there was a big snowstorm followed by a horrible ice storm and my classes got canceled yesterday and today until eleven o'clock. I don't know if they were serving breakfast in the dining commons, but I would've liked to go, if they were. the ice storm made it impossible to find out.
I started this thing a couple days ago where I would only eat one chewy bar per day. I wanted to find out how little I could get by on. unfortunately, I didn't stick to that plan and ate other things, so unless I develop some will power before my chewy bar stores deplete, the experiment will never be completed.
I read some book called "On Truth," which is either a landmark, knockout punch to postmodernism, or it's a really good dictionary entry. (Why not both? That's probably all it takes to knock out a postmodernist. A dictionary.)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
chapter three: in search of a good backspace key
sometimes I have vain thoughts, like if I have my dad's bone structure or my mother's, or if my hands are being slowly warped by all the writing I do, and instead of long, graceful pianist's fingers they'll look more and more hobbit-like as I get older. I worry if I'm going bald, if I'm going grey, which one is worse, which one I'd take if I was forced to choose, what my children will think about me, what I will think about my children, what my parents will think of my children, whether they will make good grandparents, whether they will like being grandparents, or just the word "grandparent," whether they will adapt easily to that role or if it'll prickle around the shoulders and throat like a bad jacket until they finally accept that I've got kids. I think about what it feels like to be outlived. I wonder if it's like playing catch.
I wonder if I'll get a job. I wonder if I can get a job teaching somewhere I'd want to go back to. I wonder about my rationale for teaching: I would like to do something good. I would like to solve problems: long-term problems, which can only be solved through years of breaking your ass. I'm not vain enough to think I can solve anything for all time. I think about that ridiculous, asinine platitude at the end of that story about the old guy throwing starfish on the beach.
(short version: young kid throwing starfish back in the ocean at low tide. beach is covered in them, no way he'll get all of them. old guy asks him: "why are you doing that? there are so many to help, you can't hope to make a difference." kid says: "make a difference to that one.")
I think about making myself vomit, and I don't have the heart for it, or my heart would come out too, and that would be too messy.
but teaching, there's a real solution. to my problems. I make no illusions about that. teaching would be two things:
1) steady job
1.1) very important. must have a day job. can't not have a day job, or you would starve. we're not in the baudelaire days. it's no longer practical to buy books after you buy food. it's only slightly poetic, and other people have done that before, and better.
1.2) nor are we in the f. scott fitzgerald days, when you could support a healthy lifestyle of international travel and elegant ballrooms and champagne wishes and caviar dreams off the forty thousand dollars (inflation-adjusted) that you make off one story.
1.2a) we're not even in the ray bradbury days, when if you had talent (as stephen king defines it) and worked until your ass fell off, you had a hope of at least supporting yourself. those days are gone.
1.2b) you know that guy from the office? jim? from the office? he wanted to be a TV writer. he had better odds making a living as an actor. just to give you an idea of how far from plausible it is.
1.3) there is no such thing as teacher's block. ( as evidence of this, I've had some fantastic gym teachers in my day.)
1.4) the health insurance. nice perk, if you plan on having kids, slipping on ice or getting cancer.
1.4a) oh, cancer jokes. christ. I almost forgot. there aren't any in this blog. this one comes courtesy of jeff. there's a five year old boy playing in a sandbox with police cars. they're driving around little sandcastles he's built, fighting crime and putting the bad guys away for good, where they won't hurt any more sand-people for the rest of their days. then he hears something in the street: sirens, really loud, and he looks and sees two police cars gunning it, they look like blurs of sharp, violent reds and blues. he puts down his police cars, runs out of the sandbox, into his house where his mom is and says, "mom! I know what I want to be when I grow up! I want to be a policeman!" his mom says, "oh, son. you're not going to grow up. you have cancer."
2) idealism
2.1) all you need to graduate high school is high-functioning illiteracy. nothing more. this is a problem. people don't like to read. as proof of this, odds are against me making a living off the stuff I write, because there isn't enough demand for things to read.
2.1a) teaching would address this problem at its roots. history, english, science, anything but math, basically, any of these subjects, you can make it impossible for a kid to get through your course (not pass, that would be going too far, no, I shouldn't compromise that, but it's that kind of world.) without reading. a lot.
2.2) maybe that's a better way to do it that writing. all a writer can do to make people more literate is write good stuff that makes people want to read. not only their stuff, but other people's as well. a teacher can make a kid want to read the same amount of stuff, but there's no ego involved. and if half the reason is idealism, shouldn't there be no place for ego in it?
2.2a) after all, who can say "I've done more for literacy than any given English, science or history teacher," other than an asshole the size of Mars.
2.3) who hasn't cringed when a college student- college! student!- haltingly reads something they wrote- they! wrote!- to the rest of the class? who can help but cringe?
2.3a) I have physical reactions to bad writing. I can't hide it. I try to apologize for that as much as I can, but if something on the metaphysical wavelength causes me to spasm down here on earth, there's only so much making up I can do before I cross the threshold of bullshit. if I'm addressing the problem of bad writing being out there, swimming about in the ocean of forced metaphors and gut-wrenching similes and assonance and "little did he know" and paragraphs that start with "suddenly," couldn't I begin to feel a bit better about all those times I couldn't resist a small cringe at William Hazlitt or Dan Brown or Nathaniel Hawthorne or Tolstoy or Turgenev, Ayn Rand, Emily Dickinson, that woman who wrote that vampire book, Palahniuk, Chbosky, Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs guy, occasionally Kierkegaard?
these reasons could be applied in reverse to writing, yes. I'm not ignoring that, kind of.
I wonder if I'll get a job. I wonder if I can get a job teaching somewhere I'd want to go back to. I wonder about my rationale for teaching: I would like to do something good. I would like to solve problems: long-term problems, which can only be solved through years of breaking your ass. I'm not vain enough to think I can solve anything for all time. I think about that ridiculous, asinine platitude at the end of that story about the old guy throwing starfish on the beach.
(short version: young kid throwing starfish back in the ocean at low tide. beach is covered in them, no way he'll get all of them. old guy asks him: "why are you doing that? there are so many to help, you can't hope to make a difference." kid says: "make a difference to that one.")
I think about making myself vomit, and I don't have the heart for it, or my heart would come out too, and that would be too messy.
but teaching, there's a real solution. to my problems. I make no illusions about that. teaching would be two things:
1) steady job
1.1) very important. must have a day job. can't not have a day job, or you would starve. we're not in the baudelaire days. it's no longer practical to buy books after you buy food. it's only slightly poetic, and other people have done that before, and better.
1.2) nor are we in the f. scott fitzgerald days, when you could support a healthy lifestyle of international travel and elegant ballrooms and champagne wishes and caviar dreams off the forty thousand dollars (inflation-adjusted) that you make off one story.
1.2a) we're not even in the ray bradbury days, when if you had talent (as stephen king defines it) and worked until your ass fell off, you had a hope of at least supporting yourself. those days are gone.
1.2b) you know that guy from the office? jim? from the office? he wanted to be a TV writer. he had better odds making a living as an actor. just to give you an idea of how far from plausible it is.
1.3) there is no such thing as teacher's block. ( as evidence of this, I've had some fantastic gym teachers in my day.)
1.4) the health insurance. nice perk, if you plan on having kids, slipping on ice or getting cancer.
1.4a) oh, cancer jokes. christ. I almost forgot. there aren't any in this blog. this one comes courtesy of jeff. there's a five year old boy playing in a sandbox with police cars. they're driving around little sandcastles he's built, fighting crime and putting the bad guys away for good, where they won't hurt any more sand-people for the rest of their days. then he hears something in the street: sirens, really loud, and he looks and sees two police cars gunning it, they look like blurs of sharp, violent reds and blues. he puts down his police cars, runs out of the sandbox, into his house where his mom is and says, "mom! I know what I want to be when I grow up! I want to be a policeman!" his mom says, "oh, son. you're not going to grow up. you have cancer."
2) idealism
2.1) all you need to graduate high school is high-functioning illiteracy. nothing more. this is a problem. people don't like to read. as proof of this, odds are against me making a living off the stuff I write, because there isn't enough demand for things to read.
2.1a) teaching would address this problem at its roots. history, english, science, anything but math, basically, any of these subjects, you can make it impossible for a kid to get through your course (not pass, that would be going too far, no, I shouldn't compromise that, but it's that kind of world.) without reading. a lot.
2.2) maybe that's a better way to do it that writing. all a writer can do to make people more literate is write good stuff that makes people want to read. not only their stuff, but other people's as well. a teacher can make a kid want to read the same amount of stuff, but there's no ego involved. and if half the reason is idealism, shouldn't there be no place for ego in it?
2.2a) after all, who can say "I've done more for literacy than any given English, science or history teacher," other than an asshole the size of Mars.
2.3) who hasn't cringed when a college student- college! student!- haltingly reads something they wrote- they! wrote!- to the rest of the class? who can help but cringe?
2.3a) I have physical reactions to bad writing. I can't hide it. I try to apologize for that as much as I can, but if something on the metaphysical wavelength causes me to spasm down here on earth, there's only so much making up I can do before I cross the threshold of bullshit. if I'm addressing the problem of bad writing being out there, swimming about in the ocean of forced metaphors and gut-wrenching similes and assonance and "little did he know" and paragraphs that start with "suddenly," couldn't I begin to feel a bit better about all those times I couldn't resist a small cringe at William Hazlitt or Dan Brown or Nathaniel Hawthorne or Tolstoy or Turgenev, Ayn Rand, Emily Dickinson, that woman who wrote that vampire book, Palahniuk, Chbosky, Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs guy, occasionally Kierkegaard?
these reasons could be applied in reverse to writing, yes. I'm not ignoring that, kind of.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
chapter one: thinnness
sam: Hello again!
sam: My, we seem to bump into each other quite often.
sam: quite!
sam: it's an astonishing coincidence.
sam: I believe it is.
sam: we haven't spoken in some time, yes?
sam: yes, yes. my apologies.
sam: well, there are so many preoccupations.
sam: certainly.
sam: it's only natural that we'd stop talking to each other.
sam: yes, tragic.
sam: but no less inevitable.
sam: indeed. how sad. do you have a headache?
sam: why, yes, I do. how did you guess?
sam: you don't get one like that every time you feel out of place?
sam: out of place?
sam: yes, like when you leave a room and go back in to find something's moved.
sam: but you didn't touch it?
sam: yes! exactly. you don't feel that, just day to day?
sam: well, I do now, maybe because you mentioned it.
sam: ah, the Heisenberg Uncertainty jive now?
sam: that by naming the elephant in the room, it's no longer that name.
sam: yes, yes.
sam: what was before a kind of thinness is now just a headache.
sam: but a remarkable heavy one, though.
sam: yes, I am a bit annoyed.
sam: annoyed?
sam: yes, bothered.
sam: but annoyed, too?
sam: I can be both at the same time.
sam: well, which one more?
sam: well, you'd have to look into the source of both the annoyance and the bother.
sam: what annoys you?
sam: my headache. it bugs me. it's uncomfortable. I would rather not have it in my head. I didn't invite it.
sam: and what's bothering you?
sam: such a more intense word.
sam: bother?
sam: against annoys. bother is much more deeply troubling, don't you think?
sam: yes, yes. well?
sam: oh, yes. well, it would have to be the source of the headache.
sam: that odd, thin feeling?
sam: no, that heavy headache.
sam: I thought that was only an annoyance?
sam: no, the source of it, I mean.
sam: ah. you mean the feeling that annoyed you before has now evolved into a source of great discomfort. a bother.
sam: no, not at all.
sam: oh?
sam: no, it's the source of the headache that bothers me.
sam: I'm not sure I understand.
sam: it would take some time to explain.
sam: as with all things.
sam: yes, how silly of me.
sam: already forgotten!
sam: it's the difference between hating the sinner and hating the sin.
sam: ah.
sam: you don't understand?
sam: you're bothered not by the headache, but the fact that you have a headache.
sam: yes.
sam: because something must have given you a headache.
sam: yes.
sam: it's a symptom of a larger problem, you fear?
sam: I believe so.
sam: well, what's that problem?
sam: everything is thin.
sam: ah.
sam: I believe we've just exited the realm of our respective comprehension, old friend.
sam: as do I, as do I.
sam: My, we seem to bump into each other quite often.
sam: quite!
sam: it's an astonishing coincidence.
sam: I believe it is.
sam: we haven't spoken in some time, yes?
sam: yes, yes. my apologies.
sam: well, there are so many preoccupations.
sam: certainly.
sam: it's only natural that we'd stop talking to each other.
sam: yes, tragic.
sam: but no less inevitable.
sam: indeed. how sad. do you have a headache?
sam: why, yes, I do. how did you guess?
sam: you don't get one like that every time you feel out of place?
sam: out of place?
sam: yes, like when you leave a room and go back in to find something's moved.
sam: but you didn't touch it?
sam: yes! exactly. you don't feel that, just day to day?
sam: well, I do now, maybe because you mentioned it.
sam: ah, the Heisenberg Uncertainty jive now?
sam: that by naming the elephant in the room, it's no longer that name.
sam: yes, yes.
sam: what was before a kind of thinness is now just a headache.
sam: but a remarkable heavy one, though.
sam: yes, I am a bit annoyed.
sam: annoyed?
sam: yes, bothered.
sam: but annoyed, too?
sam: I can be both at the same time.
sam: well, which one more?
sam: well, you'd have to look into the source of both the annoyance and the bother.
sam: what annoys you?
sam: my headache. it bugs me. it's uncomfortable. I would rather not have it in my head. I didn't invite it.
sam: and what's bothering you?
sam: such a more intense word.
sam: bother?
sam: against annoys. bother is much more deeply troubling, don't you think?
sam: yes, yes. well?
sam: oh, yes. well, it would have to be the source of the headache.
sam: that odd, thin feeling?
sam: no, that heavy headache.
sam: I thought that was only an annoyance?
sam: no, the source of it, I mean.
sam: ah. you mean the feeling that annoyed you before has now evolved into a source of great discomfort. a bother.
sam: no, not at all.
sam: oh?
sam: no, it's the source of the headache that bothers me.
sam: I'm not sure I understand.
sam: it would take some time to explain.
sam: as with all things.
sam: yes, how silly of me.
sam: already forgotten!
sam: it's the difference between hating the sinner and hating the sin.
sam: ah.
sam: you don't understand?
sam: you're bothered not by the headache, but the fact that you have a headache.
sam: yes.
sam: because something must have given you a headache.
sam: yes.
sam: it's a symptom of a larger problem, you fear?
sam: I believe so.
sam: well, what's that problem?
sam: everything is thin.
sam: ah.
sam: I believe we've just exited the realm of our respective comprehension, old friend.
sam: as do I, as do I.
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