A rather long entry, made up of several shorter entries starting around March 7th.
It is March 16th, 2011. And here is what I've been rambling about for the past few days.
It is March 7th, and this is what I wrote while avoiding work.
First off, Lemonheads do not taste nearly as good as I remember them tasting. The mind, in the absence of something, creates a likeness of that thing, and sometimes that likeness is accurate. Other times, long deprived of anything to compare it to, the likeness becomes slowly mythologized, and such is the case with most candy. The advertisements would always tell you, correctly, perhaps, that what you were eating was pure ambrosia collected by nymphs and...well, you get the idea. You also get, hopefully, that such ideas are planted in your head, and more often than not false. It is strange, perhaps because I watch so little in the way of TV now, how I tend to mythologize the ads themselves. I realize, though, that by doing so, these ads have achieved their purpose, they have, even though I do not buy their products nor even support their existence, won me over to the side of consumerism. I want things now simply because I am told that they will make me a happier human being. I know, on just about every level, that this is inherently false, and that the only thing whatever product they are selling (Kitten Mittons, etc) will do to my station in life is deprive me of what small income I am deriving from my rather mindless work. Work that, at the moment, enables me to write this very passage (which I will later edit and such before posting somewhere in the ether). I have become, to quote William Gibson, mediated. Influenced and saturated by media of all sorts. Soaked in it. Doused and lit by the candle of advertising, I am a torch to the benighted and unmediated areas, carrying the light of my flash and setting sparks off wherever I go. We all are like this, in our own strange ways. We all are conduits for media, for the world to see how media has changed and shaped us to its will. Ground us to its purpose. Molded us after being heated properly in the furnace of the advertising world, a world which we can never truly escape from--and would never truly want to, despite the parts of our nature which seek an escape from the modern world. This modern world that keeps us alive through vaccines, and all sorts of medical wonderment. Escape would mean a nasty, brutish, and short life. And when we realize this, we retreat into the safe coils of advertising, of the modern. The internet itself has fundamentally changed things. For everyone. Whether or not they even use it, even understand it. The distances between people are smaller than ever before, yet the gulf between two humans has grown beyond measure. We can now communicate at the speed of microprocessors with people from all across the world. Though our mind insists that since we cannot see them, cannot touch them, they are no more real than the numerous spambots that frequent any number of sites. And in a way, both things are correct. The mind, as I understand it, is terrified on a basic level that there is so much available to it, so much stimulation from any number of sources, so many indulgences. We can indulge the intellect by reading sciene-filled blogs, humor our inner gossip-monger by reading any number of fashion and celebrity blogs (jezebel is one of my favorites, followed by nerve.com), or give in to any kind of lust we have for anything through the perverse wonders of the porn-and-erotica industries. In many ways, the internet is like the mind, with very brilliant and very dark, twisted places that forget about humanity, forget that all people are in fact people, turning them into counters, pawns, chess pieces in some warped game. Objects in inner space.
And yet...the internet is not like the mind at all, it controls nothing, and yet has a strange sort of power.
It is a very odd world which we inhabit.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2011/3/7casey.html
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I suppose one of my biggest fears is Borgesian. That of loving books and going blind. Borgesian not in the sense that it is something he wrote of, but something that he experienced, gradually going blind as the years progressed--and worse, I suppose, knowing that he would go blind, as his condition was hereditary. He speaks of it in several published collections of lectures at various universities around the world. As always, his speeches fascinate me immensely, and I read them...well, whenever I need to fall asleep, in part because his writing is so brilliant (like Eco's in that regard) that it simply overwhelms my brain and forces me to sleep, to process all the information I've just taken in with dreams, dreaming of Babel and modern polymaths, of creating a society simply by creating the idea of that society, and watching as it creates itself, works itself piece by piece, through artifact and entry, into the world, crossing timestreams and multiverse boundaries. Curious. I need to read more proper literature, need to force myself off this devil-box and into the world of ideas, a world that...has different perils, but is altogether a more welcoming world than that of the internet, full of distraction as it is. If I want to write, and I take this advice from a number of sources, then I need to read. Everything. Everything of merit, anyway, and as the reader, I suppose it is my task to determine what exactly merit is. What is substance, what makes a classic. What makes an author brilliant? Better than his peers? Is it simply being read? Being a bestseller (I know several bestsellers who cannot write their way out of a paper bag, and several authors with a pen so skilled it shocks me who are hardly ever stocked because 'nobody reads them.')? Or having a devoted following, however small, that tracks down books and articles to circulate amongst however small the reading circle happens to be?
I must ponder this later, and return to my mindnumbing work, which I have probably put off for far too long--because of the distractions of the internet, of course. I suppose this writing itself counts as a distraction, which explains why I am enjoying it so much. It accomplishes nothing of note, but it allows my brain to work out these complex knots, to get to the roots of things, the kernels of thought that set off these Tunguska-esque explosions in my brain, leaving marks that can be studied by scientists and nomadic hunters alike.
I should write more on Tunguska...and will at some point in the future
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I'm listening to 'I'll Stand By You' by the Pretenders. The song is actually quite uplifting and wonderful in its own '80s way, a slow rock ballad of devotion that strikes a chord with me, as it should with any who are/have been in a wonderful relationship. It is a sunny day, I am wearing a scarf because I am writing all of this by a window that is probably slightly ajar, the grout missing due to years of neglect despite the building having been remodeled rather recently. The scarf still smells like bacon, and was made originally in Madagascar. While it looks rather cool, it is also slowly falling apart due to the very natural way it was made, the strings fraying and vanishing here and there whenever I wear it. I have an appointment this afternoon that I am both looking forward to (it should help me in a number of areas) and dreading (I really dislike doctors, despite or perhaps because of the medicine/magic they control and its capricious nature. Shamans of any sort have always been held with that sort of fear and reverence. We never associate with them off the clock for a different reason--theirs is a different world, an interior world, a magical world that they have spent years learning to see. Also, they charge far too much money for their services, there is that too...but mainly my distaste for the profession stems from the first point.). 'Fire and Ice' by Pat Benatar just came on. It always takes great resolve not to sing along to this song as well. Tah.
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I sometimes wonder whether or not I am deliberately malingering in the strange hope that it will get my fired--it isn't like I can find another job that will allow me to work without oversight. I hate oversight. Mostly because it means that I have to actually work, and there is not a worse fate than actually having to work when being paid! It might just be because I am anxious about various things coming up. Speaking of things--I need to bother the registrar and have them send transcripts along to IUSB soon. Tomorrow. That will be tomorrow's venture.
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Sometimes, I pause and wonder about my beliefs with regard to religion, and then I usually stop such wondering, because I realize how much doublethink is needed to actually consider one's own beliefs objectively. Objectively, my belief system should not hold together. And in a way it doesn't. It is bits of theology, thought, mythology, and realizations from a number of religions around the world, mostly polytheist in nature, as...polytheism just makes more...sense...and...is older, and it seems that with religion, the older, tried and true methods are better than new things instituted and claimed to be the ONLY thing out there. This sort of declaration grates at me, annoys me. Saying 'EVERYONE ELSE IS WRONG.' in large letters makes me shy away from whatever it is that is being sold (and religion, like almost everything else invented by humans, is a racket, and believers are racketeers in some sense or another, mobsters trying to force and cajole their ways (invariably crooked) into society. Just like the various mafias of the world). Granted, like some of the mafias, they do certain services to society that, in a society as complex and organized (all societies are complex and organized, especially, it turns out, those that are deemed 'primitive') as the ones we live in, the traditional role of small band shaman must be taken up by a larger group of shaman living who support themselves by enlarging their networks of believers, enlarging their tribes. My views tend to be as such, though as they are rather difficult to express, ask me on Thursday and you will get a different answer entirely:
1.There is the universe. There are many universes, many worlds, but this one is ours. It is more than we can ever really perceive, and any attempts to perceive the oneness of everything (the no-self) should be taken knowing that. See relation, see the divine.
2. Within that universe, there are things that move about and in some small way are able to influence things if it fits some sort of larger pattern. That pattern is the relationship between everything. Everything: stardust floating in the void and grains of sand on a wave-washed beach, the sun rising and warming the world around it, drying the sand. Sometimes, as we know, patterns get skewed or out of whack slightly. And other times, not being able to see the whole tapestry of everything, not being, really, able to comprehend it (both a mercy and curse), we think things are skewed, have been woven by mistake. It is the task of those things which move about the universe, these gods and such, to correct small mistakes where they appear, and show the positive side of what we consider to be negative things. Tragedies on all levels. And sometimes, there are things older and more powerful than these divinities, science. You can only fight physics for so long. Disasters, death, plague. The pattern takes care of itself in ways that seem awful, and simply are in some cases. Sometimes these ways are subtle, and we barely notice them. Other times, they are written of for centuries to come. Changes and repairs are happening all the time--with a pattern as complex as this one (all patterns and all people are amazingly complex, even and especially those that seem simple) it is a simple necessity that as things move, they are repaired. I need to phrase that in a way that sounds more sane. More rational.
3.One should also consider that people, humans, everything, really, has a sort of free will within that pattern. We can do whatever physics and our minds allow us to do. And that can include starting wars that will millions upon millions all for a few more miles of land, or all because you are listening to the voices that say 'everyone else is wrong, and they must suffer for their errors.' Humans are capable of so much greatness and beauty, and yet also so much terror and pain. It is up to us what we do with the world. Sort of.
4. Most religions have some ounces and grains of truth, of a realization of this massive pattern in them. Looking for these everywhere, and following as many of them as you feel comfortable doing is a good way to a happy life. I'd list examples, but as I could go on for ages listing, writing, pondering, I'll leave that to your own more than capable minds.
5. Other things included here.
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I used to play in this area that is a wide open reading area, back when it was a hallway with a winding marble staircase leading up the heights of the third floor and down, past the main entrance, into the bowels of the building, the excitement of the student lounge, always a place of joy for a faculty brat. Things change, buildings are gutted, people are molded by time and their environments--of which time, I suppose, is a part--the pressure that acts on the coal, turning it into a diamond. Pressure and time. And when that pressure is released? What are we left with? It seems like not very much at first glance. But then we glance again. We look deeper than the surface, and now, without the pressure, the weight, are able to see all the things below, little worlds undisturbed by the chaos above the calm waters of an endoherric lake, fed perhaps by flowing snow, but with no actual outflow, no sea it meets and joins in the rest of the world's water supply.
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I have an obsession with poisonous snakes, other venomous things interest me as well, but for the most part it is the vipers, craits, and cobras of the world which fascinate me. Most of all, I'd say the aspect I'm interested in, if I must pick one--is their relationship to humans. A viper guarded the well in which lay the rose of eternal life sought by Gilgamesh. Ramses the Great would have worn one on his crown at the same time that the Minoans of Crete worshipped the Serpent Goddess. Later on, serpents appear everywhere, as envoys to a number of gods, running this way and that, killing whomever the angered divinity wished snuffed, Cleopatra ended her life with an asp, as, according to Shakespeare, did her servants. Cleopatra did it in as classy a manner as one could expect from a Ptolemaic queen, and apparently allowed the venomous creatures to bite her breasts. As creativity goes, that is kind of near the top when it comes to oddly erotic ways to off oneself. The sex-death connection, I suppose, is always present, depending on who you listen to and how much you value their advice.
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Funerals (ahem, life celebrations--soon we will be celebrating Life Day, at least that has some basis and and acknowledged creator) in Indiana are very strange things. They are overseen by cricket-like men with reedy voices, wearing tan sweaters, dark ties, and invariably blue blazers.
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Thoughts.
English, as I'm sure you know, was not my first choice for an advanced degree--that, of course, was medieval studies, but as that program requires Latin, and Latin is something I have not studied, and my skill with languages is negligible at best. More accurately, my skill with languages is akin to my skill with flying an airplane--I have the greatest respect for those who have the skill, dedication, talent, and knack for such things, but I also recognize that I will never fly through the skies dodging MiGs and strafing T-34s. I can be many things in life, yes, but a linguist and a fighter pilot are things that should probably be left out of that said 'many things.' Astronaut too, but I'm okay with that--mostly, I think there is some innate part of every human being (myself, a man, a being included) that wants to go beyond the sky, into the great and oddly welcoming ocean of absolute zero, to hear the stars sing without the interference of the clouds, to tune in, just for a few seconds, to the frequency of the universe. Of course, leaving the stratosphere is not a necessity for listening to this frequency--just like leaving home and wandering in the world is not necessary for gaining enlightenment. Yes, it can help, can make the process of several kalpa into that of only a few lifetimes, but these things will happen eventually. I am unbelievably exhausted, yawning every minute or two, struggling to keep my eyes open at 10:45 in the morning. This makes working (especially on something as surprisingly complex as editing a number of passages--and making sure those passages are properly spelled and punctuated (something I spent yesterday doing as I was not exactly capable of writing anything akin to a coherent summary of passages x and y on various things relating to national tax law) rather difficult.
I apologize for the lack of proper grammar. My brain is rather failing me at the moment, as previously mentioned.
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It is Monday the 14th of March, and I am perhaps unsurprisingly exhausted. I’m still not sure how much sleep I managed to secure last night beyond that it was
less than I need to function properly throughout the day. My weekend went
wonderfully, in case you were wondering about that. Sparing some details, I’m going to force myself to write about the last few days, both to keep my brain
active and functioning, and to make it appear like I am doing my job (which I am
most definitely not, but enough about that). Friday went rather well. I had
several appointments on my plate for the day, but by ten in the morning I found
that all but one of them had been called off, which turned out to be fine, as I
ended up doing things that needed to be done while my brain was functioning
instead. I forget what those things were at the moment, but I’m sure they were
of little interest to you, dear reader, anyway. The afternoon was spent in part
on a venture to Target, which ended up yielding two very nice quality shirts
(collarless, four buttons on the neck-as far as non-dress shirts go, I prefer
shirts in this style. The buttons add a sort of class, and the cotton is quite
soft. Dinner at J.W. Chen’s, the town’s premiere Chinese restaurant, was quite
nice. I actually tried the fish and found it to be amazingly delicious (a
surprise for me, as I usually abhor food of a piscine nature. I returned to the
demesne with my Darling Love, and we ended up watching the first half of the
zany Swedish comedy that was ‘The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest’-the third
film in the wonderfully done but amazingly dark ‘Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’
trilogy-a masterpiece of Swedish angst, murder, and brooding darkness
punctuated by hurried people wearing H&M coats and semi-permanent scowls.
The filming and cast are wonderful, and paint a better picture of what Sweden is
like (somewhere that has crimes and problems like everywhere else) than that
described in the glitzy nightclub scenes shown in The Local’s club
nightlife and ‘The Week’s Finest.’ Not to besmirch The Local for
publishing these things, as, unlike the films mentioned above, they show a
glammed up and pretty side of Stockholm, and that is just as necessary as the
knowledge that there is a dark underbelly of things. That dark underbelly,
however, is still aesthetically beautiful, and the establishing shots of
Stockholm and Gothenborg are quite wonderful-and remind the viewer that Sweden
has more seasons than the perpetual winter that some associate with the
countries surrounding the Baltic. The shots of winter, however, are not to be
discounted, and are quite pretty. We stopped the movie at about the halfway
point, as Alex began to drift off to sleep-the film is nothing if not slightly
soporific in nature. Saturday morning found me scrambling for trousers and a
brush to run through my hair. The brush invariably becomes tangled whenever I
attempt such things, but it is more of a gesture than anything else. I scrambled
for these trappings of civilization because Alex was joining the family for
breakfast, and I had overslept my alarms (which would have roused me in time to
find me shaved and properly turned out for said delightful company and
victuals). All the same, true perhaps to males everywhere, the time from asleep
to fully dressed was quite short, and I strolled downstairs soon enough, for a
breakfast of…Swedish pancakes. The connection between the film the night
before and the pancakes of the morning was not lost on me-however, the reason
for the pancakes was that my sister was joining the group for breakfast, and she
is particularly fond of said Scannian pancakes. It did not hurt matters that
there was bacon as well. The rest of Saturday was passed in a wonderful and
dreamlike fashion. Saturday evening was saved from a dull and dreary fate by
Alex’s suggestion that comrade E and I tag along to Niles and the Wonderland
Cinema. E and I ended up seeing Battle: L.A., a fine alien-invasion
film that really cuts out any of the moralizing often evident in such
films-though that the film was produced at all says something about the times
we live in-alien-invasion/abduction films reach their zenith when there is fear
of something outside and other (someone outside and other, a group of someones
outside and other) that a society thinks it should (ignorantly) fear. The film
in question (Battle: Los Angeles) skips out on most notions of plot and
really goes straight for the action-element most films spend far too long
building up to and then skip out on aside from a few minutes of combat here and
there. The result could be described as Blackhawk Down with aliens. It
had its flaws, of course, and the protagonists ended up being the heroes who
discovered their true natures and ended up saving the world from aliens-turning
what would have been a great movie where humanity didn’t triumph (and leaving
room for a sequel) into a cut and dry victory for mankind through some plucky
heroes risking it all for the world flick. The acting, though, was decent-not
that there was really much deep examination of any of the characters-but what
soul-searching was done seemed believable enough, and the actors were not
depending on their star-power, something I really respect, and think definitely
adds to the film. All in all, it was definitely worth the trip, plus, there were
delicious smoothies beforehand in the Riverfront Cafe. The journey back (with
exception of a brief interlude with the Michigan State Police) was full of
lovely conversation involving all four occupants of the car. Such late-night
auto-borne conversations seem like a lost thing in the digital age we inhabit,
and whenever they occur they tend towards wonderfulness. After a late night
encounter with a rabbit that appreciated our headlights, I drifted off to
sleep.
Sunday found me sleeping in (by the clock, anyway, which had been set
forward the night before), and the whole of the demesne getting to a rather slow
start-something which was rather nice, and consisted mostly of reading a good
book and drinking several cups of mint tea, something which, in the absence of
the more standard Assam and Earl Grey (absence through need to avoid them for
reasons relating to my uncooperative prostate rather than the actual lack of
those teas), has turned into quite a staple. With the intent of helping me clean
my scattered and debris-filled quarters, Alex arrived at some time after noon.
Instead of cleaning, we spent a good portion of the afternoon watching various
TV programs and drifting in and out of various states of slumber when everyone
else vacated the house and silence reigned supreme. Living in a house with
2.5 other adults and two dogs, learning to savor and utilize the rare silences
is paramount to remaining sane.
Dinner on Sunday, rather than the usual affair at the Jones household, consisted of leftovers from the previous week. Chief amongst these culinary remnants was a pork tenderloin from Wednesday or Thursday that proved to be quite delectable when mildly salted. A flourless chocolate cake made by Deb more than made up for the slapped-together dinner. The first day of this week closed with my Lover in my arms.
Monday, however, has not found me in the best of physical shape, and my back feels like it has been attacked by a legion of gnomes. I am uncertain whether this is the result
of sleeping strangely (I’ve had very strange dreams this past week, and would
not be surprised if those dreams led to me moving about (as I’m told I often do)
in my sleep, or if the back-ache is merely a temporary symptom of the various
new and exciting chemicals that are flowing through my system. After a morning
of fetching books for the Circulation Desk, I’ve had the afternoon free to write
(and ostensibly to work on the project that leaves me with this computer,
but…I accomplished enough that it seems my work is going slowly rather than
not at all) and read up on various goings on throughout the world. For now, that is all.
Update: the rest of Monday went wonderfully.
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Tuesday.
Hmm.
I managed to write some 1400 words yesterday. This pleases me immensely, but is still not what I actually NEED to write (which is, of course, the dreaded personal statement for IUSB, itself a commitment to a program that I am terrified of simply because it is new, and as we all know, new things are frightening, dangerous, and can lead to all sorts of dangerous diseases.). Next up is probably a good thing--being that I have not written a single word of fiction in two weeks. In a way, this saddens me, for I hate not making progress, but also heartens me, because there is a chance that I could think of something new. With luck I will actually write something sort of...not as horrible as all of that which I've written, and keep only out of sentimentality.
It is now Wednesday, and though I've been quite successful in the field of work (I finished the work I needed to do for Monday, Tuesday, and part of today yesterday) I have not written anything of substance, of...merit. I do not really expect to, which might be part of my problem. My outlook itself might need to be shifted massively. My viewpoint, however, will remain fixed with me, seeing what I see through these mildly nearsighted eyes of mine. Having perfect vision, or perhaps even better than perfect vision, 20:15 vision or somesuch, is one of those dreams that is a common thing, I suppose. I had very strange dreams last night. Chief amongst these visions from Morpheus started thus: I am in what can only be described as a shebeen of sorts, with several friends (all of whom have in reality been blown to the four winds, but as this is a dream, we continue onward together), having drunk heavily from flagons that lie empty on a trestle table before us. In front of this table, there is a stage, dimly lit, but far better lit than the cantina itself. The stage is graced by another friend, whom I've known since the summers of my youth, spent on the beaches of Rhode Island. On those beaches, she was always a friendly idol of sorts, a few years older than the rest of the crowd that surrounded my comrades of surf and rock, the sister of my best friend. As it turned out (in the dream) she needed to pass me a message of some sort (the message itself was a shopping list for a rather large and involved dinner that evening at the Chateau Robinson. She chose to pass the message in the form of a strip tease given for the audience (to the delight of said audience--except for myself, as I was trying to decypher the code she was using to transmit the information). The dance eventually ended, and somehow I materialized at Notre Dame and was trying to find a path to the nearest fruit stand so that I could buy swordfish, corn, and pie for dinner. While this is actually the standard menu for a summer meal, why I would purchase all of these items at a fruit stand remains a mystery, like various things throughout the dream itself.
Anyway, the world of the mind is a curious and unmappable (unchartable also) territory.
Moving from that, to lands more charted, or perhaps unmapped in their own varied ways.
First of all, this article from Jezebel.com (yes, I read Jezebel--I make a habit of reading every news source I can get my hands on, and all the sites associated with Gawker.com are included in that--and Jezebel is probably the one that is most in-line with my social and political views (though, thankfully, all of the sites drift towards the Left, though none of them far enough, as far as I'm concerned--then again, as far as I'm concerned----I'm not going to go on a political rant right now, simply because I lack the energy, and my anger would be directed entirely (as yours should be) at the Free World for doing nothing about the popular revolution in Libya, sitting on their hands when they could be saving thousands of lives and ending a brutal dictatorship. If only there was a global organization to prevent the abuse of human rights.)....anyway...
This article from Jezebel is quite well written, and presents yet another reason you should be watching the British show Skins, one of those rare shows that (aside from being set in the Mirror World of England, where everything is the same, yet different in random little ways that make the world what it is, an endlessly varied and diverse place full of little things and ways) captures the terror of high school, and all the problems people actually face. Most importantly, the show does not shy away from the sex, drugs, and drinking (or the attempts to find these things) aspects of life--nor does it avoid the often unpleasant consequences of these various things. And for this honesty, the show is shouted down in America by organizations of 'Concerned Citizens and Parents' (save the world from such a fate and abolish all such Concerns whenever you see them) as being a negative influence, when it should be praised for being an honest depiction of life, realizing that teenagers, the youth of the world, are real people. The article also raises a valid point, and that is that the show actually addresses tough issues like sexuality and gender as dynamic things, not easily discernible static norms. There are no norms in life, and the writers of Skins get that point that America at large seems to have forgotten, or perhaps missed entirely.
So here is that link about which I ranted after promising not to rant.
http://jezebel.com/#!5782312/meet-franky-skinss-genderqueer-character
I suppose the title of the link gives you an idea of the article, but...read it anyway.
You'll understand why I rant, why I rave.
I am listening to Morrissey's 'First of the Gang to Die' in the warming sunlight of the main reading room's red leather chairs, and actually getting the work assigned to me finished, leaving me much more time to write, even though I really have nothing to say. I suppose I consider this more of a running conversation with my brain than anything else. 'God in an Alcove' by the incomparable Bauhaus is now running through my ears, reminding me of two things: the first time I listened to this song was the last time I went out drinking with Eric, Steph, and Jeremey on St. Patrick's Day of 2009. I cut class, and it was a very fun afternoon and evening, soundtracked by a Bauhaus CD I had picked up in Edinburgh from a wonderful little record shop run by a very friendly gentleman who actually knew something about South Bend (I said South Bend, and he said 'Oh, yeah, Studebaker was based there.'--turns out, the old goth liked old cars, and what would have been a quick visit turned into a twenty minute conversation). The second thing this song reminds me of, is that despite my inability to drink, I get to see Peter Murphy on April 10th, something that has me quite excited. Despite the warmth of the sunlight, a seeming mercy after living through months of the permacloud that sits like a bruise over the city, a reflection of the flight of youth and the resulting urban death throes, a reflection of internal socio-economic bleeding, cool breezes filter through the not-quite sealed four foot high windows, many still lined with lead, the glass in some places beautifully warped and thinned. I suppose I like these windows immoderately simply because I grew up marvelling at their size, at the birds that would take up residence in the main stairwell when the windows were opened during the often unexpected warm days of spring. That stairwell is now gone, replaced by the reading room I now inhabit. The stairs were the one thing that were really botched when they rebuilt this building. I suppose it is a sore spot with me--I cannot count the number of times I would race styrofoam cups down the center of the stairs, sprinting past amused law students to see which cup went farther. My father and his many student aides would often provide opponents in these gravity-driven regattas of styrofoam, plastic, and paper. Later on that stairwell became a proving ground for a science project on paper airplanes. Needless to say, I was a little pissed off to enter the building and find the stairway had been largely filled in with concrete and steel. At least some of the windows remain, though the afternoon glow they gave the marble steps remains only in my memory. Sorry for that trip into a now-vanished and inaccessible childhood. Moving onward, outward, forward.
I am almost embarrassed to admit how little I've been reading of late. It would appear that my brain needs to be rewired so that I can actually read and enjoy literature, especially if I want to secure an advanced degree in English. But how do I rewire something I barely understand. Step one is not related to literature directly, and is [I hit a stumbling block here, my mind locks up trying to find the proper words] rather that I need to clean and organize everything. Not just books, mind you, though those need to be organized too, but EVERYTHING. I have attempted and come very close to achieving this goal in the past, but fallen short and then fallen back on the clutter and chaos within a few brief weeks. But before that fall into chaos, that descent into entropy, I often notice how nice it is that things are clean. The second thing I need to do is to give myself a rigorous reading list, and not just pick a book randomly out of a number of piles, boxes, and shelves. This list will probably be heavy with things by Eco and Borges. I suppose in that regard I am fairly predictable. I also need to contact Rami at LangLab and offer him the bulk of my sci-fi and fantasy collection, something which he expressed considerable interest in when I mentioned it some months ago. How we've all changed in the intervening months, the world, I mean, not just referring to myself in the Royal We, despite a habit of doing this from time to time. We change, shift, and yet...remain exactly as we are, still brutal and horrible, yet with the most random streaks of something close to humanity. This is something I'm sure I'll repeat from time to time--as a student of what I like to consider history (the past is a foreign country, they do things differently there, and yet they do the same things as everywhere else--everyone eats, prays, talks, laughs, fucks, sleeps, and sings in equal measure.), humanity is a fascinating thing, that will often surprise you when you think the world is a dark and terrible place (parts of it are, yes, but for every dark part, there is light and brilliance), it will glow with joy and laughter. The world is not going to hell, and never has been. Yes, we are destroying and changing the world in ways we are still coming to understand, but we are also creating so much beauty. Powers will always fight and try to kill one another, and it is the duty of humanity, of people everywhere, to help the rest of the world and make even a tiny corner of it into a better place. One cannot, really, realistically, just go off and change things today--which sucks, yes, but all in all, it is for the best. To do certain things, you often need to sit and wait in a classroom, lecture hall, or library for years, soaking up knowledge which will only come in handy years later, maybe decades even, when you finally realize that an education, even and perhaps especially that which you study yourself, turns out to be quite useful, and solves all sorts of problems. I look to the north, out a window, through the trees, to see the spire of the Neo-Gothic basilica that is one of a rare number in the United States that has the trappings to host the Pope if he should ever decide he wants to hold Mass on campus. The trees conceal the green expanse of the main quad, a delight in spring, summer, and fall, but a Siberian wasteland in winter, plagued by snow and impossibly frozen air, breath crystallizing, ungoggled eyes begging to be closed as the wind assaults them. Now, with luck, it is closer to spring than winter, and we are hopefully past the worst of the snows, and moving slowly, often under corpse-pallid grey skies, to the warm breezes of spring and summer. From sweater weather into skirt weather. I look forward to being able to wear a kilt and sandals again rather than the perpetual jackboots that are an accessory and necessity from October to April, change out the beret for the fedora and straw hat of warmer weather.
I look forward to flowers as well. Flowers and birdsong.
The seasonal changes of Indiana make it almost nice. Almost. I still want to live somewhere like Rome, where it seems there is greenery year round.
Maybe someday, when we have money, we strike it rich in our chosen fields. Until then, I have a feeling that I shall remain in colder climes.
For the moment, I'm off. This afternoon, I am pleased to say I get to go off and see Tangled at the dollar theatre.
'Wind of Change' by the Scorpions is now playing, and I don't think any band could so capture the zeitgeist as this song managed to.
That's all.
---
Thoughts and reflections, continued.
Everything is rather curious. It is remarkable how much of the world, all of the world, honestly, is alive and full of movement. At the quantum level, everything is dancing, moving, shifting. And this dance, this constant and cosmic motion, is reflected through everything else, at every level.
Anyway, that's all.
It is March 7th, and this is what I wrote while avoiding work.
First off, Lemonheads do not taste nearly as good as I remember them tasting. The mind, in the absence of something, creates a likeness of that thing, and sometimes that likeness is accurate. Other times, long deprived of anything to compare it to, the likeness becomes slowly mythologized, and such is the case with most candy. The advertisements would always tell you, correctly, perhaps, that what you were eating was pure ambrosia collected by nymphs and...well, you get the idea. You also get, hopefully, that such ideas are planted in your head, and more often than not false. It is strange, perhaps because I watch so little in the way of TV now, how I tend to mythologize the ads themselves. I realize, though, that by doing so, these ads have achieved their purpose, they have, even though I do not buy their products nor even support their existence, won me over to the side of consumerism. I want things now simply because I am told that they will make me a happier human being. I know, on just about every level, that this is inherently false, and that the only thing whatever product they are selling (Kitten Mittons, etc) will do to my station in life is deprive me of what small income I am deriving from my rather mindless work. Work that, at the moment, enables me to write this very passage (which I will later edit and such before posting somewhere in the ether). I have become, to quote William Gibson, mediated. Influenced and saturated by media of all sorts. Soaked in it. Doused and lit by the candle of advertising, I am a torch to the benighted and unmediated areas, carrying the light of my flash and setting sparks off wherever I go. We all are like this, in our own strange ways. We all are conduits for media, for the world to see how media has changed and shaped us to its will. Ground us to its purpose. Molded us after being heated properly in the furnace of the advertising world, a world which we can never truly escape from--and would never truly want to, despite the parts of our nature which seek an escape from the modern world. This modern world that keeps us alive through vaccines, and all sorts of medical wonderment. Escape would mean a nasty, brutish, and short life. And when we realize this, we retreat into the safe coils of advertising, of the modern. The internet itself has fundamentally changed things. For everyone. Whether or not they even use it, even understand it. The distances between people are smaller than ever before, yet the gulf between two humans has grown beyond measure. We can now communicate at the speed of microprocessors with people from all across the world. Though our mind insists that since we cannot see them, cannot touch them, they are no more real than the numerous spambots that frequent any number of sites. And in a way, both things are correct. The mind, as I understand it, is terrified on a basic level that there is so much available to it, so much stimulation from any number of sources, so many indulgences. We can indulge the intellect by reading sciene-filled blogs, humor our inner gossip-monger by reading any number of fashion and celebrity blogs (jezebel is one of my favorites, followed by nerve.com), or give in to any kind of lust we have for anything through the perverse wonders of the porn-and-erotica industries. In many ways, the internet is like the mind, with very brilliant and very dark, twisted places that forget about humanity, forget that all people are in fact people, turning them into counters, pawns, chess pieces in some warped game. Objects in inner space.
And yet...the internet is not like the mind at all, it controls nothing, and yet has a strange sort of power.
It is a very odd world which we inhabit.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2011/3/7casey.html
---
I suppose one of my biggest fears is Borgesian. That of loving books and going blind. Borgesian not in the sense that it is something he wrote of, but something that he experienced, gradually going blind as the years progressed--and worse, I suppose, knowing that he would go blind, as his condition was hereditary. He speaks of it in several published collections of lectures at various universities around the world. As always, his speeches fascinate me immensely, and I read them...well, whenever I need to fall asleep, in part because his writing is so brilliant (like Eco's in that regard) that it simply overwhelms my brain and forces me to sleep, to process all the information I've just taken in with dreams, dreaming of Babel and modern polymaths, of creating a society simply by creating the idea of that society, and watching as it creates itself, works itself piece by piece, through artifact and entry, into the world, crossing timestreams and multiverse boundaries. Curious. I need to read more proper literature, need to force myself off this devil-box and into the world of ideas, a world that...has different perils, but is altogether a more welcoming world than that of the internet, full of distraction as it is. If I want to write, and I take this advice from a number of sources, then I need to read. Everything. Everything of merit, anyway, and as the reader, I suppose it is my task to determine what exactly merit is. What is substance, what makes a classic. What makes an author brilliant? Better than his peers? Is it simply being read? Being a bestseller (I know several bestsellers who cannot write their way out of a paper bag, and several authors with a pen so skilled it shocks me who are hardly ever stocked because 'nobody reads them.')? Or having a devoted following, however small, that tracks down books and articles to circulate amongst however small the reading circle happens to be?
I must ponder this later, and return to my mindnumbing work, which I have probably put off for far too long--because of the distractions of the internet, of course. I suppose this writing itself counts as a distraction, which explains why I am enjoying it so much. It accomplishes nothing of note, but it allows my brain to work out these complex knots, to get to the roots of things, the kernels of thought that set off these Tunguska-esque explosions in my brain, leaving marks that can be studied by scientists and nomadic hunters alike.
I should write more on Tunguska...and will at some point in the future
---
I'm listening to 'I'll Stand By You' by the Pretenders. The song is actually quite uplifting and wonderful in its own '80s way, a slow rock ballad of devotion that strikes a chord with me, as it should with any who are/have been in a wonderful relationship. It is a sunny day, I am wearing a scarf because I am writing all of this by a window that is probably slightly ajar, the grout missing due to years of neglect despite the building having been remodeled rather recently. The scarf still smells like bacon, and was made originally in Madagascar. While it looks rather cool, it is also slowly falling apart due to the very natural way it was made, the strings fraying and vanishing here and there whenever I wear it. I have an appointment this afternoon that I am both looking forward to (it should help me in a number of areas) and dreading (I really dislike doctors, despite or perhaps because of the medicine/magic they control and its capricious nature. Shamans of any sort have always been held with that sort of fear and reverence. We never associate with them off the clock for a different reason--theirs is a different world, an interior world, a magical world that they have spent years learning to see. Also, they charge far too much money for their services, there is that too...but mainly my distaste for the profession stems from the first point.). 'Fire and Ice' by Pat Benatar just came on. It always takes great resolve not to sing along to this song as well. Tah.
---
I sometimes wonder whether or not I am deliberately malingering in the strange hope that it will get my fired--it isn't like I can find another job that will allow me to work without oversight. I hate oversight. Mostly because it means that I have to actually work, and there is not a worse fate than actually having to work when being paid! It might just be because I am anxious about various things coming up. Speaking of things--I need to bother the registrar and have them send transcripts along to IUSB soon. Tomorrow. That will be tomorrow's venture.
---
Sometimes, I pause and wonder about my beliefs with regard to religion, and then I usually stop such wondering, because I realize how much doublethink is needed to actually consider one's own beliefs objectively. Objectively, my belief system should not hold together. And in a way it doesn't. It is bits of theology, thought, mythology, and realizations from a number of religions around the world, mostly polytheist in nature, as...polytheism just makes more...sense...and...is older, and it seems that with religion, the older, tried and true methods are better than new things instituted and claimed to be the ONLY thing out there. This sort of declaration grates at me, annoys me. Saying 'EVERYONE ELSE IS WRONG.' in large letters makes me shy away from whatever it is that is being sold (and religion, like almost everything else invented by humans, is a racket, and believers are racketeers in some sense or another, mobsters trying to force and cajole their ways (invariably crooked) into society. Just like the various mafias of the world). Granted, like some of the mafias, they do certain services to society that, in a society as complex and organized (all societies are complex and organized, especially, it turns out, those that are deemed 'primitive') as the ones we live in, the traditional role of small band shaman must be taken up by a larger group of shaman living who support themselves by enlarging their networks of believers, enlarging their tribes. My views tend to be as such, though as they are rather difficult to express, ask me on Thursday and you will get a different answer entirely:
1.There is the universe. There are many universes, many worlds, but this one is ours. It is more than we can ever really perceive, and any attempts to perceive the oneness of everything (the no-self) should be taken knowing that. See relation, see the divine.
2. Within that universe, there are things that move about and in some small way are able to influence things if it fits some sort of larger pattern. That pattern is the relationship between everything. Everything: stardust floating in the void and grains of sand on a wave-washed beach, the sun rising and warming the world around it, drying the sand. Sometimes, as we know, patterns get skewed or out of whack slightly. And other times, not being able to see the whole tapestry of everything, not being, really, able to comprehend it (both a mercy and curse), we think things are skewed, have been woven by mistake. It is the task of those things which move about the universe, these gods and such, to correct small mistakes where they appear, and show the positive side of what we consider to be negative things. Tragedies on all levels. And sometimes, there are things older and more powerful than these divinities, science. You can only fight physics for so long. Disasters, death, plague. The pattern takes care of itself in ways that seem awful, and simply are in some cases. Sometimes these ways are subtle, and we barely notice them. Other times, they are written of for centuries to come. Changes and repairs are happening all the time--with a pattern as complex as this one (all patterns and all people are amazingly complex, even and especially those that seem simple) it is a simple necessity that as things move, they are repaired. I need to phrase that in a way that sounds more sane. More rational.
3.One should also consider that people, humans, everything, really, has a sort of free will within that pattern. We can do whatever physics and our minds allow us to do. And that can include starting wars that will millions upon millions all for a few more miles of land, or all because you are listening to the voices that say 'everyone else is wrong, and they must suffer for their errors.' Humans are capable of so much greatness and beauty, and yet also so much terror and pain. It is up to us what we do with the world. Sort of.
4. Most religions have some ounces and grains of truth, of a realization of this massive pattern in them. Looking for these everywhere, and following as many of them as you feel comfortable doing is a good way to a happy life. I'd list examples, but as I could go on for ages listing, writing, pondering, I'll leave that to your own more than capable minds.
5. Other things included here.
---
I used to play in this area that is a wide open reading area, back when it was a hallway with a winding marble staircase leading up the heights of the third floor and down, past the main entrance, into the bowels of the building, the excitement of the student lounge, always a place of joy for a faculty brat. Things change, buildings are gutted, people are molded by time and their environments--of which time, I suppose, is a part--the pressure that acts on the coal, turning it into a diamond. Pressure and time. And when that pressure is released? What are we left with? It seems like not very much at first glance. But then we glance again. We look deeper than the surface, and now, without the pressure, the weight, are able to see all the things below, little worlds undisturbed by the chaos above the calm waters of an endoherric lake, fed perhaps by flowing snow, but with no actual outflow, no sea it meets and joins in the rest of the world's water supply.
---
I have an obsession with poisonous snakes, other venomous things interest me as well, but for the most part it is the vipers, craits, and cobras of the world which fascinate me. Most of all, I'd say the aspect I'm interested in, if I must pick one--is their relationship to humans. A viper guarded the well in which lay the rose of eternal life sought by Gilgamesh. Ramses the Great would have worn one on his crown at the same time that the Minoans of Crete worshipped the Serpent Goddess. Later on, serpents appear everywhere, as envoys to a number of gods, running this way and that, killing whomever the angered divinity wished snuffed, Cleopatra ended her life with an asp, as, according to Shakespeare, did her servants. Cleopatra did it in as classy a manner as one could expect from a Ptolemaic queen, and apparently allowed the venomous creatures to bite her breasts. As creativity goes, that is kind of near the top when it comes to oddly erotic ways to off oneself. The sex-death connection, I suppose, is always present, depending on who you listen to and how much you value their advice.
---
Funerals (ahem, life celebrations--soon we will be celebrating Life Day, at least that has some basis and and acknowledged creator) in Indiana are very strange things. They are overseen by cricket-like men with reedy voices, wearing tan sweaters, dark ties, and invariably blue blazers.
---
Thoughts.
English, as I'm sure you know, was not my first choice for an advanced degree--that, of course, was medieval studies, but as that program requires Latin, and Latin is something I have not studied, and my skill with languages is negligible at best. More accurately, my skill with languages is akin to my skill with flying an airplane--I have the greatest respect for those who have the skill, dedication, talent, and knack for such things, but I also recognize that I will never fly through the skies dodging MiGs and strafing T-34s. I can be many things in life, yes, but a linguist and a fighter pilot are things that should probably be left out of that said 'many things.' Astronaut too, but I'm okay with that--mostly, I think there is some innate part of every human being (myself, a man, a being included) that wants to go beyond the sky, into the great and oddly welcoming ocean of absolute zero, to hear the stars sing without the interference of the clouds, to tune in, just for a few seconds, to the frequency of the universe. Of course, leaving the stratosphere is not a necessity for listening to this frequency--just like leaving home and wandering in the world is not necessary for gaining enlightenment. Yes, it can help, can make the process of several kalpa into that of only a few lifetimes, but these things will happen eventually. I am unbelievably exhausted, yawning every minute or two, struggling to keep my eyes open at 10:45 in the morning. This makes working (especially on something as surprisingly complex as editing a number of passages--and making sure those passages are properly spelled and punctuated (something I spent yesterday doing as I was not exactly capable of writing anything akin to a coherent summary of passages x and y on various things relating to national tax law) rather difficult.
I apologize for the lack of proper grammar. My brain is rather failing me at the moment, as previously mentioned.
---
It is Monday the 14th of March, and I am perhaps unsurprisingly exhausted. I’m still not sure how much sleep I managed to secure last night beyond that it was
less than I need to function properly throughout the day. My weekend went
wonderfully, in case you were wondering about that. Sparing some details, I’m going to force myself to write about the last few days, both to keep my brain
active and functioning, and to make it appear like I am doing my job (which I am
most definitely not, but enough about that). Friday went rather well. I had
several appointments on my plate for the day, but by ten in the morning I found
that all but one of them had been called off, which turned out to be fine, as I
ended up doing things that needed to be done while my brain was functioning
instead. I forget what those things were at the moment, but I’m sure they were
of little interest to you, dear reader, anyway. The afternoon was spent in part
on a venture to Target, which ended up yielding two very nice quality shirts
(collarless, four buttons on the neck-as far as non-dress shirts go, I prefer
shirts in this style. The buttons add a sort of class, and the cotton is quite
soft. Dinner at J.W. Chen’s, the town’s premiere Chinese restaurant, was quite
nice. I actually tried the fish and found it to be amazingly delicious (a
surprise for me, as I usually abhor food of a piscine nature. I returned to the
demesne with my Darling Love, and we ended up watching the first half of the
zany Swedish comedy that was ‘The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest’-the third
film in the wonderfully done but amazingly dark ‘Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’
trilogy-a masterpiece of Swedish angst, murder, and brooding darkness
punctuated by hurried people wearing H&M coats and semi-permanent scowls.
The filming and cast are wonderful, and paint a better picture of what Sweden is
like (somewhere that has crimes and problems like everywhere else) than that
described in the glitzy nightclub scenes shown in The Local’s club
nightlife and ‘The Week’s Finest.’ Not to besmirch The Local for
publishing these things, as, unlike the films mentioned above, they show a
glammed up and pretty side of Stockholm, and that is just as necessary as the
knowledge that there is a dark underbelly of things. That dark underbelly,
however, is still aesthetically beautiful, and the establishing shots of
Stockholm and Gothenborg are quite wonderful-and remind the viewer that Sweden
has more seasons than the perpetual winter that some associate with the
countries surrounding the Baltic. The shots of winter, however, are not to be
discounted, and are quite pretty. We stopped the movie at about the halfway
point, as Alex began to drift off to sleep-the film is nothing if not slightly
soporific in nature. Saturday morning found me scrambling for trousers and a
brush to run through my hair. The brush invariably becomes tangled whenever I
attempt such things, but it is more of a gesture than anything else. I scrambled
for these trappings of civilization because Alex was joining the family for
breakfast, and I had overslept my alarms (which would have roused me in time to
find me shaved and properly turned out for said delightful company and
victuals). All the same, true perhaps to males everywhere, the time from asleep
to fully dressed was quite short, and I strolled downstairs soon enough, for a
breakfast of…Swedish pancakes. The connection between the film the night
before and the pancakes of the morning was not lost on me-however, the reason
for the pancakes was that my sister was joining the group for breakfast, and she
is particularly fond of said Scannian pancakes. It did not hurt matters that
there was bacon as well. The rest of Saturday was passed in a wonderful and
dreamlike fashion. Saturday evening was saved from a dull and dreary fate by
Alex’s suggestion that comrade E and I tag along to Niles and the Wonderland
Cinema. E and I ended up seeing Battle: L.A., a fine alien-invasion
film that really cuts out any of the moralizing often evident in such
films-though that the film was produced at all says something about the times
we live in-alien-invasion/abduction films reach their zenith when there is fear
of something outside and other (someone outside and other, a group of someones
outside and other) that a society thinks it should (ignorantly) fear. The film
in question (Battle: Los Angeles) skips out on most notions of plot and
really goes straight for the action-element most films spend far too long
building up to and then skip out on aside from a few minutes of combat here and
there. The result could be described as Blackhawk Down with aliens. It
had its flaws, of course, and the protagonists ended up being the heroes who
discovered their true natures and ended up saving the world from aliens-turning
what would have been a great movie where humanity didn’t triumph (and leaving
room for a sequel) into a cut and dry victory for mankind through some plucky
heroes risking it all for the world flick. The acting, though, was decent-not
that there was really much deep examination of any of the characters-but what
soul-searching was done seemed believable enough, and the actors were not
depending on their star-power, something I really respect, and think definitely
adds to the film. All in all, it was definitely worth the trip, plus, there were
delicious smoothies beforehand in the Riverfront Cafe. The journey back (with
exception of a brief interlude with the Michigan State Police) was full of
lovely conversation involving all four occupants of the car. Such late-night
auto-borne conversations seem like a lost thing in the digital age we inhabit,
and whenever they occur they tend towards wonderfulness. After a late night
encounter with a rabbit that appreciated our headlights, I drifted off to
sleep.
Sunday found me sleeping in (by the clock, anyway, which had been set
forward the night before), and the whole of the demesne getting to a rather slow
start-something which was rather nice, and consisted mostly of reading a good
book and drinking several cups of mint tea, something which, in the absence of
the more standard Assam and Earl Grey (absence through need to avoid them for
reasons relating to my uncooperative prostate rather than the actual lack of
those teas), has turned into quite a staple. With the intent of helping me clean
my scattered and debris-filled quarters, Alex arrived at some time after noon.
Instead of cleaning, we spent a good portion of the afternoon watching various
TV programs and drifting in and out of various states of slumber when everyone
else vacated the house and silence reigned supreme. Living in a house with
2.5 other adults and two dogs, learning to savor and utilize the rare silences
is paramount to remaining sane.
Dinner on Sunday, rather than the usual affair at the Jones household, consisted of leftovers from the previous week. Chief amongst these culinary remnants was a pork tenderloin from Wednesday or Thursday that proved to be quite delectable when mildly salted. A flourless chocolate cake made by Deb more than made up for the slapped-together dinner. The first day of this week closed with my Lover in my arms.
Monday, however, has not found me in the best of physical shape, and my back feels like it has been attacked by a legion of gnomes. I am uncertain whether this is the result
of sleeping strangely (I’ve had very strange dreams this past week, and would
not be surprised if those dreams led to me moving about (as I’m told I often do)
in my sleep, or if the back-ache is merely a temporary symptom of the various
new and exciting chemicals that are flowing through my system. After a morning
of fetching books for the Circulation Desk, I’ve had the afternoon free to write
(and ostensibly to work on the project that leaves me with this computer,
but…I accomplished enough that it seems my work is going slowly rather than
not at all) and read up on various goings on throughout the world. For now, that is all.
Update: the rest of Monday went wonderfully.
---
Tuesday.
Hmm.
I managed to write some 1400 words yesterday. This pleases me immensely, but is still not what I actually NEED to write (which is, of course, the dreaded personal statement for IUSB, itself a commitment to a program that I am terrified of simply because it is new, and as we all know, new things are frightening, dangerous, and can lead to all sorts of dangerous diseases.). Next up is probably a good thing--being that I have not written a single word of fiction in two weeks. In a way, this saddens me, for I hate not making progress, but also heartens me, because there is a chance that I could think of something new. With luck I will actually write something sort of...not as horrible as all of that which I've written, and keep only out of sentimentality.
It is now Wednesday, and though I've been quite successful in the field of work (I finished the work I needed to do for Monday, Tuesday, and part of today yesterday) I have not written anything of substance, of...merit. I do not really expect to, which might be part of my problem. My outlook itself might need to be shifted massively. My viewpoint, however, will remain fixed with me, seeing what I see through these mildly nearsighted eyes of mine. Having perfect vision, or perhaps even better than perfect vision, 20:15 vision or somesuch, is one of those dreams that is a common thing, I suppose. I had very strange dreams last night. Chief amongst these visions from Morpheus started thus: I am in what can only be described as a shebeen of sorts, with several friends (all of whom have in reality been blown to the four winds, but as this is a dream, we continue onward together), having drunk heavily from flagons that lie empty on a trestle table before us. In front of this table, there is a stage, dimly lit, but far better lit than the cantina itself. The stage is graced by another friend, whom I've known since the summers of my youth, spent on the beaches of Rhode Island. On those beaches, she was always a friendly idol of sorts, a few years older than the rest of the crowd that surrounded my comrades of surf and rock, the sister of my best friend. As it turned out (in the dream) she needed to pass me a message of some sort (the message itself was a shopping list for a rather large and involved dinner that evening at the Chateau Robinson. She chose to pass the message in the form of a strip tease given for the audience (to the delight of said audience--except for myself, as I was trying to decypher the code she was using to transmit the information). The dance eventually ended, and somehow I materialized at Notre Dame and was trying to find a path to the nearest fruit stand so that I could buy swordfish, corn, and pie for dinner. While this is actually the standard menu for a summer meal, why I would purchase all of these items at a fruit stand remains a mystery, like various things throughout the dream itself.
Anyway, the world of the mind is a curious and unmappable (unchartable also) territory.
Moving from that, to lands more charted, or perhaps unmapped in their own varied ways.
First of all, this article from Jezebel.com (yes, I read Jezebel--I make a habit of reading every news source I can get my hands on, and all the sites associated with Gawker.com are included in that--and Jezebel is probably the one that is most in-line with my social and political views (though, thankfully, all of the sites drift towards the Left, though none of them far enough, as far as I'm concerned--then again, as far as I'm concerned----I'm not going to go on a political rant right now, simply because I lack the energy, and my anger would be directed entirely (as yours should be) at the Free World for doing nothing about the popular revolution in Libya, sitting on their hands when they could be saving thousands of lives and ending a brutal dictatorship. If only there was a global organization to prevent the abuse of human rights.)....anyway...
This article from Jezebel is quite well written, and presents yet another reason you should be watching the British show Skins, one of those rare shows that (aside from being set in the Mirror World of England, where everything is the same, yet different in random little ways that make the world what it is, an endlessly varied and diverse place full of little things and ways) captures the terror of high school, and all the problems people actually face. Most importantly, the show does not shy away from the sex, drugs, and drinking (or the attempts to find these things) aspects of life--nor does it avoid the often unpleasant consequences of these various things. And for this honesty, the show is shouted down in America by organizations of 'Concerned Citizens and Parents' (save the world from such a fate and abolish all such Concerns whenever you see them) as being a negative influence, when it should be praised for being an honest depiction of life, realizing that teenagers, the youth of the world, are real people. The article also raises a valid point, and that is that the show actually addresses tough issues like sexuality and gender as dynamic things, not easily discernible static norms. There are no norms in life, and the writers of Skins get that point that America at large seems to have forgotten, or perhaps missed entirely.
So here is that link about which I ranted after promising not to rant.
http://jezebel.com/#!5782312/meet-franky-skinss-genderqueer-character
I suppose the title of the link gives you an idea of the article, but...read it anyway.
You'll understand why I rant, why I rave.
I am listening to Morrissey's 'First of the Gang to Die' in the warming sunlight of the main reading room's red leather chairs, and actually getting the work assigned to me finished, leaving me much more time to write, even though I really have nothing to say. I suppose I consider this more of a running conversation with my brain than anything else. 'God in an Alcove' by the incomparable Bauhaus is now running through my ears, reminding me of two things: the first time I listened to this song was the last time I went out drinking with Eric, Steph, and Jeremey on St. Patrick's Day of 2009. I cut class, and it was a very fun afternoon and evening, soundtracked by a Bauhaus CD I had picked up in Edinburgh from a wonderful little record shop run by a very friendly gentleman who actually knew something about South Bend (I said South Bend, and he said 'Oh, yeah, Studebaker was based there.'--turns out, the old goth liked old cars, and what would have been a quick visit turned into a twenty minute conversation). The second thing this song reminds me of, is that despite my inability to drink, I get to see Peter Murphy on April 10th, something that has me quite excited. Despite the warmth of the sunlight, a seeming mercy after living through months of the permacloud that sits like a bruise over the city, a reflection of the flight of youth and the resulting urban death throes, a reflection of internal socio-economic bleeding, cool breezes filter through the not-quite sealed four foot high windows, many still lined with lead, the glass in some places beautifully warped and thinned. I suppose I like these windows immoderately simply because I grew up marvelling at their size, at the birds that would take up residence in the main stairwell when the windows were opened during the often unexpected warm days of spring. That stairwell is now gone, replaced by the reading room I now inhabit. The stairs were the one thing that were really botched when they rebuilt this building. I suppose it is a sore spot with me--I cannot count the number of times I would race styrofoam cups down the center of the stairs, sprinting past amused law students to see which cup went farther. My father and his many student aides would often provide opponents in these gravity-driven regattas of styrofoam, plastic, and paper. Later on that stairwell became a proving ground for a science project on paper airplanes. Needless to say, I was a little pissed off to enter the building and find the stairway had been largely filled in with concrete and steel. At least some of the windows remain, though the afternoon glow they gave the marble steps remains only in my memory. Sorry for that trip into a now-vanished and inaccessible childhood. Moving onward, outward, forward.
I am almost embarrassed to admit how little I've been reading of late. It would appear that my brain needs to be rewired so that I can actually read and enjoy literature, especially if I want to secure an advanced degree in English. But how do I rewire something I barely understand. Step one is not related to literature directly, and is [I hit a stumbling block here, my mind locks up trying to find the proper words] rather that I need to clean and organize everything. Not just books, mind you, though those need to be organized too, but EVERYTHING. I have attempted and come very close to achieving this goal in the past, but fallen short and then fallen back on the clutter and chaos within a few brief weeks. But before that fall into chaos, that descent into entropy, I often notice how nice it is that things are clean. The second thing I need to do is to give myself a rigorous reading list, and not just pick a book randomly out of a number of piles, boxes, and shelves. This list will probably be heavy with things by Eco and Borges. I suppose in that regard I am fairly predictable. I also need to contact Rami at LangLab and offer him the bulk of my sci-fi and fantasy collection, something which he expressed considerable interest in when I mentioned it some months ago. How we've all changed in the intervening months, the world, I mean, not just referring to myself in the Royal We, despite a habit of doing this from time to time. We change, shift, and yet...remain exactly as we are, still brutal and horrible, yet with the most random streaks of something close to humanity. This is something I'm sure I'll repeat from time to time--as a student of what I like to consider history (the past is a foreign country, they do things differently there, and yet they do the same things as everywhere else--everyone eats, prays, talks, laughs, fucks, sleeps, and sings in equal measure.), humanity is a fascinating thing, that will often surprise you when you think the world is a dark and terrible place (parts of it are, yes, but for every dark part, there is light and brilliance), it will glow with joy and laughter. The world is not going to hell, and never has been. Yes, we are destroying and changing the world in ways we are still coming to understand, but we are also creating so much beauty. Powers will always fight and try to kill one another, and it is the duty of humanity, of people everywhere, to help the rest of the world and make even a tiny corner of it into a better place. One cannot, really, realistically, just go off and change things today--which sucks, yes, but all in all, it is for the best. To do certain things, you often need to sit and wait in a classroom, lecture hall, or library for years, soaking up knowledge which will only come in handy years later, maybe decades even, when you finally realize that an education, even and perhaps especially that which you study yourself, turns out to be quite useful, and solves all sorts of problems. I look to the north, out a window, through the trees, to see the spire of the Neo-Gothic basilica that is one of a rare number in the United States that has the trappings to host the Pope if he should ever decide he wants to hold Mass on campus. The trees conceal the green expanse of the main quad, a delight in spring, summer, and fall, but a Siberian wasteland in winter, plagued by snow and impossibly frozen air, breath crystallizing, ungoggled eyes begging to be closed as the wind assaults them. Now, with luck, it is closer to spring than winter, and we are hopefully past the worst of the snows, and moving slowly, often under corpse-pallid grey skies, to the warm breezes of spring and summer. From sweater weather into skirt weather. I look forward to being able to wear a kilt and sandals again rather than the perpetual jackboots that are an accessory and necessity from October to April, change out the beret for the fedora and straw hat of warmer weather.
I look forward to flowers as well. Flowers and birdsong.
The seasonal changes of Indiana make it almost nice. Almost. I still want to live somewhere like Rome, where it seems there is greenery year round.
Maybe someday, when we have money, we strike it rich in our chosen fields. Until then, I have a feeling that I shall remain in colder climes.
For the moment, I'm off. This afternoon, I am pleased to say I get to go off and see Tangled at the dollar theatre.
'Wind of Change' by the Scorpions is now playing, and I don't think any band could so capture the zeitgeist as this song managed to.
That's all.
---
Thoughts and reflections, continued.
Everything is rather curious. It is remarkable how much of the world, all of the world, honestly, is alive and full of movement. At the quantum level, everything is dancing, moving, shifting. And this dance, this constant and cosmic motion, is reflected through everything else, at every level.
Anyway, that's all.