I've been thinking about drawing again.
I am not a good artist. My proportions are off, and my line drawings are too light. I don't have confidence in my abilities, so I tend to use too light a pencil, so that I can erase and redraw as often as possible. When I scan my work to show my artist friend J, a lot of what I have drawn is lost because the scanner can't pick up or misrepresents the faint lines.
Every time I think about drawing, though, I shy away from it, because I tend to have a static concept of my abilities. People in general have that idea about any artist, though, I think. We believe that everyone has a set amount of talent and that ability cannot be exceeded. If it is exceeded, we suspect it as forgery or some kind of cheating, particularly with today's tools.
My friend J ran into this problem a few years ago. When she was in college, some thirty years ago, she was an artist, but life and a Ph.D in history intervened, and she put her pencils down. In the late 90s, she picked them up again because she was inspired by different works to try again. She sent me copies of some of the first things she drew, some scenes and character studies from stories I had written, and they were fun, but they weren't at the level we consider art. Some of the proportions were strange, and there were some adaptations of other works of art, changed to represent my characters.
But she never stopped drawing, and she started working in various media, playing, working, getting into practice again. She then got inspired by the Hornblower series, by the character Bush in particular, and her work really took off. Not only were her proportions correct, but she captured levels of emotion in her drawings that just blew me away.
In the mid- to late 2000s, she started sharing some of her work on the internet beyond her friends, to people in the Hornblower fandom and others. She left academia and got work in design. Her drawings got even better, which didn't seem possible, and that's when the trouble started.
Some people began accusing her of simply Photoshopping photographs of the characters with graphic design tools used to approximate hand-drawn works. In fandom, we call this kind of controversy, in which both sides become hugely offended and battle lines are drawn, a kerfuffle. It was an ugly thing and my friend was greatly offended by it.
One of the complaints about her work was that it was too good to be real, as though she, as a member of fandom, was only allowed a certain level of ability and was not to exceed it. Many people in fandom have visited her while she was working on these projects, saw them in various stages of completion, and could vouch for their legitimate creation by hand. The sad thing is, those corroborrations were dismissed because those people were her friends, and it's the nature of the internet community to be both excessively skeptical and naive at the same time.
She did the work, no doubt, and knowing my friend's absolute standard of honesty, I know that it would be impossible for her to even consider faking something like this for approval.
That is not my point. My point is that somewhere in our brains, as humans, we do not allow people the ability to improve their abilities through practice. We think of talent as static, and whatever a person can do at one time is what they can do for all times. A person is not allowed to go from strange proportions to transcendent art. That is suspect.
What I realized this morning, though, as I was working on one of my portfolio pieces for class is that we hold this same standard to ourselves. Think about what Stephen King says in On Writing. A competent writer can become a good writer, but a bad writer cannot become competent, nor can a good writer become great. There is a disconnect here. You can have this much improvement, and no more. You will never really be any better than you are right now. You will not have epiphanies and breakthroughs and great art. Whatever you are at 20 is what you will be forever.
That, my friends, is bullshit. (Sorry, Steve! I call bullshit on you!)
How did my friend get from where she was to where she is? She never put down the pencils (or charcoals or pastels). Her lines improved, her shading improved, her eye improved. She worked and worked and worked, and now her art is amazing.
This can be done with writing as well, but how often do we really do it? My friend's art didn't improve because she kept drawing the same lines over and over. Every time she picked up that pencil and looked at her subject, she made a conscious effort to improve what she did. Yes, the physical skill of linedrawing improves with constant practice, but she was rarely satisfied with a piece.
Once I complained to her that I was having trouble finishing a story, and she said, "You know, I don't get you writers. Why do you have to finish it? I don't finish every piece I start. Sometimes a piece just has a purpose, and when that purpose is complete, you put it aside. Or if it's an experiment that failed, you throw it away. Why do you have to finish everything?"
Maybe she's right. Maybe some pieces are just a tuneup, a problem to be solved. Solve the problem, set it down and walk away. Write the piece and discard it. We don't have to finish everything. We don't have to finish everything. There's only one writer I can think of who's ever had almost everything published in his lifetime, and that's Robert A. Heinlein. And his estate is still trying to pimp that last piece out there, from what I remember. A great many great writers got very little published during their lives but had volumes of genius or near genius published after their deaths. Dickinson and Peirce, to name two.
(To be honest, I'd rather not emulate Heinlein. Thanks.)
In those tuneups, those pieces, those problems to be solved, are the key to development. They are the practice that leads to improvement. There's more to it than that, though. We have to also break through that barrier of ourselves that is comfortable with what we are, and we have to reach for higher than we think we can stretch. I believe that is what those great writers do. They are not the incomprehensible freaks that King tells us they are. They are people who all their lives refuse to be limited by their own minds. They constantly stretch higher than they can reach, and have been doing it since they were in diapers. Naturally they can reach far beyond us--they have been stretching their whole lives.
My friend picked up her pencils again in her late 30s, early 40s. She has grown immensely as an artist. It's not too late for me. I just have to do the work. I have to practice, solve the problems, tune it up....work.
Time to stretch!
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
I am bored, therefore I Sim
I play the Sims whenever I have time, which is not often these days. I had the original version all the way through "Makin' Magic," and I loved the Sims 2 when things moved into 3D and you could have generations that grew up and died off. Now I have the Sims 3 and I love it, with some reservations. It's a bit harder to kill off your Sims now, because they are so much more self-directed. (Plus, they gave them the intelligence and animation to get out of the pool by themselves, so you can't drown your Sims by just taking away the ladder!) You pretty much have to starve them by removing all refrigerators or walling them up in a room with no doors.
Still, this video--more reminiscient of the Sims 2--is hilarious for those of us who have played the game. Yes, the Sims can be just this stupid. It's lying to you--you have to watch it on YouTube. It won't let me embed it. Still, watch it. It's funny.
Another thing that makes me love the Sims 3 a bit less: it's not as easy or intuitive to share pictures and stories of your Sims as it was with Sims 2. There's more work involved. That's why I haven't done it. Otherwise, I'd be inflicting my families on all of you a lot more often.
Gods, I love this stupid game.
Still, this video--more reminiscient of the Sims 2--is hilarious for those of us who have played the game. Yes, the Sims can be just this stupid. It's lying to you--you have to watch it on YouTube. It won't let me embed it. Still, watch it. It's funny.
Another thing that makes me love the Sims 3 a bit less: it's not as easy or intuitive to share pictures and stories of your Sims as it was with Sims 2. There's more work involved. That's why I haven't done it. Otherwise, I'd be inflicting my families on all of you a lot more often.
Gods, I love this stupid game.
A small fandom break
I don't watch TV unless I'm with Jeff. That's it, really--he watches TV and I generally don't. I will, however, watch whole seasons of TV shows on DVD, because I like continuity and I hate commercials. So there are some TV shows that I've watched several seasons of and grown to love.
Tonight, I was cleaning one of the booths and I noticed the last guests had been watching Leverage, a show starring Timothy Hutton. I've been meaning to get to this one, because I've heard it's really good. One of the characters popped up on the screen in the intro. They called him the "Hitter." The show is about a guy (Hutton) who gets together a bunch of very talented criminals and has them help him take revenge on people who do bad things. The Hitter, as far as I can tell, is the muscle guy.
He looked really familiar to me. In fact, I kept thinking, oddly, "I know you. I know you and I love you. Who are you?" It was a really strange feeling. How do you know you love someone you don't recognize? And yet, I looked at that screen and that character and felt that upwelling, that confusing affection, and wondered if I was confusing this actor with another actor somehow. (I do that a lot. Remind me to tell you some of my strange confusions sometime.)
So familiar. So dear.
And then it hit me. I pushed back from the table I was cleaning, sat up straight and yelped, "LINDSAY! Omigod, LINDSAY!"
Lindsay, from Angel! I do love him. I do, very much. I wanted to reach into the screen and scoop him up and say, "Darling! Where have you been! I'm so happy for you, in such a good show! Oh, Lindsay!" And pet him and hug him, smooth his long, unkempt hair.
Christian Kane is his name. I just looked him up on IMdb. I'm just happy for him that he's found something good. He played such a fascinating character on Angel, with so many lovely facets.... Yes, he's one of my intellectual crushes, in a way.
This happens to me all the time. Some of my LiveJournal friends no doubt remember the last time, when Darla showed up on one of the Law and Order shows, I think, and then Dexter. (Julie Benz.)
I know I'm a bit strange. When I love people, even imaginary people on TV, I really love them. It makes me happy to see them again and working, doing well. Maybe it's the theatre background. I love actors that do good work, and I love wonderful characters and good writing. Christian Kane is a delight, and so is Julie Benz, and Seth Green....*happy sigh*
After a not so fun week, this was a delightful surprise.
Tonight, I was cleaning one of the booths and I noticed the last guests had been watching Leverage, a show starring Timothy Hutton. I've been meaning to get to this one, because I've heard it's really good. One of the characters popped up on the screen in the intro. They called him the "Hitter." The show is about a guy (Hutton) who gets together a bunch of very talented criminals and has them help him take revenge on people who do bad things. The Hitter, as far as I can tell, is the muscle guy.
He looked really familiar to me. In fact, I kept thinking, oddly, "I know you. I know you and I love you. Who are you?" It was a really strange feeling. How do you know you love someone you don't recognize? And yet, I looked at that screen and that character and felt that upwelling, that confusing affection, and wondered if I was confusing this actor with another actor somehow. (I do that a lot. Remind me to tell you some of my strange confusions sometime.)
So familiar. So dear.
And then it hit me. I pushed back from the table I was cleaning, sat up straight and yelped, "LINDSAY! Omigod, LINDSAY!"
Lindsay, from Angel! I do love him. I do, very much. I wanted to reach into the screen and scoop him up and say, "Darling! Where have you been! I'm so happy for you, in such a good show! Oh, Lindsay!" And pet him and hug him, smooth his long, unkempt hair.
Christian Kane is his name. I just looked him up on IMdb. I'm just happy for him that he's found something good. He played such a fascinating character on Angel, with so many lovely facets.... Yes, he's one of my intellectual crushes, in a way.
This happens to me all the time. Some of my LiveJournal friends no doubt remember the last time, when Darla showed up on one of the Law and Order shows, I think, and then Dexter. (Julie Benz.)
I know I'm a bit strange. When I love people, even imaginary people on TV, I really love them. It makes me happy to see them again and working, doing well. Maybe it's the theatre background. I love actors that do good work, and I love wonderful characters and good writing. Christian Kane is a delight, and so is Julie Benz, and Seth Green....*happy sigh*
After a not so fun week, this was a delightful surprise.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
End of Term Blues
I spent most of yesterday being sad.
I was worried that it was the depression coming back. Every so often, I get inexplicable bouts of crazy thinking, when I'm just unbearably unhappy and there's no reason for it. The tiniest setback in the day can send me into a death spiral where the most productive thing I can do for the day or even the week is sleep. Being conscious sends the spiral even deeper, and there are places I've been on those turns that I don't ever want to be again. When that happens, I sleep if I can, or write crazy poetry if I can't.
(When the hell did I become a poet? I've never been a poet. I don't understand this. I still don't think I'm a poet. I just write the stuff when I can't take any more of life and it's poetry or the unthinkable.)
But I don't think it's the depression because the death spiral involves self-destructive thinking. Not necessarily actual destruction, though anyone who has been truly depressed has probably had suicide ideation. Someday, let's talk honestly about suicide ideation, because a friend and I have some interesting thoughts on it, but today is not that day. Let's try a day when it isn't raining, I don't have a lot of deadlines looming and I don't feel inexplicably sad.
I think it's just the end of term blues. The end of my last quarter at Eastern is coming up fast. I'm out of money and I'm nearly at the end of my job. I have just a few big tasks left, and then I get to walk onto Woodward Field in a silly gown and pick up the frame for the diploma that should arrive before the beginning of fall quarter.
(Can I brag a second here? Summa cum f'n laude, baby. You know it.)
So I should be happy, right? I'm graduating with honors. I'm leaving the casino. I'm moving out of this apartment. I'm going to fall into Jeff's arms with abject relief, and I'm going to start my new life. I have three job prospects lined up, none of which is fantabulous, but money is money, you know. My new home will have an office set up for me so I can write. I'll be with my family and the man I love, and I'll get to go fishing and camping, and I heard a rumor there's going to be a barbecue in my honor.
I should be ecstatic, right?
What the hell is wrong with my brain? I am not happy. I am scared and sad. I've lost about thirteen pounds of worry weight, and I just don't want to do anything. I feel utterly paralyzed thinking about the papers I need to write, the presentation I need to complete, the portfolio I have to submit.
My entire life, I have had this battle. I was valedictorian in high school, honor society, drama, you name it. Big fish in a tiny pond.
I remember the first play I was cast in my freshman year. I was fourteen years old, and they cast me as the lead--the crazy old lady--in The Curious Savage. You would not have believed the backlash. I don't think there was a cast member in that show who wanted anything to do with me, and the director made it worse by making me an example. The other players kept blowing their lines, but I kept nailing mine. (I was a freshman. They told me to memorize my lines. I did. Silly me.) As the director went on and on about how I was just a lowly freshman, but someone who could manage to memorize the part, the other players killed me with their eyes. Laser beams and hot pokers could not have hurt as much.
Then the morning of dress rehearsal, I woke up and couldn't speak. My voice was gone. My throat was hot, red and prickly, and my vocal cords felt about the size of those styrofoam noodle things you can play with in your pool. I tried. Really. I wanted to speak. This was not me trying to get in good with my castmates by faking vulnerabiliIty. I could not speak. Period.
My director freaked out. The school was small enough that we did not assign understudies. I had to go on that stage and I had to squeak out my role. The show must go on.
Dress rehearsal was a disaster. I could see the director in the audience, clenching her fists and shaking her head. She wandered through the auditorium through the whole performance, listening here, listening there. I couldn't be heard past the second row. On the breaks, she would feed me hot tea, rub my shoulder and give me a one-armed hug. "Just get lots of rest," she said. "Get better."
Opening night, I got to the stage behind the curtain, and croaked out a greeting to the cast, who just shook their heads sadly at me. Some rolled their eyes and walked away. The director shrugged and said, "Do the best you can." They left me to it.
The lights came up. The show went on. I remember that part of what I was supposed to do was circle the stage, pacing very deliberately. I think for my first few lines, I croaked and I could see the audience straining toward me. Then I got the cue for my first big line. "What are you doing?"
"Wearing the carpet out evenly," I said, in a perfectly normal and projected voice. The audience burst out laughing. My castmate and I stared at each other for a second. The laughter gave us a second to recover. Then we gulped, started in and went back to the work of acting.
My voice was perfectly normal for the rest of the show. And every show after that.
Until the winter, when it happened again. This time, the director didn't freak out, but she told me to rest and relax, and when I started the show with a normal voice, she just grinned at me. It became a running joke: Dawn's dress rehearsal laryngitis again.
I was in eight plays, one for every semester of high school, and I lost and regained my voice for each play. It was like a ritual; I would develop laryngitis, step onto the stage opening night, and kill the audience dead. Every single time.
I didn't have a conscious awareness of stage fright, but my body manifested it nonetheless. I just had to force myself through it, and then I was fine.
I think the same thing is happening now, but my body or my stupid brain doesn't know how to try to derail this thing I'm on. This sadness, this possible depression, is my dress rehearsal laryngitis. I think that some part of me believes that I will give up and run away before the end. I've done it before. Oh, I've flamed out spectacularly in school before. I swear you could have watched me and heard the whistling sound of my meteor-like fall and the explosion when I hit the ground.
I just have to get to that big line. I have to get up on stage and speak my line. That's all I have to do, and I will be okay. Maybe not ecstatic--but I will be okay.
That's all.
I was worried that it was the depression coming back. Every so often, I get inexplicable bouts of crazy thinking, when I'm just unbearably unhappy and there's no reason for it. The tiniest setback in the day can send me into a death spiral where the most productive thing I can do for the day or even the week is sleep. Being conscious sends the spiral even deeper, and there are places I've been on those turns that I don't ever want to be again. When that happens, I sleep if I can, or write crazy poetry if I can't.
(When the hell did I become a poet? I've never been a poet. I don't understand this. I still don't think I'm a poet. I just write the stuff when I can't take any more of life and it's poetry or the unthinkable.)
But I don't think it's the depression because the death spiral involves self-destructive thinking. Not necessarily actual destruction, though anyone who has been truly depressed has probably had suicide ideation. Someday, let's talk honestly about suicide ideation, because a friend and I have some interesting thoughts on it, but today is not that day. Let's try a day when it isn't raining, I don't have a lot of deadlines looming and I don't feel inexplicably sad.
I think it's just the end of term blues. The end of my last quarter at Eastern is coming up fast. I'm out of money and I'm nearly at the end of my job. I have just a few big tasks left, and then I get to walk onto Woodward Field in a silly gown and pick up the frame for the diploma that should arrive before the beginning of fall quarter.
(Can I brag a second here? Summa cum f'n laude, baby. You know it.)
So I should be happy, right? I'm graduating with honors. I'm leaving the casino. I'm moving out of this apartment. I'm going to fall into Jeff's arms with abject relief, and I'm going to start my new life. I have three job prospects lined up, none of which is fantabulous, but money is money, you know. My new home will have an office set up for me so I can write. I'll be with my family and the man I love, and I'll get to go fishing and camping, and I heard a rumor there's going to be a barbecue in my honor.
I should be ecstatic, right?
What the hell is wrong with my brain? I am not happy. I am scared and sad. I've lost about thirteen pounds of worry weight, and I just don't want to do anything. I feel utterly paralyzed thinking about the papers I need to write, the presentation I need to complete, the portfolio I have to submit.
My entire life, I have had this battle. I was valedictorian in high school, honor society, drama, you name it. Big fish in a tiny pond.
I remember the first play I was cast in my freshman year. I was fourteen years old, and they cast me as the lead--the crazy old lady--in The Curious Savage. You would not have believed the backlash. I don't think there was a cast member in that show who wanted anything to do with me, and the director made it worse by making me an example. The other players kept blowing their lines, but I kept nailing mine. (I was a freshman. They told me to memorize my lines. I did. Silly me.) As the director went on and on about how I was just a lowly freshman, but someone who could manage to memorize the part, the other players killed me with their eyes. Laser beams and hot pokers could not have hurt as much.
Then the morning of dress rehearsal, I woke up and couldn't speak. My voice was gone. My throat was hot, red and prickly, and my vocal cords felt about the size of those styrofoam noodle things you can play with in your pool. I tried. Really. I wanted to speak. This was not me trying to get in good with my castmates by faking vulnerabiliIty. I could not speak. Period.
My director freaked out. The school was small enough that we did not assign understudies. I had to go on that stage and I had to squeak out my role. The show must go on.
Dress rehearsal was a disaster. I could see the director in the audience, clenching her fists and shaking her head. She wandered through the auditorium through the whole performance, listening here, listening there. I couldn't be heard past the second row. On the breaks, she would feed me hot tea, rub my shoulder and give me a one-armed hug. "Just get lots of rest," she said. "Get better."
Opening night, I got to the stage behind the curtain, and croaked out a greeting to the cast, who just shook their heads sadly at me. Some rolled their eyes and walked away. The director shrugged and said, "Do the best you can." They left me to it.
The lights came up. The show went on. I remember that part of what I was supposed to do was circle the stage, pacing very deliberately. I think for my first few lines, I croaked and I could see the audience straining toward me. Then I got the cue for my first big line. "What are you doing?"
"Wearing the carpet out evenly," I said, in a perfectly normal and projected voice. The audience burst out laughing. My castmate and I stared at each other for a second. The laughter gave us a second to recover. Then we gulped, started in and went back to the work of acting.
My voice was perfectly normal for the rest of the show. And every show after that.
Until the winter, when it happened again. This time, the director didn't freak out, but she told me to rest and relax, and when I started the show with a normal voice, she just grinned at me. It became a running joke: Dawn's dress rehearsal laryngitis again.
I was in eight plays, one for every semester of high school, and I lost and regained my voice for each play. It was like a ritual; I would develop laryngitis, step onto the stage opening night, and kill the audience dead. Every single time.
I didn't have a conscious awareness of stage fright, but my body manifested it nonetheless. I just had to force myself through it, and then I was fine.
I think the same thing is happening now, but my body or my stupid brain doesn't know how to try to derail this thing I'm on. This sadness, this possible depression, is my dress rehearsal laryngitis. I think that some part of me believes that I will give up and run away before the end. I've done it before. Oh, I've flamed out spectacularly in school before. I swear you could have watched me and heard the whistling sound of my meteor-like fall and the explosion when I hit the ground.
I just have to get to that big line. I have to get up on stage and speak my line. That's all I have to do, and I will be okay. Maybe not ecstatic--but I will be okay.
That's all.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Intellectual crushes
Whenever I meet a beautiful mind, I die a little bit inside. Happily. Part of me just rejoices that this lovely mind exists and is working, because I run into a greater number of ugly minds every day. It's like the sun breaking through clouds in streams--is there really anything more beautiful than a Jacob's Ladder at the end of a stormy day?
I call them my intellectual crushes. I'm definitely crushing on these people, but when you use that word "crush," people get uncomfortable. The word "crush" suggests all those teenage hormones and confused desires, and while at my age, my hormones are probably working toward the Big Storm and Final Quiet after, my desires are much more focused. Down to one person particularly, if you know what I mean. So what happens is that the beautiful mind reveals itself, and I stop, stare and go into starry-eyed teenager mode. I'm sure my face is saying, "Hello! I love you! May I please pet your lovely brain?"
Some people don't take this well. In fact, I would say that most don't. In our society, so much criticism, violent disagreement and manipulation fly about that people are mostly defensive. When someone is nice to us, often the first thing we ask ourselves is, "That's weird. What do they want?" Convincing us that nothing is wanted is not easy, since most people do want something.
Also, since I no longer am a starry-eyed teenager but a starry-eyed middle-aged woman (did you feel that cringe? C'mon, admit you felt that cringe. You are creeped out by my middle-agedness), the reaction tends toward deeper suspicion. "What does that crazy old lady want? God, I hope it's not me." I'm sure that I would get a much more positive reaction if I were still, say, 22 and adorable, as I was once upon a time.
Wouldn't it be fun to hand someone a card that says, "You are amazing and I am in love with your brain. Please keep using it like that." And then walk away? Sure, we can say these things, and if we are particularly charismatic, we can get away with it. Those of us who aren't particularly charismatic need something other than starry eyes to communicate that affection.
For the most part, I just don't communicate the affection, or at least I think I don't. I don't say things to the people directly; I just try to participate in conversations and hope I don't sound like the Big Storm and Final Quiet are taking place in the next three minutes. But I find myself talking about these people to other people, and then....well, I'm sure it gets back to the crushes. Let's put it this way: when one of your professors is aware of your intellectual crush without even being told, is a friend and colleague of that crush, and brings up the crush every single class period, referring to him as "your friend," you pretty much know you're screwed.
You can put any face you want on it, but your intellectual crush is only getting the crush part, not the intellectual modifier.
What I'd like to do is go to each of those intellectual crushes, tell them they are superstars and that it has been a huge pleasure and great gift hanging out with them in classrooms and the like, and that I will miss them when I leave. All while holding on to the arm of my wonderful boyfriend and mostly looking up into his eyes, so they can see who my real crush is, the total package, brains, body, beard and gigantic, all encompassing heart.
Maybe then, I won't be so creepy.
Then again, maybe if I just used my own brain more, I could strive for more equal footing....
I call them my intellectual crushes. I'm definitely crushing on these people, but when you use that word "crush," people get uncomfortable. The word "crush" suggests all those teenage hormones and confused desires, and while at my age, my hormones are probably working toward the Big Storm and Final Quiet after, my desires are much more focused. Down to one person particularly, if you know what I mean. So what happens is that the beautiful mind reveals itself, and I stop, stare and go into starry-eyed teenager mode. I'm sure my face is saying, "Hello! I love you! May I please pet your lovely brain?"
Some people don't take this well. In fact, I would say that most don't. In our society, so much criticism, violent disagreement and manipulation fly about that people are mostly defensive. When someone is nice to us, often the first thing we ask ourselves is, "That's weird. What do they want?" Convincing us that nothing is wanted is not easy, since most people do want something.
Also, since I no longer am a starry-eyed teenager but a starry-eyed middle-aged woman (did you feel that cringe? C'mon, admit you felt that cringe. You are creeped out by my middle-agedness), the reaction tends toward deeper suspicion. "What does that crazy old lady want? God, I hope it's not me." I'm sure that I would get a much more positive reaction if I were still, say, 22 and adorable, as I was once upon a time.
Wouldn't it be fun to hand someone a card that says, "You are amazing and I am in love with your brain. Please keep using it like that." And then walk away? Sure, we can say these things, and if we are particularly charismatic, we can get away with it. Those of us who aren't particularly charismatic need something other than starry eyes to communicate that affection.
For the most part, I just don't communicate the affection, or at least I think I don't. I don't say things to the people directly; I just try to participate in conversations and hope I don't sound like the Big Storm and Final Quiet are taking place in the next three minutes. But I find myself talking about these people to other people, and then....well, I'm sure it gets back to the crushes. Let's put it this way: when one of your professors is aware of your intellectual crush without even being told, is a friend and colleague of that crush, and brings up the crush every single class period, referring to him as "your friend," you pretty much know you're screwed.
You can put any face you want on it, but your intellectual crush is only getting the crush part, not the intellectual modifier.
What I'd like to do is go to each of those intellectual crushes, tell them they are superstars and that it has been a huge pleasure and great gift hanging out with them in classrooms and the like, and that I will miss them when I leave. All while holding on to the arm of my wonderful boyfriend and mostly looking up into his eyes, so they can see who my real crush is, the total package, brains, body, beard and gigantic, all encompassing heart.
Maybe then, I won't be so creepy.
Then again, maybe if I just used my own brain more, I could strive for more equal footing....
Open letter
Dear Conservative Person on my Facebook,
Let me start by saying that I never really knew you in high school, because you attended some years after I had graduated. I accepted your friend request to be nice because I did graduate with your sister (sadly, she and I never got along--we competed too much for the same things and she just plain annoyed the shit out of me).
However, your post today has put me out of patience with you. When you use the "so simple a Caveman can understand it," argument, but substitute "liberal" for "Caveman," you make it clear that your only point is to belittle others to make yourself big. So far you've shown me you have no practice with logical arguments, nor interest in learning any. Your sources are abysmal. You have no idea what peer-reviewed articles are and you obtain your information only from people who agree with you. Anyone who agrees with you, no matter how slapdash and misspelled his webpage is.
You profess to be an evangelical Christian. This makes me laugh bitterly, because you don't have any good news for anyone, and your worship of money belies your "absolute" faith. Your behavior smears other Christians who really do live their faith and don't use it as an excuse to parade their fears and hatreds and bully others. It's a good thing I know lots of those, or I'd wash my hands of the whole religion as well.
I am done with you. I should have known better than to accept your request, since after all, you are related to someone who used to make me claw at my own face in despair of humanity. She, however, was just annoying. Your willful ignorance and arrogance are dangerous. Don't pray for me--save those for yourself. I have a feeling that someone you've been using to justify your hatreds is going to have something to say to you someday, and you're not going to like it much.
Good luck with that.
Me
Let me start by saying that I never really knew you in high school, because you attended some years after I had graduated. I accepted your friend request to be nice because I did graduate with your sister (sadly, she and I never got along--we competed too much for the same things and she just plain annoyed the shit out of me).
However, your post today has put me out of patience with you. When you use the "so simple a Caveman can understand it," argument, but substitute "liberal" for "Caveman," you make it clear that your only point is to belittle others to make yourself big. So far you've shown me you have no practice with logical arguments, nor interest in learning any. Your sources are abysmal. You have no idea what peer-reviewed articles are and you obtain your information only from people who agree with you. Anyone who agrees with you, no matter how slapdash and misspelled his webpage is.
You profess to be an evangelical Christian. This makes me laugh bitterly, because you don't have any good news for anyone, and your worship of money belies your "absolute" faith. Your behavior smears other Christians who really do live their faith and don't use it as an excuse to parade their fears and hatreds and bully others. It's a good thing I know lots of those, or I'd wash my hands of the whole religion as well.
I am done with you. I should have known better than to accept your request, since after all, you are related to someone who used to make me claw at my own face in despair of humanity. She, however, was just annoying. Your willful ignorance and arrogance are dangerous. Don't pray for me--save those for yourself. I have a feeling that someone you've been using to justify your hatreds is going to have something to say to you someday, and you're not going to like it much.
Good luck with that.
Me
Thursday, May 20, 2010
I guess philosophy and my education have ruined me
On Facebook, I just read the following exchange:
RN: Wow, you have to love "tit for tat" politics! This is awesome, and would be even better if Arizona follows through and throws the switch. Maybe the LA city council should learn to either negotiate or just mind their own business. (Sorry Rebecca, I hope your lights dont go off!) Link to Fox News Story
RN: Wow, you have to love "tit for tat" politics! This is awesome, and would be even better if Arizona follows through and throws the switch. Maybe the LA city council should learn to either negotiate or just mind their own business. (Sorry Rebecca, I hope your lights dont go off!) Link to Fox News Story
RB: I'd be perfectly happy if the lights went out. People should stand for what is right whether your lights go out or not!
CV: I saw that on the news and laughed my ass off.
CW: Hahahahahhahahhahhaha....
Every single one of these people is an evangelical Christian I knew from high school. The last one there is the one I defriended from the crazy "we'll all have to get RFID implants" rumor from the beginning of the quarter. I am quite close to getting rid of the rest of them all from my FB account.
I would like to know when Christianity became all about hate and smug self-righteousness. I would like to know when Jesus said it was okay for people to be acting like this. I have been looking in the Bible--I've read the New Testament at least four times--and I really don't remember seeing anything about that in there. Quite the opposite, in fact. I know a lot of Christians who aren't like this, people who don't stand in such obvious judgment of everyone else, and those are, at this point, the only ones left who give me any hope for the religion whatsoever.
The ones like the above are the worst sort of witnesses possible. I have my own philosophical issues with Christianity (let's just say Kierkegaard's arguments fail hugely for me), but it's people like the above that make me see the religion as not merely not for me, but poisonous in general. I only hold back from writing off the whole thing in my head because of people that I know who really live the words of Christ.
These people? Totally aren't. Is there anything in Jesus' actual words that justifies this behavior? Really?
(Am I holding Christians to a higher standard than myself? Maybe I am. I'm just holding them to the standards they are, from their own religious texts, supposed to be upholding. Is that wrong?)
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Introversion and Isolation
First of all, introversion is not shyness. Let's get that straight immediately. Introversion is about needing to be alone so that the mental and emotional energy stores can be replenished. Being around other people constantly is draining to an introvert, often to the point of exhaustion. Parties are murder on an introvert.
The problem with being an introvert is that human beings are social animals and even an introvert needs to be social. Complete isolation is not good even for an introvert. Once the energy stores are replenished, it's time to go back out into society and interact again.
I am an introvert. This may or may not be obvious. If you've confused introversion and shyness in the past and you have seen me in person, you may have assumed I am an extrovert. I'm not. I have no real fear of people anymore. I used to, but I've come to realize I feared their draining effect on me, not who they are or what they represented.
Lately, I've been noticing that I'm missing a lot of social cues, as though I were autistic and not merely introverted. I'm picking up on the cues after I've missed them, but that's like the French and their l'esprit de l'escalier, the wit of the staircase, when you think of that fantastic comeback too late to do you any good. People have been making gentle overtures to me and I have not been giving them the responses they're seeking. Give enough confusing or strange responses and people won't make those overtures anymore.
And I have been utterly isolated.
Now I'm not going to go into self-pity here: oh, woe is me, I'm a freak and nobody likes me. No, no. Not there. I am a sort of freak and a lot of people see it and agree that I am, but I'm not lamenting that. I've lived so long with my freakishness that I've settled into it and like it to some degree.
What I don't like is being unkind to other people, intentionally or not. I don't like hurting others, and I never mean to hurt anyone. I tend to rattle on stupidly about things, and I rebuff overtures as gently as I can when I am exhausted or they confuse me, but I don't like to hurt people or shut them out.
Lately, I think I might be hurting people, that I might not be as gentle as I think I am. My problem is that my job--serving tables in a sports bar--is designed to be done by extroverts. For six to ten hours a day, I have to fake being an extrovert. I have to dig past my day-to-day energy stores and put on some sparkle as well as come up with some skills.
I'm running on a deficit. So when people come and talk to me now, my responses are off, either self-protective or a bit false, the habitual face I wear for work: "Hi, I'm friendly, you're friendly, it's all good, ha ha, nice to see you, bye!" Which is about as real as some of the washed five dollar bills reprinted as fifties someone keeps trying to pass in the casino lately.
I'm not sure how to resolve this. Even an introvert needs someone to talk to about her day. Even an introvert needs at least one person in the world to get past the "ha-ha, bye" and see who she really is. My boyfriend, who usually does this for me, is in Phoenix. Some of the others are drifting away from me. I haven't talked, really talked, in a couple of years with the woman I consider my sister in all ways but the biological. Another has been texting and emailing me, but I've not had the time to sit down and talk to her. I've always been running.
What I need to do is stop, write or call these people, apologize for my shitty behavior, and be real for a while (and for a change!). Just the thought of doing this, though, makes me teary with fear. Human contact in this way requires an initial drain before it gives a refill. Yes, being real with someone else will replenish both of you, but you have to get past that initial drain first. I'm feeling so close to the end of my reserves that I don't know that I have the ability to do that right now.
So I remain in my isolation for a bit longer and hope for the best. Not a fun thing, even for an introvert.
The problem with being an introvert is that human beings are social animals and even an introvert needs to be social. Complete isolation is not good even for an introvert. Once the energy stores are replenished, it's time to go back out into society and interact again.
I am an introvert. This may or may not be obvious. If you've confused introversion and shyness in the past and you have seen me in person, you may have assumed I am an extrovert. I'm not. I have no real fear of people anymore. I used to, but I've come to realize I feared their draining effect on me, not who they are or what they represented.
Lately, I've been noticing that I'm missing a lot of social cues, as though I were autistic and not merely introverted. I'm picking up on the cues after I've missed them, but that's like the French and their l'esprit de l'escalier, the wit of the staircase, when you think of that fantastic comeback too late to do you any good. People have been making gentle overtures to me and I have not been giving them the responses they're seeking. Give enough confusing or strange responses and people won't make those overtures anymore.
And I have been utterly isolated.
Now I'm not going to go into self-pity here: oh, woe is me, I'm a freak and nobody likes me. No, no. Not there. I am a sort of freak and a lot of people see it and agree that I am, but I'm not lamenting that. I've lived so long with my freakishness that I've settled into it and like it to some degree.
What I don't like is being unkind to other people, intentionally or not. I don't like hurting others, and I never mean to hurt anyone. I tend to rattle on stupidly about things, and I rebuff overtures as gently as I can when I am exhausted or they confuse me, but I don't like to hurt people or shut them out.
Lately, I think I might be hurting people, that I might not be as gentle as I think I am. My problem is that my job--serving tables in a sports bar--is designed to be done by extroverts. For six to ten hours a day, I have to fake being an extrovert. I have to dig past my day-to-day energy stores and put on some sparkle as well as come up with some skills.
I'm running on a deficit. So when people come and talk to me now, my responses are off, either self-protective or a bit false, the habitual face I wear for work: "Hi, I'm friendly, you're friendly, it's all good, ha ha, nice to see you, bye!" Which is about as real as some of the washed five dollar bills reprinted as fifties someone keeps trying to pass in the casino lately.
I'm not sure how to resolve this. Even an introvert needs someone to talk to about her day. Even an introvert needs at least one person in the world to get past the "ha-ha, bye" and see who she really is. My boyfriend, who usually does this for me, is in Phoenix. Some of the others are drifting away from me. I haven't talked, really talked, in a couple of years with the woman I consider my sister in all ways but the biological. Another has been texting and emailing me, but I've not had the time to sit down and talk to her. I've always been running.
What I need to do is stop, write or call these people, apologize for my shitty behavior, and be real for a while (and for a change!). Just the thought of doing this, though, makes me teary with fear. Human contact in this way requires an initial drain before it gives a refill. Yes, being real with someone else will replenish both of you, but you have to get past that initial drain first. I'm feeling so close to the end of my reserves that I don't know that I have the ability to do that right now.
So I remain in my isolation for a bit longer and hope for the best. Not a fun thing, even for an introvert.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Oversimplifications all over the place
(If philosophy bores you, just scroll down for the fun stuff.)
This quarter, I'm taking History of Western Contemporary Philosophy (or maybe it's History of Contemporary Western Philosophy) with Terry MacMullan, and I love it. I love every class and I wish I'd taken a philosophy degree instead. (Too late now!)
It's not my first Philosophy class. I took Ethics at NIC with Laura Templeman, and she said in one line what had summed up my entire experience in life: "Absolutism just isn't very helpful."
I swear you could have seen the light bulb glow above my head. I had been struggling with a deep anger against evangelism, both conservative and liberal politics, and closed-mindedness in general. She had quietly voiced what was wrong with all three: absolutist thinking.
Now note she didn't say it was wrong to be an absolutist (I did, sorry). She said it wasn't helpful. Another student asked if that meant that everything was relative, and she said relativism wasn't helpful, either. She said that there are a lot of gray areas in life, and they need to be approached with a pluralistic point of view. No one system or belief can have all the answers, all the time. It doesn't hurt at all to try different systems until you see what works.
This concept was reinforced by taking Logic and Critical Thinking with Ian, also at NIC. Only now, armed with some knowledge of logical fallacies, I can say what's bothering me about someone's argument. Whenever somebody tells me, "This is is ONLY WAY this will work," or "Do this or else!" or "Jesus is the ONLY WAY," my brain immediately says, "Nope: false dichotomy." I start looking for what I'm not being told. I step back from the situation and usually, I can find a third, fourth, or even fifth option.
(The Jesus thing is even more complicated than false dichotomy for me. It also involves what appear to be false premises and a violation of Kant's Categorical Imperatives. That would take another whole post on its own. Let's leave it at, "It might work for you but it doesn't work for me at all," and just move on, okay?)
Yesterday, Dr. MacMullan started the section on Pragmatism, with Peirce and James, and he said that the beauty of that school is that it says sooner or later, you have to grow up and let go of absolutist thinking. I put both hands over my mouth to stop the squeals of joy. He said that Pragmatism focuses on what works and what doesn't. It's about what leads you to right action, always action. You don't step back and look for abstract truth--you recognize what's going to get you through life. It's a complete break from the two absolutist schools that have dominated philosophy: the Skeptics (if you can't know something absolutely, you can't know it at all) and Certainty (we can know everything absolutely).
Pragmatists see truth as a moving target. It is both indeterminate and intelligible. You can't know everything, but you can know enough to do what you need.
It's back to Laura: absolutism is just not helpful.
Anyway, as a cookie to you for letting me ramble on about things probably only I care about, here is my summation of the philosophers we have studied so far this quarter in one or two lines.
Kant: Do your duty and speak your mind. Just not at the same time.
Hegel: Everything is moving toward perfection: you're just a little piece of God's mind.
Kierkegaard: Everything sucks, even God, but he's way bigger than us so we just need to do what he says, even if it sounds crazy. (Also, Hegel is an idiot.)
Nietzsche: Stop whining, all of you! Be men! Be strong men and noble men and stop making yourselves out to be great because you're merciful. You're WEAK! Weak, whiny babies! (You like my cape? I made it.)
Feuerbach: Hegel's not exactly an idiot, Kierkegaard. He's just got it backward. Materials drive ideas, not the other way around.
Marx: What F-Man said! Only more so! Workers unite! We will take it all over and then have little committees that will control everything just until we can get absolute democracy going and then those guys will step aside....um, wait....
Bentham: Measure your happy and everyone else's happy, and do whichever one is bigger. (Can someone wheel me out of here? I think I'm melting.)
Wollstonecraft: *deep sigh* Look, all I'm saying is that if I'd had Latin, Greek, logic and rhetoric from the age of three like you men, I'd be able to reason as well as you. Duh!
Mill: Some happies are better than other happies, not just bigger. And sometimes, you have to work for them, which kinda sucks, but actually makes them even better. So, um....just do lots of stuff and figure out what makes you better happy, maybe?
Peirce: OMG, people, grow up and stop thinking you know everything already. You know enough, okay? And you can always know more, but you can't know everything. Now excuse me. My face hurts and I need another injection.
It helps me keep them straight in my head.
This quarter, I'm taking History of Western Contemporary Philosophy (or maybe it's History of Contemporary Western Philosophy) with Terry MacMullan, and I love it. I love every class and I wish I'd taken a philosophy degree instead. (Too late now!)
It's not my first Philosophy class. I took Ethics at NIC with Laura Templeman, and she said in one line what had summed up my entire experience in life: "Absolutism just isn't very helpful."
I swear you could have seen the light bulb glow above my head. I had been struggling with a deep anger against evangelism, both conservative and liberal politics, and closed-mindedness in general. She had quietly voiced what was wrong with all three: absolutist thinking.
Now note she didn't say it was wrong to be an absolutist (I did, sorry). She said it wasn't helpful. Another student asked if that meant that everything was relative, and she said relativism wasn't helpful, either. She said that there are a lot of gray areas in life, and they need to be approached with a pluralistic point of view. No one system or belief can have all the answers, all the time. It doesn't hurt at all to try different systems until you see what works.
This concept was reinforced by taking Logic and Critical Thinking with Ian, also at NIC. Only now, armed with some knowledge of logical fallacies, I can say what's bothering me about someone's argument. Whenever somebody tells me, "This is is ONLY WAY this will work," or "Do this or else!" or "Jesus is the ONLY WAY," my brain immediately says, "Nope: false dichotomy." I start looking for what I'm not being told. I step back from the situation and usually, I can find a third, fourth, or even fifth option.
(The Jesus thing is even more complicated than false dichotomy for me. It also involves what appear to be false premises and a violation of Kant's Categorical Imperatives. That would take another whole post on its own. Let's leave it at, "It might work for you but it doesn't work for me at all," and just move on, okay?)
Yesterday, Dr. MacMullan started the section on Pragmatism, with Peirce and James, and he said that the beauty of that school is that it says sooner or later, you have to grow up and let go of absolutist thinking. I put both hands over my mouth to stop the squeals of joy. He said that Pragmatism focuses on what works and what doesn't. It's about what leads you to right action, always action. You don't step back and look for abstract truth--you recognize what's going to get you through life. It's a complete break from the two absolutist schools that have dominated philosophy: the Skeptics (if you can't know something absolutely, you can't know it at all) and Certainty (we can know everything absolutely).
Pragmatists see truth as a moving target. It is both indeterminate and intelligible. You can't know everything, but you can know enough to do what you need.
It's back to Laura: absolutism is just not helpful.
Anyway, as a cookie to you for letting me ramble on about things probably only I care about, here is my summation of the philosophers we have studied so far this quarter in one or two lines.
Kant: Do your duty and speak your mind. Just not at the same time.
Hegel: Everything is moving toward perfection: you're just a little piece of God's mind.
Kierkegaard: Everything sucks, even God, but he's way bigger than us so we just need to do what he says, even if it sounds crazy. (Also, Hegel is an idiot.)
Nietzsche: Stop whining, all of you! Be men! Be strong men and noble men and stop making yourselves out to be great because you're merciful. You're WEAK! Weak, whiny babies! (You like my cape? I made it.)
Feuerbach: Hegel's not exactly an idiot, Kierkegaard. He's just got it backward. Materials drive ideas, not the other way around.
Marx: What F-Man said! Only more so! Workers unite! We will take it all over and then have little committees that will control everything just until we can get absolute democracy going and then those guys will step aside....um, wait....
Bentham: Measure your happy and everyone else's happy, and do whichever one is bigger. (Can someone wheel me out of here? I think I'm melting.)
Wollstonecraft: *deep sigh* Look, all I'm saying is that if I'd had Latin, Greek, logic and rhetoric from the age of three like you men, I'd be able to reason as well as you. Duh!
Mill: Some happies are better than other happies, not just bigger. And sometimes, you have to work for them, which kinda sucks, but actually makes them even better. So, um....just do lots of stuff and figure out what makes you better happy, maybe?
Peirce: OMG, people, grow up and stop thinking you know everything already. You know enough, okay? And you can always know more, but you can't know everything. Now excuse me. My face hurts and I need another injection.
It helps me keep them straight in my head.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Safe Surprises
I can't remember when I first noticed that all American entertainment follows strict formulas. Even indie films have a formula, more or less.
Take, for example, any reality show. It always has a formula. Let's use "What Not to Wear," with Clinton and Stacy, because the formula is so obvious and so strict that it's easy to demonstrate.
The show is half an hour long. The first segment introduces the victim, who has usually been nominated by her friends. Stacy and Clinton pounce upon the victim in the presence of the friends and humiliate her gently but thoroughly. Next they take her to a place where she is even more deeply humilated by watching secret videos her friends have made of her poor choice in attire. Stacy and Clinton take her to the studio and put her in a room that is encircled in mirrors. She wears her favorite clothing and tries to defend it to them. They disparage these choices and point out all the reasons she should not be wearing them.
Next they have her bring all her clothing in on racks and they mock each piece to her. They toss most of the wardrobe in a large garbage can, and inevitably, the victim will clutch at some favorite pieces, almost in tears, and try to rescue them. Stacy and Clinton will fight her on this. They give her a sum of money (if I remember correctly, it is a thousand dollars) to spend on a new wardrobe according to their specifications, half one day and half the next. The victim attempts to follow directions but doesn't understand them or rebels against them entirely, often backsliding into old habits. Stacy and Clinton watch the video of this and mock and roll their eyes.
Stacy and Clinton take over the shopping the second day, returning the rebel pieces and poor choices. They try to make the victim understand why she should see herself differently than she does. Finally, the victim is placed in the hands of a stylist and a makeup artist. The hairstylist is often the most heartbreaking segment because there is nothing quite so personal as hairstyle, and this is the moment the victim is completely rubbed out and the new person put into her place. Inevitably the stylist cuts off a vast amount of hair and colors it something completely different.
The final segment shows the victim fully transformed into Stacy and Clinton's image. The new person is almost entirely unrecognizable from the old. Best of all, she is joyous and grateful for the transformation. She often apologizes for her rebellion and is ritually forgiven by Stacy and Clinton.
Are any of you just a little sick to your stomachs right now? The worst of it is, I love this show. I really love this show and I adore Stacy and Clinton, though I really hate Stacy's "shut UP!" catchphrase. I love the show, but I'm also horrified by it, and not for the reasons they would like me to be horrified. This show is more than a little bit evil. It's practically Orwellian.
But what I really wanted to show you was the structure. It follows a very specific arc, as does every sitcom, drama, action adventure, cartoon and newscast in this country. In fact, if the art form doesn't follow the formula, the audience is disturbed and confused.
I remember back in the 80s watching Un Coeur en Hiver and being completely confused because the action didn't follow a specific arc and I couldn't fully comprehend the motivations of the characters. The latter bothered me more than anything, because at the time, I was a theatre major and studying Stanislavski, prophet of Method Acting. All I remember about it was there was a cellist, played by quite possibly the most beautiful girl in the world at the time, Emanuelle Béart. People did things, people said things, they got mad at each other, they got back together, they split up. Things just happened. To a mind trained on the narrative arc, things happened, but nothing happened. Nothing made sense.
Now I can look back at myself and see there's something a little bit horseshit about "narrative arc." Human beings don't have narrative arcs in their lives. They do things, they flounder, they wander around--most don't even know why they do the things they do, and if you ask them, they'll tell you not what you want to hear, but what they want you to believe about themselves. It's very much like Un Coeur en Hiver.
What we often demand from a story is the structure we've had socialized into us from the days of Mr. Rogers (okay, Barney for you youngsters). We want the shoes to be changed, the coat taken off, the sweater put on, the descent into the world of make believe, the lesson learned, the return to the real world, the gentle socialization of the neighborhood, the shoes changed again, the sweater taken off and the coat put back on, the song and the goodbye. This is our arc, and we will be confused and disrupted by changing it.
Here's my thought: maybe we're supposed to be disturbed. Maybe it's a good idea for us to be disturbed. Maybe it's a good idea for us to be shaken from our narrative trance and forced to see what is, not what we want each other to believe. Maybe the narrative arc is pure horseshit. Maybe, in a way, it's a hypnotism, and we're just batteries for a social and political parasite-tyrant. Do you want the red pill or the blue pill?
Are you ever disturbed by the narrative arc, or bored? Do you ever feel like escaping it? But when you do, what do you feel? Tell me; I'm listening.
Take, for example, any reality show. It always has a formula. Let's use "What Not to Wear," with Clinton and Stacy, because the formula is so obvious and so strict that it's easy to demonstrate.
The show is half an hour long. The first segment introduces the victim, who has usually been nominated by her friends. Stacy and Clinton pounce upon the victim in the presence of the friends and humiliate her gently but thoroughly. Next they take her to a place where she is even more deeply humilated by watching secret videos her friends have made of her poor choice in attire. Stacy and Clinton take her to the studio and put her in a room that is encircled in mirrors. She wears her favorite clothing and tries to defend it to them. They disparage these choices and point out all the reasons she should not be wearing them.
Next they have her bring all her clothing in on racks and they mock each piece to her. They toss most of the wardrobe in a large garbage can, and inevitably, the victim will clutch at some favorite pieces, almost in tears, and try to rescue them. Stacy and Clinton will fight her on this. They give her a sum of money (if I remember correctly, it is a thousand dollars) to spend on a new wardrobe according to their specifications, half one day and half the next. The victim attempts to follow directions but doesn't understand them or rebels against them entirely, often backsliding into old habits. Stacy and Clinton watch the video of this and mock and roll their eyes.
Stacy and Clinton take over the shopping the second day, returning the rebel pieces and poor choices. They try to make the victim understand why she should see herself differently than she does. Finally, the victim is placed in the hands of a stylist and a makeup artist. The hairstylist is often the most heartbreaking segment because there is nothing quite so personal as hairstyle, and this is the moment the victim is completely rubbed out and the new person put into her place. Inevitably the stylist cuts off a vast amount of hair and colors it something completely different.
The final segment shows the victim fully transformed into Stacy and Clinton's image. The new person is almost entirely unrecognizable from the old. Best of all, she is joyous and grateful for the transformation. She often apologizes for her rebellion and is ritually forgiven by Stacy and Clinton.
Are any of you just a little sick to your stomachs right now? The worst of it is, I love this show. I really love this show and I adore Stacy and Clinton, though I really hate Stacy's "shut UP!" catchphrase. I love the show, but I'm also horrified by it, and not for the reasons they would like me to be horrified. This show is more than a little bit evil. It's practically Orwellian.
But what I really wanted to show you was the structure. It follows a very specific arc, as does every sitcom, drama, action adventure, cartoon and newscast in this country. In fact, if the art form doesn't follow the formula, the audience is disturbed and confused.
I remember back in the 80s watching Un Coeur en Hiver and being completely confused because the action didn't follow a specific arc and I couldn't fully comprehend the motivations of the characters. The latter bothered me more than anything, because at the time, I was a theatre major and studying Stanislavski, prophet of Method Acting. All I remember about it was there was a cellist, played by quite possibly the most beautiful girl in the world at the time, Emanuelle Béart. People did things, people said things, they got mad at each other, they got back together, they split up. Things just happened. To a mind trained on the narrative arc, things happened, but nothing happened. Nothing made sense.
Now I can look back at myself and see there's something a little bit horseshit about "narrative arc." Human beings don't have narrative arcs in their lives. They do things, they flounder, they wander around--most don't even know why they do the things they do, and if you ask them, they'll tell you not what you want to hear, but what they want you to believe about themselves. It's very much like Un Coeur en Hiver.
What we often demand from a story is the structure we've had socialized into us from the days of Mr. Rogers (okay, Barney for you youngsters). We want the shoes to be changed, the coat taken off, the sweater put on, the descent into the world of make believe, the lesson learned, the return to the real world, the gentle socialization of the neighborhood, the shoes changed again, the sweater taken off and the coat put back on, the song and the goodbye. This is our arc, and we will be confused and disrupted by changing it.
Here's my thought: maybe we're supposed to be disturbed. Maybe it's a good idea for us to be disturbed. Maybe it's a good idea for us to be shaken from our narrative trance and forced to see what is, not what we want each other to believe. Maybe the narrative arc is pure horseshit. Maybe, in a way, it's a hypnotism, and we're just batteries for a social and political parasite-tyrant. Do you want the red pill or the blue pill?
Are you ever disturbed by the narrative arc, or bored? Do you ever feel like escaping it? But when you do, what do you feel? Tell me; I'm listening.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Attempting moral improvement
My boyfriend had a health scare: he'd been having pains in his chest and been feeling really bad. He was imagining everything from lung cancer (he smokes) to heart attack (he's got a beer belly). He finally did go to the doctor, and it turns out he has reflux disease. Now, don't scoff. Untreated reflux leads to esophageal erosion and even cancer, and it can be extremely painful.
The scare has shaken him out of some of his habits. He's been off the smokes now for half a month, he's cut down on his drinking, and he's utterly amazed me by doing the one thing he used to swear he would never do. He's running two miles every other day. He's told me before that he hates running because he feels awkward and uncoordinated when he does it. He feels as through none of his muscles want to work in concert and he should be wearing a helmet and one of those big retainers you can see on the outside of your face.
But he's doing it, because he wants to be alive.
So I am following suit. And it's wrong of me, because if I were left to my devices, I would not change. I'm changing to keep up with him, so that he doesn't leave me behind. I'm afraid he'll turn around and look at me and think, "Well, I've changed and she's still in the same rut. Maybe it's time for me to move on."
But if I change only on the outside, and resent it, it's not real change. If we grow apart, it's going to happen no matter what I do to try to stop it. People change on the inside. It's when the insides don't match, not the outsides, that people grow apart and separate. I'm the one now having the scare, but the only thing I can do is put my shoes on and get back to running, throw away the smokes and try to regain some discipline over my life.
I keep hoping that if I do, I'll want to keep doing it. I keep hoping that it will make me happy and I will feel better, more secure.
Something still tells me I'm fooling myself.
The scare has shaken him out of some of his habits. He's been off the smokes now for half a month, he's cut down on his drinking, and he's utterly amazed me by doing the one thing he used to swear he would never do. He's running two miles every other day. He's told me before that he hates running because he feels awkward and uncoordinated when he does it. He feels as through none of his muscles want to work in concert and he should be wearing a helmet and one of those big retainers you can see on the outside of your face.
But he's doing it, because he wants to be alive.
So I am following suit. And it's wrong of me, because if I were left to my devices, I would not change. I'm changing to keep up with him, so that he doesn't leave me behind. I'm afraid he'll turn around and look at me and think, "Well, I've changed and she's still in the same rut. Maybe it's time for me to move on."
But if I change only on the outside, and resent it, it's not real change. If we grow apart, it's going to happen no matter what I do to try to stop it. People change on the inside. It's when the insides don't match, not the outsides, that people grow apart and separate. I'm the one now having the scare, but the only thing I can do is put my shoes on and get back to running, throw away the smokes and try to regain some discipline over my life.
I keep hoping that if I do, I'll want to keep doing it. I keep hoping that it will make me happy and I will feel better, more secure.
Something still tells me I'm fooling myself.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Salad Days for Recruitment
A friend of mine just got turned down for re-enlistment in the Army. Apparently, he had an old juvie record and it permanently disqualified him for service, despite having served seven years in Kosovo and Iraq. These records used to be considered sealed, which is how he got into the service in the first place, but the laws have recently changed so that background checks now include them.
His excellent service in those seven years doesn't change anything, either. The recruiter told him that right now, they have more enlistees than they need. There's no work, so everyone is enlisting.
I almost couldn't believe that. Weren't all the branches suffering just a year or so ago, and the people already enlisted were having tour after tour and burning out?
Surprise: Army Recruiter guy is right: Recruiting gains in Financial Year 2009. That's a Navy site, but it tells the tale. The weak economy and increased recruitment spending are cited as factors.
Army enlistment requirements: Criminal History
This was pretty interesting. The Army has a reputation, undeserved or no, of taking whoever comes in the door. During lean times, they probably do, to some extent, but right now, they're some people's best option, and they can afford to pick and choose who they want.
I really don't know why they turned down my friend, since he had already served. I wonder if there's something they're not telling him and they're just using a technicality as an excuse. I've seen that with employers before. They don't want someone, but they can't come out and say exactly why. Or they don't want to argue about it. So they focus on a technicality, a little blip in the rules that makes things impossible but doesn't humiliate anyone.
Never mind that 99 times out of a 100 they can ignore that technicality at will....
I don't know if things really happened as above; I wasn't there. I'm only going on hearsay. But I do see the potential for it in the links above.
His excellent service in those seven years doesn't change anything, either. The recruiter told him that right now, they have more enlistees than they need. There's no work, so everyone is enlisting.
I almost couldn't believe that. Weren't all the branches suffering just a year or so ago, and the people already enlisted were having tour after tour and burning out?
Surprise: Army Recruiter guy is right: Recruiting gains in Financial Year 2009. That's a Navy site, but it tells the tale. The weak economy and increased recruitment spending are cited as factors.
Army enlistment requirements: Criminal History
This was pretty interesting. The Army has a reputation, undeserved or no, of taking whoever comes in the door. During lean times, they probably do, to some extent, but right now, they're some people's best option, and they can afford to pick and choose who they want.
I really don't know why they turned down my friend, since he had already served. I wonder if there's something they're not telling him and they're just using a technicality as an excuse. I've seen that with employers before. They don't want someone, but they can't come out and say exactly why. Or they don't want to argue about it. So they focus on a technicality, a little blip in the rules that makes things impossible but doesn't humiliate anyone.
Never mind that 99 times out of a 100 they can ignore that technicality at will....
I don't know if things really happened as above; I wasn't there. I'm only going on hearsay. But I do see the potential for it in the links above.
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