalries still lived, even if only a little, in their descendants. How quaint. A cutesy game to play.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Sure pissed my grandfather off. He stormed out of there swearing revenge and calling hellfire on false friends.”

“Tell him what happened after that,” Vanessa said with an edge to her voice.

“Alright, damn. I was getting to it,” Eric said, sounding a little wounded. “I didn’t think this mattered to us anyways.”

“It doesn’t, but if the story’s going to be told, I want the whole truth, not just yours, Eric,” she said bitingly. Her tongue lashed her mouth violently (erotically).

On Theatre

2008-02-27T01:18:00.000-05:00

In my high school days, I was actively involved with theatre programs, both at the school level and at the well-established local community theatre. I was a moderately accomplished actor, with a penchant for drama and more sarcastic, word-comedy, and the one time I directed a play was considered quite the success for a student director. I honestly believe that given time and dedication, I could grow into quite the proficient theatre denizen, both actor and director, and I flirted with several prospects, from play-writing to attempting to become a high school drama teacher so that I could have freedom of expression with ready made casts eager to perform.

My problems began to arise when I realized that my particular drama department was different from others. See, my drama department was full of what I would call characters in the literal, not the fake sense. They were a healthy group of wry humors and skeptics when it came to the razzle dazzle of THEATRE, and had a true appreciation for the art possible within drama. Consider an Anthony Hopkins, or a Johnny Depp, or a Kenneth Branagh. These men become their characters, they act, and in doing so add depth to that model of the universe they find themselves caught in, adding to our understanding of the point of a play that much more.

Modern theatre, or at least what I've seen at the high school level and which I'm sure builds into the wider world, isn't about understanding or points. It's about self-expression without a point. It's about hedonism and glammer and kitsch. When I went to the Internation Thespian Conferences, I was consistently dismayed to find performances not of dramas or even straight comedies, but of musicals, musicals, musicals. Theatre has died, and in its place Broadway remains. Maybe it was the birth of the movies that killed poignance on the stage -- I don't have the familiarity with all the necessary history to know. What I do know is that theatre is now a sham built upon a sham, an idealization of an idealization, and, for me personally, an embarrassing part of our culture.

To act on the stage these days no longer requires psychology, but only a familiarity with tawdriness such as the commedia dell-arte. The theatre is based upon stereotypes and master gestures which are supposed to give windows into the mind and being of the character, but which in fact serve only to cheapen and turn the complex into the two-dimensional. I'm not even speaking of portraying stock emotions to their extremes -- this at least would be justifiable. What I speak of is more sinister, is the actor studying not humankind, but other actors playing actors playing actors. When I look on the stage these days, I don't see life or even a model of life -- I see a poor caricature, and even worse, a villainous one at that. It aims to take its crass emotionalism and shove it into your soil, to sprout and overrun your world with romantic weeds that revel in nonexistant extremities.

These are the days when the theatre is a community affair, and so panders to the community's idealizations. And the community feeds on the idealizations and lives by them. And so the idealizations become mundane. And so a new idealization must be crafted, and so on, each more ludicrous than the next. Culture shapes the society, and theatre's current status shows a proclivity towards crafting a society I want no part of -- where only the pleasant things are aired and examined, and damn the rest.

"There's no business like showbusiness," goes the refrain. People come to the stage to be entertained. "Happiness sells," theatre now says. "We live for the ecstasy of life." It deceives itself. Maybe it's because the actors don't want to see wickedness in themselves with they play the villian. Maybe the director finds certain world views too bleak, too unrealistic. But Beckett and Sartre found audiences. And personally speaking, I'd rather eat the whole cake than just the sugar.

I don't call for an influx of dramas, or even a cessation of musicals. My realism isn't one of the necessity of violence and bloodshed, but one of sincerity. What starts out as entertainment very easily turns into poison. Websites such as Facebook abound with groups such as "Disney gave me unrealistic expectations about love."

Any closed system feeds on itself. In my experience, theatre has begun to clamp down on revolutionary measures. If people within theatre view themselves as anachronisms, how is the rest of the world to take them? Movies are all well and good, but there is a power about the presence of a live body on the stage. In these times, theatre dies, and Broadway thrives. And anybody willing to take a stand against its monopoly on society's perception of an art form has quite a challenge.

Mind That Step

2008-02-25T15:32:00.001-05:00

"And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech. [...] And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scatter abroad upon the face of the whole earth. And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded. And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language, and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do. Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, and they may not understand one another's speech." -- Book of Genesis, Chapter Eleven

Anybody with sufficient experience in discourse should be painfully aware of the cognitive gap. It's that space between you and I, filled with all the collective decisions, concepts, and experiences we have not shared, no matter how similar. It is the measure of our alienness to eachother, our degree of separation. The wider the gap equals the more varied our respective means of information processing are, and the harder we have to work to understand how a person sees things.

To bridge the cognitive gap is the stuff anthropology is made of, and we oftentimes forget that the first instances of anthropology didn't occur between Europeans and Asians, or Asians and Africans, or Romans and Greeks, but the very first time the very first human-thing found another and started a tribe. We perform anthropology every time we meet a new fellow from down the street. As easy as it is to glibly roll "getting to know someone" off the tongue, we forget that we perform this turn of phrase is very literal. We are all strangers, and every new meeting is a discovery of a wealth of unknowns.

The default mode of existence seems to be to assume that the people we come across are exactly like us. We cling to ideas of universality between humans, and for the average person, this serves them well enough. Our most basic form of culture is the family unit, the first thing we're exposed to in life, and so it's easy enough to get along with our family, because they share our prioris. Communities are bonded together more easily than states because ideas are easier to spread locally than globally. But there are very tangible differences and levels of comfort between people from, say, Bigcity, California and Smalltown, Georgia.

To prepare ourselves for interactions with these aliens we find in society, we developed a hierarchy -- stranger, acquaintance, friend, enemy. We expect and appreciate talk from friends that we would find repugnant from a stranger, whether the words be tender of blunt and frank. Friends are similars, or symbols of qualities we respect and admire. Acquaintances are familiar figures in our lives with behaviors and thoughts we can relate to. Enemies are familiars we find loathesome or worrisome. The more we get to know somebody, especially the processes by which they arrived at their state of affairs, the easier we find it to understand them, and in term, find their state less troublesome to our own frame of mind.

How does this apply to discourse? Everyone is aware of that old adage "watch what you say." But maybe that's a little more difficult than one might think.

***

It's long been conjectured that man's sapience come from his language. The default is solipsism. All is me and I am the entirety. From here we move into the simplest state of awareness, which is, of course, the idea that there is a "not-me." As soon as the being becomes aware of "not-me," it realizes that "me" can interact with "not-me." For example, he can move the "not-me" -- and so another concept is formed, "move." Conception becomes the precursor to any sort of actuality. This "not-me" is not this "not-me." So there is "this," and "that." There is "not-me" and "not-it" all around, so there must be such things as a "where," and "location." I wish to move the not-me. Where? Up. And so forth.

Our list of concepts grows exponentially as we become aware of more and more not-mes, and the number of ways a not-me can be. Our abilities of conception are limited only by the physical state of our bodies and the status quo of our congregation of concepts. Our personal experience confirms this -- we have more ideas the more we are exposed to new ideas. A person who reads more tends to think more, to shuffle information around more. Potentially, we can achieve anything given the knowledge of a thing's existence and the knowledge of a way to manipulate that thing. (We can conceive of telepathy, for example, but we have not discovered a faculty of the mind that let's us actually perform it.)

There are only two variables in this world we've become aware of. The first is ourselves. While a large part of our behavior is intrinsic to our default state, such as the need for oxygen, there are large parts of our selves that are reprogrammable. We can conceive of different states of mental being, and if we so choose, to alter our responses to meet those conceptions. Anybody who has worked with an addict or worked to change themselves in any way understands that emotions and cravings are habits our brains and bodies take on. We see these reprogrammings on a regular basis, through cognitive therapy -- by altering our thoughts, we're able to alter our behavior. It is for this reason that a person is said to "grow," or "develop," which is definitely an organic state of affairs.

The second variable is any other sapient being. A person with no previous experience of another being would no doubt feel quite anxious, being without any of the social mechanisms we take for granted. Given a completely concrete world, two separate beings discussing things would be fine. It is easy to understand the nature of the "not-me's" we can see, or the ways of manipulating them, and equally easy to demonstrate them to another. But say the person has tried to explain the existence of these things, say, through religion? There concepts are now varying from ours. "Ah, not so," we say in response to their own conceptions. "These things occurred thusly, for haven't our ancients told us so?"

At an even more basic level would be anxiety about the unknown quantity. We can explore all things, but we can never be completely sure about the inner workings of the other sapient. We know only what the sapient has told us about itself, or what we've observed through repeated behavior, but a sapient can lie, even about it's behavior if it's on guard about us. Even more frightening is the fact that the sapient need only conceive of an alternate mindframe, and our previous data goes out the window.

And so the default state of interaction with another sapient is that of a careful or even suspicious curiosity. But again, how does this relate to discourse?

***

If language gives rise to actuality in our observations between "me" and the static world, then it naturally follows that it performs a similar function between the variables of the world. Take, for instance, the statement "there is a fly in my soup." To the person uttering the sentence, the fact is self-evident, but to the second person who has not yet seen the fly, the statement creates the concept. "There is," there exists. "A fly," this "not-me" we both call a fly. "In my soup," located in this thing we call "soup," specifically mine. We quickly check. Ah! A fly? Just so. Or else not, and so we slowly learn to distrust the other person.

J. L. Austin, in his "How To Do Things With Words", takes things a step further. He says that every utterance is an action, even an attempt to cause things to occur. For example, "a fly is in my soup." Why do I utter this? To give information on the quality of food to my friend. To have the waiter replace the soup. And so on. To Austin, there are three uses of any given sentence.

1) The locutionary act -- the actual meaning of the statement given our language.
2) The illocutionary act -- the context.
3) The perlocutionary act -- the effect on the listener.

The last is the most important. With every statement, we attempt to direct our will on the outside world, and we know it. Conversation becomes in a very real sense the contest of wills. The danger lies in that the perloctionary act will not always be what was intended. We intend for the waiter to remove the fly. Instead the waiter begins to yell. We have made the waiter angry. The waiter intends the yelling to cause you to apologize for your rude tone. Instead it shocks you, or makes you angry.

So the question "how are you" is never mundane, it's a feeling out of how a person is likely to respond to certain things. We couch our words much more carefully when we're aware a person is irritable or in a bad mood. An for serious conversation, awareness of a person's prioris is not enough. You must be aware at all times of how a person with those prioris is likely to respond to your statements. You must use, in other words, rhetoric.

And you must always be aware of what you meant to occur as a result of your words. You may just be called upon to clarify the intent, or even to defend that intended action.

The Disorder

2008-02-16T13:15:00.002-05:00

"When a creature has developed into one thing, he will choose death rather than change into his opposite." -- From Frank Herbert's "Dune Messiah"

It often seems that patients, clinicians, and observers alike often forget that recognition of diseases and their true causes are caught in a constant state of flux. Our knowledge is aggregate, a direct result of a the cause and effect of discovery proceeding from observations and theories so ancient in origin that many of the original writings have been lost. The western rediscovery of the Grecian sciences relied largely on hearsay and roundabout. When we look back at such practices as trepanning for the relieving of headache symptoms, we see only crude barbarity, but we forget that those operating the butcher's knife did so not out of a sense of inhumanity, but out of a genuine desire to alleviate the symptoms. They did as they could given the available information, information that has since been refined.

So while others rage against the necessity of debating the very nature of mental disorder, boggling at the idea of a board of specialists having to vote on whether a state of mind is abnormal or not, I applaud our very willingness to examine our assumptions. Such cauterwaulings are but impatience at the necessity of process, like an armchair humanitarian bemoaning the poverty of the third world, or the student who wishes to be a programmer walking away from his studies because of all the "hard work." And if the clinicians work in ways that seem barbaric to a few, it is because they are the ones who feel that some progress in treatment is better than none. In psychiatry, you can't make an omelette without...

At the same time, I can't help but agree that the definitions of abnormalcy seem too blithe, with too little attention paid to the idea of normalcy, perhaps branching from the society's preoccupation with aphorisms such as "all men are created equal," by which most people mean "all men are created homogenously." We see begin to see the specter of Platonic Forms and Ideas -- if we can conceive of a man, we can conceive of the perfect man, which is the desirable man.

I posit that the only true test of disorder is whether or not a person with a reasonable amount of judgement finds themselves desirous of being in a different state of affairs, leading to a division between the original state of "condition," by which I mean the existing state with respect to circumstances, and the idea of condition as a problem in the person's life, or "disorder." We can intuitively grasp that a person in the midst of psychosis would, once the episode is over, find their state of affairs one to be avoided, but time spent browsing, say, a forum for schizoids, discovers that many enjoy their personalities. "Reasonable judgement" can also come into play in terms of a person's knowledge of their conditions. For example, it may not occur to a person with true antisocial conditions that there may be another way to exist, and ways to arrive at that mindframe. And again, a person with eating conditions may not be aware of the possible consequences of their mindframes -- for example, death.

So the first duty of the clinician becomes education, with treatment a secondary concern. Rather than diagnosis, the questions to be asked should be, "What factors could have led to this condition," and, "If the factors can be isolated and demonstrated to the person, would they consider their condition to be disorder, or are they content with their lives?" The first question serves the dual purpose of causing suspicion of the "fair cop" that a person who seeks help necessarily meets the criteria of the second question. Are they being pressured by some outside source to seek to change, for example? Would they act differently if they better knew how to deal with the outside pressure? And consideration of the factors also serves to differentiate between different styles of treatment -- medication can often be exchanged for cognitive therapy with different results, and cognitive therapy can help the person truly change rather than temporarily adapt to the conditions provided by the medication. It becomes a matter of the environmentally-stimulated biological condition versus the purely biological, or, on a scale of severity, does the person have pressing concerns that need immediate alleviation while cognitive therapy is applied.

Labeling

2007-12-11T08:16:00.001-05:00

Labels have a tendency to become self-fulfilling prophecies. Humans constantly strive for stable identity in their conceptualizations, seeking to place everything into a homogenous universe. Because a tree is a tree and will always be a tree, to know thyself is one of the most dangerous things a person can ever do. To be a Pisces, a Myers-Briggs ENFP, or an addict unconsciously becomes the goal rather than the title, and a person's lifestyle and actions may gravitate towards a conformity towards the label that can only be broken by a conscious act of will. And how often do we all lead our lives according to proactive acts of will?

If you're unhappy with your actions as a person, be wary of fitting your personality into a grand schematic. Seek resolution to specific negative behaviors through specific solutions. Acknowledgement of tendency can be a healthy thing, but only when differentiated from inclination, and for practicality's sake, think of it as something treatable rather than something hardwired. It is of such sleight-of-hand that self-improvement is made.

"The Fiction Bias"

2007-11-28T23:17:00.001-05:00

From time to time, the folks over at Overcoming Bias like to speculate on or warn about what they call the "Fiction Bias" -- essentially, that fiction represents an inherently fallacious approach towards the world, and should therefore be avoided and rejected in the interests of objectivity. I've always been struck by confusion towards this stance -- after all, aren't most models used until the next best thing comes along, after which it's discarded as so much meat? Do scientists really approach their theories as essential truths? My own experiences with academic essays and blogs lead me to believe no, so the stance must surely have it's root in some other problem.

Overcoming Bias has always struck me as a very sound and useful advisory board for looking into personal biases dangerous to learning. It therefore strikes me as a little disappointing that people that should have an idea of what a wide variety of different mindframes can be brought to bear on a subject insist on positing the existence of a better/best style of the discussion of ideas. I suppose we all take certain things for granted -- I definitely accept a priori that "all models are wrong, but some are useful."

I could go on, but as I've already made clear most of my stance at my comment here, I'll put the stick down and leave the bush be.

Corrupt Hardware

2007-11-25T05:44:00.001-05:00

Imagine yourself approaching a crossroads. On your way towards the crossroads, you begin framing your decision within your head. "Left," you decide. "I'm going to go left." Only when it comes time to turn, you go right. Why?

It's widespread knowledge now that there are different parts of the brain, all with separate yet interlinking faculties. It's only natural to reason that in the situation above, there are two different types of processes going on. The part of you urging "Left" seems to be the narrative part of your mind, the section that can tell a story or describe something. The part of you that finally convinces you to turn to the right, on the other hand, are your actual decision making faculties.

These separate classifications may seem obvious and a little bit unnecessary. After all, the decision was made for a reason, and it doesn't matter that a separate part of your mind details an action opposite of the one actually made. There's simply a higher order, maybe unconscious process going on by which one processes stimuli and decides the appropriate course of action.

This is all well and good, but to anybody that has knowingly made a wrong or possibly even self-destructive decision before, the above situation undoubtedly rings a bell, or smarts, or... Choose your metaphor. The differences here detailed are classic symptoms of self-deception, and it becomes incredibly important to understand why the decision-making process took the course of action that the narrative portion of the mind insisted was incorrect.

One reasoning would be that the decision-making process itself has a capacity to be faulty. Like using a computer with a bad operating system, instead of processing stimuli in such a way as to lead to "positive" outcomes, the process gravitates towards "negative" outcomes. The process needs not even classify outcomes as positive or negative -- It may be completely neutral, working only towards "optimization," and the data itself may be corrupted. A hedonist may realize his or her excesses are dangerous, but if the hardware is tuned towards certain conditions, he or she has little or no choice.

This line of thinking is intimately related to the descriptions relayed to addicts about their condition -- there is an addiction gene, your hardware is faulty, and the only way to avoid a system crash is to avoid inputing certain commands. The addict scenario, however, still provides for some amount of free will. A person is at the mercy of the stimuli if and only if they choose to put themselves in those situations. What I'm describing is an innate tendency towards self-destruction -- actions which are conventionally bad or negative viewed by the body as necessary or desirable.

A reasoning more in line with ideas of free will would be that the decision that occurred opposite the narrative occuring at the same time came simply because a person had not truly convinced themselves of the desirability of an outcome. This explanation is more mollifying to an individual's sensibilities of selfdom, but as a person who has frequently found himself indulging in situations or even substances that were tangentially opposed to his benefit, I'm tempted to believe that there's something beyond a mere reasoning capacity working here. This problem has been running through my mind all day, and I think the value of looking into the possibility of physically-determined actions is obvious. Is there a way to negate the pain? Or, as in the case of a shot, should we amplify the terror of the situation by imagining amplified pain, or simply roll with the situation? The pain is equal in either case, but in the latter, a person is able to accept the conditions and move on much more easily...

Personality qua Birth Order

2007-11-25T05:43:00.001-05:00

"Another important factor in being the first-born is that the eldest sibling is more likely to undertake the unpaid role of private tutor to his or her younger siblings. Many psychologists believe that this opportunity to tutor younger children improves the oldest child's verbal and cognitive skills. They learn by teaching, and this pays them dividends in later life – making them into leaders rather than followers.

Frank Sulloway suggests that sibling tutoring is the key to explaining why older children eventually maintain their overall supremacy in terms of IQ." -- Are the family cliches true?

I'm going to plead ignorance on a large scale when it comes to this subject, and not take a stance either way. What I will say is that it prompted me to remember incidents in my childhood that I haven't thought about in years -- namely the organization of "class" where I would try to teach my younger brother arithmetic and grammar that I was learning in elementary school. I'm wary of falling prey to the kind of astrology-fallacy a section in the above article mentions, where one begins to believe hypotheses and horoscopes based on experiences and situations in one's own life, but childhood development is no joke, and the article definitely raises some things to consider. According to the article, the average difference between first- and second-born children amongst Norwegian conscripts is something like 2.3 IQ points, and while there are a plethora of variables that could contribute to such a difference, those points are something I'd seriously consider trading in a finger for.

T.S. Eliot

2007-11-24T04:47:00.001-05:00

"What is still more important is unity of religious background, and reasons of race and religion combine to make any large number of free-thinking Jews undesirable." -- After Strange Gods

"I do not believe that the culture of Europe could survive the complete disappearance of the Christian Faith. And I am convinced of that, not merely because I am a Christian myself, but as a student of social biology. If Christianity goes, the whole of our culture goes. Then you must start painfully again, and you cannot put on a new culture ready made. You must wait for the grass to grow to feed the sheep to give the wool out of which your new coat will be made. You must pass through many centuries of barbarism. We should not live to see the new culture, nor would our great-great-great-grandchildren; and if we did, not one of us would be happy in it." -- Christianity and Culture

It's always disappointing to find how many poets, writers, and literary critics combine revolutionary methods and theoretical ideas with staunch conservatism and tendencies towards tradition. While avoiding the blatant dominion of the philosopher king (he felt that statist policies tended to be expressed in political passion rather than legitimate evaluation of political ideas), Eliot frequently demonstrated strong tendencies towards an autocracy of xenophobia and convention with striking similarity towards the puritanical anti-progress stances of Plato's Republic. Eliot's well-known quote "Humankind cannot bear very much reality" notwithstanding, New Criticism roots its very nature in objectivity, which connects very well with Eliot's rejection of the possibilities of fascist, communist, and egalitarian liberal societies in favor of that which is (or rather, was, circa- Post World War I, Pre World War II Britain) -- a society of Christian, hierarchy-based cultural conformity meant to preserve the intellectual history, goals, and mentality of the traditional Western world.

Remember that one of the few things to come out of Eliot's flirtations with Buddhism was the idea of the repression of personality. Religion was Eliot's cure for a Hollow Man's disease. The cult of personality in fascism, the agnosticism of communism, and the celebration of the individual in liberalism could only serve to detract from the healthy society.

I'll always consider it a great irony that the New Criticism I find one of the ultimate tools for the progress of ideas (expressed through objective analysis and increased ease in discussion of texts) was birthed by a literary proponent of society's stagnant homogeneity. May the tools of the Republic's guardians be ever used against them.

Game Literature

2007-11-24T04:46:00.001-05:00

Not an in-length discussion of the idea, but something I need to get off my chest before I develop it more.

At this point, I'm not sure of the ideal way to interact with literature, because it has numerous different purposes, different ways of conceiving of it, and even though the people utilizing it may hold only one of these different conceptions, it does not necessarily negate the validity of any of the others. The models are useful rather than exclusively explanatory.

I've been thinking of ways to relate literature to game theory, and I think this holds true on the side of the authors. After all, rhetorical strategies are designed to attract a certain number of readers and adherents, whether an elite few or a general populace. The entire point of the study of rhetoric is that certain strategies have appeal, with returns that, while apparently indefinite, can be approximated given past returns for similar rhetoric.

The only problem so far is that, while authors are definitely rational, rhetoric is not their only concern. Furthermore, the actual formulae of game theory does not apply because of the definition of a game -- after all, just because rhetoric has led to adherence or the spread of one idea does not of a necessity rule out adherence to other ideas. There is no clear cut winner in the game of literature, only more influential or better-positioned literature.

This idea of literature has extensions for what occurs on the side of the reader. As more and more people are convinced of the legitimacy of ideas and rhetorical strategies, cooperative play ensues. Blocks of idea-adherents form in order to compete with their ideas against other teams of literary disciples. Rather than a mathematical treatment of literature, this conception holds more probable use in a memetical discussion, as literature becomes about the survivability of ideas through competition.

Correcting Inflation

2007-11-21T07:43:00.000-05:00

Lately, inflation has been rampant on my server in World of Warcraft, which makes me wonder what we can learn from the models presented in the game's economic system.

For anybody unfamiliar with MMORPGs, or even World of Warcraft in general, there are some peculiarities about things that occur in order to keep the economy stabilized. There are, of course, your average video game occurrences - loot, such as cloth, money, quest items, weapons, etc, drop off of mobs that you kill. Everything in the game is vendorable, but there is a big distinction between resources that matter -- things like weapons that have excellent stats or capital (called mats) for your professions -- and vendor trash, which are lame armor and random drops such as "squished bug eyes" meant to get money into circulation.

There is a subsection of vendor trash which are weapons that bind on pickup, thus becoming "soul bound," which you cannot sell on an auction house, which has quite a bit to do with the economy, but that's a little bit beyond my focus at the moment. World of Warcraft is full of opportunity cost experiences, and there are many different ways to upgrade your character. There is gear that can be quested for or raided for, or even purchased through player vs. player arena points, but all of these are soul bound. There is also comparable gear that is craftable. Furthermore, there is decent gear that can be purchased for the lazy player, or else disenchanted for capital for different types of character upgrade.

I'd like to know how inflation has come into being on the server -- I suspect it occured at a time where professions necessary for the gaining of capital such as mining and disenchanting were not much of a focus for the server, and so the goods that were on the auction house were more scarce, and therefore became more expensive. Once prices were established for the server, people were unwilling to start undercutting the total, because it seems like there is an abundance of people willing to pay for capital to get their professions up as quickly as possible, especially since the introduction of the expansion, where gold is much more available after a certain level.

So, the situation stands that people with more money, seeking the quick and easy, are able to lay more out to get their professions upgraded as quickly as possible, reinforcing the inflated prices at the auction house, which is the primary barter system for the server. Lower level players, which I can associate with the lower class, are kept out of the market by the scarcity of opportunity to gain resources, since you either have to do a lot of hard, gold farming through killing monsters and looting them to gain money, or have a profession in order to have any sort of lead in the game. In the real world, you have to have money to make money, and this holds true here as well. Leveling your professions are expensive, and people won't buy things from you until a point where you've invested a lot of money to get your "profession points," or certifications up.

A friend of mine once made the quip that a way to make a lot of money off of the auction house would be to start out with a decent amount of money, buy out everything on the auction house of a certain good, and then put it all back at a higher price -- not necessarily a lot higher, but higher nonetheless. It seems like the reverse of that would have a chance of getting the realm back into stability -- a person starting out with a lot of money could buy inflated goods, then resell them for a loss on the auction house.

The only problem is that it would take a sizeable group of people to perform this action. One person's name showing up repeatedly for all the goods on the auction house at lower cuts only lets the people who originally sold them on the auction house know there is some goofball out in the world that is buying and selling at a loss, which gives him an opportunity to get rich off of you. Ineffective system. The best way would be to have a team of an unknown percentage involved in the program, each taking a small loss, so that eventually, the market becomes accustomed to buying at the more realistic, lower price, rather than the inflated, money grubbing price.

I'm still in the process of learning and reading about all of these things, so there are undoubtedly some economic theories already in hand that deal with these types of situation, both in the game model world I'm describing, and in the real-world parallels. It really does make me wonder what kind of watch dogs are sitting there, in the market, scrounging around for things going awry... In the meantime, I think I'm going to try to get a group together to perform an experiment on this virtual market.

Morning Ontology

2007-11-19T07:33:00.000-05:00

It's always important in conceptual discussion to determine how each of the participants are viewing the language they're using. Are their words describing models of hard realities, in a way a person might say that a thing is purple or hard, or are they using words to describe abstractions drawn from their own mind? While generally a non-issue because of the close approximations between the two, I can conceive of situations where a debate can turn into a matter of talking past eachother, just because two different conceptions of basic metaphysics are taking place.

I'm struggling with which I tend to gravitate towards, but the difference between the two explains a lot about my attitude towards Plato's Theory of Forms and Ideas. When concepts become descriptions of things, it's not hard to believe that the perfect form of that thing exists and is a part of reality, while the abstraction-viewpoint would be content to use that perfection as a tool originating via reason and used for perceiving qualities of the abstraction on a day to day basis. When perfection exists on an observable level, it's easy to begin to see deviation from that norm as something to be avoided (given that the norm is something "good") which leads to all sorts of murky nonsense. At the same time, the whole discussion still makes me feel Plato was working off of innate bias rather than good faith, considering it's not too much of a leap to consider that there could be a perfect representation of something bad and undesirable.

Tantalusean Literature

2007-11-13T03:40:00.000-05:00

Ambiguity is at the heart of language. This handy idea has been with us for centuries -- at least, from my knowledge, from the time of Aristotle. What I think is not what you think, and vice versa. What we deal with on a day to day basis are symbols and conventions used to arrive at approximations to eachother's thought process. Hard enough with something concrete like apple, where one might think 'fruit,' another 'sweet,' and still a third, 'sphere,' or perhaps 'red,' but when it comes to concepts like 'freedom,' 'love,' 'loyalty,' 'duty,' 'good,' semantics become agonizing. Given such problems of meaning in simple words, what happens to literature? How can we ever expect to arrive at objective themes with short stories and novels? Poems, of all things! What about poems!

The bad (and good) thing is, we can't expect to arrive at objective themes. At least, not completely objective. Every person will read a work in a different way, bearing on it different experiences, different understandings of the meanings of words, even different understandings of the definitions of words. Muddling the murk into an even muddier mess is the good faith we have to have that an author even understood the standard usage of the word he or she used.

The solution lies in approaching themes of a work of literature not as a variable to be solved, but as a truth to be approached, yet never reached. Or, better yet, approximated. Literature is a prism -- the author shines one beam of thought through it, and out comes droplets of light, there to be caught and collected and compared. In this sense, literature becomes more of a game, as an interpreter seeks to show their interpretation is closest to the original. The game then expands into a forum -- comparisons and contrasts of experience and interpretation can become debates and discussions, with questions on the reliability of the literary model that is presented, or the implications for the outside world that the themes of the model has presented.

At no point does this approach negate the necessities of New Criticism. In fact, New Criticism embraces the approach. When flawed perceivers seek to obtain perfect, objective understanding of a thing, conflict is inevitably introduced, and it is only through a conflict that the strength of an idea can be honed and tested. Ambiguity and objectivity are intertwined -- Ouroborean and inseperable.

At the same time, I have the feeling authors are playing a completely separate game.

Good Sirs,

2007-11-08T02:31:00.000-05:00

I am writing to inquire as to how, after all these years, "War and Peace," by Mr. Tolstoy hovers in the New York Times bestseller list at the enviable position of number twenty. Previous to this point and time, I was under the impression that copies of the aforementioned novel were lovingly passed down from generation to generation, copies of the novel staying within the family as heirlooms, alongside of carefully written synopses, so that one day, eventually, the entirety of the novel will finally be read. Perhaps we are now falling within a time period where these ancient tomes, having been thrown against numerous walls as a result of numerous frustrations, are having to be replaced by the dutiful descendants of those who first undertook this onerous task?

I eagerly await your reply, as I sit here in a state of near-catatonic shock and befuddlement.

Yours,
Jake Voorhees.

The Good Argument

2007-10-18T05:11:00.001-04:00

I believe that a lot of my wariness on (my admittedly under-developed knowledge of) inductive reasoning comes from my personal experience that it's easy to make a large number of people to agree that an argument is cogent or sound, but much harder to have them agree an argument is relevant to the conclusion or acceptable in context.

On The Republic

2007-10-14T03:35:00.000-04:00

The names change, but the party main lines stay the same.

"That Feeling"

2007-09-27T03:51:00.001-04:00

It's the aching in the heart that
never grips you if you're smart,
or the sweating in the hands, the
gnashing of the teeth,
the secretion of the glands
and the flush of things bequeathed.

It's that listless, lonesome state, as
you yearn for happy fate,
and the frequent fancies failing, the
improv of the show,
the drowning man flailing,
and the test of things you know.

It's the momentary rush which
turns your woes to mush,
with the sweet connection made, the
mysteries unraveling,
as uncertainties fade
and things created keep on traveling.

It's the love, the love,
and Sky Above!, if the love
doesn't kill you,
you'll no doubt meet the Dove.
But the Dove is a bastard
once you've Known the love,
and the mind beats faster
than the wings of the Dove.

Though passion's in fashion
there's always the love of
the things unknown
and progress' shove.

Nota Bene: A Constant Reminder

2007-09-26T05:46:00.000-04:00

Every person involved in art, visual or written, should awake every morning with this on the wall opposite of them.

("The Treachery of Images," Rene Magritte)

(On a similar note, The Human Condition probably wouldn't be too bad of an idea, either.)

The Book Pool

2007-09-26T05:36:00.000-04:00

Via Matt comes Library Thing, a tool whereby one may post the books they own into a profile and share them. Besides being an excellent organizational tool (and for the frequent lender such as myself, a way to keep track of what you really own), the site matches you up with profiles with similar reading habits, allowing you to find new books in the same vein.

Incidentally, here are the modest beginnings of my own collection.

Media Lagtime

2007-09-24T03:05:00.000-04:00

It might be my recent lackadaisacal attitude towards keeping up on my online reading, but I just found an article on Arts & Letters Daily on the fake virgin olive oil scandal erupting through Italy, with a print date of August 13th. The article is near the top of the Arts & Letters queue, leading me to believe that it was posted relatively recently, vis-a-vis my first experience with the story, which was an extremely early August on National Public Radio.

There are too many variables for me to even begin to wildly postulate or hypothesize on the matter, but the situation does make me wonder about media lag times these days. Much is touted over almost instantaneous correction of Dan Rather through the powers of the dynamic press, but only now am I beginning to see dissemination of information from two months ago. It'd be an interested study for a journalism or English dissertation, and I'm going to have to hack out a means of approaching the topic, unless anybody can point me in the direction of some studies that have already been performed. My gut instinct is that radio/TV are still much more immediately powerful, yet much less flexible than print, but that which was meant to be proven has yet to be...

Conundrum

2007-09-09T04:53:00.000-04:00

As in most things, Literature suffers from a major ill -- that of cognitive bias. Even bypassing the issue that many people that are learned on the matter proffer, that fiction itself is a bias because it presents a world distinctly different from reality, with its own laws and mechanics, there remains a relatively unexplored dilemma. Whether we like it or not, we must admit that people are drawn to literature which reflects their tastes, and in turn, is more likely than other works to influence a person.

Many people have found this to be true in science and philosophy as well as literature. Anybody is much more likely by default to be more easily persuaded by an argument more in line with certain Truths they hold to be self-evident, and why not so with Literature? Even though Ender's Game is infinitely debatable as literature, under current rules and regulations, it serves as a perfect example of what I'm discussing. Orson Scott Card even admits, in one of his introductions to the book, that he's received numerous hate mails, especially from the teachers of gifted students, professing the inaccuracies and underminings of his novel. On the other hand, it has been my personal experience that students involved in GIFTED and Honors programs idolize the book at the ideas presented within. It's easy for a student of greater academic success than those around them to picture themselves being enrolled in the Cardian Battle School of Geniuses, and why not? There is little doubt that there is an audience written into the story.

Likewise, Dostoevsky comes to mind. Arguably, much of Dostoevsky, "Crime and Punishment" and "The Brothers Karamazov" in particular, can be devolved to a 'polemic' on the downfalls of embracing radical, non-Christian ideals. Raskolnikov and Ivan Karamazov both endure madness after rejecting Christian belief systems, discussing impossibilities of moral affairs and the greatness of men who can bypass petty moral systems. These novels have two audiences -- traditionalists already attuned towards such a message, and delvers and admirers of conditions psychological, who by their own fascination are much more likely to be enspelled into the underlying message of the novels, rather than exhibiting caution and careful deliberation of the ideas inherent in the fiction.

Aesthetics presents itself in this light not as a serious mode of philosophy but as a means to an end, a form of propaganda to solidify and strengthen a particular school of thought. I've met several Christians who were able to allude to the Dostoevskian perception of human nature, and even beyond the individual psychology, we can find entire nations that are fiercly proud of the fruit of their intellectual loins. One can find pride in the accomplishments of a Melville, Hawthorne, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, or even a Stephen King, due to the simple fact of heritage rather than richness and complexity of theme. At a much younger age, I remember veritably drooling over my copy of "The Stand," only to realize much later I was reading a very traditional story of good versus evil, full to overflowing of deus ex machina and very behooving happenstance.

As with many things, I find the fault to be in modern middle and high school education systems. In Advanced Placement and college courses, one can find emphasis on analysis and consideration of the ideas intertwined with the novel and despite my adherence to New Critical evaluations of themes, I do find it imperitive to always keep in mind an author's goals, sympathies, and tendencies. New Criticism provides a pure path to interpretation of a work, without the dilution of outside influences or personal bias, but understanding the mindframe of the author provides a defense against the tunnel vision of the novels that, by necessity of the form, an author provides us. The very strength of literature is its weakness -- understanding of a theme takes place, but by its very nature, presents an untruthful bias towards its own theses. Such a problem, however, can be bypassed by simple understanding of such problems. More often than not, literature in a modern sub-academic format is presented as something to be experienced and enjoyed, something to whet one's teeth and imagination on. While these are very important aspects of the art, true literature transcends likes and dislikes, and enters a realm of idea-conflict and presentation, meriting study and a more complete experience.

In brief, the middle and high school version of literature cheapens the entire field into a matter of appreciation rather than presentation. Literature is the emotion, idea, or ideal taken to a limited, logical conclusion, and an aesthetic, preferential approach is more likely to hobble our minds than to expand them. Certain works of literature may speak to us more than others, but it is precisely for this reason that all literature should be approached with a large amount of caution and forethought. After all, the straight tunnel can only lead to one destination.

"Lovesong"

2007-09-06T05:40:00.001-04:00

Ignominy is the essence of love
know the drunkards, the addicts, the masters, the slaves;
and the beaters and pastors, and writers and knaves
bow one to the other, and in unison say,

"Though I know you and hate you,
and yet grin and laugh,
though your sins are uncovered and
my own wounds quite lashed,
though desire and loathing
have long since been entwined,
still together we'll stand,
and emotionally die.

And our children are motes of
dust in our eyes
and our rage will outlive even the sky
while our passions and furies seep deep into earth
and I wish I could go back and stymie your birth
to combat my sadness and thinness of blood.

Yet together we'll stand and emotionally die,
until breath does cease, and motion does fly,
and our curses will ring out from the heavens and back
while our bodies entwine and with ecstasy slack;

still rigidly loving we'll ever remain
with vigilance towards our Father above
for ignominy is the essence of love."

"Devotion Ambivalence"

2007-09-05T03:21:00.000-04:00

He wooed her with consistency,
he wooed her with great vim.
He wooed her with great energy --
she had to walk with him!

Now there's one in his arms
and one in his head,
one etched in the stars,
and another lies dead.

Juno and Psyche,
Venus and Rhea.
Each goddess a lover,
stigma and pang.

"Will & Causation"

2007-09-02T03:12:00.000-04:00

Claptrap and humdrum,
tiresome conundrum.
Boredom and thumb drum;
them faceless and irksome.

Birth school and then wife
lovehate, and then strife
slandered shield and sharp knife --
lost kids and lone life.

Oedipus naysay
self-fate's gainsay;
then self waylay
& fight light's sunray.

despair's black bend
construction defend
self-choice to rend
apathy start/end

The Math Limerick

2007-08-10T01:27:00.000-04:00

Found while reading the comment sections over at XKCD, it's really quite clever.

The integral z squared dz
From one to the cube root of three
Times the cosine
Of three pi over nine
Equals log of the cube root of e.

Original found here.

More Rhetoric

2007-08-10T01:24:00.000-04:00

"Would you persuade, speak of Interest, not of Reason."

--Benjamin Franklin

Rhetoric

2007-07-31T02:35:00.001-04:00

"The passions are the most effective orators for persuading. They are a natural art that have infallible rules; and the simplest man with passion will be more persuasive than the most eloquent without it."

-- Francois de La Rochefoucauld

"On Diamonds In The Rough"

2007-07-10T03:50:00.000-04:00

Fire is fire, and cold is cold,
and land and blood are bought and sold,
and all this time men none too bold follow
"diamonds in the rough."

Deep blue waves make wasteland black
and terror lurks on every back
while scavengers caught by their lack seek
diamonds in the rough.

Brutal eyes in brutal face
bear down on brown and brittle thighs.
Elsewhere virgins quicken pace,
and spread "bereaved," behooving lies.

And darkling suckles mother's milk
and bites 'til blood shows on breast.
Then mother sends it to its ilk
and hides her sins in burial chest.

Kind old man meets killer's knife
while wife lays in incest's bed;
and had the man not lost his life
the cuckold's horns would steal his head.

Here, hero may be heretic,
or honest truth be outright lie.
Most chaste girl seek rapturous kick,
and most used whore be bashfully shy.

But wasteland black holds deep blue waves;
terror tends to turn, and running, rave,
while scavengers find horrid bluffs
in most diamonds in the rough.

Fire is fire, and cold is cold;
flawed diamonds lead by bright fool's gold,
and bolder people tend to know
every diamond starts out rough.

I'll Wear The Gold Hat Never

2007-06-26T02:49:00.000-04:00

'Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
if you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!"'

--Thomas Parke D'Invilliers (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

For a fictional character, Mr. D'Invilliers is adept at striking a chord -- he plays quite the tune on the age old battle waged by men with hungry eyes. For myself, a woman won is a woman scorned. Affection and love grows in the heart, not in the stomach or the eye. A man shouldn't have to be a sparkling jewel to capture attention, nor an actor playing a role for a single person's benefit. Such ill-gotten passions are whims and fancy in disguise, loathesome and contemptible for their pretentious airs. Myself will wear a cap, and walk rather than run, until one day I meet a fellow traveller willing to share the road together. A gold hat seems too gaudy, and a bouncer risks broken bones.

On Humors

2007-05-25T05:29:00.001-04:00

My father has a crude and liberal humor which he can apply to make me laugh or wince equally. His gaze is cruel and astute, but never malicious or demonic. He capers, and plays with appearances and innuendos. He is like me, in that we can pick out a thing, a word, or situation that does not quite fit with its proceedings, and focus on it, often to the other person's embarrassment. We are the ringleaders, not amiss to gathering attention to ourselves and our victims by cracking our whips on the poor beasts, scathing them. We torment not to death, but to riotous emotion, and then at the height of the emotion expect the victim to laugh at the absurdity of his or her own passion, and the insignificance of its origin.

My father has a crude and liberal humor which he can apply to make me laugh or wince equally. His gaze is cruel and astute, but never malicious or demonic. He capers, and plays with appearances and innuendos. He is like me, in that we can pick out a thing, a word, or situation that does not quite fit with its proceedings, and focus on it, often to the other person's embarassment. We are the doctors, not amiss to gathering attention to ourselves and our patients by scrutinizing with fervor for the slightest ill. We diagnose not to treat, but to display a spectrum of emotion, and at the height of the emotion expect the patient to nod and comprehend the humanity of his or her own passion, and the insignificance of its origin.

Cast Off, Adrift, And Alone

2007-05-18T03:45:00.001-04:00

Recent conversations with several (slightly sneering) socialist-leaning co-workers from ghetto neighborhoods, in addition to revelatory trivia such as this, have been putting me into a bit of an epistemological funk, lately.

I have seen the future, and it is...

2007-05-10T06:35:00.000-04:00

... aesthetically pleasing. Nope, nothing more to add. It looks really nice. Next?

Samuel Beckett's "Not I"

2007-05-10T04:32:00.001-04:00

A pretty amazing example of how subtle differences between mediums can become. This is the first half of the 1975 BBC version of Beckett's stage monologue "Not I." The piece is admirable for its high tension portrayal of the human condition in expressing traumatic experiences, but this particular adaptation is noticeable for how focus slowly and ultimately fades from the audial stream of the stage performances to the sinuous writhings of Billie Whitelaw's mouth. The first time watching the video, I said to myself, "Y'know, I'll bet people found something sexual about this," and lo!, a common simile involves a "vagina attempting to give birth to itself."

It's funny that at the time the film was broadcast, the imagery was disturbing enough to prompt a switch-over from color to black and white, while Stan Brakhage's Window, Water, Baby, Moving was filmed a good fifteen years beforehand. Talk about lingering squeamishness! (Link not safe for work, which is humorous in and of itself.)

(Full version of "Not I" here.)

And Of The Other Villains?

2007-05-10T00:49:00.000-04:00

Every English teacher I've encountered so far has seen fit to speak disparagingly of Byron, portraying him at best as a free spirit who made numerous mistakes, and at worst as an amoral curmudgeon. While Byron was definitely not a model of morality, religious or otherwise, it strikes me as odd that he would be the bone to chew on, when there are plenty of other grim figures in literary history. Such be the price of fame.

“Nowadays things often start this way, the end at the beginning I mean. In the old days people had to wait years before they were allowed to go to bed and then found out that they didn’t really like each other, it had all been a mirage of their glands. If you start the other way round you won’t need to find out whether you really care.”

[ ... ]

“The whole point is that if you knock a woman about for long enough and get on her nerves and wear her down, there comes a moment when she suddenly feels how silly all this struggling and kicking is, so much ado about nothing.”

--Arthur Koestler, Arrival and Departure

Am I saying that rape should be taboo in literature? Definitely not! But if you're going to bother raving about the amorality of select authors in the first place, at least develop a frame of reference that doesn't make you look a little silly, and a known rapist writing on rape constitutes something 'more' than Byron's semi-solipsistic angst.

Postscript -- I've never read Koestler, and don't know much about his themes or literary philosophies. If one wishes to attack Byronian "will to power" or clumsy satire (a la The Vision of Judgement), go to, good fellow; but must we be subjected to these repetitive character studies?

Alan Watts On Goals

2007-05-09T02:05:00.000-04:00

A friend once told me to avoid forming "grand narratives" of my life. I'm inclined to agree -- how much satisfaction, and how many days, would we lose by ignoring the process and focusing on the end result?

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

--F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Transsexual Writing?

2007-05-09T01:22:00.000-04:00

I know this is old news, but I found it interesting how my writings were divided fairly equally between male and female. On the whole, my fiction tends to be male, while my blog entries tend to be female. From the keywords used in the algorithm, the former is judged based on descriptive and locative tendencies -- the, is, as, what, around, it, above, to -- while the latter is based on connections, such as 'with,' 'if,' 'not,' 'when,' 'your,' 'and,' and so on.

My main question now is, "Why am I a freak?!"

Quote Of The Day: The Prophecy

2007-05-09T00:40:00.000-04:00

Found at The Valve;

We cannot, in short, look very long or very hard at criticism, whether it be today’s or that of the past, without noting that its most striking characteristic is its vagueness. That it is often, even generally, dogmatic, does not affect this fact in the slightest. It is natural to man to overstate that which he wishes to believe and wishes others to believe; he is never so unreasonable as when, with eyes as cloudily bright as the chimaeras they see, he gives himself up to the fine ecstasy of pure theory. For the merest phrase, the slightest shading of his theory, remote howsoever it may lie from the actual, he will lay down his life as if in defense of his very threshold. This devotion has it shining aspect, certainly, but rather because it supplies the energy for accomplishment than because it supplies any sort of precision. It speeds the poet but snares the scientist. And the more we examine criticism, from Plato and Aristotle to Coleridge and Arnold and Croce, the more we perceive it to be riddled with theory. Any sense of responsibility to the facts - and not to one fact, but to all the facts - is extraordinarily intermittent, and that critic seems to be a faint-hearted creature who has no grand solution to offer us, whether it be “emotion recollected in tranquility,” or “natural magic,” or "intuition.” What literature of criticism we have in English - and it is slight, for the Anglo-Saxon is not by nature a good critic - is littered with sham jewels of this sort, which have a pleasant gleam, but give little light. And this deplorable vagueness, this almost total lack of any system or scale of values, with its inevitably solipsistic outcome, is in a large measure the gift of what we call “aesthetic” criticism.

- Conrad Aiken, “A Basis For Criticism” (1923), from Collected Criticism

Despite how out-of-date the snobbishness towards Anglo-Saxon criticism is, Mr. Aiken seems to be proferring a very current and poignant stab at the very theory dogmatists and aesthetic art qua art-ists I have problems with. Fellows, it seems I have some reading to attend to.

The Bog

2007-05-07T00:20:00.000-04:00

Whenever I refer to essays and literary analyses I've written, I'm almost invariably confronted with the phrase, "Oh, so you're doing better in school?" As I am a rather lackadaisacal traditional scholar, I can appreciate the sentiment and concern for my well-being implied in the statement, but at the same time feel agitated by the even deeper assumption that is made about the learning process. It seems that most people I come into contact with, despite vague notions of "research" and "research institutions," view knowledge as an essentially stagnant body, full of basic truths to be absorbed and then put into action in a career environment.

I blame this in a large part to the lack of dynamics in the high school environment. While a general knowledge base is essential to further learning, and most people will continue on with strict career-oriented goals, to call this education is almost an abuse of the term. My favorite teacher in high school was in English, and confronted her classes with a rather surprising assertion -- not only can you write with grammatical precision, you can write well. What's more, books aren't strictly imaginitive, historical, or for enjoyment -- you can accomplish as many goals as you set your mind to with them. There are essays to be read, viewpoints to be digested. I can only imagine how my interest, let alone my knowledge and grade point average, would have been different if I'd had a math teacher take a similar tract by showing how theorems were reached, rather than memorizing and applying formulae with mechanical absurdity.

It's nothing that hasn't been written on in the past. Standardized test scores, state curriculum, teacher and administrative tenure... But it makes me wonder why there is shock when technological innovation doesn't have the effect it theoretically should. After all, the information that is expected to be absorbed is little different than what can be obtained from the standard textbooks. I wouldn't be surprised to find there was no change, or even detrimental change, if a person were to sell their cart in exchange for an automobile, and then promptly harness it to a horse, and I'm not surprised here. Technological innovation requires changes in the process of implementation, and is not an end in and of itself. More thought experimentation in the class rooms, please?

Quote Of The Day: 'Planning' In The English Departments

2007-05-05T14:46:00.000-04:00

"The movement for planning owes its present strength largely to the fact that, while planning is in the main still an ambition, it unites almost all the single-minded idealists, all the men and women who have devoted their lives to a single task. The hopes they place in planning, however, are the result not of a comprehensive view of society but rather of a limited view and often the result of a great exaggeration of the importance of the ends they place foremost."

--Friedrich Hayek, The Road To Serfdom

Every good English major knows that if every person in the world had full bellies and amenities with fewer hours in the work week, more time would be spent relishing those good old enlightening novels.

New Criticism & Critical Rationalism

2007-05-04T01:03:00.000-04:00

One of the primary dangers of any general theory of literature, and by extension its criticism processes, is the attempt to reduce all aspects of the field to one easily conceived entity. A Marxist might see any work he or she comes across as indicative of the author's and characters' relationship to economic condition and class consciousness, while the feminist examines the roles of gender and sexuality in the literary canon. One of my literature professors (American lit to be precise) compared literary theories to "philosphical lenses through which one can try to come to terms with the meaning and production of literary art." If so, the lenses are those of microscopes, and in the frenzied search for the Great Quanta from which All is spawned, the theory disciple's tunnel vision leaves them blind to occurrences on the larger scale.

As in these movements' relationships with other fields, frustration sets in with the inability to escape the limitations placed by the theories, and this holds especially true for the attempted critical process based on these conceptions. Any thematic interpretation of a work, no matter how far removed from the focus of an ideaology-specific theory, recurves back to the guiding principles. Simultaneously, any argument proffered against that particular interpretation finds its roots trapped in the same mire. Revulsion towards the proffered literary/world view is explicable by that world view, and so on and so on, ad infinitum.

A critical rationalist would recognize this claustrophobic cycle as a lack of falsifiability in the original theory. Like Plato's republic, it succeeds with its goals, then smugly closes the doors to progress or further comprehension, protecting itself with circumstantial ad hominems in lieu of guardians. As frustrating as it seems, when confronted with this sort of behavior, the best policy is generally to holster your guns and head to the saloon for a cooldown. A turtle may be safe within its shell, but I promise it won't be going anywhere while it's bunkered down.

So how can one safely interpret literature, as is the goal of most of the more widely accepted theories, without falling into doctrinal quicksand? First, know your criteria -- objective, falsifiable understanding of the work. Separate the 'why' of literature from the 'what' of literature. Explanation of the human need for literature belongs to other fields, hard and social sciences, not the interpretation of literature itself. If that doesn't suffice for you, you may want to look into those fields, or content yourself with the knowledge that art of any form has a goal, no matter how commonplace or lofty, whether interpretive, sheerly aesthetic, emotional, or any combination.

Next, decide which facts are cogent to meet the criteria. Here is where New Criticism tends to differ from other interpretive methods; for many, the text is the manifest will of the author. For the New Critic, the will of the author only matters insofar as it is displayed through the text, and can, in fact, serve as one measure of a particular writer's skill. While this may seem counter-intuitive, remember the dangers of other closed-circuit literary criticisms. When the author's intent is the final, divine stamp on the matter, falsifiability goes right out the window.

Consider a text as a universe in and of itself, and yourself as the scientist attempting an understanding of that universe. You are a religious person, and adhere to the laws and viewpoints of your particular doctrine, but you also desire practical exploration of the universe on which to build and develop. Now, imagine that in your experimentation or research, you come across facts that are directly contradictory to your religious doctrine. As a religious person, you may be tempted to ignore the findings, but this is outright rejection of an approximation of truth that has already been found, and if such a rejection were to come to light in the scientific community, your ethos as a scientist would be severely depleted. The best course is to attempt to determine how the doctrine and the findings came to differ; in this way, you can hone your understanding of the universe without contradicting your religious beliefs. While the analogy isn't perfect, consider the author as the text's God; he created the world, but now we are left to explore it and make sense of it in the best way we know to keep intellectual honesty intact.

So if we rule out authorial intent as the primary method by which we obtain literary objectivity, what is left? Quite simply, the text. There are laws by which language works, and we can utilize these to dissect and interpret meaning. Science tests hypotheses and arrives at conclusions based on data. Even so, application of our laws of language can lead to insight, or, in the extreme and delightful cases, the laws themselves expanded through the witnessing of a turn of phrase or syntactical device that leads to directions previously unexplored.

Any person has the capacity to interpret facts in different ways, but this is the beauty of reading what is rather than forcing outside preconceptions on the framework. Any interpretation based solely on text is already superior to others because it allows for disagreement, reinterpretation, and progress. In this way, literature becomes dynamic, rather than an exercise in ivory tower intellectuals discussing Truths from dusty tomes. In actuality, the text becomes dynamic even to the individual attempting the interpretation, as they're encouraged to read repeatedly and on many different levels -- the first time through for a general idea, again for interpretive purposes, again for aesthetic and emotional purposes, and so on. Fluidity of meaning provides greater accessibility, encouraging discussion and reevaluation of ideas, while avoiding the ultimate frustration of banging one's head against a doctrinal wall. Even better, one does not have to abandon one's literary theory in order to delve into a text using New Criticism. Evidence can still be found through the text to support your ideas, but the difference is that the text molds the idea rather than vice versa.

Once again, it should be noted that this is an interpretive viewpoint of art, and aims for objectivity and intellectual honesty in idea-transfer. Strictly aesthetic and emotional stances towards art do exist, and for a perspective on whether or not interpretation cheapens these aspects of art, look towards Susan Sontag's Against Interpretation. For myself, the two experiences are not mutually exclusive, and I tend to find Sontag's stance towards art as limiting as the other theories earlier mentioned. But that, as they say, is a story for another time.

On Shooting Oneself In The Foot

2007-05-03T16:48:00.000-04:00

Despite the murkiness of the entire situation, a recent statement by U.S. diplomat Stephen Young shows that, even with the noblesse oblige inherent in America's dealings with Taiwan, there is a recognition that it's a pretty good idea to, y'know, not irritate China more than is absolutely necessary. China responds to incentives, seeking rapid growth, and a surefire way to get in trouble is to appear as a direct threat to that progress. Given the relationship between China and America, positive reinforcement appears more prone to promoting liberalizing influence in China than negative. A little more carrot, a little less stick. Hopefully this stance against Taiwanese offensive weaponry is an indicator, however slight, that we're moving away from a covert-Teddy philosophy where Asia is concerned. In the meantime, maybe it's just me, but statements such as

"This is Taiwan's domestic problem, unrelated to the United States or U.S.-Taiwan ties,"

by Taiwanese legislators seems a cue to ignore even sentimental attachment to Taiwan, let alone political. It's annoying enough to have to save an adult from an oncoming truck, but when the fellow turns around and kicks you in the shins, it's downright absurd.

(Addendum -- Of course, even incentives don't guarantee that change will always come swiftly, but any improvement at all is still... well, improvement.)

Melville, Where's Your Imagination?

2007-04-30T07:51:00.000-04:00

You know, if there's one thing I've always reiterated about Moby Dick, it's that it would be so much better without those chapters and chapters of metaphor and allegory that actually help you understand Melville's themes. It's too bad Melville didn't have an intelligent editor back in the day. He could've let him know what the people deserve in a novel about the sea -- rum jokes, undead monkeys, and witty banter. I know, the Patrick Stewart movie almost saved the whole story from pure absurdity, but it was missing a certain something. How badass would it be if Moby Dick had actually been a demon, or an alien from the future? With photon torpedoes.

2008 Thoughts

2007-04-26T07:30:00.000-04:00

On first overview, I'm starting to seriously consider Rudy Giuliani as my candidate of choice for the primaries and general election. Anybody care to offer thoughts, pros or cons, on my current selection?

Literature Contra Galapagos

2007-04-24T14:31:00.000-04:00

Jonathan Gottschall, via an article at 'The Age', presents an interesting look at the direction some literary scholars are taking in approaching the study and interpretation of literature. He stands opposed to such pseudoscientific approaches to literary criticism as Marxism and psychoanalysis, attempting to amalgamate science and the scientific method with the humanities once and for all. Tabula rasa and its extensions have become anaethema, as science has shown. In fact, Gottschall writes of its continued supporters that

My fellow literary Darwinists and I hope to change their minds. By applying evolution-based thinking to fiction, we believe we can invigorate the study of literature, while at the same time mining an untapped source of information for the scientific study of human nature (see "Truth in fiction"). Darwinian thinking can help us better understand why characters act and think as they do, why plots and themes resonate within such very narrow bounds of variation, and the ultimate reasons for the human animal's strange, ardent love affair with stories.

But does anybody else see the problem with what he's just said?

Through clever sleight of word, whether intentional or not (and as a PhD in English literature I would hope that he would be able to overcome hazy meaning), Gottschall is attempting to portray his literary Darwinism as something it is not -- to whit, a method of literary criticism and interpretation. Read again his goals; where is the method by which we arrive at thematic statements? The closest thing he approaches is the claim that "Darwinian thinking can help us better understand why characters act and think as they do," but even that can only be based off of a narrow evolutionary view. Already, we're looking at one of the flaws of Marxism and psychoanalytic analysis. Meaning is being imposed on the literature rather than gathered from the literature. Themes become victims of evolutionary circumstance, and if we don't accept this in most mediums for idea transfer, why should it be allowed in literature?

In this case, the rose is much sweeter by another name, which is hinted upon later in the article. The real prize is the scientific analysis of human response to works of literature, to the reader's cognitive relationship with the work. The results of readers taking an "us and them" mentality towards protagonists and antagonists seems common sense (and has in fact been exhibited quite forcefully in literature itself, with Burgess' pathos tricks in A Clockwork Orange), but the study of how people interpret literary works is quite beneficial. Take, for instance,

scholars have long argued about whether authors tightly control literary meaning, or whether readers create their own highly idiosyncratic interpretations of the novels they read. In recent decades, the most influential figures in literary analysis have promoted the latter view, spawning the mantra of "the death of the author".
Our findings contradict this. While readers do vary in their emotional and analytical responses, the variation is contained within tight boundaries. At least as far as the Victorian novel goes, the author is alive and well, expertly orchestrating reader response.

While I'd like to see some figures and how they were approached, the preliminary sounds quite hopeful for justifying certain literary theories above others. (It should be noted that as the suggested data points towards New Criticism, I may, at the moment, be showing some bias). It should again be emphasized, however, that the act of finding these studies does not, in and of itself, constitute a literary theory. We're looking at cognitive science, not a method for the interpretation of works of art. If one goes to the theatre to see a performance of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and finds, instead, Hamlet, one can applaud at a job well done, but still find the deceit irksome.

Actually A Little Depressing

2007-04-22T04:12:00.000-04:00

Stan Brakhage's Dante Quartet

2007-04-20T06:26:00.001-04:00

My friend Jared pointed this short film out to me a month or so ago, and I just got around to rewatching it. Human creativity, in art or science, never fails to amaze me. Above, we have photographed images with paint over the film. The colors clash to provide a narrative in the vein of Dante's Inferno. The only scene I've been able to identify with any certainty is near the beginning, where there's the vortex for the lustful. The fact that this piece was done in 1987 makes me wonder what else has been done in experimental film since then, and what we've been missing while we've been glued to Hollywood cinema.

Simpsons On Grad Students

2007-04-19T05:11:00.001-04:00

Ye gods! My future is flashing before my eyes in over-rated, dated animation!

My Literary City On The Hill

2007-04-19T04:10:00.000-04:00

Morris Dickstein, in an article at The American Scholar writes

If historians better understood how to use this material, they would find buried treasure in the American literary canon, where urgent and still-troubling social problems take on a lived reality. No archival evidence could measure up to the vigorous treatment of immigrant life in Upton Sinclair’s Junge, Cather’s My Ántonia, or Henry Roth’s Call It Sleep; hardscrabble farm life in Hamlin Garland’s Main-Travelled Roads; John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath; and James Agee’s Let Us Now Praise Famous Men; social mobility and the American dream in Howells’s Rise of Silas Lapham and Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby; slavery, of course, in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass; race in the work of Charles Chesnutt, Richard Wright, and many other writers; marriage and divorce in A Modern Instance and Chopin’s Awakening; faith and doubt in Harold Frederic’s once-famous Damnation of Theron Ware, which was one of Fitzgerald’s favorite novels; the cut-throat money society in Wharton’s House of Mirth and Custom of the Country; city life in innumerable novels from Howells, Crane, and Dreiser to Bellow. One could go on and on.

But I really wish he wouldn't.

The most tedious parts of my literature survey courses tend to be those dealing with these sort of social novels or historical propaganda -- oddities, fodder for history scholars or the curious, or well written satire at best. While the diaries and sermons are understandable for an early, colonial period American lit survey, in other instances they becomes a little more ludicrous. Literature is what it is because of the universality of its content, and while one could stretch and say Horatio Alger writes poignant novels on overcoming adversity, one would be sounding ridiculous. "Ragged Dick" makes sense in its historical time frame, but as a standalone work, its lacking.

Shakespeare can and has numerous times been performed in any number of time periods. It makes sense no matter when the setting, with universal themes and characterizations a person can appreciate at any time. You don't need to know that Shakespeare was born in Stratford-on-Avon, that he plagiarized, or that some speculate on his homosexuality. Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, on the other hand, suffers if one is not familiar with its context -- written during a time of slavery, by a runaway slave, a well-known lecturer and supporter of white abolitionists.

It's not my contention that these novels have no value, only that they don't belong in the literary canon. Save A Model Of Christian Charity for theology students or a course on early American settlers and their goals. Of the texts Dickstein mentions that I've read (and this excludes Grapes of Wrath), only The Great Gatsby and, at a stretch, maybe The Awakening fit the bill. At this rate, literature students will be studying Grisham for his effect on our generation's perception of the legal system.

"Quantum Desires"

2007-04-16T05:30:00.000-04:00

In deep expanse of darkest sky
there forms a beauteous blue-hued sphere.
No doctrine knows for sure the 'why,'
but only nears to how it's here.

Drifting about in eternal space,
its movement shows freedom's extremes.
In form, ethereal as your own face,
yet as solid as your dreams.

But as it glides and as it turns
strange forces clash within;
each particle for its own path burns
and by its brothers is drawn in.

Beautiful, blue, free and fey,
but forever the sphere is churning;
though part of it may have its way,
the rest is left a'yearning.

"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt"

2007-04-12T03:09:00.000-04:00

"When Hemingway killed himself he put a period at the end of his life; old age is more like a semicolon," Vonnegut told The Associated Press in 2005. -- Associated Press

Whether you enjoy his writing (as I do for quite a few of his novels, though not so many of his short stories) or not, you have to admire somebody with as much imagination and verve in writing-style as Vonnegut. Any author can be associated with, or even be a paragon of, a movement -- it takes a special kind of person to write in a style opposite of the prevalent movement of the time, and still have the ability and appeal, emotional and rational, to become a major iconic figure. In a time of extreme realism, Vonnegut showed that absurdity and science fiction could work, flourish, and still be taken seriously in a novel.

Doctrinal Hindsight

2007-04-12T00:58:00.001-04:00

I've been doing some Wikipedia delving, and I came across the article on Unitarianism. I remember being called a Unitarian by a Catholic friend back in my freshman year of high school, but as I wasn't as research-inclined then as I am now, and as it was said in a derogatory fashion, I quickly forgot about it. I find it funny that only now have I found the offshoot of Christianity I would have been most comfortable in during my eighth and ninth grade years, shortly before I renounced religion as a rule and delved into Eastern spirituality/taoism and secular empirical traditions.

While discovering Unitarianism might have eased the burden of a lot of existential angst I went through during the switchover, I actually feel that the sudden switch over to an almost polar opposite belief system helped to engender my later skepticisms. Rather than easing into anything, I was able to experience extremes, and in the long run, understand the sort of agonizing a person attempting to conceive of something opposed to what they believe in as justifiable. While the nature of my rather opinionated and argumentative personality makes it hard for me to, in the moment, adjust to the mindframes of a person not necessarily suited for the more traditional debate/discussion, devil's advocate, court of law format I enjoy for idea transfer, I hope, with these continued realizations on how I can possibly keep my own, past intellectual quandries in mind in relation to why intelligent people I know are more prone to reject before ruminating, and maybe become a little less frustrated in the process. At the same time, it helps to remember that at different times in my life, I have staunchly and blindly defended very different positions, and that at all times, I should consider myself amenable to doctrinal change.

The First Voorhees Postulation

2007-04-11T18:21:00.000-04:00

In a group of three or more non-specialists, the majority will be more inclined to accept statements with the least amount of support.

Little Miss Sunshine

2007-03-18T22:01:00.000-04:00

The more I think about Little Miss Sunshine, the more I realize that it was an extremely well done and enjoyable movie. Many of the aspects I appreciate most about it weren't even apparent at a surface viewing. For example, irony is utilized in a way rarely seen outside of literature, introducing it subtly rather than in the lightning-bolt, power of Thor's hammer way most movies tend to take advantage of. The exchanges between Steve Carell and Paul Dano's characters are especially amazing, with the speech Carell gives Dano at the end of the movie coming damn close to being priceless.

The structure of the movie is also worthy of comment. Chekhov is quoted as saying

"One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it."

and here, the idea is used to full effect. While there is nothing as major or dramatic as a gun involved, seemingly innocuous items or incidents linger on rather than fade away. What would turn into a cheap, one-off comedic situation involving a porn magazine in any other movie returns at an extremely unexpected moment, evolving both the comedy and, I suspect, the theme. Characters form situations, situations form characters, and so on and so forth. This movie is actually elegant, arriving at a surface film that appears simple only because of the complex occurrences taking place.

I definitely recommend this film based on my preliminary viewing. I hope to delve into it again as soon as possible. As a masterful exercise in technique, it definitely warrants scrutiny.

Where The Vulcans Play

2007-03-18T08:26:00.000-04:00

The wayfarer
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
“Ha,” he said,
“I see that no one has passed here
In a long time.”
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
“Well,” he mumbled at last,
“Doubtless there are other roads.”
-- Stephen Crane, The Wayfarer

I'm continually amazed by the muddled views surrounding something as integral to Western society as logic. On a pretty regular basis, I'm confronted with incorrect definitions and rejections of logic based on a "more human" emotional approach to life. Perhaps most blatantly shocking is the confusion of logic with the arguments posited by the utilizer of logic (or lack thereof).

For example, the argument that logic is inherently fallacious has been presented to me based on the following line of reasoning.

1) All cats have legs.
2) Kelly has legs.
3) Kelly is a cat.

Checking the literature, on the other hand, shows that this is an argument which is quite fallacious, showing an error in reasoning. Even if 1 is true and 2 is true, the premise given do not present us with 3. There are a plethora of other animals which have legs, and Kelly might quite possibly be one of them.

"Aha!" the critic says. "Then what of this?!"

1) All animals have legs.
2) Kelly has legs.
3) Kelly is an animal.

We now have a deductive argument that appears quite sound. If 1 and 2 are both true, then 3 must be true. Sound logic, right? Well, sound enough, but based off an untrue premise. That means that logic is flawed, right? Wrong. The flaw here lies in the facts of the assertion. It needs to be emphasized again and again that logic is a method of proofs, not a guarantee of the truth of a proposition, and every statement along the way needs to be scrutinized. Logic is the science of conclusions, the method by which we validly move from one assertion to another, with the steps laid before us in order. In a sound logical argument, each premise has to be accepted before we reach a conclusion. If we have a problem with the conclusion, we know to check our premises. The real beauty of logic lies in that, while false premises can lead to true conclusions, true premises will never lead to false conclusions, fallacies aside.

When in doubt, check the literature on the subject. Given the abundance and availability of discussions on the matter, it's a little depressing that the merits and explanations of basic reasoning need to be re-re-re-emphasized at all. I don't think I've ever heard of criticisms on the scientific method based on the conclusions reached, so it confuses me as to how logic deserves a special disregard.

(Update -- Well, Heidegger, but who likes Heidegger?)

The Nature of Art

2007-03-17T01:52:00.000-04:00

Lately, the further I delve into the mass collection of literature, the more I've been troubled by its actual nature, and by extension that of art in general. Questions have arisen, such as the nature of art, its purpose, and how one should go about experiencing it. As an adherent of the New Criticism school of interpretation, the semi-prevalent, influential notion that art is self-contained and interpretable through analysis of the text and only the text, I'm further forced to wonder, if art is intended to be interpreted rather than merely experienced, about its effectiveness when placed in relation to more direct forms of communication such as the essay.

A quick reduction of the pervading ideas on the nature of art renders two schools of thought. The first, and most popular, is the idea that art exists as a vehicle for ideas and concepts, that understanding of the content of a work of art is the ultimate goal, and that meaning justifies art's existence. The actual analysis of art takes place in a variety of ways, evidenced, for example, by the number of systems of literary criticism, ranging from the New Critics, structuralists, formalists, and historicists, to deconstruction, psychoanalysis, and reader response. In stark contrast are the art-qua-art-ists, championed by such writers as Susan Sontag. Indeed, Sontag, in her Against Interpretation, goes so far as to assert

"In most modern instances, interpretation amounts to the philistine refusal to leave the work of art alone. Real art has the capacity to make us nervous. By reducing the work of art to its content and then interpreting that, one tames the world of art. Interpretation makes art manageable, comformable."

and that

"It is always the case that interpretation of this type indicates a dissatisfaction (conscious or unconscious) with the work, a wish to replace it by something else. Interpretation, based on the highly dubious theory that a work of art is composed of items of content, violates art. It makes art into an article for use, for arrangement into a mental scheme of categories."

This latter group views art as an emotional/spiritual experience rather than an exercise in cognition. Function follows form, and art is judged based on its aesthetics rather than its ideas.

But who has the right of things? The gut reaction is to adopt a relativistic, almost reader-response attitude. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, surely it falls to the individual to decide which path to follow. The question therefore becomes "which position is more plausible?"

To Sontag, the author (or director, or artist) who designs his or her work with the content in mind becomes insincere, their art cheapened. But it is this intention which gives credibility to the idea that art has purposes other than to evoke a gut response. As Sontag herself points out, there are forms of art, such as the abstract paintings and pop films and writings, which are firmly dedicated against delving into meaning, but the act of an author such as T.S. Eliot stating

“When I wrote a poem called The Waste Land some of the more approving critics said that I had expressed the ‘disillusionment of a generation,’ which is nonsense. I may have expressed for them their own illusion of being disillusioned, but that did not form part of my intention"

implies an expectation that the reader deduce a meaning from the work. Once again, beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but in this case, beauty leaves clues as to how it should be perceived. Art begins to take on a dualistic nature, begins to mold into a Trojan horse. The art is an aesthetically pleasing cover for the utility intended.The form necessitates interpretation, by virtue of being challenging and evocative. The interpretation does not cheapen the work, but adds depth and dimension. On the opposing end of the spectrum, abstract paintings leave no foundations on which to build, while commercial art via its mundanity requires a completely literal interpretation. If reality is being depicted as a copy of reality, whether true to form or idealized according to widely accepted values, the aesthetics are clearly entertainment or sensually oriented, and should be experienced according to Sontag's sensual view of art.

The nature of art is decided by its form, which acts as an author's intention to adhere to one or the other school of perception. The Greeks, who provided through Plato and Aristotle the beginnings of our thought processes on art, are perfect examples of this duality. If a dance is performed as part of a ritual worshipping Dionysus, one can be sure of its intent, while the dialogue, especially that of the choruses, found in Sophocles' take on a traditional myth implies a meaning to be taken beyond the play's actions. Whether a warning on fate, or a warning on the Gods ("Apollo, Healer of Delos I worship you in dread... what now, what is your price?"), there is clearly more to the tale than the man who kills his father and marries his mother.

Now that the idea of art as having a dual nature, with the question of necessity of interpretation based on the form, has been proposed, a mention of the Greeks leads to a new question -- that of the value of art. Plato counted art as a lie, a copy of reality (and according to his ideas of the Theory of Forms, a copy of another copy), and at an intuitive level, it is easy to empathize with his statement. After all, the ambiguity of art as a vehicle for ideas is dangerous. An author's intent maybe be misunderstood or even grossly twisted; there is too much noise in the medium for an accurate signal to be sent through. In my next post, I'll discuss the value of art, its possible detractions, and its relation to philosophy and cognition.

(Update -- Changed around some diction in an attempt to make the latter part of the entry a little more argumentative rather than seemingly-expository. The dual nature of art is definitely the viewpoint that I present as my own, and attempt to offer a defense of.)

Monkeysphere and Competition

2007-03-03T10:47:00.000-05:00

In The Road To Serfdom's chapter on Planning and Democracy, Hayek wrote,

[Individualism] does not assume that man is egoistic or selfish or ought to be. It merely starts from the indisputable fact that the limits of our powers of imagination make it impossible to include in our scale of values more than a sector of the needs of the whole society [...]

(Emphasis mine.)

Reading this passage, I can't help but remember Dunbar's number, the theoretical number of people any one person can cognitively treat as an actual human being, as anything other than an experience. While those of a decidedly Platonic bent use the number as empirical evidence of a need to revert back to the tribal societies of yesteryear, I see it as actually being supportive of a more modern, more liberal state of affairs, more progress oriented than a tribe schematic and in opposition to further developed collectivist programs.

If we accept Dunbar's number, it becomes harder to conceive of a person being able to back programs for "the common welfare" extending beyond his "sphere of humanity," especially when such a program runs detrimentally to his own interests. In days of yore, when one tribe infringed upon your land for their good, the tribe didn't weigh the detriment to themselves in opposition to the well-being of the opposing tribe -- they went to war. Our apparent inability to form emotional attachment to vast numbers of humans facilitates competition. In a scholarship contest, a person may dimly recognize the fact there will be others competing who could probably use the money more than he or she, and yet the fact does not bear on the end decision. To defeat the enemy tribe, man must come up with new and better ways to wage war, to do business, and to write the scholarship essay.

There's definitely nothing definitive about the connection between the two concepts of Dunbar's number and a competitive society, but another tool in the big box never hurt.

Layman's Preliminary Response To Plato

2007-02-08T13:53:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: This paper was written with a five page limit for an Intro to Philosophy course. Yes, I do understand that numerous of the ideas contained within have been knocked around for awhile, especially by Popper and his proponents, but I see no reason not to join the throng.

Plato’s Republic stands as a compelling study into the natures of justice and the relations of individuals to the state. Beginning with an analysis of different definitions of justice, it evolves into a step-by-step construction of the ideal state, with emphasis placed on the justice of the state in relation to the individual. In the construction of his argument, Plato works off of several premises; firstly, that as a city is larger than a man, yet still involved with justice, justice would more easily be seen in the city, stating “let us first enquire what [justice] is like in the cities; then we will examine it in the single man, looking for the likeness of the larger in the shape of the smaller.” (Book II, page 165) It is interesting at this point to note that Plato sees the making of city and the justice of the city as inherently joined, stated as “suppose we should imagine we see a city in the making, we might see its justice, too, in the making, and the injustice?” (Book II, 165) Secondly, it is Plato’s contention that man performs but one action well, and that “a city, I take it, comes into being because each of us is not self-sufficient but needs many things.” (Book II, 165) From these two premises, Plato constructs his city, adhering to an idea of a place for every man, and every man his place. There are the workers, concerned with construction, production, buying and selling; there are the guardians, concerned with optimizing the mind and body in defense of Plato’s paragon of cities, and the philosopher-king, charged with the rule, maintenance, and administration of the city.

In order to preserve the order and defense of his city, Plato then develops plans of education for his various classes - a trade for the workers, physical activity and instillation of values of courage and martial spirits for the guardians, philosophy and administration for the ruler of the city. In addition, Plato adds certain methods by which “we shall keep in view the city as a whole and see how that shall be happy.” (Book IV, page 219) To maintain the class of the guardians in peak condition, only those aspects of poetry and storytelling which make the guardians brave and eager to defend the city shall be taught, and all craftsmen that develop arts contrary to these be expelled or removed from their craftsmanship. The quality of the workers is also assured, as the guardians prevent wealth or poverty from entering the city, as “poverty and wealth worse and the things they make as well” (Book IV, page 219), the former being too poor to supply himself, and the latter being “idle and careless.” Plato also requires that the city remain a certain size, “guard[ing] in every way that the city be neither small nor seeming to be large, but be just great enough, and a unity.” (Book IV, pg. 221) Linking and supporting all of these concepts is Plato’s definition of justice, the cement by which the city stands - “that to do one’s own business and not to meddle with many businesses is justice.” (Book IV, pg. 232) In this way, Plato establishes that maintaining the order of the city he has just described, one seeking happiness for the whole as the ultimate goal, is the just for all men, and that each man benefits from justice for the sake of justice, in that their happiness through the city is preserved.

The primary problem of Plato’s Republic lies in one of Plato’s underlying premises, that being “a city […] comes into being because each of us is not self-sufficient but needs many things.” (Book II, 165) While admittedly one aspect of the reason why humans seek companionship with each other in large social aspects, a better and more full reason would be to say that man enters pacts in order to maintain autonomy of personal affairs, to defend his or her life and freedom from injury, and to mutually benefit with others as he or she sees within her best interests. In the primitive world, the single person alone is confronted with an anarchy nonconductive to personal advancement or life choices - war and conflict reigns, strength is the means of discourse, and the victor imposes his own version of right on the conquered. Slavery looms as an eternal possibility, and there is no protection from violation of a human’s autonomy. In order to optimize both the protection and the ability of man to do as he or she will (without decreasing from another’s autonomy), a society then adopts the following methods; Firstly, that the goal of a society is to provide equal protection for the autonomy of all citizens. Secondly, to maximize each citizen’s ability to involve themselves in the advantages the society provides, such as the ability to learn a new trade as he or she sees fit. Thirdly, to show as much impartiality towards all citizens as possible. Fourthly, to provide a fair and impartial system by which to judge one man‘s grievances against another and to weigh whether breaches of autonomy have taken place. Finally, an equal distribution of limitations of autonomy that the society imposes - no man may kill another, without exception; no man may steal from another, without exception; taxes for the maintenance of the society are equal, without exception. Justice is therefore found in maintaining equal conditions for every person within the society.

Notice that the idea of justice as equality does not necessarily correspond with the idea that all men are equal, and indeed, the latter question is moot in relation to the idea of justice. Justice arises from equal opportunity and conditions. One may be more intelligent than another, or another stronger, or a third more talented, and yet the just society prevents one from imposing their will on the other, or, in other words, decreasing another’s autonomy. All men are equally required to respect another’s autonomy, and yet are equally established their own, nearly infinite autonomy. Happiness becomes a personal option, and may be sought through methods other than material gain, while those that uphold Plato’s idea of specialization as a good are free to engage in economic activities with others of like-mind. Members of the society continue “to do one’s own business,” (Book IV, 232) but no longer is it the concern of the state to “meddle” with the business of its citizens. For example, “wealth and poverty” and “music” that does not encourage martial spirit in the defenders of the society no longer are unjust due to working against the happiness of the city, but actually contribute towards the justice of the city by allowing each person to engage in that which he or she sees fit.

The danger in this line of argument deals with its similarity to a different definition of justice found within Book I of Plato’s Republic, that being “to injure bad men and enemies,” which Plato via Socrates refutes using the idea that injuring an enemy necessarily decreases from their virtue as a man, thus doing them injustice. Plato might easily argue that to preserve each person’s autonomy, punishments would have to be issued to those that breach that autonomy (usually involving a further decrease in the autonomy of the criminal, through imprisonment, fines, or some other device), thus lessening them as an autonomous human being and creating injustice. The answer to this lies in the autonomous individual’s conscious decision to remain in the society, to engage in the society’s mutual understanding, and to benefit and prosper by that society’s protection. As they involve themselves, of their own free will, in that society, it becomes necessary for them to accept all aspects of that society’s judgment, not in a philosophical sense, but in the need to follow that society’s laws and decisions for the preservation of each person’s autonomy. Only in cases of unjust laws, namely dealing with those that unfairly and without regard to the autonomy of other individuals decreases an individual’s autonomy, does a citizen become justified in breaking and protesting a society’s laws. Once a willing participant of that society, punishment or correctional steps become not injustice, but rather fitting for the violator of a society’s protections. Plato himself, with his impositions by the philosopher-king, his decrees against class intermingling on the parts of workers and guardians, his training of guardians to defend against the enemies of the city, and his censorship of materials harmful to a guardian’s training, would find reason in this approach.

A further attack on this new idea of justice might be found in Plato’s attitude towards equalitarian societies, found primarily in Book VIII of the Republic. Here, Plato attacks the ideas of democracy and liberty, decrying them as the precursor the anarchy and tyranny. Plato warns against the desire of men with liberty to “become as rich as possible” (Book VIII, page 353) and “the poor conquer […] and share out the citizenship and government equally with the rest; and the officers are generally settled by lot” (Book VIII, page 355). Men may now “do as they like” and “each man would arrange his private life in it just as it pleased him,” (Book VIII, 355), leading to a variety of men, both debased and noble, who are all equal. To Plato, democracy leads to “drone[s], laden with such pleasures and desires and ruled by the unnecessary desires,” leading to the rise of men who desire power to further their own desires.

It is not the intention of this paper to develop a perfect society, but rather to refute one of the founding premises of Plato’s Republic and to show an alternative form of justice that provides the basis for a society in opposition to that of the perfect city described by Plato. Indeed, much as Plato described safeguards for the preservation of his society through various means, it is almost self-evident that checks and balances, safeguards, and education devices would be introduced into the constitution, contract, or political process of the society in question upholding the ideas of justice here presented. Undoubtedly, as in the American system, the interplay of impartial courts, legislative bodies, executive bodies, and rational public self interest on the part of both the masses and intelligentsia would work towards maintaining order and justice, though there are undoubtedly other means available by which to ensure continued equality of opportunity for the society as a whole.

To sum up the argument, Plato’s premise on the origins of a city is incomplete, and as a result, leads to a faulty conclusion on the nature of justice. It has here been demonstrated that humans enter into societal pacts in order to preserve their own, individual autonomy and to maximize individual opportunity. The needs of individuals logically expands into the needs of a society as a whole, and the formation of justice as preservation of that equalitarian opportunity arises. It is further demonstrated that this form of justice actually decreases a society’s imposition into the autonomy of individuals, allowing them to seek happiness as they see fit and encourage personal action, rather than to establish a city that focuses on an overall happiness index which does not meet the needs of individuals.

Note On The Text: This paper was referenced with “Great Dialogues of Plato,” translated by W. H. D. Rouse, published by The New American Library, New York and Toronto, 22nd printing, Copyright 1956 by John Clive Graves Rouse.

Education Vs. The Dragons

2007-02-08T09:31:00.000-05:00

This is just a shell of post, written on the fly;

College and higher education is increasingly disenchanting me, and I'm not sure whether its the education method as a whole or my major and concentrations in social science in particular that's causing me the issue. English and areas such as philosophy are by necessity limited by time, I understand, but it seems that in subjects so rich in viewpoints, perspectives, and possible discussion points, we as students should be exposed to more than one professor's world view. As it is now, especially in the lit surveys I'm engaging in, that's what we're exposed to -- despite the plethora of interpretations, students are force fed one interpretation, one school of thought, one idea of literary criticism, rather than the broad overview that would make a student more rounded. Professors hold a certain amount of academic respect in the eyes of students, and it seems like its being abused. When I sit in class listening to a lecture, and look around seeing a number of heads bobbing in agreement, I feel like I'm back in high school rather than engaging in more in-depth studies.

Maybe its different at the graduate level, but something within me highly doubts that possibility. Professors are people, and I don't expect them to successfully overcome all bias, but I do desire a certain amount of intellectual honesty in a presentation. What value is given in presenting Plato as logical king, asking us to pick apart his Republic, and then in turn decimating our arguments? I'd like to think we're being trained for logical thought as opposed to hero worship. What would hurt a few counter-examples and some expounding on alternate schools of thought? I don't know what is taught in education classes, but it seems like everybody in the humanities has a bone to chew. I find myself having a lot of sympathy for my first economics professor -- free market to the bone, yet Keynesian theory definitely found its place in his overview of the subject.

If the idea of college is to go more in depth to the subject of your major, why am I left feeling so unfulfilled?

Another Keats

2007-02-07T21:50:00.001-05:00

Keats writes on the agonies and passions, the pains and the joys of the human experience and emotions. He delves within the very depths of the human heart, and brings back from the abyss ecstasies and torturous, exquisite jewels of his own humanity that are breathtaking in their beauty - complex and slightly arrogant in their shining radiance, perhaps, but sound and true in their similarity to our own, individual gems. In "Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell," Keats maps for the reader the most heart-wrenching of human conditions, one that is infinitely comparable to that of any person in the same conditions, and that is the intensity of the torment and frustration found in seeking out the mysteries of human behavior.

Keats begins his poem with a question, indicative of the question that begins any man's questing. He asks "why did I laugh tonight?" and is immediately forced to deal with the loneliness of his question, with the knowledge that he will be forced to find the answer by himself, with no aid from "god," or "demon of severe response" from heaven or hell. He turns to himself, to his "human heart," and is immediately plunged into the frustration of his isolation from the supernatural forces that would ease the difficulty of the journey, surrounded by darkness as he realizes that "ever must [he] moan, the question heaven and hell and heart in vain." The answers he reaches will be his own, with no certainty of truth or objective reality. Keats knows the bliss that reaching his personal answer will bring, but is temporarily submerged in a sea of futile rage, longing for the ultimate bliss and orgasmic release. At this moment, Keats could "on this very midnight cease," and "the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds." So painful is his questioning that death is the most intense human experience, greater than sex or satisfaction at the attainment of personal truth. It is the paragon of the human condition, "life's high meed." Any reader comfronted with their own frustration and temporary longing for oblivion will easily empathize with Keat's dilemma, a breathtaking and moving protrayal of the struggle to arrive at the answers to the daily and numerous questions sentience creates.

"La Belle Dame" Sans Certainty

2007-02-07T21:46:00.000-05:00

In many of his poems, John Keats concerns himself with ideas and feelings that can never be understood beyond a reasonable doubt, falling in line with his idea of negative capability. As in life, his poetry portrays both things known and unknown, and leaves the reader to experience and mull through the emotions and implications of what Keats has presented. Ambiguity in the verse invariably leads to differences, whether slight or extreme, in the theme of the poem based on the reader's interpretation, and "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," or the beautiful lady without mercy, typifies this Keatsian approach to poetry and life.

At face value, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" deals with the age old story of the fey femme fatale, and the forlorn knight (or wanderer, or woodsman, as it were) left in her wake. In the first three stanzas, an unnamed conversationalist comes into contact with a knight "alone and palely loitering" by himself. From the beginning, the knight's despondency is apparent - the unnamed conversationalist asks why he appears "so haggard and so woe-begone," and describes him as having "a lily on his brow with anguish moist and fever dew," while "on his cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too." The symbolism of the description is striking, as the lily archetypally represents death while the rose, which "fast withereth" archetypally represents love. In addition, the knight's condition appears to be feverish in nature, as his brow is "moist" with "anguish" and "fever dew." Apparently, the knight wastes away from some traumatic event which caused him woe and depression, a fact important to the events the knight relays.

In stanzas four through nine, the knight provides the unknown conversationalist with the basis for his condition, a chance meeting with some lady "full beautiful, a fairy's child," who enspells him and delights him with her fey beauty and actions. He speaks of how he near-worshipped the lady, making "a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone," and is rewarded with the lady looking at him "as she did love, and [making] sweet moan." Ambiguity first appears during this stint of the poem, as the question of which of the two characters actually performs the seduction is hazy and a little obscure. One aspect has the knight in control, as he "set her on [his] pacing steed," while further examination shows the knight succumbing to the lady's wiles, as he "nothing else saw all day long, for sidelong would she bend, and sing a fairy's song." The lady's otherworldiness entrances the knight, and she sustains and delights him. The entire seventh stanza involves the lady sustaining the knight, on both a feast of "wild" and "sweet" roots and honey, and further affirmation of her love, as she seems to proclaim it in "language strange." The lady spellbinds the knight with the attention that she seems to lavish upon him.

From the moment that the lady takes him to her "elfin grot," however, the idyllic picture begins to fade, replaced by the acute sensation that something is amiss. Dissatisfaction overtakes the lady, as she "wept, and sigh'd full sore," and the knight, stalwart in his enthrallment, attempts to comfort her. She respons by "lul[ling] him asleep," and the dream develops into a nightmare. The knight finds himself comfronted with visions of "pale kings, and princes too, pale warriors" warning him that "la belle dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!" The condition of each of the beings (in the same political class as the knight himself), mirrors that of the knight at the beginning of the poem. Their paleness and "starv'd lips" the knight remembers when he awakes are echoes of that same feverish state which the knight will shortly find himself in, as he discovers that the fairy beauty sleeps behind him no longer, and the stark reality of "the cold hill" on which he rests confronts him.

But who (or what) is the lady? And why does her absence cause the knight such pain? A percursory reading fosters the idea that she is merely the knight's ideal lady, and the love that he experiences towards her either an ideal love or an infatuation ripped away by the lady's inner pain. The symbolism of the rose fading from the knight's cheek certainly supports this interpretation. Or can we perhaps take the proceedings in a different sense? Keats twice emphasizes that after the lady, the knight is left with only a "cold hill's side," a stark contrast to the ethereal and enticing beauty of the lady without mercy, who takes possession of a man and leaves him drained and unfulfilled. Indeed, one might say that the lady's perfections could only be the result of a highly developed imagination, and in this light, the knight becomes a man indulgent in fancy, eventually broken by the reality he must always return to. Negative capability and ambiguity makes the truth of the matter impossible to ascertain, but in either case, whether literal or symbolic, the knight's condition is clear - depressed, he alienates himself from the rest of the world, and "sojourn[s]" at the site of his previous happiness, "alone and palely loitering" in the winter when "no birds sing." When taken away from the lady, and the perfection she represents, physical or imaginary, the knight experiences figurative death, leaving behind the dessicated carcass of his former self.

"When one reaches for help"

2006-12-28T15:11:00.000-05:00

When one reaches for help, do them no harm.
Every new love is another new dawn.
And every new dawn is another new day.
And another new cry is another new way.
Every new way brings another new trust,
and beauty to hold 'til we all turn to dust.

fragment

2006-10-27T03:54:00.000-04:00

And when Man first rose straight-backed and clear-eyed, and erected mountains of structured stone and science, and beat his breast, shouting "Here am I and here remain I," taming forests and wolves and self, damming rivers and damning in words, words rather than grunts, then did he fear the darkness for the things unknown? Or rather for the things revealed -- or twisted? For pure dark is blindness; demons lurk in shadows, and shadows are things known. Moonlight forms shadows, and what is the moon but a reflection of the Sun, that which is while the Sun sleeps.

And even so night Man, so bright in day, turned fetal and hunched, Neanderthal again, primitive - asleep or staring at shadows. And even sleeping, staring at shadows within, drinking Lethe, forgetting shadows are made by cheap reflections, almost-beens or might-have-beens, if not for the Sun. And all of a sudden, the old dream, the oldest fear, that the Sun is dead and nevermore will rise, and all that remains, darkly shadow. The Man dreaming the dream, the dream breeding the fear, the fear intertwining with shadows. And on Man's lips a prayer for morning.

"Enlightenment"

2006-10-05T18:48:00.000-04:00

I

I stood upon the broken and shattered containers
of the years behind me,
looking upon a darkness seething
with comrades and friends
of similar age and interest to myself.
I had found what I'd quested to find.

Behind me were nights of suspicion and doubt
Self derision and rout,
Oblivion's hounds.
Guarding its gates.

Tomes I had read (and written),
Perusion, Delusion -
and morals Zarathustran.

I'd known powers and flowers
love and the Dove
Hate and the Hammer and Sickle.

Smith versus Marx,
and the ravens and larks,
and the robin and laurels and light.

And envy and pain,
and lust for each Jane,
and confusion as to why,
and why Me?

I was hollow, and followed.
Sometimes full - Then I ruled.
Speaking ecstasies, signals, and sins.
Sudden death, random birth,
cunning daring and dearth,
plentiful paragons protruding from me.

Once I'd grasped it all,
I wove it in a shawl,
and wrapped myself til I
stuck in my Web.

And the flies that I caught
were the dreams that I sought -
so stagnant and stale, my
body less hale,
I transformed from a spider
and sank into my shell.

And my crab-animal form made
my friends leave me lorn.
Left me lonely and laughing and listless.

And I sank ever deeper,
Tripped even steeper,
and lashed myself bloody and raw.

And the answers I wrought?
Who'd have guessed that thought
and self-deception were so knit - intertwined.

II

I stand now with no shame.
Was the quest worth the pains?
Worth the so-paltry gains,
and no fame to my name?

I'm now firm, I'm now wise,
No more sorrow or sighs,
though I haven't quite finished my run.

And illusion I'll shun
as I go through the years.
And I'll face all my fears,
step away from all piers.

And I'll dodge the extremes,
and I'll follow my dreams,
and I'm certain I'm certain no more.

I'm so tired of smashing.
Its myself I've been bashing,
been bringing to unspeakable hell.

And one thing I do know -
surety brings Inferno.
Makes a mountain
of dislodgeable distance and din.

When there are no more questions
you fall from your mountain
and join your comrades.
In the darkness.

Those Old Monroe Blues

2006-09-17T22:12:00.000-04:00

I'm getting increasingly frustrated with the calls to "bring the troops back home" and "stop policing the world," and with the policies of the people screwing up a fundamentally good idea which make such vociferous outcries seem justifiable. At risk of sounding elitist, I sometimes question whether such schools of thought are actually engaged in long-term thinking on the future of global politics, or whether they arise from party politics or short term concerns about local affairs. Even deeper, I wonder whether adherents to this new isolationism even understand the implications (moral, political, and economic) of US involvement in the world.

I can definitely urge anybody who hasn't heard of him to look into the foreign policy philosophies of national security planner Thomas Barnett. Dr. Barnett was the originator of two very handy concepts that I like to refer to when talking about global affairs - that of the Functioning Core and the Non-Integrating Gap. The Functioning Core consists of developed nations that have already established working economies friendly to global trade, security systems that guard against and discourage terrorism, and social policies that fundamentally protect against gross breaches of human rights (i.e. ethnic genocide or unfair rule of law). North America, Europe, Russia, Japan, South Korea, China, South Africa, Argentina, Brazil, India, and Chile are all, more or less, established members of the Functioning Core. The Non-Integrating Gap, on the other hand, are regions rife with social, economic, and militant discontent. A member of the Non-Integrating Gap is plagued by social disturbances and crimes against humanity, by extreme poverty and dysfunctional economies, by idealogical terror and a general, pronounced lack of freedom. Representing roughly one third of the world's population, the Gap includes the Caribbean Rim, most of South America, almost all of Africa, the Balkans, the Caucasus, Central Asia, the Middle East, and most of Southeast Asia.

Most adherents to ideas of globalization can agree that all nations, developed and otherwise, benefit from the establishment of nations that are stable, economically and socially. These stable nations tend to have milder forms of idealogical fundamentalism. These nations benefit themselves and other nations through free trade and open flow of ideas. They're more likely to seek peaceful resolutions, and less likely to resort to force. On the whole, the quality of life for their citizens is better, which is more conducive to general progress.

Every member of the Core is lessened by the existence of the Gap. Every member of the Core is less than what it could be because of the existence of the Gap. Because of the Gap, the Core is denied resources, both physical and mental. Because of the Gap, the Core is that much more prone to attacks by idealogical groups smarting from events both current and past. Even beyond such selfish considerations, there is the concern that in a world where we can reside in comfort, there are people trapped in stagnant and stifling regimes where they are not free to pursue economic progress, where they are not free to live and let live, where day and night they are forced to question whether their own government will turn against them. It is a general rule that most people desire increased amounts of freedom - the censor and the genocide, or the lack of equality due to gender or race, prevent this in the Gap.

And why is the Gap the Gap? More often than not, these conditions are due to actions taken by the Core, whether through Western Imperialism circa- the early nineteen hundreds and before, or through short-sighted Cold War policy. In most cases, colonialism and mercantilism hampered economies and supplanted local leaders, replacing them with lapdogs, which served only to increase the poverty of the region and to incite fundamentalist movements. The degree to which poverty affects the strength of such movements is a conversation for a different time, but consider the Russia of the early nineteen hundreds, or the Germany of the nineteen twenties and thirties. During the Cold War, superpower jockeying led to the installment of sycophantic dictators and extremists in the Gap, oftentimes providing them with the weapons and technology that they continue to use today in suppressing the advancement and freedom of their populations.

It would be a severe error to take the world, in its current state of affairs, ad hoc. The relationship between the Core and the Gap has been far reaching and cumulative, and our actions today continue that relationship. Whether it is to be for the positive or the negative is our decision. To abandon the Gap only worsens the situation - the stagnation is still there. The resentment is still there. The only question worth considering is, "what is the proper course by which to encourage the Gap to become a functioning member of the Core?"

At this point, whether it was necessary or no, military prescences throughout the Gap present a problem, it is true. The longer the duration of their stay, the more likely progress will not be achieved, simply because of the emotions of the local populace. Abandonment, however, serves only to create chaos, which history shows to lead to violence and eventual dictatorship. "Leaving them to sort it out themselves" is as harmful as negative engineering of events (i.e. Cold War), simply because the social elements with the most power and weaponry are, at the moment, the very elements that desire the continuation of the Gap. Even in days of Western monarchy, individuals were allowed means by which to defend themselves and assert their own beliefs - King John and the monarchs of England were hampered for generations by the stipulations of the Magna Carta. The modern Gap has lost such background. The modern Gap has become immersed in the tradition of stagnation, with a population surrounded by one creed and one power.

So how best to combat the problems of the Gap? The answer lies in economics and the free flow of ideas. The only means to leave stagnation is through progress and enlightenment, through awareness of a better quality of life to be had. Take, for instance, the example of China. Daily, the Chinese government has been forced to relinquish controls over individual lives and the contact that the individual has with the outside world. Why? Because the Chinese government was forced to open trade barriers in order to keep itself from imploding. Trade necessitates contact with outsiders, and with their opinions and their doctrines, their ideas and their bearing. A while ago, it would've been unheard of for the common Chinese man or woman to have access to the internet. And now, by popular demand...

Unfortunately, Core policy so far has been at odds with this idea. The Core has sought to "punish" the governments of the Gap by cutting them off with the rest of the world through trade barriers, in hopes that they reform their policies in shame. Such actions serve only to aid those same governments to maintain the level of control they're accustomed to having over their populace. When a people is cut off from the outside world, they know only what they're used to, which leads once again to stagnation. The Core should seek daily to educate and show glimpses of a better life the people of the Gap.

Again unfortunately, sometimes, not even this pacifist economic change is enough. Oftentimes, there exists conditions in which a people is placed firmly in subjugation, repressed by the military might of a strong and established Gap government. An Iraq, for example. Or any number of African nations. The action or the threat of genocide on any scale serves to cow a population to a point where progress is impossible. Military intervention in order to protect human life and rights, and in order to create a situation where free trade is actually available, becomes necessary in these instances.

The question that faces us now is how best to create these conditions. Once again, abandonment is not an option. Nor is continued, unnecessary lingering in a region. I firmly believe that the isolationist outcries that have become so popular today would be much quieter and less numerous had more effective policy inducing stability and free trade been followed. What is important now is fine tuning Core operations in order to make military intervention more efficient.

Another source of these outcries have been over the intention of the administration in beginning these maneuvers. I fully realize that so far, I have only demonstrated what should be, not what is. Allow me to rectify the situation.

I lost the articles a long time ago, but I believe that a limited amount of research can lead anybody interested to the appropriate material. The materials were related to neoconservative political aims, especially relating to numerous of George Bush's associates. The ideas expressed had to do with political buffer zones in order to help fight against terrorism, a sort of modern day lebensraum. (I use the comparison to Hitler's "living space" very tongue-in-cheek.) The idea behind it, and all of George Bush's Middle Eastern "Big Bang" theory, is that once a Core-type nation was established in the Middle East, the quality of life in that country would lead to other nations following the leader, so to speak. Stability in these nations by definition suppresses fundamentalism and terrorist ideaology, and as such, promotes the national security of America.

I fully realize that I haven't substantiated these goals, but exploring Pentagon military philosophy and White House foreign policy should be more than enough to correlate with the ideas I've presented. While selfish in nature, this American lebensraum follows quite closely with ideal Core relations with Gap countries. The morality of the motives (in regards to the occupants of the concerned nations) may be suspect, but the end result, if occurring, is definitely for the good.

When applied to Core/Gap foreign policy philosophy, bringing the troops back home begins to pale as a positive maneuver. The isolationism it implies is detrimental, not only in the short term, but on a global scale, in the long term. As citizens of the Core, we need to realize the precarious state of affairs throughout the world, and the means by which we, as a species, can progress and live symbiotically.

"Heart"

2006-01-25T22:37:00.000-05:00

It was dusk. Across the valley, the wind blew through the leaves, ripping them from their resting places and carrying them into the oncoming gloom. The autumn air was chill, and pierced Michael's thin shirt. He shivered. Evenings like this had always been his favorite part of the year. As a child, he had spent many hours playing games of cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians in weather like tonight's. Sometimes, his friend Robin Hood would lead the merry men, lying in wait beneath enormous piles of leaves for the time when the sheriff of Nottingham would pass through Sherwood Forest. When it was his turn to choose the game, he transformed into the noble Don Quixote, and he and his noble squire would battle hordes of knaves and giants. At the end of his quests, with the day saved and honor achieved for his family, he would seek kisses from the noble Dulcinea, the fair maiden from down the lane.

"Why you make him do this, eh?" asked the old man leaning against the trailer door. "Le falta corazon, eh? He lacks the heart."
"Don't insult the boy," said Michael's father. "He asked to do this. You should be proud of his honor."
"Honor nothing. I am not talking honor. I think I done with murder when I move here. I think I leave lawlessness behind in Spain."

Michael wanted to pound his fists into the rails of the rotting porch and yell at the old man. If this was not honor, nothing was. If this was not honor, then what was the point of staying with the family. What was the point of sweating in the fields of another man so that one of the family might live. If this was not honor, then why did Michael stay home from college to pay for the old man's medicine. For months, Michael had not been able to understand the words of the old man, the same grandfather who had sat a younger Michael on his knee and told stories of old Spain and ancient knights. He could not understand how the old man could beg that he go to college when the family needed him. And as for the matter of his sister...

"Besides." Michael's father said. "It is justice." The old man leaned back his wrinkled old head and sighed.
"It is," he said. "But no good will come of this. It's too bloody. You go and do it, but don't talk to me about it. I see my friends die over sheep in Spain."

Michael's father walked down the stairs of the porch and went to the back of the trailer. Michael patted his grandfather on the shoulder, and then followed. He ignored the tear running down the weathered cheek of the old man. It confused him, the changing ways of the old man. If this was honor, then why cry over what had to be done. It was a time for anger, not sadness.

"Ignore the old man, Michael." His father said, clapping him around the shoulders. "Your mama and I are very proud of you. You do a good thing for the family. You do a good thing for your sister. " He grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and looked him in the eye.

"You listen, now," he said. "If you do this thing, you do it fast. You don't hesitate like the old man. Anything you do, you remember your sister. She didn’t have the opportunity to fight back, eh? You do it for her." Michael nodded. His father kissed him on the forehead.

"Go with god, son."

Michael shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and looked hard into the twilight. In the distance, he thought he saw two approaching shadows, and he nudged his friend in the ribs.

"Hey, Pablo. Is that them?"
"Quiet, fool. And don't move. The leaves will fall off, and the sheriff will see us." Michael shut up, and stared straight ahead. The two shadows came even closer, and he fought to keep from laughing. The ditch was the best cover Robin had found yet. He took a hand out of his pocket and grabbed his sword. When the time was right, Robin would give the signal, and the men would do battle.

Michael tucked his hands in his pockets. The wind was not so friendly tonight as in his childhood. At least he would not meet anybody on the road tonight. Except for maybe a car, and what driver would remember the face of an immigrant walking the road at night. Still, Michael looked around him for headlights, and veered more to the side of the road to walk in the grass. He noticed the sun was almost gone, and walked faster. He would hurry and return home in time for supper. He would bathe before his sister got home.

Michael thought of his sister. He thought of the church where she was praying that night, of the confessional. He thought of the candles she would light. He hoped she would light one for him, and one for herself. He thought about what he had to do. His sister would have wanted it like this, if she had known.

Time passed. The wind whirled threateningly around Michael, and for the first time he noticed that clouds had covered the sky. He hoped a storm would not come. His cheeks were numb from the wind. His whole body felt cold and numb, and he wiped tears from the wind from his eyes. If only the wind was not so harsh, he would not feel like this. His legs would not feel so heavy and drag so much. His brain would not ache so, his head would not feel so uncomfortably feverish. At last, he noticed the mile mark that meant he was close by. He skirted away from the road, walking along a dirt path into the woods. A little ways away, he thought he could see the rising of smoke from the house.

Sweaty hands gripped swords up and down the ditch as the two figures grew closer. Michael grew nervous. The sheriff was the biggest he had seen in a long, long time. The fight would be long and hard, and many of the men would probably fall. Michael remembered the words of his grandfather, of knights of old, and tightened his grip on his sword. The bigger the enemy, the more honor to be had. He lay perfectly still as the sheriff and his page reached the beginning of the ditch. As the enemy passed by the place where Michael lay, he held his breath. What was Robin thinking? Soon, the sheriff would be past and the ambush would be wasted!

Just as the sheriff passed by, a welcome voice cried out, "Attack!"

The wood of the house was firm and comforting against Michael's back. He leaned against it, holding tightly the axe he had hidden in the leaves of the woods a few days before. His eyes were closed, and his chest heaved up and down. It was almost totally dark now. At home he would be sitting down to supper, eating fruit from the harvest and good baked bread. Maybe grandfather would be in one of his old moods, and tell a story like Don Juan, and at the end Michael's brother could clap when the seducer was dragged to hell. Or mama might read from the bible. David and Goliath would be nice this evening, or Samson pulling the roof onto his enemies. And then papa would let Michael have a glass of wine, and then the family would go to bed. And Michael could huddle underneath his blanket, and listen to the wind. Or he could run to his sister's room, and shake her awake, and talk for hours...

His sister. His sister would not be home for many hours. She was at the church, praying with the padre. Michael wanted to be at the house when she came. He wanted to be sitting in the parlor when she came through the door, with her sad head bowed. He would stand and take her by the hand and give her a brotherly hug and she would understand. She would understand and she would cry in relief and gratitude. And grandfather would nod and say, "Our little archangel, he god's soldier."

From behind the window beside him, Michael heard sounds. He knew it was one person, alone, maybe playing cards or watching television. Michael made up his mind. He let the axe fall to his side, and walked to the front of the house. He climbed up the steps leading to the door, and knocked on the wood, hard. There was a moment, another, and then it opened a crack. A white face with bright blue eyes looked out the crack, then the door opened all the way. The figure stepped out.

"Michael, hey. Come on in. I was just thinking about you. I plan on going to your house tomorrow to talk with your father. I was just playing some cards."

Michael looked at the open, honest face of the person. For a moment he thought he saw a boy, then saw again the man he had become. He watched as the person looked at him with a question in his face, then watched as the person's eyes drifted down to his axe, then watched as his eyes opened in surprise.

"Michael, no!" Michael pushed the person back, then swung the axe, hitting him on the head with the flat of the blade. The person's face welled in a bruise, and then blood began to flow. The person clutched his head and fell to the floor. He began to scurry back.

"Michael, no, I was going to talk to your father, I promise, we both just got carried away, she wasn't supposed to say anything, I didn't want to offend you, I'm sorry, I love her," the person said, barely pausing for breath. He looked at Michael pleadingly, cradling his head against his hand, his back against the wall.

He saw his sister walk into the house just before dinner. Her dress was dirty, her head down. Where had she been? With friends at the river. Why was her dress dirty? She slipped and fell. It was to be scrubbed before church. Yes, papa, she knew. And why was there blood on her dress? She cut herself on a rock.

And all night long, her eyes never left the floor, until mama started reading the bible. In the middle of Corinthians she cried and hugged her knees to her chest. “I’m sorry, papa. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

"You love her so you rape her, Robin?" asked Michael. "You love her so you send her home crying one night? You don't want to offend my family, so you rape our honor?" The person's eyes grew wide, his chest heaving for air.

"No Michael, I didn't rape her, I didn't rape her, I love her, we're going to get married, please, I didn't want to, but she said it didn't matter, that her father would say yes, and she's so beautiful, Michael please, please, please don't, please don't..." Michael stared at the person. His head ached from the wind. What was the heart? Did he lack it? His father made it sound so easy, do it quickly and don't hesitate he said. His sister would be home soon, and there was Robin telling lies about the thing, it was dishonorable, the whole thing, and Michael felt bile rise in his throat. Michael felt sick to his stomach. "No Michael, please, don't, please don't, please don't, I love her Michael, I don't know what she said, we're going to get married Michael, please don't."

The battle was long and hard. Pablo and another boy rushed straight for the sheriff, grabbing him by the legs and pulling him to the ground. The sheriff yelped, then twisted away from them and moved into a crouch. As Pablo stood up, the sheriff charged with his sword and hit Pablo's hard. It sailed from Pablo's hands, and he lay down on the ground, dead. The other boy began to duel with the sheriff, each hitting the other's sword as hard as they could. A few yards away, Michael could see Robin fighting with the page, backing him into the ditch. Michael moved behind the sheriff as quietly as possible.

The other boy began to get the better of the duel. He pushed the sheriff towards the ditch. The sheriff snaked out with his leg and tripped the other boy. The sheriff kicked the sword out of the other's hands, and pointed his sword at his throat. The other boy nodded, then rolled onto his stomach, yielding. Michael saw his chance. He tapped the sheriff on the back with his sword. As the sheriff turned around, he swung his sword hard and the sheriff's sword snapped in half. A cheer went up from the attackers.

"Not fair!" the sheriff called out. He threw down his sword and glared at Michael.
"Good job, Michael," said Robin. He patted Michael on the shoulder. "Alright, your turn to pick the game. Hurry up and choose."

Michael walked home with his head on his chest. The wind was harsh, too harsh, not friendly at all, and burned his cheeks to a bright red. The cold night was too much for his thin shirt, and his head ached horribly, and there was a pain in his stomach. He thought about his grandfather, and "le falta corazon" and his sister. Then there was Robin again, cringing on the floor and begging. There was an axe lying in the forest, where he threw it as hard as he could. The pain in his stomach and his head was too much. He would die before he reached his home. He would die when he reached his home. He wanted to die, for some man to come along and hit him with an axe.

"You did what was good and right," maybe someone would say. But another would sit and shake their head and disapprove. He had satisfied honor, but someone would whisper and curse him. To someone, he would always lack heart. He would have been better at college. He would be better at college. He would go to college and never come back and nobody would ever talk to him of the thing he had done. He would marry a fine woman and raise children who would never hear of knights. He stopped at the side of the road, and vomited and cried. And it was not really the wind.

"Don Quixote," Michael said finally. He picked up the page's sword, which was longer than his own. "This will be my lance. Pablo, you can be my squire. The rest of you will be bandits attacking my lady Dulcinea."
"I'm going home," said the sheriff.
"Goodbye Robert," said Robin.
"Get ready!" said Michael.
"Wait! I'm not ready!" said the other boy. "Let me pick up my sword."
"En guarde!"

Don Quixote thrust his lance towards the bandit. The bandit parried with his sword, then made as if to whap the noble Don. At the last moment, he turned around and smacked the squire's sword from his hands. The squire fell to the ground, dead.

"You'll pay for that!" shouted Don Quixote as the two bandits surrounded him. He threw down his lance and picked up his sword. Yelling aloud, he attacked one of the bandits fiercely. The bandit quickly dropped his sword, and sat down on the ground in defeat. Now all that was left was to deal with the bandit that had slain the squire. They traded blows, and bark flew from the swords.

"Ouch! No fair!" cried the bandit as the Don smacked him across the hand holding his sword. He rubbed it with his other hand, then started to cry. The knuckles were bloody where the bark of the sword had rubbed against them, and it was a dark blue.

"I'm sorry," said Michael.
"Shut up!" said Robin, and threw his sword at him. It hit Michael in the chest. Tears appeared in Michael's eyes.
"Guys, stop it!" said the other boy, who had stood up and brushed off his pants. "We'll get in trouble."
"I'm not playing with you anymore," said Robin.
"Fine. I hate you," said Michael.
Robin kicked dirt at him and ran towards his home. The other boy shrugged, waved goodbye, and headed in the opposite direction. Michael sniffled, then walked down the road towards the trailer. He was tired of playing Robin Hood anyways. There was no honor in thievery. He'd beaten Robin fair and square, so what was he crying about? Tomorrow he'd explain everything, and then they'd be friends again.

When he walked through the door, the first thing he saw was his sister in the corner crying. When she saw him she screamed and ran into her bedroom. The father sat next to the grandfather at the kitchen table. His face was in his hands.

"You proud of yourself now?" asked the grandfather. He slumped down low in his chair and looked at Michael. "You do it good? You feel like a man, eh?"

Michael didn't answer. He took off his shoes and his coat, and placed them by the door. He walked to the sink and splashed a little water on his face. He walked to the stove, and picked up a bowl of fruit and cut himself a piece of bread. He sat down at the table, rested his hands on the surface, and stared straight ahead. Loud, rhythmic thuds and grieving wails came from his sister's room. Michael's father looked up.

"Cayete!" he shouted. He looked at Michael. "She says now that he didn't do it, Michael," he said. "She says she was afraid of telling her father the truth. That she spent all night praying about lying. Women say crazy things at times like this."
"Men say crazy things too, father," Michael said.
"You do it?" asked the grandfather. "It make you feel good? It make you feel like a man, to gut him like a fish? It make you feel nice to jump him at his home at night?"
"I satisfied honor, grandfather," said Michael. His father moved to take his hand, and Michael took it from the table. His hand was clean, had managed to stay clean all night. Michael looked at his father’s hands. They were grimy, he thought. They were grimy and pathetic and would always stay like that. Maybe college would keep him from having hands like that. He stared straight ahead and took a bite of his bread. It was the best bread he had ever tasted.

fragment

2005-05-13T23:40:00.000-04:00

The old woman peered out of the rose colored curtains of her window and scowled.

It was April, and to the old woman it seemed as if Spring had submerged the suburb in a flood of vibrance. Only a few days before, she had been astonished at the rapid change of the trees, bushes, and flowe beds of the lawns, as each jumped from graves of obscurity with new shapes and costumes of colorful apparel. Previously men drunk and dessicated with anguish, grasses sat up and danced to the tune of th ever-changing wind, their steps filled with an almost religious glee. Across the neighborhood, green was fruitful and multiplied, conquering the grim landscape with ressurections that were Christ-like in magnitude. Every time the old woman saw limbs cut from trees in the wars of boys that trampled the lawns, or a flower plucked to adorn the hair of some girl, a sense of Winter to come spread through her, making the tips of her hands feel cold and the scenes of enthusiastic life become shadowy and vague, yet she was filled with a sense that the greenery was content, happy to be scenery on the stage of great dramas in the high plane above them. Oftentimes, the old woman would stop on her way from church and marvel at a rosebush, remembering that purpose could not be futile.

Of the entire view from the old woman's kitchen window, only the dumpster across the street seemed truly sinister, and the old woman made it her duty to ignore the rusting heap of metal. The ground around it was bare, the soil ruined by whatever wastes the residents had poured into it, feeding its destructive influence. It stood as the sole blemish on the neighborhood's perfection, and had been tuned out to the point of white noise in the resident's lives.

On this morning, the old woman woke to the grating noise of a voice amplified by a megaphone. She hobbled down the stairs to her living room window and scanned the familiar rose tinted view; it was the dumpster that caught her eye.

A young man, dressed in a pastor's black suit and wide brimmed hat, stood on top of the dumpster, bellowing sermons and ultimatums into the street. Below and on either side of him were planted two black men, also young, with backs set to attention. To the old woman they were savages, their faces looking on the houses with prideful disdain. As the young man continued his inappropriate ramblings, their eyes seemed to flash with an unholy joy.

"Curfew will be at ten o'clock," shouted the young man. "You will not leave the street. You will not attempt to contact the police. If you sin, we will know."

The old woman's scowl deepened, and she clutched her crucifix as the man jumped from the dumpster and began to march down the street, closely followed by the two black men. From one of the houses, a man leaned from the window and yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" which comforted the old woman. At the same time, she noticed the work begun on the pavement on either end of the street. She saw road equipment and orange warning signs. There was no traffic on the street, and a feeling of unease spread through the old woman.

The old woman moved away from the window and thought of other things. There were people to visit that day, meaning a shower. It was a picnic, which meant some food. As the morning continued, she busied herself, and ignored the dumpster.

fragment

2005-05-05T23:41:00.000-04:00

"And why would you want to move away from here? Do you honestly think that any other place would be better than this place? Do you think that there won't be ghosts there either, that the people won't be haunted, that they won't be the same there as they are here? You don't think that infants don't die in those other places, do you? Or that drunk men don't go home and beat their wives and children? Do you seriously believe that your rot isn't your rot, and that you don't carry it with you? Haven't you figured out you're a parasite?"

As the young man's voice grew more fervent, the woman felt the weight of the chair around her. She made it a rock as her head began to swim, and scouted the room for a projectile in case of emergency. There was only the half empty wine bottle.

"I'm sorry if I said something wrong," she said, her muscles tensing, scanning the man for any signs of imminent violence.

"White Noise"

2005-02-07T22:43:00.000-05:00

Jody first got the idea as he turned the knob of the old gas stove. The blue flames jutted up around the pot, and Jody held his hands close to the heat, warming them in the chill night air. The heating of the decrepit old building was broken, and the surfaces of the apartment were icy to the touch. As the water in the pot began to boil, Jody poured in the rice, then grabbed the bottle of vodka on the counter and slumped into his couch, staring at the kitchen. As he took a pull from the bottle, he noticed again the black cracks running up and down the walls, and the broken window that he had closed up with cardboard. Loud bangs came from the room upstairs, and someone outside had begun playing music that rang out with rhythmic beats.

When the rice was done, Jody took the pot and a spoon back to the couch and ate slowly, savoring the taste. Even at home, he had loved rice. The food and the music reminded him of the old trailer, and he remembered his older brother playing guitar on one end and his mother nursing the baby on the other, while he sat in the kitchen and ate a bowl of rice. There had been a gas stove there, too, but the heating wasn't broken, and even in the winter, the trailer was warm, except for the drafty closet in his room. He had never liked the closet. The closet was where the werewolves hid in the dreams.

Jody finished his rice and drank more vodka. He turned on his radio and there was a guitar. It played softly, while the man sang of love and hate and conflict. Jody liked that, but there was static in the background. There had never been static when his brother had played, singing in a loud, off-key voice. Jody finished the bottle, then shut off the radio. Almost drunk, he turned out the lights and wrapped himself in layers of blankets on the couch, trying to keep warm. His toes and legs and torso and arms were warm, but his head was not. Jody nestled into the cushions, and slept and dreamed. In his dream, his closet was warm, and he danced with werewolves while his mother made rice on the stove and his brother played guitar.

By the time sunshine burst through the cardboard window and hit his face, the music had stopped, and his nose and ears were cold. He unwrapped himself from the blankets, and grabbed his towel. The bathroom was on his floor of the building, which was luck. There was no hot water, which wasn't. He joined the line leading to the doorway, and stared at the back of the man in front of him. The man was old, like the building, and the straggles of white hair coming from the baldness agitated Jody. So did the way the man was bobbing his head, and so did his rasping voice, as he talked to the little boy whose small, smooth hand was clutched in a gnarled old one. The old man was talking about World War II. Jody ignored the conversation, and stared at the liver spots on the old man's neck, waiting for the line to get shorter.

When he woke up, Jody was in the burger joint where he worked. The dining area was shiny and bright, peaceful in the morning hours, with stark white fluorescent lights beaming down from the ceiling. Jody didn't work in the dining area. Jody worked in the backroom, washing dishes. In the backroom, there was no brightness. The surfaces were greasy and the action was hectic - only the light was the same.

The one person in the dining area at the moment was a short, stout man in his middle years, with slightly greying hair and a cigarette nestled between thick red lips. There was a styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in his hands, and he perched over a newspaper that sat on the table. Jody slid into the booth across from him, and smiled sickly. "Wie geht es dir, kraut?" he asked playfully.

"Up yours, amerikaner," the man replied in a heavy German accent. "You're late again."

"Those old buildings," Jody said, shrugging his shoulders. He stared at the glowing tip of the man's cigarette. He knew he was late, and he knew what was coming next. The man laughed.

"Don't I know it," the man chortled, removing the cigarette and extinguishing it in the ash tray. Jody's eyes stayed on the mouth. "You've got to get out of those places if you want to make it big, Jody," he said, with a grin on his face. "It did wonders for me. Now get your ass into the kitchen." Jody nodded, and slid out of the booth.

The day began, and the customers started to trickle in. Each one left a dish that was added to Jody's stack in the backroom. Jody stood in front of the sink, gloves on and elbow deep in the scalding water, scrubbing the plates, feeling the heat, and thinking. He thought about the man in the dining room, and his advice. He thought about the laugh, and the grin, and the cigarette, and he frowned.

"He's marginalizing me," he thought, slamming a dish into the rinsing area violently. "He thinks he's better. But when he comes back here at closing time, I'll grab him and shove his head under the water, and he'll drown in his own filth." He threw another dish. It missed the sink, and shattered on the floor; several of the cooks looked over at him.

"Hey, man," one of them yelled. "What do you think you're doing? Get it cleaned up before he comes back here!" Jody nodded, and went to get the broom. Jody knew how to clean up the messes he made. When he made rice at the trailer, he would sometimes break a bowl. Then his mother would yell at him too, what do you think you're doing Jody, cut off the stove, the rice is burning, get this mess cleaned up, and the baby would scream, and she'd slam the door and feed it while Jody got the broom. The rice would taste bad on those days.

At closing time, Jody scrubbed down the sinks and took off his gloves. The German man stood at the door of the restaurant with a new cigarette and a stack of checks. Jody was last in line. He stood with his head bowed as the man joked with the workers. When it was Jody's turn, the man didn't hold out a check, and Jody looked at the cigarette in surprise.

"If you're late one more time, Jody, I'm going to fire you," The man said, his cigarette bobbing up and down. He inhaled sharply, making the orange at the end of the tobacco flare up. When Jody didn't talk, he let out a steady stream of smoke. "I understand the position you're in," he said quietly, "But I can't make allowances. Allowances didn't get me out of your position." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a check, holding it towards Jody. Jody kept on staring at the cigarette.

What do you think you're doing Jody, his mom yelled, the rice is burning, get this mess cleaned up.

"I broke one of your plates today, kraut," he whispered. He judged the thickness of the neck, and saw himself grasping it, and shoving it under the water. The man nodded, and broke into another grin.

"I know, amerikaner. The cooks told me. I took it out of your paycheck." Jody took the check and walked out the door, zipping up his coat as he went. The street was cold, and snow was falling onto the sidewalks. The rice left a bad taste in his mouth.

Jody walked down the streets alongside the store windows, nearly brushing the walls of the buildings as he stared at the merchandise. Several times he was almost hit by a running man or a woman with several bags of groceries. Each time he apologized, and continued his walk, as he thought of the futures of the goods in the windows, and the things he could do with each of them.

As he passed by a jewelry store, he paused and looked in at the gold and jewels. A necklace caught his attention, and he glared at it. It twinkled back at him, and he saw the scene in his mind - He would go into the store and ask how much it was. It would be on sale and he would pay with cash. When he left, he would go up to a woman, any woman, especially the woman sitting on the bench across the street, the one with the red dress with the low bust and the high hem, and place the necklace around her neck, mumbling sweet somethings about deserving beauty. The necklace would tumble onto the bare flesh of her chest, and rest there, teasingly.

The woman would gasp in surprise, then lick her red lips, and run her eyes along him, appraising him. She would ask his name, taken in by the confidence and excitement of a gift from a stranger, and they would walk a little ways down the street, talking, and connecting in magical ways. Finally, they would come to her apartment building, and she would smile a little bit at him, and give him a slip of paper with her phone number on it. As she walked up the steps, she would sway her hips teasingly, and half turn her head, looking back at him, expectantly.

And later, they would explore life over cups of coffee and pizzas, and bowling and movies and wine, and one day they would kiss, and one day they would make love, and he would go back to college and get his degree, and they would get an apartment together. Then at a fine Italian restaurant, with soft music in the background and fine cloths on the table, they would look lovingly at each other, with the knowledge of things shared and things yet to come, and he would be overwhelmed by the beauty of her eyes, and bow to one knee, and propose. And she would cry for joy, and they would embrace.

And then there'd be a white wedding, with their families, and he'd reconcile with his mother, and she would embrace him, and talk about the fine young man he'd become, and he'd invest in the stock market. And one day, he'd hit it big, and they'd buy a big house and have two children, both sons, and they would feed them rice, him and his blushing bride. And their life would be perfect, and full of love and light and warmth and she would grow fatter and spoiled, and he would come home from work tired and irritable and beat the children when they were loud; and his wife and he would get drunk and fight, and she would cheat on him with his work friends from spite, and he would know and say nothing, and visit the skin flicks at night, a dirty grunting middle aged man, and their stocks would fall and they'd have to sell the house and buy a trailer, and the closets would be drafty, and one day he'd drive to work and turn into the parking lot and blow his mind out with his father's gun (a wedding present from his mother).

Jody shook himself and looked back at the bench. The woman was still there, staring blankly into space. A car pulled up next to her, and she smiled. The door opened, and she got in. Jody looked back at the necklace, and snarled. He forced his numb hand into a fist and bashed at the window repeatedly. The glass was solid, and his knuckles flared with pain; he could hear the cashier yelling in the store. A small group of pedestrians stopped their travels and looked at him, gawking curiously. As the door of the jewelry store opened, Jody pushed one of the people aside, and scampered down the street, the snow drifting into his eyes as he cried and his knuckles bled.

When he reached his building, he sprinted up the cracked and dirty stairs, going two or three at a time, nearly knocking down a black woman with a baby in her arms. He paused and grabbed her to stop her from falling. She yelled and slapped him with the edge of her nails, leaving four thin trails of blood along his face. He stood and smirked at her, then began to run again, calling out behind him, "Feed it rice!"

Once at his room, he slammed the door shut, and laughed nervously. He slumped into his couch, staring at the black cracks on the wall, and giggling. His cheeks felt hot and flushed, and he pressed his cold hands against them, as tears dripped from his eyes and blood flowed from his knuckles. He leaned back against the cushions, and closed his eyes, while his giggles became sobs, and he slid into sleep.

When he woke up, the tears were dried on his face. Music from outside the building thudded throughout his ears while his stomach growled. Jody shook his head, sitting up on the couch. It was night time, and he was hungry. He stood up, and moved towards the stove, where the rice pot from the night before sat. As he turned on the gas stove, he paused.

Why not? he thought. And he got the idea again.

Jody reached into his pocket, and pulled out the check. It was rumpled and torn in one corner, and the paper was harsh against Jody's stiff hands. Jody smiled, and thought of the German man. He thought of the allowances of the building, and he thought back on the papers he had used in school. He'd had pencils and binders and margins. In his mind, he wrote his name in the margin, then tore the check, and threw it into the rice pot.

What do you think you're doing Jody, his mom yelled, the rice is burning, get this mess cleaned up.

"I will, mom," Jody promised. He moved across the room, behind his couch, where there was a chest. He opened it - inside was the gas and matches he had bought a few months before. Jody took them both out, and laughed. Jody felt free. He turned on the radio - there was static behind the guitar, but it was alright. He kicked over the couch, and poured the gasoline on it. When he was done, Jody stood in front of it, looking at his work - it was an overturned couch. It was funny.

Get this mess cleaned up! his mom shrieked. Jody struck a match, and tossed it onto the couch.

It erupted into brilliant blue flames that danced across the grimy upholstery. The heat flared into Jody's face, and warmth crept up his hands. The heat was beautiful, was home, and it drove away the cardboard windows and the black cracks. It spread across the floor, and Jody felt pride at a job well done. He opened the door of his apartment, and strode across the hallway, past the bathroom, past the stairs - somewhere was an old man talking about World War II. Jody didn't listen, he had a mission. He reached the far wall, and pulled the fire alarm down - a shrill sound spread throughout the building, drowning out all the bangs and rhythms. Doors opened up and down the hallway, and people poured out, panicked and noisy.

As the fire flared up, and the tenants moved down the stairs, Jody noticed that one door had remained shut. It was the room of an old lady Jody had seen around the building, home at all hours, and Jody was surprised to see that she had not left. As the heat crawled up his neck and the smoke twisted into his nostrils, Jody knocked on the door, calling out, "Ma'am?"

There was no answer. Jody beat on the door several times, then gave it a series of swift, hard kicks. The door splintered, and Jody thrust his way inside. The room was much smaller than Jody's, and it was poorly lit. Even with the chill air, it managed to maintain a stuffy quality, as well as the scent of wet dog. Stretched out on a couch in the far corner of the room lay the old woman, asleep. Jody picked her up and slung her into a fireman's carry. The old woman's eyes shot open, and she began to shriek, "No! No!"

"Don't worry," Jody told her, beginning to feel guilty, as he moved out the door of the apartment. "There's a fire. I'm going to help you."

The residents had already congregated on the streets in front of the building by the time Jody pushed open the main doors and staggered down the stairs. The first signs of flame could be seen from within the windows, and sirens sounded in the distance. Jody sat the woman down, and she ran into the arms of what Jody assumed to be a neighbor, sobbing. The neighbor flashed a glance at Jody.

"I was just helping her out," he mumbled in explanation. The neighbor nodded in satisfaction, but the woman continued to cry.

"My baby!"

"What?" asked Jody, taken back. The old woman thrust her tear-stained face into the chest of the neighbor.

"My grandchild, my baby, my baby," she chanted in a thick voice. Jody's eyes opened wide, and he looked up at the building wildly. He thought back on the room and remembered - next to the couch, there was a cradle that he had overlooked, thinking of it as a knick knack from past times. Without a word, he turned and darted back into the building.

"Wait!" the neighbor shouted. "You can't do that!"

Smoke coursed down the stairs in thick waves. With each step, the heat became more and more oppressive, and sweat poured down Jody's back. When he came to his floor, he began to cough - the smoke was thick, and his eyesight was obscured. He dropped to his knees, and crawled along the floor, sidling up against the wall and counting the doors as he moved down the hallway. Finally, he found the shards of wood, and wormed into the old woman's apartment.

By the time he'd found the cradle, the smoke had become unmanageable. Jody coughed wildly, and felt hatred towards the heat, the heat that singed the hairs on his neck. As he climbed to his knees and looked inside the cradle, he thought of shattered bowls, and the rice burning on the stove, and his mother, Jody, clean this mess up, allowances for buildings, margins and smoking Germans. Jody saw movement under the blanket of the cradle, and heard a whimper. He reached down and gently pulled the blanket away, and looked into the anxious face of a puppy.

Jody's face contorted. He grabbed the puppy by the scruff of the neck, ignoring the sharp bark of disapproval and the scratching and biting on his arms. He coughed loudly, and spat a large vat of phlegm onto the ground, while blood seeped from his skin. The puppy wailed with a shrill tone as Jody dragged himself across the floor, heading towards the stairs.

Outside, people stared at his limp and his soot stained face. He gasped in the air, and glanced around. Firemen had assembled, and the action was frantic, as was the we have to contain it excuse me Miss is there anybody left in the building? One of the red suits moved towards him with a concerned look on his face, but Jody waved the man away.

The crowd had been pushed back from the perimeter, and Jody could see the old woman at the forefront, still nestled and crying against the neighbor's chest. The neighbor prodded her in the shoulder, and she turned to look at Jody. Her wrinkled face lit up as she saw the dog, and Jody's lips formed a twisted smile. The old woman's near-vocalizations of thanks turned into anguish as he threw the dog at her, hitting her squarely in the chest. It yelped in protest, and scraped against the woman as it tried to get away. The neighbor looked at Jody helplessly.

"I tried to tell you, man. She's crazy," he burbled. Jody continued to smile sardonically, looking at the old woman.

"I should have let you burn in the fire," he said, then shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked down the street. The cold felt good against his feverish skin. He reveled in the chill dull feeling, agreed to embrace it, and for once, didn't even mind that he was marginalized.

"The Reptile Room"

2004-12-04T22:43:00.000-05:00

There once was a man who went to the zoo.

The man loved the zoo. He loved the peanuts and the small children. He loved the giraffes and their lofty heights. He loved the pretty girls that ran the ice cream booths. But his favorite part of the zoo was the reptile room.

In the reptile room, there were all kinds of animals. The man wasn't interested in most of them. The man was only interested in the snakes. When he went to the reptile room, he would hurry past the crocodiles and iguanas with their disgusting forked tongues. He would go to the very back of the room, and stare at the snakes, sometimes for hours.

The man loved and hated the snakes. They had nasty forked tongues, like the other reptiles, and slid across their aquarium floors with ease that made him shiver. But the snakes were stealthy, and he liked that, and they had venom, and he liked that too. He was always happy when the snakes laid eggs, and sad when the old snakes were taken away. His favorite part of his favorite part of the zoo was the feeding time of the snakes. He loved the agility of the snakes, and how they swallowed their food whole.

The man didn't always stay at the zoo. He also had a job, and a house, and a car, and a wife and two kids. He only went to the zoo on Saturdays. Any other time he was at his job or at his home. His wife would fix him breakfast and dinner and a sack lunch for work. He loved his wife as much as he loved the zoo, and his eldest son was the star pitcher of the little league team. His car was the nicest car and his house was the biggest house on the block. Oh, how proud the man was of his life!

One day, the man sat at his desk at his job, and opened up his sack lunch. There the man found something amazing. The sandwich was not a peanut butter and jelly sandwich! This puzzled the man. His wife always packed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Now, in place of the ordinary meal, was a turkey and tomato sandwich. The man threw away the sandwich. He did not like turkey - he only liked peanut butter and jelly.

Though he was angry to begin with, by the time the man had driven home, he was nearly totally calm. And oh, how he loved his wife! The moment he saw her smiling face reading the paper in the living room, his anger melted away. The man kissed his wife, and told her about his day at work. The wife told him about their son. Their son's team had won the championship. The man was so happy.

Later that night, as the man lay in bed, he noticed a curious thing. His wife was not beside him. This surprised the man. They always went to bed at the same time, and his wife was always beside him. The man stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. Finally, he became afraid. What if something had happened to his wife? What if she was having a stroke?

The man leapt out of bed, and walked down the stairs. He heard a voice from the kitchen, and sighed in relief. The voice was his wife's. He started to walk to the kitchen to tell her about his silly fears, when he discovered a suspicious thing. The voice coming from the kitchen seemed to be talking into a telephone. "Come over tomorrow when he's at work," the voice was saying! The husband was astonished. He ran back up the stairs and got in bed, thinking about what he had heard. The man began to grow angry.

But oh, the man did so love his wife. When she came up the stairs and into the room, his anger faded away. "Who was that on the phone?" the man asked, as the wife climbed into bed. "Pauline," said the wife, without a pause. "She's coming over tomorrow to help plan a party for the boys." And so much did the man love his wife that he nodded his head, and turned out the light.

The next day was a Friday. The man shaved and took a shower, ate breakfast and brushed his teeth. His wife smiled and made a sack lunch, and kissed him on the way out the door. The man drove to work feeling ashamed of what he had thought the night before. His wife was so sweet and good, and his boys were so young and strong, and his car was so nice, and his house was so big, and everything was going swell.

As he sat at his desk at his job, however, the man felt nervous. He stared at the clock. He tapped a pencil against the wood. He drummed his fingers. Soon, he began to think back on the phone conversation. The man no longer felt nervous. He felt suspicious. He felt bad for feeling suspicious, but he felt suspicious all the same.

When lunch time came around, the man was astounded to make yet another discovery. His sandwich was still turkey! The fact seemed impossible. One lapse could be understood, but two, two meant that there must be something wrong. He threw away the sandwich and went to his boss's office. He took the rest of the day off. He was such a good, hard worker, and he had plenty of sick days left.

The man drove home quickly, and was able to make it to his house only an hour after lunch. He pulled his car into his driveway carefully, and he carefully opened the door. His wife's car was still there, but where was his wife? He grew more suspicious. In fact, he grew so suspicious, that he walked up the stairs.

Halfway up the stairs, the suspicious man heard a suspicious sound. There was laughter coming from the bedroom. He became very silent, and climbed the stairs oh so stealthily. When he reached the top of the stairs, he moved to the bedroom door, and cracked it open, making sure that he was very, very quiet. As he peered into the room, he was forced to stile a gasp. There was his wife, kissing another man!

The man was shocked, with his suspicions confirmed. As quietly as before, but more quickly, he walked down the stairs, out the door, and into his car. He drove away very fast, nearly hitting a car as he turned out of the neighborhood.

The man was now very sad. As he went down the road, he cried and he cried. He felt so bad that there was only one place he could possibly go. The man went to the zoo.

At the zoo, the man was still sad. The peanuts did not make him happy. The giraffes did not make him happy. The pretty girls only made him feel worse. Soon, the only place left to visit was his favorite place in the whole zoo - the reptile room.

The man walked through the reptile room, not looking at the many different animals. He was only concerned with the snakes. He knew that it was feeding time soon, and he did not want to miss it. Surely, he thought, the snakes will make me feel better.

The man had been watching the snakes for some time when the time for feeding finally came. The man had been wrong. The snakes had not made him feel better. They had only made him feel worse, as they slithered and let out their forked tongues, and made him shiver. He became very interested when the mice were placed inside the aquariums, though. It was his favorite thing in the whole world. He nearly applauded as one of the snakes lashed out at the mouse, crushing it in its coils, and unhinging its jaw to fit the meal into itself.

The man was as fascinated as always. As he watched the snake devour the mouse, he felt better. When the snake was done with the mouse, he nodded, and walked away. It was getting late, and it would soon be time for him to go home.

When he got home, he found his wife smiling and in the kitchen, fixing a fancy dinner. She kissed him hello, and the man almost cringed. "Where are the kids?" he asked.

"They're at Pauline's house," she said. "Celebrating the win. Could you help me cut these tomatoes, dear?" she returned, pointing at some shapes on the table, then beginning to roll up some dough. "I thought we could have a nice little dinner by ourselves."

The man nodded. He could never refuse his wife anything. He took a knife out of a drawer, and started cutting the tomatoes. He looked at his wife over his shoulder for a moment.

"You're as beautiful as a mouse," he said, then felt a sharp pain in his hand, and looked back at the table. He had accidentally cut himself. He cursed himself for not paying attention.

"You'll make me blush," she said, as she continued to roll the dough. The man shivered. He looked at his now bleeding hand. He looked at his wife. He felt as though a snake was swallowing his heart.

He picked up the knife, walked over to his wife, and put his arms around her, holding her tightly. His wife giggled, then looked down at his hands. "You've cut yourself!" she chided. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Yes," said the man. "Its horribly painful." He felt tears gathering in his eyes, as he brought the knife to her throat. The wife's sound of shock was cut short as he slid it across the skin, cutting through the arteries. As she slid to the floor in a heap, he let out a sob. He loved his wife so very, very much.

The next day was Saturday. The man drove to the zoo. He did not eat peanuts or talk to the pretty women behind the ice cream booths. He did not look at the small children or the giraffes. He walked straight to the reptile room, past the creatures with the disgusting forked tongues. He stood in front of a snake aquarium, and looked through the glass. What he saw almost made him shriek.

Inside the glass, a snake had inserted its own tail into its mouth. Its jaw had come unhinged, and the snake sat on a rock, trying to swallow the tail. Bloody scratches from its fangs were raked up and down its sides. The man stared at the snake, fixed to the spot.

After a moment, he swallowed hard. The snake's small, black eyes peered back at him, as it continued its meal. The man nodded, and muttered to himself. "I should have known," he whispered. "Its only a snake."

"This Chocolate World"

2004-09-23T23:46:00.000-04:00

What could we do?

After the blackout,
the only evidence that
we'd destroyed the
whole chocolate world
was the sticky
brown stuff
on our fingers.

i disown this

2004-09-17T23:47:00.000-04:00

Well, well,
What could I say?
Everyone's idyllic
Everyone's idyllic
Everyone's idyllic
Except for me.

Don't throw the
the Dictionary
at me, don't.
Its
its hard enough
its hard enough to
breathe.

"The Trial"

2004-02-07T22:45:00.000-05:00

Johnny-boy was in a tight place, and he could feel it all the way to his sweat glands. Sweat was pouring down his face and into his eyes blinding him with sweat sting and fear sting as pop started walking through the door, the wood swinging open and showing loaded and cocked guns and a beefcake muscle shirt. Johnny started tucking his book behind his back, but pop he sees, and grabs the hand with a grin.

"Boy, I thought I told you to fix the air conditioner," says Pop. "I already chopped the firewood, pop!" says Johnny-boy. "Boy, we don't need that crap anymore, we're advanced!" says Pop, and starts to teach Johnny-boy a lesson. And then the book pages carpet the floor and Johnny's crying and pops laughing when Johnny gets the queer idea.

"Why're you looking at me like that, Boy?" Pop asks, backing up. Johnny, he makes no answer, and jumps at pop with a rebel yell. Pop shrieks and Johnny sticks his finger in pop's eyes, and digs around to try to find the brains, but when he gets past the eyes and looks into the skull all he sees is lint and no brains. So Johnny washes his hands and runs out the door and starts to walk to town.

On the way down the lane Johnny sees Mary Sue. Mary Sue has long blonde tresses and a pretty shining face and can wear high heels and look good. Mary Sue slinks up to Johnny batting her eyelashes and looking edible, and drawls out all slow and sultry, "Johnny-boy, I've been looking for someone like you all my life, and now you're here, and we can start up all those foundation things I cry into the corner at night," and Johnny he backs away in fear. He sees Mary Sue's type of advanced and his knees start knocking together. Mary Sue, she keeps talking, and Johnny starts to get an idea. "Now, Johnny, why arrrrrre you looking at me like that?" says Mary Sue, and Johnny he doesn't answer, just tackles her to the ground, and sticks his fingers into her eyes and tries to find the brains. Mary Sue, she's screaming, but suddenly she stops, and Johnny's digging around and he don't find no brains, just lint.

By this time, Johnny is scared and he starts running to town and looking around real suspicious-like. When he gets to town, all the people are smiling at him and nodding their heads, and Johnny's thinking he's seeing lint falling out of their pockets and their ears. So Johnny, he gets another idea, and he runs to the Mayor's office. "I've got to see the Mayor," he says to the secretary, and she smiles, and nods. "You must be with the boy scouts. Go right in." And she nods again and Johnny almost shrieks as lint falls out of her head and starts piling up on the desk.

"Come in, come in, my boy, and let me tell you about these sixteen plans I can implement that will guarantee success and prosperity to this fair city and a retirement fund for my pocket and a small mansion to rest my days," starts the Mayor, as Johnny enters the room. Johnny takes a seat and the Mayor leans back and starts talking like, "Studies have shown that neglecting road care will stimulate the economy and that..." when Johnny gets all wild-eyed and cuts him off. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor," says Johnny, "I feel bad about you being an elected official of the city but this theory needs proof and its getting pretty thick in here anyways." So the Mayor looks at him curiously right up to when Johnny vaults over the desk and sticks his finger in the mayor's eyes, and the mayor starts shrieking and pressing the security button. Finally, the mayor stops, and Johnny is feeling around, but all he can find is lint.

Security comes in and look at Johnny and Johnny glances up with mournful eyes and says, "Take me away, I won't even make a run for it." And security, they is looking at the mayor's body, and they can't move, so Johnny puts on the handcuffs himself, and throws himself to the ground. Security, they kind've shake themselves a little, and take him to a holding room while the secretary looks under the lint on her desk for the phone to call the police.

So the police mirandarize Johnny and take him down to the cell and give him a lawyer, and they're sitting in the briefing room talking together. "Don't worry, son," says the Lawyer. "This is clearly a cut-and-dry case of insanity. You'll be out of this jail and in a home for the criminally insane in no time flat. We've got armies of psychiatrists waiting to testify on things like this." Johnny looks startled at this, and glances at the lawyer. "I appreciate the defense, sir, but the fact is that I'm not crazy, and this whole murder business is a misunderstanding."

"Nonsense," says the Lawyer, digging around in his ear. "Like I said, this is cut and dry. Why, I don't even expect to go to trial with this. Plea bargain and straight on to the ward for you. Now, how did that get in there?" he cries in astonishment, pulling out a piece of lint. "Nevermind, no big deal. And now, Johnny-boy, I must be off. Its happy hour and the prices won't stay wild forever." And so the lawyer leaves and Johnny goes back to the cell and huddles in the corner, thinking about all the lint piling up around him.

The next day Johnny and the lawyer go to the courthouse where the plea bargain is refused and they go straight to trial, 'cause the word's spread around and a triple murder's good publicity. The opening statements pass by with appropriate showmanship and the prosecution opens up with the witnesses; "The prosecution would like to call Dr. A. Krell to the stand." A hush falls over the courtroom, and the rapidly assembled jury nudges forward in their booth.

"Dr. Krell, could you tell the court your areas of expertise?" begins the lawyer. The air is getting heavy with the tension, and Johnny-boy is sweating Noah floods. "I have doctorates in psychology, sociology, and lacerations," rumbled the good doctor. "And how do you know Johnny-boy?" she continues onwards. "I am the school counselor," the doctor says.

"Objection!" cries the attorney for the defense. "The prosecution turned down my offer for dinner last night." "Opposing counsel?" asks the judge. "I had to prepare for the trial," the prosecution says morosely, hanging her head. "Objection sustained," says the judge, nodding sagely. "Get on with the juicy stuff."

"Permission to approach the witness?" asks the prosecution. The judge nods, and the lawyer steps forward. "Dr. Krell, in your professional opinion, is this boy crazy?" The defense lawyer groans and turns to Johnny. "We're doomed now," he says. "There's nothing for us."

"Absolutely not," says the good doctor. "Despite a penchant for over analysis and a particular desire to be kind to puppies that is totally out of line with a boy of his age and upbringing, this boy is incredibly stable. Johnny makes good grades, does what the teacher says, and only sneaks drinks on the weekend. Johnny-boy is our kind've boy." The audience groans in agreement. "What, then, is the reason for the killings of these three individuals?" asks Mz. Prosecution.

"In my professional opinion, ma'am?" The prosecution nods as the courtroom benches creak in anticipation. "Surge of emotion. The whole town knows that Johnny's pop beat 'im. After the murder of his father, he projected his anger on people he thought could have done something about it, i.e. Mary Sue who knew of the beatings, and the Mayor, the perceived law figure of the town." "Thank you," the lawyer for the prosecution says with a flourish. "No further questions, your honor."

"Defense, your turn." Says the Honorable, shaking lint out of his ear. The defense nods, stands, sways, catches himself, and says, "Thanks yer Honor, but we have no questions for Dr. Krell." The Judge looks at the prosecution. "The prosecution rests," says she. "Then the defence may proceed."

"I call to the stand Johnny-boy!" says the defense, after mopping his head. Johnny stands, and wades through the sweat to the witness stand, avoiding the piles of lint on the floor. His shirt clings to his skin during the swearing-in, and he takes deep breaths as the defense approaches the stand. "Johnny, why did you murder three people?" asks the lawyer, looking out of the corner of his eye at the prosecution. Johnny looks confused, and says, "Excuse me, sir, but I only killed one person."

"Aha!" shouts the defense, banging his hand on the witness stand. "One person! Explain, Johnny!" "Well, sir," says Johnny, a puddle forming at his feet, "Pop, Mary Sue, and the Mayor were all the same person. I killed 'im 'cause I wanted to see the brains and they were all lint." Defense starts rocking back and forth on his feet, with a big grin on his face. "No further questions, yer Honor."

So Johnny sits down at the defense table, and the lawyers give their closing statements, and he's feeling mighty nervous, 'cause he's seeing lint falling out of their ears and he can tell that they've all gotten their own sort of advanced, even the courtroom behind him, 'cause the benches are creaking to the tune of "crazy, crazy." And the closing statements end, and the jury files out, and then file back in before five minutes have passed, and by this time everybody's in lint up to their thighs and the piles keep on growing. "Has the jury reached a verdict?" asks the Honorable.

"We have," says the foreman of the gang. "We find the defendant innocent of all three murders." The benches start creaking in excitement, and Johnny cries in anguish, and jumps to his feet. "No! That's not right!" he cries, waving his hands above his head. "I only killed one person! I'll only be found innocent for one!" The bailiff comes and grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him into the chair, while the Judge bangs his hammer, shouting for order. When the benches calm down and Johnny's sitting there sputtering, the Judge gives out the sentence. "Having been found innocent of all charges, due to criminal insanity, I sentence you to The Institute For The Advanced Mental Case. Court adjourned." And he flouders in the lint, trying to get off of the stand, while Johnny's dragged away.