A post about my recent lack of posting.
Posted: August 15, 2011 Filed under: Ephemera | Tags: blogging, disappointment, time, writing 2 Comments »You may have noticed — or not, as the case may be — that I haven’t been posting regularly in a month or so. The week I spent in Taos seriously disrupted my schedule, which had already gotten a bit shaky with the end of the semester and the coming of the summer. I was trying to get back into my routine, and then the fence happened. I managed to blog and work on the fence at the same time — well, on the same days — for a week or so, but then I ran out of energy to work on anything but the fence.
The fall semester starts next Monday, and so now most of my energy is going to last-minute panic preparations, but I hope to get a least a few real posts written this week. Once the semester starts, I should be able to get back into the groove. It doesn’t seem right: I’ll have less time, but my time will also be structured and divided and allocated and whatever. During the summer, I let myself go to seed.
Anyway. Excuses, excuses. Stay tuned.
Day 215: Welcome a new life.
Posted: August 4, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: advice, disappointment, disasters, life, music, sadness, zombies Leave a comment »I’ve linked to the Census Bureau’s population clock before: you have to reload the page to get new numbers, but this one updates as you watch, which is cool, but also a bit disturbing.
If I wanted to go into it, this would be the time to discuss the unsustainability of our current population growth curve, and the ever-increasing likelihood of some sort of catastrophic collapse in which most of the population dies, and what this has to do with late-20th and early-21st century apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic fictions … I don’t really want to, though, because it’s depressing to think about. Also it’s late, and I’ve had a few bourbons, and I have to get up early and dig post-holes and put posts in them and put concrete around the posts in the morning.
So.
I’m going to take the easy way out, and offer someone else’s advice: “wear sunscreen,” &c.
I’ll make a few additions, also borrowed, but from other sources:
Life is hard, and then you die. It is the fate of all living organisms to become food for other living organisms. Death and destruction. Smoke if you’ve got ‘em. Alcohol doesn’t make life worth living, but it helps sometimes. All you need is love. Shit flows downhill, and payday’s on Friday. The Dude abides.
When the zombies happen, stay the fuck out of the cities.
Rock over London; rock on, Chicago.
Some thoughts on Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, part two.
Posted: July 21, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: books, disappointment, Harry Potter, movies, novels Leave a comment »I went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two on Sunday evening. I came out feeling … underwhelmed.
I almost said “disappointed,” but I wasn’t, exactly. Just underwhelmed.
I would like to say that this underwhelm-ment has nothing to do with the fact that the movie was different than the book — and I think I mostly can say that, because the myriad changes to Order of the Phoenix, Half-Blood Prince, and Deathly Hallows, Part One didn’t bother me that much. Films are different than books: each can do things the other can’t, and there isn’t much (or maybe any) real overlap.
And yet: it’s hard not to compare the two, especially because the final battle as Rowling wrote it is so cinematic. It’s full of exposition, but not in a boring, didactic way: it’s exciting exposition. But in the movie, there’s not anyone there to exposit to as Harry and Voldemort square off for the last time. That bothered me, a bit; it felt anti-climactic. Also, Voldemort’s death made no sense in the movie: he loses the wand, and then disintegrates? No. Bullshit. He’s not Sauron; he didn’t forge carve the Elder Wand; his power is not bound up with it. Even if we assume that, in the movie, Voldemort has cast a Killing Curse and Harry has cast Expelliarmus — as happens in the book — what happens in the movie is not a rebounding of Voldemort’s Killing Curse onto himself. I’m not sure if that made sense, but it certainly doesn’t make sense in the movie.
That’s a relatively minor quibble, but it’s also a moment in which the movie misses a chance to be really spectacular, and settles instead for … mediocrity is the wrong word; smallness? Yes, that’s closer: this final film feels like the first few — and they’re fine, in their own way, but they have a certain small-screen quality to them that the “epic conclusion” ought not to have. An epic conclusion should have exactly the opposite quality: there ought to have been so much going on — so many curses and countercurses and rubble and swearing and howling flying through the air — that one would have to watch the movie twice or thrice before one felt even close to comfortable with what was going on.
There are other moments like that: Fred’s death (and Remus’s and Tonks’s, also); Molly Weasley’s duel with Bellatrix; Neville’s decapitation of Nagini; basically all of the dueling that doesn’t involve Harry or Voldemort. The break-in at Gringotts and the destruction of the Room of Requirement are, I think, the only moments that really feel big enough, and they could have been better.
I’m sure I will see this movie many, many more times — I have children, after all — and it will probably grow on me, but I think I will always prefer the novel. Unlike Jackson’s Lord of the Rings films — which are not better than the novels, but which can stand on their own — Deathly Hallows Part Two will always remind me of how good it could have been, and wasn’t.
Not that I could have done a better job, of course.
Day 198: Have a good cry.
Posted: July 19, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: alcohol, children, death, disappointment, sadness 1 Comment »Originally scheduled for Sunday, July 17.
There are people that enjoy “having a good cry” on occasion: I am not one of those people. Never have been.
I don’t cry at movies. I don’t cry at weddings. I don’t even cry at funerals.
I cried when my children were born. Each time, it was a spontaneous losing of my shit. I though I was prepared the second time around, but no, I wasn’t — I cried more than either of the kids did, and they were the ones transitioning from the comforts of the womb (I guess wombs are comfortable?) to the harsh reality of being alive.
Other than that, I don’t cry. I mean, I’m sure I’ve cried in moments of extreme stress a few times in my adult life, but those were brief moments, and I have no desire to repeat them. I don’t find crying cathartic. Maybe that’s a sign that I should do it more often? How would that work? Have a few drinks, watch a sad movie — but which one? Steel Magnolias? — and maybe drop a hammer on my foot for good measure: that might do it, but only the “have a few drinks” part sounds remotely appealing.
Also, there was that one time that I cried in the shower — but if you haven’t heard that story, you’re out of luck, because it’s not getting told here.
Day 191: Bury a treasure.
Posted: July 10, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: art, cars, disappointment, reincarnation, strangers, travel Leave a comment »Just west of Amarillo on Interstate 40, there’s a place called Cadillac Ranch.
It’s not, as I half-convinced one of my colleagues, the place where they grow the baby Cadillacs. It’s an art installation, consisting of Cadillacs half-buried in a field in the middle of the Texas panhandle.
It’s also a great place to bury deposit treasure.
…except I didn’t actually deposit the treasure. There are several reasons for this failure on my part, none of which are acceptable. First of all, the Ranch was crawling with people, and hiding a treasure in front of a crowd of strangers isn’t the best idea. Then, the place we stopped for lunch wasn’t where the map said it was — and the map said it was right down the road from the Ranch, which would have been quite convenient — it was, instead, five miles back the way we’d come, so we had to turn around. Also, we were in — not a hurry, exactly, but we weren’t making unnecessary stops on the trip out, and are planning on stopping when we drive back through next Sunday.
…I’m not sure that all made sense, but I don’t care. Why should I bother making unacceptable excuses when they’re prima facie unacceptable?
Next Sunday, crowds or no crowds, I will deposit the treasure. I won’t reveal what it is until then, but I will say that it’s something small and plastic and from my childhood, and it’s not — I hope, anyway — going to track me down and kill me.
Day 190: Follow these directions.
Posted: July 10, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: disappointment, sadness, walking Leave a comment »The directions in question are walking directions: walk so many minutes in one direction, take the next two lefts, walk so many more minutes, cross the nearest bridge, etc.
This is a task I very much want to do, but the day it fell on — the day before I left for a weeklong, school-sponsored workshop in Taos, NM — was not a good day for me to spend a few hours out walking. I had to pick up the rental car (I and three of my fellow graduate students drove), I had to finish packing, I had to finish some reading — and I had to not entirely ignore my wife and children, who won’t see me for the next eight days, though I ignored them more than I should have.
Also, it’s hot.
So I’m officially postponing Day 190 — officially, to distinguish it from those three or four days I let slip past unblest, unburied, and unsung (days which I promise I’ll come back to, though I may cram them all into one super day).
I’ll probably get around to Day 190 sometime in August. It will be, if anything, even hotter then, but if I wait for pleasant weather, it won’t get done until after Thanksgiving, and I’ll have completely forgotten about it by then.
Day 186: Cleanliness day.
Posted: July 5, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: beards, body, disappointment, disapproval, sadness, social norms Leave a comment »Two hundred years ago, I’d have been a pretty clean guy. Suspiciously clean, perhaps. But by our current mysophobic and anti-dirt standards, I’m not particularly clean.
I don’t shower daily. I come close to it during the summer, but I average three showers a week during the winter. I don’t wear deodorant.
You’re probably all squirming a bit; tell people you don’t shower every day and don’t wear deodorant, and this is what they picture:
I’m not that dirty. I’m not anywhere close to that dirty. When I get that dirty — which happens, on occasion — I take a fucking shower.
I wash my hands regularly. I wash my face in the morning, and after certain meals (those meals during which I get food in my beard). I brush my damned teeth.
I took a shower today, of course, because it’s cleanliness day. I’d vaguely intended to get excessively dirty beforehand, but the most difficult thing I did all day was read Clarissa, and that didn’t make me dirty — not physically dirty, anyway. I did some jumping-jacks before showering, in an attempt to work up a sweat, but it was only sort of successful.
I cleaned myself more thoroughly than I have in a while. I washed everywhere at least twice, and with Dr Bronner’s Liquid Peppermint Soap — I came out of the shower smelling like a candy cane, and tingling like … uh, something tingly.
I’m certainly not going to start cleaning myself this thoroughly all the time — I’m just going to get dirty again, and I can’t tell any difference between today’s super-clean and my normal sort-of-clean. I guess the problem is that I wasn’t dirty enough to start with, because my normal clean always feel amazingly clean if I get into the shower caked in mud and grass and feces, which happens more than you might expect.
The secret to happiness is, after all, being really miserable before and after, so the brief moment of happiness seems that much better in comparison.
Day 177: Try seducing someone way out of your league.
Posted: June 26, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: bad luck, disappointment, disapproval, disasters, narrow escapes, sex, strangers Leave a comment »So, earlier today I was at [redacted], attending [function where this sort of thing is very out of place]. I saw [redacted] in the crowd, with whom I have the slightest of acquaintances, due to [redacted]. She looked even more stunning than usual, which is saying something. I approached her, abandoning my wife.
Me: You looking stunning.
Her: [a bit startled]: Thank you…
Me: Even more stunning than usual, which is saying something. I always enjoyed seeing you at [redacted].
Her: Uh…
Me: That dress is amazing. It really accentuates your [redacted], and your [redacted] looks fabulous. Have you been working out?
Her: [polite but cold smile]
Me: Look, this [function] is going to be a waste of our time. Let’s get out of here, go have a few drinks.
Her: I’m not sure—
Me: Let me cut to the chase. I want to have sex with you.
Her: [shocked, open-mouthed stare]
Me: Should I take that as a yes? [pause] You see, I’m blogging through this Book—
Her: [forceful slap]
People around us: [suddenly silent and staring]
Me: [pause, then—]: Alright, seriously, just once, I think it could be a lot of fun—
[when suddenly—]
Her husband: [smashing right cross to the side of my head]
Me: [sudden loss of consciousness]
[Cut to black. Fade in, new scene: a ditch, between a small two-lane highway and a field. There are cows. It's dusk.]
Me: [slowly regaining consciousness in the ditch.]
[long pause]
Me: Well, that didn’t work out like I’d hoped…
[long pause; cattle lowing in the distance, off-screen]
Me: [staggering to my feet, looking around trying to get my bearings]: Where the fuck am I?
[a car passes]
[I start walking east]
[fade to black, roll credits]
Day 169: Speak only in clichés.
Posted: June 18, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: art, disappointment, meaning, memory, words, writing Leave a comment »“Never use seven words when four will do.”
I hate clichés. I hate them with the fire of a thousand suns. I hate them with an unquenchable hatred. When I find myself employing them, in speech or writing, I wash my mouth out with soap and put a dollar in my cliché jar. Then I take the rest of the day off, drink too much, and pass out on the bathroom floor.
There is a picture of George Orwell in this post because, in 1946, Orwell published an essay — “Politics and the English Language” — which contains a paragraph that captures quite nicely how I feel about clichés:
A newly invented metaphor assists thought by evoking a visual image, while on the other hand a metaphor which is technically “dead” (e.g. iron resolution) has in effect reverted to being an ordinary word and can generally be used without loss of vividness. But in between these two classes there is a huge dump of worn-out metaphors which have lost all evocative power and are merely used because they save people the trouble of inventing phrases for themselves. Examples are: Ring the changes on, take up the cudgel for, toe the line, ride roughshod over, stand shoulder to shoulder with, play into the hands of, no axe to grind, grist to the mill, fishing in troubled waters, on the order of the day, Achilles’ heel, swan song, hotbed. Many of these are used without knowledge of their meaning (what is a “rift,” for instance?), and incompatible metaphors are frequently mixed, a sure sign that the writer is not interested in what he is saying. Some metaphors now current have been twisted out of their original meaning without those who use them even being aware of the fact. For example, toe the line is sometimes written as tow the line. Another example is the hammer and the anvil, now always used with the implication that the anvil gets the worst of it. In real life it is always the anvil that breaks the hammer, never the other way about: a writer who stopped to think what he was saying would avoid perverting the original phrase.
I wasn’t entirely sure what that first one — ring the changes on — meant, so I looked it up, and it apparently has something to do with bells, but I don’t exactly understand what: the long and short of it is that ring the changes on is a stupid cliché, which is sort of my point about all of them.
The English language is capable of amazing and ridiculous images and metaphors, and settling for dried cans of beige paint when you can have the love-child of Jackson Pollock and Henri Matisse throwing liquid color at your face is just sad.
Of course, sometimes things get out of hand.
Day 164: Share someone’s pain.
Posted: June 13, 2011 Filed under: The Book | Tags: bullshit, death, disappointment, life, pain, sadness Leave a comment »I’m not sure there are four more insulting words in English than “I feel your pain” — because, in almost every case, they’re absolute bullshit.
Plenty of things people say are bullshit; the bullshit is not the problem, exactly: the problem is that, in this case, the bullshitter completely trivializes the pain felt by the … uh, the one feeling the pain. The bullshittee?
“I feel your pain” seems to get used in two types of situations. It is, on one hand, part of a ritual of kvetching: it’s insincere and bullshitty, sure, but the kvetching is equally insincere — or, if not exactly insincere, still passionless and unconvincing. I find this usage of “I feel your pain” insulting only because of the context, because I hate listening to people complain.
The other type of situation in which the phrase gets used — or, more probably, some variation of the phrase that contains the sentiment in different words, because I think the only people who use the exact phrase are assholes, in the technical sense of the word —— where was I? Oh, right: the other situations in which this sentiment is expressed are those in which actual pain — usually emotional pain — is being felt, and in such situations the bullshitter has no idea what the bullshittee is going through.
For the sake of argument, let’s say that my wife keels over and dies tomorrow (I love you, dear): I think it’s safe to say that other people whose spouses have died are absolutely not going to be the ones to say “I feel your pain” — because they, having experienced a similar pain, understand how intensely personal and unshareable that sort of pain is.
I’m not saying that sympathy and empathy are bad things, or that we ought to ignore people’s grief, or people who are grieving — I mean, I don’t ever feel sympathy for anyone, but that’s because I don’t have feelings at all — but there’s a difference between genuine sympathy and bullshit sympathy. Genuine sympathy doesn’t express itself in trite phrases.
All of this is why I interpreted today’s task much more literally, and smashed my thumb with a hammer. Somebody, somewhere, I’m sure, also smashed his or her thumb with a hammer, at about the same time, and I like to think that it hurt less, because I’d done the same thing, but on purpose.
That’s how it works, right?
