There’s a great blog that I have on my RSS feed called “Sunday Magazine”. It shows Sunday New York Times articles from 100 years ago that day. This week, there is an article called “Palladino Outdone by a Non-Professional Medium”. The gist of the article is that a medium is proved to be a fraud, but the person writing the article wants to believe that Miss Burton (the medium) is not a fraud. She says and does things in a trance, and wakes up claiming no memory of it. David, who writes the blog, concludes, “At worst she’s a fraud. At best she’s self-delusional,” and questions the value of dedicating newspaper space to such things.
In reading Jung’s “occult” cases, he describes an interesting phenomenon called “automatism”. This is a psychological term that has been around forever, and basically describes any activity performed unconsciously. A blatant example of automatism would be sleepwalking, but there are more subtle examples. After reading the Sunday Times piece, it occurs to me that the case of Miss Burton is quite similar to at least one of Jung’s described case studies. I mention it because it is often not a case of fraud, and not exactly self-delusional in the way we usually think of that phrase. The debunkers are right (it's not spirits but the medium's actions), but so is the medium (he or she is not being consciously deceptive).
Certainly there are many mediums who are outright frauds, but the phenomenon of automatism is entirely legit. Jung cites experiments in auto-suggestion that demonstrate how the mind tricks itself into believing in things like a table moving of its own accord, or how a subject can “hear” messages of the person who begins the auto-suggestion by an almost imperceptible movement of a table or surface where the subject is resting their hands. The subject comes out of their hypnotic state, and both they and others present will swear that objects have moved, and that messages were received from a spirit. In fact, it is nothing more than a psychological trick that stimulates the personal unconscious.
That said, Jung points out that psychology uses a phenomenological approach; the psychiatrist is not there to prove whether or not supposed spirit communications are real, they are they to observe authentic psychological phenomena. And anything dealing with “spirit communication” is of interest, because it suggests a direct connection with the collective unconscious if it reveals archetypal ideas.
It is interesting to read Jung’s take on spirits, because he starts out assuming they don’t exist, and his later writings suggest that he believes they do exist. Their connection with the collective is sketchy; it’s unclear at times whether he thinks spirits are manifestations of the psycho-archaeology of humans, or something in a separate class just outside the collective.
Of interest here is the idea of fakery; even when something is being faked (i.e., the medium is seen physically moving something that was claimed to be moved psychokinetically), it’s not always because the medium is a deliberate fraud. In many cases the medium is doing something without consciously being aware that they are doing it. That doesn’t make it a spiritual manifestation, but it shows how much the unconscious affects us without our knowledge. In the case cited by Jung, the 15-year-old medium who was his patient knew things that she “could not know”, and supposedly manifested spirit personalities, but all of them could be attributed to things stored in her personal unconscious (complexes often appear as different “personalities”), and he was able to prove this point by point.
And herein lies the secret of Tarot cards and other forms of divination (astrology excepted). Jung coined the term “synchronicity” to describe the associations that revealed unconscious content. Synchronicities are often mundane things that we notice that seem to bear relevance to an event or crisis in our lives, and it is often the unconscious trying to “point out” something to us that we can’t consciously see. When someone lays out Tarot cards in a spread, they are activating the collective through the use of collective imagery. The symbols on the cards connect with an unconscious symbolism, and you are able to “predict” astonishing things that on some level you are already aware of. Jung points out how things related to the collective defy space-time constraints, and this is what makes them interesting. They point to a super-psychological non-linearity of time.
So—in the case of the medium, she may have been receiving unconscious messages, but these are in no way involving spirits—just as Tarot cards don’t involve any manipulation by spirits. It’s an entirely natural psychological phenomenon.
“Parapsychology” deals pretty exclusively with the collective unconscious, at least according to original definition. The existence of spirits is difficult to prove as we know, and psychology does not even attempt to answer the question. It can’t be answered any more than the “Is there really a God” question can be answered by any scientific methodology. All you can do is gather case studies.
That said, I’m personally inclined to believe in the existence of spirits and other beings, though the border between what is an unconscious manifestation and what is a legitimate separate phenomenon is not clear. It’s not entirely clear what a “ghost” or “spirit” is, either. I do think there are legitimate mediums out there, though I haven’t seen many. What they are contacting is also unclear, but it seems they are able to directly “hear” what may be remnants of personalities, or perhaps actual intelligent beings. It’s a perpetually interesting question, and one for which we’ll never have a definitive answer. The only way to know for sure is to actually die—and then there’s no way for us to report back. Not a way anyone would accept scientifically, at any rate.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Judging the Book
Another story of mine has been published at “Long Story Short”. It’s a very short piece entitled “Just Like”. This is not a horror story, it does not fit into the archetype series. It’s just a vignette I wrote while feeling somewhat literary. The benefit of this piece is that it’s something I can share with my colleagues without them thinking I’m a deranged lunatic.
It’s interesting how people judge the personality of the author by their writings, as if every piece were autobiographical in some fashion. Certainly some thoughts and feelings of the author will manifest themselves in stories, but it would be a mistake to think that the characters are literal reflections of real life people and events. The exception would be if the author tells you that a fictional piece has some autobiography, or is autobiographical. Besides that, I wouldn’t assume anything.
A good example of this is H.P. Lovecraft. He was often vilified as a deviant, perverse and monstrous for his writings. Yet Lovecraft was extremely mild-mannered and conservative in most respects. You probably wouldn’t meet a more normal person in your life. His writing was how he grappled with his terror of the unknown. This is certainly a motivation that I share with him.
I’ve been reading a collection of Jung’s writings on psychology and the occult. Jung talks about spirits, demons, and all sorts of manifestations that come directly from the collective unconscious. Early on he describes the collective as being separate from individual consciousness and personal unconsciousness. In earlier writings, Jung suggested that we should have nothing to do with the collective—it should not intrude on conscious life. By his later years, he spoke more of integrating collective content with our ordinary consciousness.
Jung tackles something in his introduction to Moser’s book on ghosts that has always been a pet peeve of mine. He says “Rationalism and superstition are complimentary. It is a psychological rule that the brighter the light, the blacker the shadow; in other words, the more rationalistic we are in our conscious minds, the more alive becomes the spectral world of the unconscious. And it is indeed obvious that rationality is in large measure an apotropaic defence against superstition, which is every present and unavoidable.”
Thank you, Dr. Jung. While I think skepticism has a place and can be healthy, there is often a rationalism applied to things that don’t lend themselves to logical processes, a seeking for statistical data on occurrences that are often entirely random. And the inability of these things to be rational and orderly causes the skeptic to dismiss them as false without a second look. But we only dismiss out of hand those things that make us uncomfortable. I have seen hardcore skeptics who scoff at the idea of anything “paranormal” be the first to freak out when they witness a “paranormal” event that is obviously not a trick and defies any normal explanation.
Psychological truth is different from physical truth. Regardless of the interpretation of the event, the fact that one authentically experienced something makes it a psychological truth. It doesn’t matter if they saw something “real” in a material sense, if they were hallucinating, or if they were simply mistaken or tricked. Psychology is never about “proving”; it is (or should be) about mapping the processes of the unconscious, and their interaction with consciousness.
Unconsciousness and the contents of the collective unconscious are part of my lifelong study and personal quest. We have become split by dismissing the unconscious to an alarming degree. If we don’t explore what’s there and tackle it—especially the negatives—then during a crisis, those things will control us, and we won’t have a clue as to where it comes from or what to do about it. It’s not psychologically healthy to be that unaware. We try to fight things off by being “clinical” and “scientific”, or by clinging to dogmatic religion and/or xenophobia out of extreme fear. In this sense, the atheist and the evangelical may have something in common.
I am over-generalizing again, of course. Certainly there are those in religious and non-religious camps who cultivate awareness of themselves and their cultural context. But there needs to be an openness, one that doesn’t shut down every strange thing as “demonic”, or “false”. Psychological truth requires a different kind of study and understanding.
Wish me luck as I move on to the writings of Henry Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus.
In the meantime, I leave you with a recent Cthulhu comic. It’s animated, so watch the last panel for at least a full minute. If Cthulhu really existed, he couldn't be more horrifying than current news and reality TV...
It’s interesting how people judge the personality of the author by their writings, as if every piece were autobiographical in some fashion. Certainly some thoughts and feelings of the author will manifest themselves in stories, but it would be a mistake to think that the characters are literal reflections of real life people and events. The exception would be if the author tells you that a fictional piece has some autobiography, or is autobiographical. Besides that, I wouldn’t assume anything.
A good example of this is H.P. Lovecraft. He was often vilified as a deviant, perverse and monstrous for his writings. Yet Lovecraft was extremely mild-mannered and conservative in most respects. You probably wouldn’t meet a more normal person in your life. His writing was how he grappled with his terror of the unknown. This is certainly a motivation that I share with him.
I’ve been reading a collection of Jung’s writings on psychology and the occult. Jung talks about spirits, demons, and all sorts of manifestations that come directly from the collective unconscious. Early on he describes the collective as being separate from individual consciousness and personal unconsciousness. In earlier writings, Jung suggested that we should have nothing to do with the collective—it should not intrude on conscious life. By his later years, he spoke more of integrating collective content with our ordinary consciousness.
Jung tackles something in his introduction to Moser’s book on ghosts that has always been a pet peeve of mine. He says “Rationalism and superstition are complimentary. It is a psychological rule that the brighter the light, the blacker the shadow; in other words, the more rationalistic we are in our conscious minds, the more alive becomes the spectral world of the unconscious. And it is indeed obvious that rationality is in large measure an apotropaic defence against superstition, which is every present and unavoidable.”
Thank you, Dr. Jung. While I think skepticism has a place and can be healthy, there is often a rationalism applied to things that don’t lend themselves to logical processes, a seeking for statistical data on occurrences that are often entirely random. And the inability of these things to be rational and orderly causes the skeptic to dismiss them as false without a second look. But we only dismiss out of hand those things that make us uncomfortable. I have seen hardcore skeptics who scoff at the idea of anything “paranormal” be the first to freak out when they witness a “paranormal” event that is obviously not a trick and defies any normal explanation.
Psychological truth is different from physical truth. Regardless of the interpretation of the event, the fact that one authentically experienced something makes it a psychological truth. It doesn’t matter if they saw something “real” in a material sense, if they were hallucinating, or if they were simply mistaken or tricked. Psychology is never about “proving”; it is (or should be) about mapping the processes of the unconscious, and their interaction with consciousness.
Unconsciousness and the contents of the collective unconscious are part of my lifelong study and personal quest. We have become split by dismissing the unconscious to an alarming degree. If we don’t explore what’s there and tackle it—especially the negatives—then during a crisis, those things will control us, and we won’t have a clue as to where it comes from or what to do about it. It’s not psychologically healthy to be that unaware. We try to fight things off by being “clinical” and “scientific”, or by clinging to dogmatic religion and/or xenophobia out of extreme fear. In this sense, the atheist and the evangelical may have something in common.
I am over-generalizing again, of course. Certainly there are those in religious and non-religious camps who cultivate awareness of themselves and their cultural context. But there needs to be an openness, one that doesn’t shut down every strange thing as “demonic”, or “false”. Psychological truth requires a different kind of study and understanding.
Wish me luck as I move on to the writings of Henry Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus.
In the meantime, I leave you with a recent Cthulhu comic. It’s animated, so watch the last panel for at least a full minute. If Cthulhu really existed, he couldn't be more horrifying than current news and reality TV...
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
London Trip--Everything But the Troxy
Here is my “everything but the Troxy” post on my recent trip to London. It should be subtitled "The joys of traveling during Mercury Retrograde". Some of you may scoff at astrology, but I live in fear of Mercury Retrograde. And it began promptly on the day I left for London.
I have to say this adventure did not start well. I arrived at the airport and checked in, no problem. Discovered I still had Elite status, even though my recent update didn’t mention it. However, it didn’t matter—I went upstairs to find only 1 security checkpoint open in all of Terminal C at Newark, with one line extending for what seemed like miles. No special Elite lines. And in front of me on line were approximately 8 million Hasidic Jewish boys. When I saw how much stuff and how many accessories they had (hats, belts, coats, etc.), I imagined that I could be there for awhile. Fortunately, things moved much more quickly than expected. Not that it mattered—I got to the gate in time to sit around for several hours. I got to spend at least one of those hours listening to a 3-year-old scream at the top of his lungs. The flight ended up being about 2 ½ hours late, and there was a Nor’easter going on outside.
There is always music playing when you get on the plane and take your seat. The new fad in this equivalent of “hold” music is 70s and 80s songs that were pretty decent being re-done by auto-tuned female vocalists, and thus becoming horrible. I never thought I would miss Muzak—at least no one sings on that.
In spite of the shaky start, I wasn’t too late getting to London. The walk to Passport Control from the gate at Heathrow was longer than my actual time with the immigration officer. He asked why I was there, I told him it was for a concert. He asked what it was. I said, “It’s called Back to the Phuture, but I’m really going to see John Foxx.” He gave me two thumbs up, handed me back my passport, and said, “Enjoy”. I’m guessing he’s a Foxx fan.
So, here I am in London, and now I have the hurdle of making my way over to the East End. I know this will take me almost another hour, longer if I take the Picadilly line from Heathrow. So, grumbling, I take the more expensive Heathrow Express to Paddington, and make my way over to Bank via the Central line.
The Bank tube station was designed by sadists. Yes, I know about all the “major escalator work”, but you can tell this station is horrible even with escalators. It’s just an endless maze of stairs, and by the time I got to the Docklands Light Rail, I was certain that I was going to run into the Minotaur. The trip to Limehouse was mercifully short from there, and I didn’t have too much trouble finding the hotel. By now, it was about 3:15 in the afternoon, and I was meeting my friend Gem for drinks and dinner around 4. We met near Euston and ended up in Bloomsbury. I didn’t end up staying out too long—I had that vague sick feeling that occurs just before I’m about to get a massive headache, so I thought it prudent to go to my room and go to sleep.
I was supposed to meet my friend Paul the next morning, but a quick call the day before pushed plans back to the afternoon, so I decided to visit the Tower of London. Heck, it was only 2 light rail stops away, and I’d never been there. A lot of people are surprised when I tell them that. But most of my time in England has not been spent at tourist attractions. When I was in school back in the 90s, I spent most of my time visiting out-of-the-way stone circles and other weird places. I didn’t hang out in London much except to do shopping, and I think a friend and I caught a show once at the Old Vic. Now I spend most of my vacation time there book shopping. So—I can tell you where to find books in London, but I’m not an expert on tourist attractions.
Right. So—it was a beautiful day, probably close to 70 degrees, and everything in bloom. Spring has definitely arrived in London. It occurred to me that when I left New Jersey, we were expecting more snow (which didn’t materialize in a big way, apparently). Seems to me that the U.S. has some catching up to do on the weather front. Ahem.
Obviously I did not get to do the most thorough tour of the Tower, as you could probably spend all day, if not days, there. I didn’t go on a formal tour—I preferred to explore the buildings on my own. I like places like this, charged with tragedy—you can feel as you walk past the stone walls. Stones are like sponges, and they seem to soak up the energy of emotion and trauma. This was certainly true here—the Bloody Tower, the Wakefield Tower, parts of the White Tower—I actually found myself wanting to get out after awhile. It’s hard to describe that kind of magnetic overload—I imagine that it’s like sticking your finger in an electrical outlet, or perhaps what severe radiation exposure would feel like.
I stopped at a pub nearby for lunch, and then headed back to Limehouse. You know the story from there, and if you don’t—read yesterday’s blog posting.
The day after the Troxy, I had to get up ridiculously early, and I was feeling decidedly unwell. I had to leave before the hotel breakfast started, so it was an unnerving ride from Limehouse to Bank to King’s Cross, to the Picadilly Line. The swaying motion of the train did not do wonders for my headache or nausea.
Fortunately, I started to feel better by the time I got to Heathrow, and I was starving by the time I sat down to breakfast after going through security. The plane was on time—we boarded early, in fact—and not that full. There was an empty seat between the myself and the woman I was sharing the row with, much to the delight of both of us.
This is probably a good time to mention one of my long time observations in the “Murphy’s Law of Travel” category. Turbulence can occur any time on flights, but it only tends to occur at one of the two following times:
-During the beverage service
-When there is a queue for the lavatories
I can add a third one to this after Sunday’s flight—when you’re circling the airport waiting to land. This is a deadly, cruel Mercury Retrograde joke played after you’ve had a reasonably relaxing flight, and are just starting to feel normal. I should note that the woman next to me was 4 months pregnant. So, here we are circling the Catskills (Hi, Bruce) and then Sussex County, New Jersey. I have had inner ear problems since I hit my thirties, and I don’t take going in dizzying circles very well. Add turbulence to the mix, and you’re liable to turn different shades of green. And I realized that if I was nauseous, the pregnant woman next to me must have been hellishly worse. And she was. Fortunately neither of us got sick, but it was close. By the time we landed, I was dazed and unwell again. God forbid you get off a plane feeling normal—it would violate some cosmic law, I think.
Anyway, that’s my trip—short, sweet, and exhausting. I imagine I’ll feel normal again just in time for my surgery on the 18th.
I have to say this adventure did not start well. I arrived at the airport and checked in, no problem. Discovered I still had Elite status, even though my recent update didn’t mention it. However, it didn’t matter—I went upstairs to find only 1 security checkpoint open in all of Terminal C at Newark, with one line extending for what seemed like miles. No special Elite lines. And in front of me on line were approximately 8 million Hasidic Jewish boys. When I saw how much stuff and how many accessories they had (hats, belts, coats, etc.), I imagined that I could be there for awhile. Fortunately, things moved much more quickly than expected. Not that it mattered—I got to the gate in time to sit around for several hours. I got to spend at least one of those hours listening to a 3-year-old scream at the top of his lungs. The flight ended up being about 2 ½ hours late, and there was a Nor’easter going on outside.
There is always music playing when you get on the plane and take your seat. The new fad in this equivalent of “hold” music is 70s and 80s songs that were pretty decent being re-done by auto-tuned female vocalists, and thus becoming horrible. I never thought I would miss Muzak—at least no one sings on that.
In spite of the shaky start, I wasn’t too late getting to London. The walk to Passport Control from the gate at Heathrow was longer than my actual time with the immigration officer. He asked why I was there, I told him it was for a concert. He asked what it was. I said, “It’s called Back to the Phuture, but I’m really going to see John Foxx.” He gave me two thumbs up, handed me back my passport, and said, “Enjoy”. I’m guessing he’s a Foxx fan.
So, here I am in London, and now I have the hurdle of making my way over to the East End. I know this will take me almost another hour, longer if I take the Picadilly line from Heathrow. So, grumbling, I take the more expensive Heathrow Express to Paddington, and make my way over to Bank via the Central line.
The Bank tube station was designed by sadists. Yes, I know about all the “major escalator work”, but you can tell this station is horrible even with escalators. It’s just an endless maze of stairs, and by the time I got to the Docklands Light Rail, I was certain that I was going to run into the Minotaur. The trip to Limehouse was mercifully short from there, and I didn’t have too much trouble finding the hotel. By now, it was about 3:15 in the afternoon, and I was meeting my friend Gem for drinks and dinner around 4. We met near Euston and ended up in Bloomsbury. I didn’t end up staying out too long—I had that vague sick feeling that occurs just before I’m about to get a massive headache, so I thought it prudent to go to my room and go to sleep.
I was supposed to meet my friend Paul the next morning, but a quick call the day before pushed plans back to the afternoon, so I decided to visit the Tower of London. Heck, it was only 2 light rail stops away, and I’d never been there. A lot of people are surprised when I tell them that. But most of my time in England has not been spent at tourist attractions. When I was in school back in the 90s, I spent most of my time visiting out-of-the-way stone circles and other weird places. I didn’t hang out in London much except to do shopping, and I think a friend and I caught a show once at the Old Vic. Now I spend most of my vacation time there book shopping. So—I can tell you where to find books in London, but I’m not an expert on tourist attractions.
Right. So—it was a beautiful day, probably close to 70 degrees, and everything in bloom. Spring has definitely arrived in London. It occurred to me that when I left New Jersey, we were expecting more snow (which didn’t materialize in a big way, apparently). Seems to me that the U.S. has some catching up to do on the weather front. Ahem.
Obviously I did not get to do the most thorough tour of the Tower, as you could probably spend all day, if not days, there. I didn’t go on a formal tour—I preferred to explore the buildings on my own. I like places like this, charged with tragedy—you can feel as you walk past the stone walls. Stones are like sponges, and they seem to soak up the energy of emotion and trauma. This was certainly true here—the Bloody Tower, the Wakefield Tower, parts of the White Tower—I actually found myself wanting to get out after awhile. It’s hard to describe that kind of magnetic overload—I imagine that it’s like sticking your finger in an electrical outlet, or perhaps what severe radiation exposure would feel like.
I stopped at a pub nearby for lunch, and then headed back to Limehouse. You know the story from there, and if you don’t—read yesterday’s blog posting.
The day after the Troxy, I had to get up ridiculously early, and I was feeling decidedly unwell. I had to leave before the hotel breakfast started, so it was an unnerving ride from Limehouse to Bank to King’s Cross, to the Picadilly Line. The swaying motion of the train did not do wonders for my headache or nausea.
Fortunately, I started to feel better by the time I got to Heathrow, and I was starving by the time I sat down to breakfast after going through security. The plane was on time—we boarded early, in fact—and not that full. There was an empty seat between the myself and the woman I was sharing the row with, much to the delight of both of us.
This is probably a good time to mention one of my long time observations in the “Murphy’s Law of Travel” category. Turbulence can occur any time on flights, but it only tends to occur at one of the two following times:
-During the beverage service
-When there is a queue for the lavatories
I can add a third one to this after Sunday’s flight—when you’re circling the airport waiting to land. This is a deadly, cruel Mercury Retrograde joke played after you’ve had a reasonably relaxing flight, and are just starting to feel normal. I should note that the woman next to me was 4 months pregnant. So, here we are circling the Catskills (Hi, Bruce) and then Sussex County, New Jersey. I have had inner ear problems since I hit my thirties, and I don’t take going in dizzying circles very well. Add turbulence to the mix, and you’re liable to turn different shades of green. And I realized that if I was nauseous, the pregnant woman next to me must have been hellishly worse. And she was. Fortunately neither of us got sick, but it was close. By the time we landed, I was dazed and unwell again. God forbid you get off a plane feeling normal—it would violate some cosmic law, I think.
Anyway, that’s my trip—short, sweet, and exhausting. I imagine I’ll feel normal again just in time for my surgery on the 18th.
Monday, April 04, 2011
The Troxy--John Foxx at Back to the Phuture, April 2, 2011
I've decided to do just one blog posting about the Troxy, and do it first. Tomorrow I will write about the rest of my London trip. I think many readers who want to know about the Troxy aren't that interested in the details of my trip, and vice versa. And if you're interested in both--well, you'll have that too.
So--without any more ado, here is my account of the Troxy gig.
First--what we like to dub "Foxxgate" started a bit after 3:00, when I went to the Queens Head pub, the official meet-up place. It took awhile for everyone to show up--myself and Phil were the first two to show up, then Fons, and then Chris, Brian, Gem, Garry, and Tapio. I took some pictures, but many of them came out blurry for some reason, so my apologies to those of you I know on Facebook--only 2 or 3 photos came out.
We headed over to the Troxy, arriving at about 7:30. Mark Jones was in the middle of his set, and I had missed Mirrors, who were supposed to have been very good. I sat up in the VIP balcony, as I wanted a good view of the visuals. John Foxx came on at 8:00, opening with "Shatterproof". Here is a clip I took from my vantage point:
The set list was excellent--here it is, direct from the Maths Facebook page:
Shatterproof
He's A Liquid
Burning Car
The Running Man
No-One Driving
Underpass
Catwalk
Dislocation
The Quiet Men
Walk Away
The Man Who Dies Every Day
Hiroshima Mon Amour
Slow Motion
The band seems to have been the same one playing with John at the Roundhouse last year--John, Benge, and Serafina Steer managing most of the synths, and Robin Simon on guitar. As most of you know, I am hardly a technical or sound expert; however, the set really sounded fantastic, like there were no misses. (Judging from how relaxed Steve Malins looked later in the evening, I'm guessing that everything went as it should musically). I'd never heard John do Hiroshima Mon Amour live, so that was a treat. And while I love Interplay, I'm glad he mixed up the setlist. Makes sense, really, as the audience is not just Foxx fans. The audience also seemed better behaved than the Roundhouse audience last year.
The only negative was the visuals. The set started with Jonathan Barnbrook's visuals, but then about halfway through, there were no visuals at all, or just sporadic ones. I asked John about this later, and he said that Karborn's visuals "wouldn't go"--they did not work for some reason. That was a bit disappointing for me, as the visuals are part of what makes the set. (Mercury Retrograde strikes Karborn again--last time was Liverpool). In the grand scheme of things, though, everything that went right went really right. So, kudos to John and everyone else for an excellent show.
Here are some good photos of the entire show by Matey Bloke.
After John's portion of the show was over, I spent time at the VIP bar talking to Rob Harris. Rob then left to take some photos of Mark Daniels' set, and I sat down. Gary Numan came on after that--he opened with "Down in the Park" I was recording it with my digital camera, when suddenly towards the end of the song, I saw John Foxx walking up the stairs. He saw me and said hello, and then stood at the back watching the visuals. I got up and joined him, as I'd wanted to chat with him a bit, and doubted I'd get much of a chance at the aftershow. We talked mostly between songs, and that was when he told me about Karborn's visuals. He was up in the balcony to get a good view of Gary's visuals, which were well done. We were there through much of the set, then John had to go backstage again. I went and joined Steve Malins, who I saw sitting just a couple rows ahead of where I'd been before. He was sitting with a man whose name I don't know, but who I recall seeing at the DNA exhibition in July of 2009, the man that Karborn thought was Steve's brother ("Brigid--is that Steve's brother?" "I have no idea. Why don't you ask him?" "No--no, I can't ask him. I want it to be Steve's brother. I like the idea that he's Steve's brother. If he's not, I'll be crushed. We can just say he is, right?"). I did shake hands with him, but it was really difficult to hear him when we were talking, so I didn't get his name. Steve's wife was also there, a row ahead of us, and as we were heading to the aftershow, she rather cryptically mentioned a trip to New York this year. Sounds more definite than last year, when Steve said it was "indefinite", so I'm hopeful.
Incidentally--I should note that the trip to New York would not be a gig, so American fans, don't get too excited yet. The last time I talked to Steve about it, he said it wasn't likely before 2012. It's incredibly complicated to do substantial gigs if you're a foreigner entering the U.S., especially on the tax side, and I'm sure they're not overflowing with copious amounts of cash, so it takes more time than you would expect. It's easier for John to do small things like exhibitions, but even that has an associated cost--Lord knows that I know it's not cheap to travel regularly between countries.
John showed up rather late to the aftershow, and then left early. I did talk to him briefly, but as always, there were many others who wanted to talk to him, and as usual, I didn't want to monopolize. This is probably the first time he's asked me if I was going to get back to the hotel safely--Limehouse is what you would call a "mixed" area, and that particular area is not so good, from what I could see ("Dodgy" is how my British friends describe it). I did end up walking back to the hotel with other friends staying there, so it was fine. I didn't see Steve or his wife again, and I ended up leaving about 15 minutes before the aftershow was over, so I don't know if they ever made it.
As we were leaving, we saw security throwing someone out, and realized quite suddenly that it was Rob Simon. We looked at each other, and said, "What the f**k?" I don't know what the Troxy security was up to that evening, but they had this more-than-aggravating habit of hassling those with AAA passes. (That's "access all areas"). They were arbitrarily deciding who could be certain places, and who couldn't. They apparently decided that Rob Simon didn't belong there, even though he had a pass and showed it to them, and when he argued, they threw him out. Rob told them that they were a bunch of a-holes, and I was certainly on his side--there was no reason for the forcible ejection, especially not someone in the band. Rob Harris intervened to keep a fight from starting, as I don't think anyone wanted to see him get arrested. He then came over to where I was standing with friends, and said, "Sorry for that," but was clearly still pissed off, and with good reason. He went over and was talking to the organizers when we left. I found out later that he was let back in through the stage door, so I'm glad it was sorted, but it was very unnecessary.
I ended the night having a drink at the hotel pub with the same friends, and went to bed around 2:30 am. When I got up at 6:30 am I was ridiculously dazed and hung over, but had to begin the trek home. I'll talk more about the other details of the trip in my next post.
So--without any more ado, here is my account of the Troxy gig.
First--what we like to dub "Foxxgate" started a bit after 3:00, when I went to the Queens Head pub, the official meet-up place. It took awhile for everyone to show up--myself and Phil were the first two to show up, then Fons, and then Chris, Brian, Gem, Garry, and Tapio. I took some pictures, but many of them came out blurry for some reason, so my apologies to those of you I know on Facebook--only 2 or 3 photos came out.
We headed over to the Troxy, arriving at about 7:30. Mark Jones was in the middle of his set, and I had missed Mirrors, who were supposed to have been very good. I sat up in the VIP balcony, as I wanted a good view of the visuals. John Foxx came on at 8:00, opening with "Shatterproof". Here is a clip I took from my vantage point:
The set list was excellent--here it is, direct from the Maths Facebook page:
Shatterproof
He's A Liquid
Burning Car
The Running Man
No-One Driving
Underpass
Catwalk
Dislocation
The Quiet Men
Walk Away
The Man Who Dies Every Day
Hiroshima Mon Amour
Slow Motion
The band seems to have been the same one playing with John at the Roundhouse last year--John, Benge, and Serafina Steer managing most of the synths, and Robin Simon on guitar. As most of you know, I am hardly a technical or sound expert; however, the set really sounded fantastic, like there were no misses. (Judging from how relaxed Steve Malins looked later in the evening, I'm guessing that everything went as it should musically). I'd never heard John do Hiroshima Mon Amour live, so that was a treat. And while I love Interplay, I'm glad he mixed up the setlist. Makes sense, really, as the audience is not just Foxx fans. The audience also seemed better behaved than the Roundhouse audience last year.
The only negative was the visuals. The set started with Jonathan Barnbrook's visuals, but then about halfway through, there were no visuals at all, or just sporadic ones. I asked John about this later, and he said that Karborn's visuals "wouldn't go"--they did not work for some reason. That was a bit disappointing for me, as the visuals are part of what makes the set. (Mercury Retrograde strikes Karborn again--last time was Liverpool). In the grand scheme of things, though, everything that went right went really right. So, kudos to John and everyone else for an excellent show.
Here are some good photos of the entire show by Matey Bloke.
After John's portion of the show was over, I spent time at the VIP bar talking to Rob Harris. Rob then left to take some photos of Mark Daniels' set, and I sat down. Gary Numan came on after that--he opened with "Down in the Park" I was recording it with my digital camera, when suddenly towards the end of the song, I saw John Foxx walking up the stairs. He saw me and said hello, and then stood at the back watching the visuals. I got up and joined him, as I'd wanted to chat with him a bit, and doubted I'd get much of a chance at the aftershow. We talked mostly between songs, and that was when he told me about Karborn's visuals. He was up in the balcony to get a good view of Gary's visuals, which were well done. We were there through much of the set, then John had to go backstage again. I went and joined Steve Malins, who I saw sitting just a couple rows ahead of where I'd been before. He was sitting with a man whose name I don't know, but who I recall seeing at the DNA exhibition in July of 2009, the man that Karborn thought was Steve's brother ("Brigid--is that Steve's brother?" "I have no idea. Why don't you ask him?" "No--no, I can't ask him. I want it to be Steve's brother. I like the idea that he's Steve's brother. If he's not, I'll be crushed. We can just say he is, right?"). I did shake hands with him, but it was really difficult to hear him when we were talking, so I didn't get his name. Steve's wife was also there, a row ahead of us, and as we were heading to the aftershow, she rather cryptically mentioned a trip to New York this year. Sounds more definite than last year, when Steve said it was "indefinite", so I'm hopeful.
Incidentally--I should note that the trip to New York would not be a gig, so American fans, don't get too excited yet. The last time I talked to Steve about it, he said it wasn't likely before 2012. It's incredibly complicated to do substantial gigs if you're a foreigner entering the U.S., especially on the tax side, and I'm sure they're not overflowing with copious amounts of cash, so it takes more time than you would expect. It's easier for John to do small things like exhibitions, but even that has an associated cost--Lord knows that I know it's not cheap to travel regularly between countries.
John showed up rather late to the aftershow, and then left early. I did talk to him briefly, but as always, there were many others who wanted to talk to him, and as usual, I didn't want to monopolize. This is probably the first time he's asked me if I was going to get back to the hotel safely--Limehouse is what you would call a "mixed" area, and that particular area is not so good, from what I could see ("Dodgy" is how my British friends describe it). I did end up walking back to the hotel with other friends staying there, so it was fine. I didn't see Steve or his wife again, and I ended up leaving about 15 minutes before the aftershow was over, so I don't know if they ever made it.
As we were leaving, we saw security throwing someone out, and realized quite suddenly that it was Rob Simon. We looked at each other, and said, "What the f**k?" I don't know what the Troxy security was up to that evening, but they had this more-than-aggravating habit of hassling those with AAA passes. (That's "access all areas"). They were arbitrarily deciding who could be certain places, and who couldn't. They apparently decided that Rob Simon didn't belong there, even though he had a pass and showed it to them, and when he argued, they threw him out. Rob told them that they were a bunch of a-holes, and I was certainly on his side--there was no reason for the forcible ejection, especially not someone in the band. Rob Harris intervened to keep a fight from starting, as I don't think anyone wanted to see him get arrested. He then came over to where I was standing with friends, and said, "Sorry for that," but was clearly still pissed off, and with good reason. He went over and was talking to the organizers when we left. I found out later that he was let back in through the stage door, so I'm glad it was sorted, but it was very unnecessary.
I ended the night having a drink at the hotel pub with the same friends, and went to bed around 2:30 am. When I got up at 6:30 am I was ridiculously dazed and hung over, but had to begin the trek home. I'll talk more about the other details of the trip in my next post.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Secret
I’ve been reading a lot of writings by and about Medieval and Renaissance alchemists and magicians. I was struck by something in Johannes Trithemius’ “Apologia”, which is a defense of his “Stenographia” and “Polygraphiae”, two works on cryptography that were viewed as demonic by the Church. He insists that his works are not demonic at all, and within the purview of Church doctrine. He deliberately hides the truths in his writing as codes, so that average folk won’t be able to discern their meaning.
Whether Trithemius’ writings are truly “occult” or not (I think the conclusion is that they are, especially since Agrippa was one of his students), the idea of hiding truths from “common people” is the thing of interest.
Since we are talking about “occult” things (and occult means “hidden”), you might think I’m re-stating the obvious. So, I think I should back up and talk about why this is of interest.
In recent years, a new theory of religion has emerged, suggesting that religion is a form of “terror management”. The unknown is frightening, especially the final unknown of what happens after we die. On the simplest level, we could say that believing in a beneficent being that will make sure we are happy after we die as long as we follow a set of rules is a comfort to many people.
Go beyond that—and consider that the God of the Western world is often fearful. We are warned that there are dire consequences for making certain choices, choices that God wouldn’t want. (Whatever those are—you often find that those choices are the ones that those giving the warnings wouldn’t make themselves). God Him/Her/Itself is something to be feared.
This leads to confusion and contradiction in most believers. How can a God who loves us also be so strict about punishing us for transgressions? Why would God “save” people in one form of religion and not another?
Welcome to the conundrum that is “popular” religion. This doesn’t just exist in the West; there are plenty of believers in the Buddhist faith that believe Buddha is a god, and that they will experience ill luck or a bad life if they don’t follow certain rituals. Et cetera.
Now, go visit a monastery or contemplative community. Talk with those who have renounced the world, or read their writings, and you will get a much less contradictory view of religion. The more you pursue your path, the more you realize that God isn’t a “person” at all—it is a personification of a Mystery. I run the risk of oversimplification here, but the bottom line is that “popular” religion is much different from “contemplative” religion. This is not news, and I’m sure I’ve blogged about it before.
What about all those rules? They’re designed to keep a social order within a specific community. Some modern communities like to borrow those rules. Some are obvious, like don’t kill or steal. Others don’t seem suited to the modern community—which is a problem if you’re Christian, since most churches take an all-or-none view of their rulebook, the Bible.
In any event, believing that “God” is the rule-maker, and trying to minimize your anxiety about the unknown, you may choose to simply go along with what you’re told the rules are, bending the smaller ones here and there because, hey, you’re human.
Now we turn to the occult. Just as your catechism class doesn’t teach you what the contemplatives will teach you, your Church is not likely to look kindly on occult philosophy—especially since it more or less says that most “rules” can go out the window (not that there are no guidelines for dealing with life successfully). As I mentioned in my last post, the Church was not necessarily opposed to the occult teachings; its problem was that the “untrained” would not know the difference between what is angelic and what is demonic. There was also the danger that magicians would use magic for material ends, and to control others (what Walker calls “transitive” magic).
Two things to think about here. First—occult ideas not only stand on the fringes of religion, they also stand on the fringes of science, without entirely belonging to either camp. Modern medicine and psychology are outgrowths of alchemy. But most religious clergy AND scientists today would reject occult teachings, either because they could lead to the “demonic”, or because they are “irrational”. The second thing to think about is the birth of religious literalism. Whatever other doctrinal issues existed prior to the 1500s, Biblical literalism became an issue AFTER that time, when you had both the printing press and the translation of the Bible into languages like English. Oh yes, and that minor event known as the Protestant Reformation. The authority of the text became primary, and the Church had the same objection to the masses being able to read the Bible that Lao Tzu had to letting the masses read the law—they would read it out of context.
Add to the mix the fact that most people have very materialistic aims—to make money, have a nice house, have a nice car, have some worldly prestige. Nothing wrong with this per se, but combined with a lack of understanding of either themselves or the nature of Consciousness, and it might not be difficult to imagine why “occult” knowledge is preferred to remain “occult”. There is less of a danger of being possessed by any outside demons (though their existence has been assumed since at least the 12th century in Catholicism, and long before that in some form), and more of a danger of being possessed by the inner ones.
The occult spiritual path is designed to bring a direct experience of the Mystery, and to bring the magician knowledge. It has to be approached with full understanding of oneself, and with humility. One does not have to deal with demonic evocation to be a magician, but one does have to be aware of their own demons. And we all have them, regardless of religion or non-religion. They are part of the mind. If one isn’t willing to do the work involved to prepare, then it should be left alone.
The secrets of the occult are the secrets of the Unconscious. It doesn’t take much to recognize the power of the Unconscious. Just think of a time when you were coolly moving along, and someone said something to you that made you burst into tears or get very angry and lash out. On a larger scale, think about serious addictions or obsessive behaviors that control the person, rather than the other way around. Whether it’s the personal or collective Unconscious, it still affects everything you do. It is good to explore it, albeit carefully.
Whether Trithemius’ writings are truly “occult” or not (I think the conclusion is that they are, especially since Agrippa was one of his students), the idea of hiding truths from “common people” is the thing of interest.
Since we are talking about “occult” things (and occult means “hidden”), you might think I’m re-stating the obvious. So, I think I should back up and talk about why this is of interest.
In recent years, a new theory of religion has emerged, suggesting that religion is a form of “terror management”. The unknown is frightening, especially the final unknown of what happens after we die. On the simplest level, we could say that believing in a beneficent being that will make sure we are happy after we die as long as we follow a set of rules is a comfort to many people.
Go beyond that—and consider that the God of the Western world is often fearful. We are warned that there are dire consequences for making certain choices, choices that God wouldn’t want. (Whatever those are—you often find that those choices are the ones that those giving the warnings wouldn’t make themselves). God Him/Her/Itself is something to be feared.
This leads to confusion and contradiction in most believers. How can a God who loves us also be so strict about punishing us for transgressions? Why would God “save” people in one form of religion and not another?
Welcome to the conundrum that is “popular” religion. This doesn’t just exist in the West; there are plenty of believers in the Buddhist faith that believe Buddha is a god, and that they will experience ill luck or a bad life if they don’t follow certain rituals. Et cetera.
Now, go visit a monastery or contemplative community. Talk with those who have renounced the world, or read their writings, and you will get a much less contradictory view of religion. The more you pursue your path, the more you realize that God isn’t a “person” at all—it is a personification of a Mystery. I run the risk of oversimplification here, but the bottom line is that “popular” religion is much different from “contemplative” religion. This is not news, and I’m sure I’ve blogged about it before.
What about all those rules? They’re designed to keep a social order within a specific community. Some modern communities like to borrow those rules. Some are obvious, like don’t kill or steal. Others don’t seem suited to the modern community—which is a problem if you’re Christian, since most churches take an all-or-none view of their rulebook, the Bible.
In any event, believing that “God” is the rule-maker, and trying to minimize your anxiety about the unknown, you may choose to simply go along with what you’re told the rules are, bending the smaller ones here and there because, hey, you’re human.
Now we turn to the occult. Just as your catechism class doesn’t teach you what the contemplatives will teach you, your Church is not likely to look kindly on occult philosophy—especially since it more or less says that most “rules” can go out the window (not that there are no guidelines for dealing with life successfully). As I mentioned in my last post, the Church was not necessarily opposed to the occult teachings; its problem was that the “untrained” would not know the difference between what is angelic and what is demonic. There was also the danger that magicians would use magic for material ends, and to control others (what Walker calls “transitive” magic).
Two things to think about here. First—occult ideas not only stand on the fringes of religion, they also stand on the fringes of science, without entirely belonging to either camp. Modern medicine and psychology are outgrowths of alchemy. But most religious clergy AND scientists today would reject occult teachings, either because they could lead to the “demonic”, or because they are “irrational”. The second thing to think about is the birth of religious literalism. Whatever other doctrinal issues existed prior to the 1500s, Biblical literalism became an issue AFTER that time, when you had both the printing press and the translation of the Bible into languages like English. Oh yes, and that minor event known as the Protestant Reformation. The authority of the text became primary, and the Church had the same objection to the masses being able to read the Bible that Lao Tzu had to letting the masses read the law—they would read it out of context.
Add to the mix the fact that most people have very materialistic aims—to make money, have a nice house, have a nice car, have some worldly prestige. Nothing wrong with this per se, but combined with a lack of understanding of either themselves or the nature of Consciousness, and it might not be difficult to imagine why “occult” knowledge is preferred to remain “occult”. There is less of a danger of being possessed by any outside demons (though their existence has been assumed since at least the 12th century in Catholicism, and long before that in some form), and more of a danger of being possessed by the inner ones.
The occult spiritual path is designed to bring a direct experience of the Mystery, and to bring the magician knowledge. It has to be approached with full understanding of oneself, and with humility. One does not have to deal with demonic evocation to be a magician, but one does have to be aware of their own demons. And we all have them, regardless of religion or non-religion. They are part of the mind. If one isn’t willing to do the work involved to prepare, then it should be left alone.
The secrets of the occult are the secrets of the Unconscious. It doesn’t take much to recognize the power of the Unconscious. Just think of a time when you were coolly moving along, and someone said something to you that made you burst into tears or get very angry and lash out. On a larger scale, think about serious addictions or obsessive behaviors that control the person, rather than the other way around. Whether it’s the personal or collective Unconscious, it still affects everything you do. It is good to explore it, albeit carefully.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Demons
When my politicians tell me to rest assured, I usually start to worry. If anything, I can rest assured that my views will be ignored, unless they match the view of the politician. I'm hearing that a lot from my Congress representatives lately, and it's a bit unsettling.
Life is a bit unsettled these days. Spring begins, and we promptly have a week of snow. Car trouble (now fixed), the sudden prospect of surgery--it reminds you that things can change at any moment. I remind myself that things could be worse--look at the situation in Japan, for instance, and what those affected by the tsunami, the nuclear difficulties, and the shortages have to deal with. It's back to the story of the angel and the field of rocks (a man complains to an angel that his life burden is too heavy. The angel shows him a field of rocks and tells him he can choose any of them as his "burden". He picks the smallest pebble he can find, only to be told that this was the burden he'd just put down). My friend Phil's father told that story. To which Phil's mother retorted, "Don't minimize my burden."
It's not the big things that get us, it's the little things. Physiologically, our bodies jump into action and everything just flows when big things go wrong. But little things are like a paper cut--minor, but still hugely annoying, and more painful than serious wounds.
Being the strange person that I am, I'm unwinding this week by reading D.P. Walker's "Spiritual and Demonic Magic." He starts with two articles on Marsilio Ficino and his works on magic. Ficino was a philosopher at the time of the early Italian Renaissance, and is one of main threads in the continuation of a magical tradition that starts with the Hermetica and Hermes Trismegistus. Walker notes Ficinio and Giovanni Pico's distinction between "good astrology" and "bad astrology", with similar distinctions regarding magical practice. The difference revolved around whether either practice "safeguarded or infringed human responsibility and divine providence." (p. 55).
It is interesting that the Church used to allow such a distinction, and allowed the practice of certain types of magic and astrology. Ficino suggests that magic should be reserved for those who are more educated and holy, as the poor and common folk would tend towards demonic magic and materialistic aims. (I am reminded of the introduction to Geosophia here, and the reason for goetia's ill reputation). Walker gives the original Latin in the notes, and the word for demon is "daemon". The translation as "demon" is interesting--you may think it's evident, but not really. We think of demons as agents of Hell, minions of Satan. But "daemon" had a different meaning in classical times. Plato defined "daemon" as a beneficent spirit, existing between mortals and gods. It would be interesting to know the history of the word and its connotation by the time of the Renaissance. (Can any linguists out there offer any insight?)
In any case, the ambiguity of the word makes me wonder about the author's premise. I generally agree with his conclusions, but I'm not sure I agree that "daemon" refers to demons. Of course, if we're talking Catholicism--the doctrine is that any spirit not in Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory is necessarily demonic. Since Ficino was a Catholic, it may not be a stretch to assume this meaning. But--if certain types of magic were acceptable at that time, that may also throw the "daemon as demon" idea into doubt.
Walker devotes a great deal of the first section to idea of music in magic, referring in particular to the Orphic Hymns. It's not strange to any magical practitioner that one would use incenses, colors, stones, and talismans related to the planetary influence they are trying to evoke. Ficino adds music to the mix, though he is unable to give any kind of practical advice on its use.
Here is a modern interpretation of one of the Orphic Hymns:
In thinking about music and magic, I found myself listening again to "Voices of Thelema" by K-11 (Pietro Riparbelli). Riparbelli's work is fascinating. He records short-wave radio signals inside various places--cathedrals, parks, and in the case of the CD I was listening to, Crowley's Abbey of Thelema in Cefalu. He then took those short-wave signals and made them into compositions. Here is a sample from "The Sacred Wood":
You can check out more of Riparbelli's work and philosophy here.
That's all from me until next time.
Life is a bit unsettled these days. Spring begins, and we promptly have a week of snow. Car trouble (now fixed), the sudden prospect of surgery--it reminds you that things can change at any moment. I remind myself that things could be worse--look at the situation in Japan, for instance, and what those affected by the tsunami, the nuclear difficulties, and the shortages have to deal with. It's back to the story of the angel and the field of rocks (a man complains to an angel that his life burden is too heavy. The angel shows him a field of rocks and tells him he can choose any of them as his "burden". He picks the smallest pebble he can find, only to be told that this was the burden he'd just put down). My friend Phil's father told that story. To which Phil's mother retorted, "Don't minimize my burden."
It's not the big things that get us, it's the little things. Physiologically, our bodies jump into action and everything just flows when big things go wrong. But little things are like a paper cut--minor, but still hugely annoying, and more painful than serious wounds.
Being the strange person that I am, I'm unwinding this week by reading D.P. Walker's "Spiritual and Demonic Magic." He starts with two articles on Marsilio Ficino and his works on magic. Ficino was a philosopher at the time of the early Italian Renaissance, and is one of main threads in the continuation of a magical tradition that starts with the Hermetica and Hermes Trismegistus. Walker notes Ficinio and Giovanni Pico's distinction between "good astrology" and "bad astrology", with similar distinctions regarding magical practice. The difference revolved around whether either practice "safeguarded or infringed human responsibility and divine providence." (p. 55).
It is interesting that the Church used to allow such a distinction, and allowed the practice of certain types of magic and astrology. Ficino suggests that magic should be reserved for those who are more educated and holy, as the poor and common folk would tend towards demonic magic and materialistic aims. (I am reminded of the introduction to Geosophia here, and the reason for goetia's ill reputation). Walker gives the original Latin in the notes, and the word for demon is "daemon". The translation as "demon" is interesting--you may think it's evident, but not really. We think of demons as agents of Hell, minions of Satan. But "daemon" had a different meaning in classical times. Plato defined "daemon" as a beneficent spirit, existing between mortals and gods. It would be interesting to know the history of the word and its connotation by the time of the Renaissance. (Can any linguists out there offer any insight?)
In any case, the ambiguity of the word makes me wonder about the author's premise. I generally agree with his conclusions, but I'm not sure I agree that "daemon" refers to demons. Of course, if we're talking Catholicism--the doctrine is that any spirit not in Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory is necessarily demonic. Since Ficino was a Catholic, it may not be a stretch to assume this meaning. But--if certain types of magic were acceptable at that time, that may also throw the "daemon as demon" idea into doubt.
Walker devotes a great deal of the first section to idea of music in magic, referring in particular to the Orphic Hymns. It's not strange to any magical practitioner that one would use incenses, colors, stones, and talismans related to the planetary influence they are trying to evoke. Ficino adds music to the mix, though he is unable to give any kind of practical advice on its use.
Here is a modern interpretation of one of the Orphic Hymns:
In thinking about music and magic, I found myself listening again to "Voices of Thelema" by K-11 (Pietro Riparbelli). Riparbelli's work is fascinating. He records short-wave radio signals inside various places--cathedrals, parks, and in the case of the CD I was listening to, Crowley's Abbey of Thelema in Cefalu. He then took those short-wave signals and made them into compositions. Here is a sample from "The Sacred Wood":
You can check out more of Riparbelli's work and philosophy here.
That's all from me until next time.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sounds of Everything
I've written before about vibrations, and the vibrations of things. I've written about how sonar can kill a person. This post is a collection of things that sing--on Earth, in space, everywhere.
Singing Sands:
Singing Trees:
Singing Planets:
Singing Rocks:
Ocean Sounds:
Cicadas Singing:
Earth Singing:
Sun Singing:
Stars Singing:
Toute chante.
Singing Sands:
Singing Trees:
Singing Planets:
Singing Rocks:
Ocean Sounds:
Cicadas Singing:
Earth Singing:
Sun Singing:
Stars Singing:
Toute chante.
Friday, March 18, 2011
New Story Published, and My St. Patrick's Day
Let's start with some good news. A new story of mine, "Magna Mater", has been published in Uninvited Press's "Open Magazine", issue 1. This is the fourth story to be published in the archetype series; others are still pending responses. Here is the complete short list of what's available:
Magna Mater
Trickster
Anima
Senex is not available anymore--after some consideration, I decided not to ask Writing Raw to repost it. I am hoping to finish the series and publish them all in an anthology next year.
Moving on to other adventures...
I've never understood St. Patrick's Day. It's supposed to be an Irish celebration, even though St. Patrick was not Irish. In school I'd learned he was from Italy, but a friend of mine corrected me, showing that more recent research suggests he was Welsh, and was captured and brought to Rome before coming to Ireland. Still, Welsh is not Irish. You might get past that, saying that St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland, which is why he's celebrated. Why he is celebrated by reinforcing every negative Irish stereotype is beyond me. I like a good Guinness as much as the next person, but really, I can drink that anytime. And probably not in Ireland; I hear that they water it down there. Which is why everyone there drinks Budweiser. A sign of truly desperate times.
Anyway, I started my St. Patrick's Day the way anyone should, with a mammogram and breast ultrasound. I had an early appointment, and I sat in a very nice waiting room listening to a radio station that seemed to consist entirely of castrated male singers. Either castrated or total wusses--sometimes it's hard to distinguish when it comes to music. In any event, this is not my music of choice, so I was actually happy when they brought me to the mammogram room. You know that music is bad when you prefer getting your boobs squished to having to listen to it.
In a previous blog posting, I described getting a mammogram as "having your boob slammed between two metal plates". I stand corrected on this--you get your boob slammed between two PLASTIC plates. Even better is when they take nipple shots; they use a smaller plate, and as the technician said, "just to warn you, the smaller the plate, the nastier it is, so brace yourself". To her credit, she never took more than 10 seconds to take a picture and release the plates. I asked her how flat-chested women fared during the process. She said, "Oh, it's much worse; you're practically scraping their rib cage." She also noted that women who see her in the grocery store tend to run the other way. As if they expect her to give them a mammogram RIGHT THERE in the cereal aisle.
The mammogram showed nothing, but the ultrasound revealed a small tumor, likely a fibrous adenoma, which is benign. I have to meet with a surgeon, but it's likely I'll just have them take the whole thing out rather than do a needle biopsy. Idle tumors are the devil's workshop. Or, something like that. Anyway, I don't want any cells living in my body that are not natural born citizens. Sometimes they start uprisings.
When I mentioned my results to my friends, a lot of people were worried. I've had a tumor like this before, and it's really not a big deal. However, this is the second tumor that will have to be extracted from my left boob. I don't believe in a personal god, but if there happens to be one, I want a refund on that boob, as it's obviously defective.
Speaking of defective, my car is acting up again. I had a problem over the weekend where the whole car would start to shudder, first when braking, then it would happen during acceleration as well. The mechanic looked at it, and naturally found nothing. A tune-up made it run well for exactly 2 days, and then it started the same thing that afternoon. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, as my car has 255,000 miles on it. But I have this ominous feeling that I will have to get another car, something I really can't afford. Everything I've researched on my problem suggests a variety of possible problems (water in the tank, fuel injection problems, spark plugs, distributor cap, etc.), but usually the problem isn't fixed even after fixing those things, and not even with a new transmission. I unfortunately need a reliable car for all of my travels, so I'm going to have to find a way to get another one in the not too distant future.
I did stop at the local Irish pub for lunch, and was just about ready for that Guinness after such a fun-filled day. I didn't go there because it was St. Patrick's Day; I went because it was close and I was craving their food (which is excellent). I went fairly early to avoid crowds, but was still surprised to see about 50 people in a restaurant that normally has maybe 5 people at lunchtime. The owner popped in and asked me why I didn't order corned beef and cabbage. I told her that 1. I hate cabbage even more than I hate Don Henley, and 2. corned beef and cabbage are not Irish. Seriously. Go to Ireland on St. Patrick's Day, and try to find corned beef and cabbage in a restaurant. I assure you that you won't. They'll probably be eating lambburgers and drinking Budweiser, a gastronic ritual that I'd prefer to avoid.
Magna Mater
Trickster
Anima
Senex is not available anymore--after some consideration, I decided not to ask Writing Raw to repost it. I am hoping to finish the series and publish them all in an anthology next year.
Moving on to other adventures...
I've never understood St. Patrick's Day. It's supposed to be an Irish celebration, even though St. Patrick was not Irish. In school I'd learned he was from Italy, but a friend of mine corrected me, showing that more recent research suggests he was Welsh, and was captured and brought to Rome before coming to Ireland. Still, Welsh is not Irish. You might get past that, saying that St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland, which is why he's celebrated. Why he is celebrated by reinforcing every negative Irish stereotype is beyond me. I like a good Guinness as much as the next person, but really, I can drink that anytime. And probably not in Ireland; I hear that they water it down there. Which is why everyone there drinks Budweiser. A sign of truly desperate times.
Anyway, I started my St. Patrick's Day the way anyone should, with a mammogram and breast ultrasound. I had an early appointment, and I sat in a very nice waiting room listening to a radio station that seemed to consist entirely of castrated male singers. Either castrated or total wusses--sometimes it's hard to distinguish when it comes to music. In any event, this is not my music of choice, so I was actually happy when they brought me to the mammogram room. You know that music is bad when you prefer getting your boobs squished to having to listen to it.
In a previous blog posting, I described getting a mammogram as "having your boob slammed between two metal plates". I stand corrected on this--you get your boob slammed between two PLASTIC plates. Even better is when they take nipple shots; they use a smaller plate, and as the technician said, "just to warn you, the smaller the plate, the nastier it is, so brace yourself". To her credit, she never took more than 10 seconds to take a picture and release the plates. I asked her how flat-chested women fared during the process. She said, "Oh, it's much worse; you're practically scraping their rib cage." She also noted that women who see her in the grocery store tend to run the other way. As if they expect her to give them a mammogram RIGHT THERE in the cereal aisle.
The mammogram showed nothing, but the ultrasound revealed a small tumor, likely a fibrous adenoma, which is benign. I have to meet with a surgeon, but it's likely I'll just have them take the whole thing out rather than do a needle biopsy. Idle tumors are the devil's workshop. Or, something like that. Anyway, I don't want any cells living in my body that are not natural born citizens. Sometimes they start uprisings.
When I mentioned my results to my friends, a lot of people were worried. I've had a tumor like this before, and it's really not a big deal. However, this is the second tumor that will have to be extracted from my left boob. I don't believe in a personal god, but if there happens to be one, I want a refund on that boob, as it's obviously defective.
Speaking of defective, my car is acting up again. I had a problem over the weekend where the whole car would start to shudder, first when braking, then it would happen during acceleration as well. The mechanic looked at it, and naturally found nothing. A tune-up made it run well for exactly 2 days, and then it started the same thing that afternoon. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, as my car has 255,000 miles on it. But I have this ominous feeling that I will have to get another car, something I really can't afford. Everything I've researched on my problem suggests a variety of possible problems (water in the tank, fuel injection problems, spark plugs, distributor cap, etc.), but usually the problem isn't fixed even after fixing those things, and not even with a new transmission. I unfortunately need a reliable car for all of my travels, so I'm going to have to find a way to get another one in the not too distant future.
I did stop at the local Irish pub for lunch, and was just about ready for that Guinness after such a fun-filled day. I didn't go there because it was St. Patrick's Day; I went because it was close and I was craving their food (which is excellent). I went fairly early to avoid crowds, but was still surprised to see about 50 people in a restaurant that normally has maybe 5 people at lunchtime. The owner popped in and asked me why I didn't order corned beef and cabbage. I told her that 1. I hate cabbage even more than I hate Don Henley, and 2. corned beef and cabbage are not Irish. Seriously. Go to Ireland on St. Patrick's Day, and try to find corned beef and cabbage in a restaurant. I assure you that you won't. They'll probably be eating lambburgers and drinking Budweiser, a gastronic ritual that I'd prefer to avoid.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Wild Flag at RCMH, March 8, 2011
Tuesday night I went to New York City to see Wild Flag. I've delayed my review of the show due to the weather. Really. We're expecting 3-5 inches of rain here today, which means my basement will have its own tidal flow if I don't prepare. So, I've been replacing broken pumps, moving the cats' beds and such to higher ground, and making other preparations. I am ridiculously exhausted, but I wanted to slip in this post before things get chaotic.
Okay. First--Wild Flag was opening for Bright Eyes. I know absolutely nothing about Bright Eyes, and I did not stay for their set, nor for Superchunk, who also played after Wild Flag. The show was at Radio City Music Hall. At first I was grateful for this, because I am getting to be an old lady and I like to sit, but quickly I realized this was not the best arrangement. You should not be forced to listen to Wild Flag sitting down; their music requires a crowd and a venue that I can only describe as "New York Sleater Kinney". Anyone who ever went to a New York Sleater Kinney show knows what I mean.
I'm not looking to compare Wild Flag to Sleater Kinney--they're not doing the same kind of thing. That said, Wild Flag really kicks ass. It's hard to put a label on their style--it's a bit punk/psychedelic/experimental, which is what you would expect given the band members. Most, if not all, members of the band are known for musical experimentation.
A writer from Brooklyn Vegan got to see them at the Rock Shop, and has some good clips of the band, which you can see here.
I could not find a setlist for this show, and because the band has no album, I can't identify all of the songs in order. I did find setlists for other shows, which probably consist of the same songs in a different order. You can look at the setlist for Brighton Hall here.
The only song I knew going in was "Glass Tambourine", which I put up a couple of blog posts back, streamed on NPR's site. One advantage of Radio City was the acoustics--it was amazing to hear the band without being too close to the speakers (a perennial problem of small venues). I thought they sounded pretty good when I heard the streamed song, but the live experience is different entirely. I haven't figured out exactly what it is--whether it's watching Janet Weiss play drums, or the interactions of Carrie Brownstein and Mary Timony onstage, or just the music itself--there's something indescribable, but it's like having an ecstatic experience. The music just gets under your skin and takes over; and, like great sex, you find yourself wanting more once it's finished. Carrie seemed more comfortable onstage than she did in the past, even though she noted they were used to playing living-room sized places (or actual living rooms). You find yourself walking out with your jaw on the floor, and all you can think is "holy f**king sh*t. I think I've seen God."
Yes, they're really that good, which is something I did and didn't expect. I approached Wild Flag with the same trepidation I used to have with a new Sleater Kinney album--I was terrified that it would not be as awesome as I thought it would be given the band members, or given the last album. And of course, every time, I am amazed at how well-crafted all of the songs are, and how they affect me.
I left the venue after Wild Flag played its short 30-minute set. Nothing anyone could play after that could have topped it. And I find myself strangely unsatisfied by the thought of a 7" single coming out next month--I'm craving an album. I am hoping I won't have to wait too long.
Okay. First--Wild Flag was opening for Bright Eyes. I know absolutely nothing about Bright Eyes, and I did not stay for their set, nor for Superchunk, who also played after Wild Flag. The show was at Radio City Music Hall. At first I was grateful for this, because I am getting to be an old lady and I like to sit, but quickly I realized this was not the best arrangement. You should not be forced to listen to Wild Flag sitting down; their music requires a crowd and a venue that I can only describe as "New York Sleater Kinney". Anyone who ever went to a New York Sleater Kinney show knows what I mean.
I'm not looking to compare Wild Flag to Sleater Kinney--they're not doing the same kind of thing. That said, Wild Flag really kicks ass. It's hard to put a label on their style--it's a bit punk/psychedelic/experimental, which is what you would expect given the band members. Most, if not all, members of the band are known for musical experimentation.
A writer from Brooklyn Vegan got to see them at the Rock Shop, and has some good clips of the band, which you can see here.
I could not find a setlist for this show, and because the band has no album, I can't identify all of the songs in order. I did find setlists for other shows, which probably consist of the same songs in a different order. You can look at the setlist for Brighton Hall here.
The only song I knew going in was "Glass Tambourine", which I put up a couple of blog posts back, streamed on NPR's site. One advantage of Radio City was the acoustics--it was amazing to hear the band without being too close to the speakers (a perennial problem of small venues). I thought they sounded pretty good when I heard the streamed song, but the live experience is different entirely. I haven't figured out exactly what it is--whether it's watching Janet Weiss play drums, or the interactions of Carrie Brownstein and Mary Timony onstage, or just the music itself--there's something indescribable, but it's like having an ecstatic experience. The music just gets under your skin and takes over; and, like great sex, you find yourself wanting more once it's finished. Carrie seemed more comfortable onstage than she did in the past, even though she noted they were used to playing living-room sized places (or actual living rooms). You find yourself walking out with your jaw on the floor, and all you can think is "holy f**king sh*t. I think I've seen God."
Yes, they're really that good, which is something I did and didn't expect. I approached Wild Flag with the same trepidation I used to have with a new Sleater Kinney album--I was terrified that it would not be as awesome as I thought it would be given the band members, or given the last album. And of course, every time, I am amazed at how well-crafted all of the songs are, and how they affect me.
I left the venue after Wild Flag played its short 30-minute set. Nothing anyone could play after that could have topped it. And I find myself strangely unsatisfied by the thought of a 7" single coming out next month--I'm craving an album. I am hoping I won't have to wait too long.
Monday, March 07, 2011
Clarification (Rant)
A word of warning--this is a rant. If you don't want to read a rant, go visit another blog for today.
I have to wonder if Ergot fungus is on the rise again in our grain supply. Being a conservative lawmaker is one thing, but some of the things being proposed can only reasonably be accounted for if the proposers were having demonic hallucinations. So, here's a reality check.
1. Abortion is LEGAL in this country and should REMAIN legal. Yes, abortion is a sad choice to make. No, women do not make that choice lightly. Any woman that would use abortion as a form of regular birth control is as psycho as someone who would have their internal organs removed for fun. You forget that WOMEN bear the brunt of the social, health, and financial consequences of having a baby. Perhaps the man involved could be on the hook financially, but he doesn't typically suffer other consequences. As a woman, I am offended by the notion that an unborn blob of cells has more rights, or at least as many rights, as I do. You can talk about making abortion illegal when you've also guaranteed that rape and incest will never ever occur again, or that a woman's life will never be in danger during a pregnancy, and that every child will be wanted by society and fully paid for. Oh yes, and that men are always as fully accountable for a birth as a woman in all respects. When you can guarantee all that, we'll talk.
In the meantime, don't talk to me about the "preciousness of life" when you introduce legislation allowing for the murder of abortion doctors, and criminalizing miscarriage by making women who miscarry eligible for the death penalty. You're going to deal with what you believe to be the taking of a life by taking another life and you call yourself pro-life? Explain to me how that works. And clearly you are a psychotic freak if you advocate such a law for miscarriage. Most women I've known who miscarry actually WANT their children, and have severe fertility issues that bring about the miscarriage. Or, they have an accident, and the miscarriage occurs (this is where this legislation is really sketchy). And you're going to treat someone already grieving for the loss as a criminal? I think whatever brilliant legislators suggested this law ought to be taken away in straitjackets. You don't criminalize miscarriage; you stop treating pregnant women like they're a burden and making reproductive choices ridiculously expensive.
2. Speaking of, the same miscreant party that suggested the foregoing is also keen on eliminating funding for Planned Parenthood. We are not living in a Margaret Atwood novel. Women are not here as breeding slaves. You don't like abortion, but you also don't want to provide any pregnancy prevention, nor do you care about women's reproductive health. We are taxpaying citizens, and we have our own needs and rights. You don't tell me what to do with my body, or who I can sleep with under what circumstances. And don't trivialize our special health issues--insurance companies do enough of that. I can only conclude that conservative Congresspeople hate women who are not barefoot, pregnant, and subservient.
3. Stop attacking workers' unions, and acting like they're the cause of your economic problems. Your unwillingness to tax the wealthy and big business are the cause of our financial problems. My accountant told me last week that I pay 25% tax in my tax bracket. When I hear that billion-dollar corporations don't pay anything, I have to scratch my head. Make those greedy twits pay their fair share, and stop chipping away at the little I have to maintain my middle-class lifestyle. Don't give me a lot of BS about "working hard"--I work no less than 3 jobs most of the time. And forget about "trickle-down economics"--that DOESN'T WORK. And stop referring to teachers' jobs as "cushy" because they only work 9 months out of the year. They work 9 months and don't get paid for the other 3, and are often looking for employment during those other 3 months. And during those 9 months, they're working double or triple hours compared to a normal 9 to 5 job. Add that to all the psychological evaluations, assessment, and extracurricular work they have to do (and keeping up with the latest crushing barrage of educational standards), and they don't make nearly enough. People have this habit of looking at other jobs dismissively and saying, "oh, they have it easy". I hear that in the library world all the time as well. And to those people--I challenge you to do the job of a teacher or a librarian for a week and see just how "easy" it is. They don't require a buttload of education and training in these jobs for nothing. I would bet money you'd be over your head and begging to get out before the first day is over.
4. Stop trying to get rid of public broadcasting. I do not want to get my "news" from corporate toadies. I want a non-partisan, publicly funded news option that is unbiased. If we're going to get into broadcasting laws, we should have one like Canada's. I was pleased to see that Fox News was kept out of Canada by a law that says news broadcasters cannot report "false or misleading news". Even more interesting is that Canada's right-wing PM tried to get around this by CHANGING the law (he wasn't successful). Fox didn't even try to fight back by saying they were truthful and unbiased. They know they're a bunch of liars. If I want to be lied to, I can go stand at the bar during just about any happy hour. If I want news, I go to NPR or PBS (or BBC).
5. Trying to bully the public into accepting your hateful legislation does not make you "dedicated" or " a strong leader", it makes you a power-hungry sleazebag, with less morality and integrity than a slime mold. (Maybe we should vote for slime molds; apparently they're better at making decisions). You don't win votes by abusing your constituents. The use of force of any kind against the populace demonstrates your inability to lead.
Lastly, a reality check for citizens--stop voting for these morons who are swindling you. Obama may not be a perfect President, but he's not the Antichrist, and he's not Hitler. Trying to get people their fair share and trying to guarantee things like jobs and health care do not constitute totalitarianism. News outlets that promote this view are usually paid for by corporate billionaires who would like to take all of your money and see you with nothing, because they couldn't care less about you. You're a means to an end. And don't talk to me about religion, either. People who start spouting Christian rhetoric clearly have missed the part about compassion and serving the least of your brothers. If you're going to spout this selfish nonsense in the name of Jesus, all I can say is that you'd better HOPE your religion is wrong, or you're in trouble.
If there's a silver lining to all of this, I would imagine that it is unlikely the Republicans will take over in 2012. If "democracy requires vigilance", then you're going to see any angry populace fight back against this kind of insult to our rights and intelligence. I know I've had it. As an old friend of mine would say, "Stop the madness!"
I have to wonder if Ergot fungus is on the rise again in our grain supply. Being a conservative lawmaker is one thing, but some of the things being proposed can only reasonably be accounted for if the proposers were having demonic hallucinations. So, here's a reality check.
1. Abortion is LEGAL in this country and should REMAIN legal. Yes, abortion is a sad choice to make. No, women do not make that choice lightly. Any woman that would use abortion as a form of regular birth control is as psycho as someone who would have their internal organs removed for fun. You forget that WOMEN bear the brunt of the social, health, and financial consequences of having a baby. Perhaps the man involved could be on the hook financially, but he doesn't typically suffer other consequences. As a woman, I am offended by the notion that an unborn blob of cells has more rights, or at least as many rights, as I do. You can talk about making abortion illegal when you've also guaranteed that rape and incest will never ever occur again, or that a woman's life will never be in danger during a pregnancy, and that every child will be wanted by society and fully paid for. Oh yes, and that men are always as fully accountable for a birth as a woman in all respects. When you can guarantee all that, we'll talk.
In the meantime, don't talk to me about the "preciousness of life" when you introduce legislation allowing for the murder of abortion doctors, and criminalizing miscarriage by making women who miscarry eligible for the death penalty. You're going to deal with what you believe to be the taking of a life by taking another life and you call yourself pro-life? Explain to me how that works. And clearly you are a psychotic freak if you advocate such a law for miscarriage. Most women I've known who miscarry actually WANT their children, and have severe fertility issues that bring about the miscarriage. Or, they have an accident, and the miscarriage occurs (this is where this legislation is really sketchy). And you're going to treat someone already grieving for the loss as a criminal? I think whatever brilliant legislators suggested this law ought to be taken away in straitjackets. You don't criminalize miscarriage; you stop treating pregnant women like they're a burden and making reproductive choices ridiculously expensive.
2. Speaking of, the same miscreant party that suggested the foregoing is also keen on eliminating funding for Planned Parenthood. We are not living in a Margaret Atwood novel. Women are not here as breeding slaves. You don't like abortion, but you also don't want to provide any pregnancy prevention, nor do you care about women's reproductive health. We are taxpaying citizens, and we have our own needs and rights. You don't tell me what to do with my body, or who I can sleep with under what circumstances. And don't trivialize our special health issues--insurance companies do enough of that. I can only conclude that conservative Congresspeople hate women who are not barefoot, pregnant, and subservient.
3. Stop attacking workers' unions, and acting like they're the cause of your economic problems. Your unwillingness to tax the wealthy and big business are the cause of our financial problems. My accountant told me last week that I pay 25% tax in my tax bracket. When I hear that billion-dollar corporations don't pay anything, I have to scratch my head. Make those greedy twits pay their fair share, and stop chipping away at the little I have to maintain my middle-class lifestyle. Don't give me a lot of BS about "working hard"--I work no less than 3 jobs most of the time. And forget about "trickle-down economics"--that DOESN'T WORK. And stop referring to teachers' jobs as "cushy" because they only work 9 months out of the year. They work 9 months and don't get paid for the other 3, and are often looking for employment during those other 3 months. And during those 9 months, they're working double or triple hours compared to a normal 9 to 5 job. Add that to all the psychological evaluations, assessment, and extracurricular work they have to do (and keeping up with the latest crushing barrage of educational standards), and they don't make nearly enough. People have this habit of looking at other jobs dismissively and saying, "oh, they have it easy". I hear that in the library world all the time as well. And to those people--I challenge you to do the job of a teacher or a librarian for a week and see just how "easy" it is. They don't require a buttload of education and training in these jobs for nothing. I would bet money you'd be over your head and begging to get out before the first day is over.
4. Stop trying to get rid of public broadcasting. I do not want to get my "news" from corporate toadies. I want a non-partisan, publicly funded news option that is unbiased. If we're going to get into broadcasting laws, we should have one like Canada's. I was pleased to see that Fox News was kept out of Canada by a law that says news broadcasters cannot report "false or misleading news". Even more interesting is that Canada's right-wing PM tried to get around this by CHANGING the law (he wasn't successful). Fox didn't even try to fight back by saying they were truthful and unbiased. They know they're a bunch of liars. If I want to be lied to, I can go stand at the bar during just about any happy hour. If I want news, I go to NPR or PBS (or BBC).
5. Trying to bully the public into accepting your hateful legislation does not make you "dedicated" or " a strong leader", it makes you a power-hungry sleazebag, with less morality and integrity than a slime mold. (Maybe we should vote for slime molds; apparently they're better at making decisions). You don't win votes by abusing your constituents. The use of force of any kind against the populace demonstrates your inability to lead.
Lastly, a reality check for citizens--stop voting for these morons who are swindling you. Obama may not be a perfect President, but he's not the Antichrist, and he's not Hitler. Trying to get people their fair share and trying to guarantee things like jobs and health care do not constitute totalitarianism. News outlets that promote this view are usually paid for by corporate billionaires who would like to take all of your money and see you with nothing, because they couldn't care less about you. You're a means to an end. And don't talk to me about religion, either. People who start spouting Christian rhetoric clearly have missed the part about compassion and serving the least of your brothers. If you're going to spout this selfish nonsense in the name of Jesus, all I can say is that you'd better HOPE your religion is wrong, or you're in trouble.
If there's a silver lining to all of this, I would imagine that it is unlikely the Republicans will take over in 2012. If "democracy requires vigilance", then you're going to see any angry populace fight back against this kind of insult to our rights and intelligence. I know I've had it. As an old friend of mine would say, "Stop the madness!"
Saturday, March 05, 2011
Seriously Not Seriously
Clear and warming days do a lot for my sense of clarity, and my productiveness. Seven and eight foot mountains of snow have been decimated in this weather, thus proving that winter really does end in spite of all previous evidence to the contrary.
I’ve been told not to focus on the future, but sometimes the present is discouraging. This is especially true if you want to start on some project or goal, but can’t yet do so. Sometimes you don’t have all the resources you need, you haven’t heard from all necessary parties, and can’t begin no matter how revved up you are to get going.
These are cases where the unknown is my friend, as things often end up much differently from how they presently look. The Trickster is not always the bad guy.
Europe is more heavily on my mind these days. I will be in London again in another month, and I’m discovering doctoral programs in France, England, and Holland that are so precisely in line with my studies, they are difficult to ignore as future possibilities. Not only that, but jobs exist in my subject area, which is shocking. The same old problems remain of what to do with the house, the cats, finding the funds—but there is no need for an immediate solution, as one will present itself if it is “in the cards” for me, as they say.
In the midst of everything I’m working on, I feel like my attempts to brush up in French are sadly lacking. Therefore, I am going to try to do one blog posting a week in French. If I don’t keep up with reading and writing, I’m not going to gain the proficiency that I would like to have. Of course, this will also mean getting software for my Mac that actually recognizes diacritics; the ones on my Macbook do not work for some reason.
But that is all about work, and it is the weekend. I am having difficulty focusing on serious things, so why bother?
Here are some links for the weekend:
Bobcats (from The Oatmeal)
Sneaky Hate Spiral (from Hyperbole and a Half. Not new, but still funny)
Some Kumail Nanjiani standup. He's one of the newer comedians that I think is hilarious.
Did You Read? Another sketch from the Portlandia TV show on IFC.
Jimmy Kimmel combines Charlie Sheen with Charlie Brown (from the Jimmy Kimmel Show)
These are not humorous, but they are entertaining:
Fire waterfall at Yosemite National Park
A review of "The Man Who Collected Machen", which looks like a great horror read.
6 Ways That Crows Are Smarter Than You from Cracked.com. Good thing I only throw breadcrumbs for the crows that nest outside my house.
And, finally--
The first single from Wild Flag, "Glass Tambourine". I will be going to see these ladies on Tuesday in New York.
Enjoy the weekend! I will post again tomorrow. Or not.
I’ve been told not to focus on the future, but sometimes the present is discouraging. This is especially true if you want to start on some project or goal, but can’t yet do so. Sometimes you don’t have all the resources you need, you haven’t heard from all necessary parties, and can’t begin no matter how revved up you are to get going.
These are cases where the unknown is my friend, as things often end up much differently from how they presently look. The Trickster is not always the bad guy.
Europe is more heavily on my mind these days. I will be in London again in another month, and I’m discovering doctoral programs in France, England, and Holland that are so precisely in line with my studies, they are difficult to ignore as future possibilities. Not only that, but jobs exist in my subject area, which is shocking. The same old problems remain of what to do with the house, the cats, finding the funds—but there is no need for an immediate solution, as one will present itself if it is “in the cards” for me, as they say.
In the midst of everything I’m working on, I feel like my attempts to brush up in French are sadly lacking. Therefore, I am going to try to do one blog posting a week in French. If I don’t keep up with reading and writing, I’m not going to gain the proficiency that I would like to have. Of course, this will also mean getting software for my Mac that actually recognizes diacritics; the ones on my Macbook do not work for some reason.
But that is all about work, and it is the weekend. I am having difficulty focusing on serious things, so why bother?
Here are some links for the weekend:
Bobcats (from The Oatmeal)
Sneaky Hate Spiral (from Hyperbole and a Half. Not new, but still funny)
Some Kumail Nanjiani standup. He's one of the newer comedians that I think is hilarious.
Did You Read? Another sketch from the Portlandia TV show on IFC.
Jimmy Kimmel combines Charlie Sheen with Charlie Brown (from the Jimmy Kimmel Show)
These are not humorous, but they are entertaining:
Fire waterfall at Yosemite National Park
A review of "The Man Who Collected Machen", which looks like a great horror read.
6 Ways That Crows Are Smarter Than You from Cracked.com. Good thing I only throw breadcrumbs for the crows that nest outside my house.
And, finally--
The first single from Wild Flag, "Glass Tambourine". I will be going to see these ladies on Tuesday in New York.
Enjoy the weekend! I will post again tomorrow. Or not.
Friday, March 04, 2011
Depletion, or, The Struggle for Balance
Wisconsin 14. Fred Phelps. Ohio. Koch Brothers. Libya. Gaddafi. Rising oil prices. No real reason for rising oil prices. Boycotts. Demonstrations. Donations. MoveOn. Credo. Progressives. AFL-CIO. Petitions, petitions, petitions. Planned Parenthood. NPR. PBS. No funding. Making miscarriage criminal. Making murder of abortion doctors legal. Anti-labor. Anti-woman. Greed.
The preceding have been circling my mail inbox, my Facebook page, and my Twitter feeds for some time now. I’ve signed more petitions, sent more letters to my congress representatives than I have in my entire life. I have no money to donate. I’m anxious about the outcomes of these things. I think I’m stunned at how the greedy, selfish, and entitled don’t even try to hide what they’re doing anymore. They don’t try to cloak it in respectable language. They just give the poor, the middle class, all women, and anyone who has to work for a living the middle finger and call them vile names. Even more incredible is how many people go along with them. Ever since Obama took office, the undercurrent of hatred in this country has risen to the surface like scum on boiling pot of turkey soup. It’s not news that I’ve been feeling a lot like I live in one of those horror movies where the family ends up in a strange town where everyone turns out to be vampires. Or perhaps like Carnival of Souls, only I’m hoping that I’m not actually dead myself.
It’s no wonder that I’m more interested in burying myself in reading and writing. There’s something Lovecraftian about it—if I stare at the horror for too long I will go mad. There’s no point in reiterating the ironies of everything. You can lead zombies to facts, but you can’t make them think.
In other news, the prevalent theme has been breaking things into small pieces. Things can only be achieved by taking small steps. When I look at the projects I have at hand, they’re daunting. I have self-imposed deadlines, and can only meet them by doing a little bit each day. I’m tempted to plan tasks far in advance, but I know I can’t plan for more than a week at a time realistically. My energy level after work is unpredictable at best—you’re often lucky to get a blog post out of me. And even though I write every day—I don’t always like what I’ve written.
Writing happens in fits and starts; you have days when you can charge ahead and get multiple chapters written, and then there are other days where you can barely get through one chapter and you hate every word you’ve committed to the doc file.
I suppose these are not new complaints—I sound like every writer at some time or another. But between the pressure to produce and the external pressures of democracy these days, it’s no wonder I’m on edge a lot of the time.
My days are punctuated by some fun and social events, but also by obligatory doctors’ appointments. I scheduled my mammogram yesterday, and the receptionist noted that I’d scheduled it for St. Patrick’s Day.
“Yes,” I told her. “By the time you’re finished with me, I’ll need to go out for a Guinness. Hopefully they’ll be having specials.”
There’s very little I hate more than getting a mammogram. For those of you who have not experienced this—they take your boob and basically mush it between two metal plates, vice-style. Then they take x-rays of it. Boob size does not matter—it’s painful whether you’re barely endowed or well-endowed. I had a friend who once said you could practice for it by slamming your boobs in either a. a doorframe, or b. the Oxford English Dictionary. I’ve been told that’s an exaggeration, but I really don’t think so. In any case, I am sure I will need a drink after it’s all over.
Today is the International Day of Peace. You are supposed to celebrate by refraining from disrespectful thoughts and actions towards anyone. That will be tough. I may have to stay home and not log onto my computer. I certainly shouldn’t go out driving. Someone always does something so ridiculously inconsiderate and absurd, it’s hard not to bring out the choice words to describe them. I don’t know if I’d be able to restrain myself for “Peace Day”. The only way I could not get annoyed at someone while driving is to be totally distracted while I’m behind the wheel. Which, as you might imagine, would not be a great alternative.
On the way home from work yesterday, I passed a driving school student. I recalled being a driving school student, more than 22 years ago now. My first teacher was a woman who was very nice, but only showed up once. She continually blew off our appointments. My brother was sick at the time—very sick, and I missed seeing him in the hospital because I had driving lessons. Then she would never show up. And then he died while I was home waiting for her another time.
The driving school gave me another instructor when my mother complained, but it was too late by then. I don't really blame them, ultimately. I don't think I was meant to see his last days.
2 years later I had my first breast tumor. It's always frightening when you're not experienced with the frequency of benign cysts and tumors. In the face of recent young death, it didn't seem irrational to worry about more terminal illness.
Sleep might make me peaceful, unless the cat switches off the thermostat again. His new attention-getting tactic is to sit on top of the sofa and wrap his paws around the thermostat. The other day he knocked the cover off. I put it back on, but I didn’t notice that he’d flipped the switch from “heat” to “off”. I sure noticed it at 4 am when it was 50 degrees in the house.
Cats are different, though. When they do bad things, forgiving them and forgetting takes mere hours. Whereas with humans it could take a lifetime, and you may never do either.
I am reminded of the story where the god Shiva scolds Brahma and Vishnu for believing that they are responsible for their own attainment. Attainment, says Shiva, comes from grace and detachment. Grace is the natural outcome of surrender.
Speaking of—yesterday was Mahashivaratri. May Shiva bless all who celebrate. And all who don’t.
The preceding have been circling my mail inbox, my Facebook page, and my Twitter feeds for some time now. I’ve signed more petitions, sent more letters to my congress representatives than I have in my entire life. I have no money to donate. I’m anxious about the outcomes of these things. I think I’m stunned at how the greedy, selfish, and entitled don’t even try to hide what they’re doing anymore. They don’t try to cloak it in respectable language. They just give the poor, the middle class, all women, and anyone who has to work for a living the middle finger and call them vile names. Even more incredible is how many people go along with them. Ever since Obama took office, the undercurrent of hatred in this country has risen to the surface like scum on boiling pot of turkey soup. It’s not news that I’ve been feeling a lot like I live in one of those horror movies where the family ends up in a strange town where everyone turns out to be vampires. Or perhaps like Carnival of Souls, only I’m hoping that I’m not actually dead myself.
It’s no wonder that I’m more interested in burying myself in reading and writing. There’s something Lovecraftian about it—if I stare at the horror for too long I will go mad. There’s no point in reiterating the ironies of everything. You can lead zombies to facts, but you can’t make them think.
In other news, the prevalent theme has been breaking things into small pieces. Things can only be achieved by taking small steps. When I look at the projects I have at hand, they’re daunting. I have self-imposed deadlines, and can only meet them by doing a little bit each day. I’m tempted to plan tasks far in advance, but I know I can’t plan for more than a week at a time realistically. My energy level after work is unpredictable at best—you’re often lucky to get a blog post out of me. And even though I write every day—I don’t always like what I’ve written.
Writing happens in fits and starts; you have days when you can charge ahead and get multiple chapters written, and then there are other days where you can barely get through one chapter and you hate every word you’ve committed to the doc file.
I suppose these are not new complaints—I sound like every writer at some time or another. But between the pressure to produce and the external pressures of democracy these days, it’s no wonder I’m on edge a lot of the time.
My days are punctuated by some fun and social events, but also by obligatory doctors’ appointments. I scheduled my mammogram yesterday, and the receptionist noted that I’d scheduled it for St. Patrick’s Day.
“Yes,” I told her. “By the time you’re finished with me, I’ll need to go out for a Guinness. Hopefully they’ll be having specials.”
There’s very little I hate more than getting a mammogram. For those of you who have not experienced this—they take your boob and basically mush it between two metal plates, vice-style. Then they take x-rays of it. Boob size does not matter—it’s painful whether you’re barely endowed or well-endowed. I had a friend who once said you could practice for it by slamming your boobs in either a. a doorframe, or b. the Oxford English Dictionary. I’ve been told that’s an exaggeration, but I really don’t think so. In any case, I am sure I will need a drink after it’s all over.
Today is the International Day of Peace. You are supposed to celebrate by refraining from disrespectful thoughts and actions towards anyone. That will be tough. I may have to stay home and not log onto my computer. I certainly shouldn’t go out driving. Someone always does something so ridiculously inconsiderate and absurd, it’s hard not to bring out the choice words to describe them. I don’t know if I’d be able to restrain myself for “Peace Day”. The only way I could not get annoyed at someone while driving is to be totally distracted while I’m behind the wheel. Which, as you might imagine, would not be a great alternative.
On the way home from work yesterday, I passed a driving school student. I recalled being a driving school student, more than 22 years ago now. My first teacher was a woman who was very nice, but only showed up once. She continually blew off our appointments. My brother was sick at the time—very sick, and I missed seeing him in the hospital because I had driving lessons. Then she would never show up. And then he died while I was home waiting for her another time.
The driving school gave me another instructor when my mother complained, but it was too late by then. I don't really blame them, ultimately. I don't think I was meant to see his last days.
2 years later I had my first breast tumor. It's always frightening when you're not experienced with the frequency of benign cysts and tumors. In the face of recent young death, it didn't seem irrational to worry about more terminal illness.
Sleep might make me peaceful, unless the cat switches off the thermostat again. His new attention-getting tactic is to sit on top of the sofa and wrap his paws around the thermostat. The other day he knocked the cover off. I put it back on, but I didn’t notice that he’d flipped the switch from “heat” to “off”. I sure noticed it at 4 am when it was 50 degrees in the house.
Cats are different, though. When they do bad things, forgiving them and forgetting takes mere hours. Whereas with humans it could take a lifetime, and you may never do either.
I am reminded of the story where the god Shiva scolds Brahma and Vishnu for believing that they are responsible for their own attainment. Attainment, says Shiva, comes from grace and detachment. Grace is the natural outcome of surrender.
Speaking of—yesterday was Mahashivaratri. May Shiva bless all who celebrate. And all who don’t.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Springing
At lunch today, I sat in a quiet corner of the library reading and listening to my iPod. Looking out the library window, I see a squirrel digging through the grass in time to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 26. It is a rainy, foggy day, but rather warm. Storms are coming, and this makes me happy, because thunderstorms are heralds of Spring. And there is nothing like standing in a thunderstorm, with warm winds and driving rain. The experience is primeval.
Yesterday the basement cats (not to be confused with the LOLcats “basement cats”) went outside for the first time in a few months. They stretched out gratefully on my patio, eyes closed, blissfully soaking in the sun. I picked up one of them, and her fur was warm. As sunset approached, I went down to the basement to put in one final load of laundry. A chill was in the air, and both cats had dutifully returned to their beds downstairs. They have become spoiled by warmth, dry shelter, and regular feedings. I can recall when at least one of them used to stay outside in all kinds of weather, and dug through garbage cans for food.
For the first time I attempt to engage in post-war rebuilding, and I begin the task of dragging away the huge tree branches on my property to the woods beyond my fence. I’ve noticed that the crocuses are nearly blooming, and the stalks of daffodils protrude from the ground like green daggers. I pick up a fallen fence post in my garden, and pull away some leftover dead leaves from the brown plants. The brown lemon thyme still smells like lemon; the strawberries have red buds underneath their still-green leaves. The garden plants are still icy in some places, and the ground is muddy, so raking the leftover leaves from last Fall is out of the question at the moment.
In the house I have been baking bread. It is a swirled bread, with onion and herbs. I slice the hot bread and prepare to toast it, and pour myself a glass of red table wine. I think of the Queen of Pentacles and the Tower, and wonder if my quiet, domestic life will be disrupted again. Spring brings new things, both expected and unexpected. The aroma of yeast and herbs and heat fills the kitchen.
With all of my chores done, I am left uncertain about what to read, what to watch, whether or not to call a friend or eschew conversation. Everything is blank, and in blankness there is great possibility for both achievement and failure. The Void is the face of God—empty and unsettling. We like to know the outcomes of things, whether or not seeds planted will bear fruit, and we have no way to really know.
Every now and then I get impatient with not knowing. Every thought is like an acid bath on my nerves, and I shout at the universe, “why do you do this to me?!”, as if I am exceptional, as if I will have a laugh with some unseen entity and it will tell me everything, and I will have to anticipate nothing. Which I realize would leave me with no new tales to tell. (With thanks to Love and Rockets.)
I am still reading Hèléne Cixous, about her notebooks. Notebooks are windows onto the past, validating reminders that certain things happened, that I had certain thoughts, that I documented certain things. When I read through old notebooks I experience old identities (not who I was as opposed to who I am—that never changes), and, just like the old mixtapes, I remember where I was and what I thought and why it was important at the time. Sometimes remembering is amazing, sometimes amusing, sometimes disturbing.
Somewhere between the past and the future I am settling on my couch with some toasted onion bread with Monterey Jack cheese, a glass of wine on the coffee table, a cat curled up next to me, an old documentary on the TV, played from a VHS tape. Outside it thunders. There is no other time.
Yesterday the basement cats (not to be confused with the LOLcats “basement cats”) went outside for the first time in a few months. They stretched out gratefully on my patio, eyes closed, blissfully soaking in the sun. I picked up one of them, and her fur was warm. As sunset approached, I went down to the basement to put in one final load of laundry. A chill was in the air, and both cats had dutifully returned to their beds downstairs. They have become spoiled by warmth, dry shelter, and regular feedings. I can recall when at least one of them used to stay outside in all kinds of weather, and dug through garbage cans for food.
For the first time I attempt to engage in post-war rebuilding, and I begin the task of dragging away the huge tree branches on my property to the woods beyond my fence. I’ve noticed that the crocuses are nearly blooming, and the stalks of daffodils protrude from the ground like green daggers. I pick up a fallen fence post in my garden, and pull away some leftover dead leaves from the brown plants. The brown lemon thyme still smells like lemon; the strawberries have red buds underneath their still-green leaves. The garden plants are still icy in some places, and the ground is muddy, so raking the leftover leaves from last Fall is out of the question at the moment.
In the house I have been baking bread. It is a swirled bread, with onion and herbs. I slice the hot bread and prepare to toast it, and pour myself a glass of red table wine. I think of the Queen of Pentacles and the Tower, and wonder if my quiet, domestic life will be disrupted again. Spring brings new things, both expected and unexpected. The aroma of yeast and herbs and heat fills the kitchen.
With all of my chores done, I am left uncertain about what to read, what to watch, whether or not to call a friend or eschew conversation. Everything is blank, and in blankness there is great possibility for both achievement and failure. The Void is the face of God—empty and unsettling. We like to know the outcomes of things, whether or not seeds planted will bear fruit, and we have no way to really know.
Every now and then I get impatient with not knowing. Every thought is like an acid bath on my nerves, and I shout at the universe, “why do you do this to me?!”, as if I am exceptional, as if I will have a laugh with some unseen entity and it will tell me everything, and I will have to anticipate nothing. Which I realize would leave me with no new tales to tell. (With thanks to Love and Rockets.)
I am still reading Hèléne Cixous, about her notebooks. Notebooks are windows onto the past, validating reminders that certain things happened, that I had certain thoughts, that I documented certain things. When I read through old notebooks I experience old identities (not who I was as opposed to who I am—that never changes), and, just like the old mixtapes, I remember where I was and what I thought and why it was important at the time. Sometimes remembering is amazing, sometimes amusing, sometimes disturbing.
Somewhere between the past and the future I am settling on my couch with some toasted onion bread with Monterey Jack cheese, a glass of wine on the coffee table, a cat curled up next to me, an old documentary on the TV, played from a VHS tape. Outside it thunders. There is no other time.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Psychological Androgyny
Breakfast out this morning. That used to be a regular routine, but financial circumstances have curbed its frequency. Sitting in my customary spot in my favorite cafe, I hear two older men, regular customers, talking about recent attempts to bust unions in Wisconsin. I hear one man grumbling about "what I didn't get when I retired," and sees no reason why anyone else should get what he didn't get. He then moves on to education. The solution to the problem, he says, is to make all schools K-12, only have 1 superintendent, 1 principal, and only 1 teacher per classroom. That would solve everything. Too many administrators, too many assistants. I am tempted to turn around and remind him that there are over 3,000 students between two high schools in the County--we're not even talking K-8. I'm tempted to tell him that teachers work 10-16 hours on average per day, and have to do a lot on weekends with grading, assessment, rubrics, extracurricular work, and jumping through administrative hoops. They also may have to deal with difficult students or ones with special needs. But I say nothing. It seems to be human nature to only focus on oneself--I had this, I didn't have this, I saw you do your job and all I saw was this. Therefore I am qualified to say what you do and don't do, what you deserve and don't deserve.
I recall that there was a time that corporations gave free health benefits and real pensions, and reasonable vacation time. It was presumed that what you didn't get in these benefits you exchanged for higher wages. I can't help but think it's wrong to expect government workers to give up all of their perks when they don't get paid the way corporate employees do. Maybe it's evened out over time, I don't know. I'm inclined to think its lousy all over, but unions give you some hope that you might come away with something fair. Certainly there are corrupt unions, but on the whole, I don't think they have as much of the power and perks as people seem to think. In any case--this has less to do with individual bargaining contracts, and more to do with the erosion of the rights of the labor force. Without unions it is likely that we will return to working 16 hours a day with no vacation for little money. I don't think I'm exaggerating. Corporate greed knows no bounds.
This is not how I wanted to start my morning, and I am grateful that the din of other customers rises as the place begins to fill up. I order an omelette with kielbasa, and my body reacts like a man discovering water in the desert. It seems I am not getting enough protein these days.
I am reading Helene Cixous again, her chapter entitled "The First Lucidity". She is writing about graduate school, about her "delirium" that was not delirium, being told you are mad and realizing later you were perfectly lucid. She is talking about writing her dissertation on James Joyce's Ulysses, and there is an implication that those who declare her mad are those critiquing her work. Not surprising for literary academia. I resisted graduate work in literature, in spite of the temptation. In literary academia, there is a right way and a wrong way to look at things. This is hard for me to swallow. Literature reflects the culture, it may reflect a broad context--but it also reflects the personal. We fall in love with a piece of literature because it resonates with something in us. To disown that because it is the "wrong" interpretation seems antithetical. Writing comes from the soul, and while the mind can pick it apart, it is hardly a necessity. Some experiences are best left undissected.
She states that her mentor might say to her that "the head is the plaything of the soul", and that her lucidity is "a weakness of the brain that is not suited to women, and will lead me to the other side." She then states. "Madness is a protection. It stands guard against the horrors of reality." This resonates with me, because I identify with her lucidity. I feel like it keeps me away from "normal", makes me suspicious of others and vice versa. I become aware all at once that there is no group to which I completely belong, where I am completely a member. There are always conditions for membership, and I am loathe to follow conditions. I stand on the edge of everything, watching everything, half wanting to be involved, half pleased to walk away. And many consider me "strange", perhaps even "mad". Certainly "deviant".
Earlier this week I went to one of the universities where I teach to attend a couple of talks, have dinner with a friend, and attend a faculty get-together. The first talk was given by a student on the genre of film noir. He mentions the femme fatale, whose presence stands in opposition to that of the mother, the nurturer. The femme fatale is independent, she adopts many male behaviors, she may even be dangerous. She is always tragic. We discussed archetypes of women--the virgin, the mother, the whore. It occurred to me that these archetypes are still very strong in society. I do believe it's why people mistake me for a wild woman. I don't fit the virgin category, and I don't fit the mother category. So I must be a whore. And simply ask any of my sexually liberated friends--they will tell you that I am decidedly the opposite, almost to derision. My colleague suggested that I was more "motherly", but that is also a mistake. I tend to attract men who want to be mothered, because I come across as strong and independent. In fact, what I want is another strong, independent man whom I can trust and respect--and who will be the same for me. I'm not interested in being anyone's mother, except perhaps the cat. I can't imagine a more loathsome type of relationship. But, I am also not virginal and innocent, a mistake still others will make because of my spiritual bent. So what am I?
I came across a test on a writer's blog, where you could paste in some of your writing, and it would analyze it and tell you if it was written by a man or a woman. I pasted in 3 different writing samples--two were fiction, one was a blog post. For two out of three, it said the piece was written by a man. Which, linguistically says that I use "male" words. Whatever that means. In any event, it makes me think that I am some sort of psychological androgyne, and some people find this fascinating, others find it unsettling. I look at the faces of people meeting me, and sometimes they furrow their brow, pull back in suspicion. What are you? And what do you want? seem to be the unspoken questions.
What I want is irrelevant. I expect nothing from anyone. I get what is mine, and not through manipulating or using someone else. We always get what is ours, and don't get what isn't. There is no need to worry about it. I am interested in what you are, but not because of what you can do for me. There is nothing utilitarian about my friendship. If I like you I will seek to spend time with you, but not obsessively. If I love you, I will go out of my way to be with you, but will still not be obsessive or jealous. I don't own anyone. And they don't own me. If you really care about someone you respect their space, and their choices, regardless of whether or not you agree with them.
Maybe it goes back to my stubborn refusal to decide. Why is it "us and them"? Why is it "either/or"? Whatever we are, we're also the opposite. That might be what bothers people--they want clear categories and labels, they want to know which shelf they can put you on. Anything else is chaos, as far as they're concerned. But the shelf is a hallucination. There is no logical order to the psyche.
I recall that there was a time that corporations gave free health benefits and real pensions, and reasonable vacation time. It was presumed that what you didn't get in these benefits you exchanged for higher wages. I can't help but think it's wrong to expect government workers to give up all of their perks when they don't get paid the way corporate employees do. Maybe it's evened out over time, I don't know. I'm inclined to think its lousy all over, but unions give you some hope that you might come away with something fair. Certainly there are corrupt unions, but on the whole, I don't think they have as much of the power and perks as people seem to think. In any case--this has less to do with individual bargaining contracts, and more to do with the erosion of the rights of the labor force. Without unions it is likely that we will return to working 16 hours a day with no vacation for little money. I don't think I'm exaggerating. Corporate greed knows no bounds.
This is not how I wanted to start my morning, and I am grateful that the din of other customers rises as the place begins to fill up. I order an omelette with kielbasa, and my body reacts like a man discovering water in the desert. It seems I am not getting enough protein these days.
I am reading Helene Cixous again, her chapter entitled "The First Lucidity". She is writing about graduate school, about her "delirium" that was not delirium, being told you are mad and realizing later you were perfectly lucid. She is talking about writing her dissertation on James Joyce's Ulysses, and there is an implication that those who declare her mad are those critiquing her work. Not surprising for literary academia. I resisted graduate work in literature, in spite of the temptation. In literary academia, there is a right way and a wrong way to look at things. This is hard for me to swallow. Literature reflects the culture, it may reflect a broad context--but it also reflects the personal. We fall in love with a piece of literature because it resonates with something in us. To disown that because it is the "wrong" interpretation seems antithetical. Writing comes from the soul, and while the mind can pick it apart, it is hardly a necessity. Some experiences are best left undissected.
She states that her mentor might say to her that "the head is the plaything of the soul", and that her lucidity is "a weakness of the brain that is not suited to women, and will lead me to the other side." She then states. "Madness is a protection. It stands guard against the horrors of reality." This resonates with me, because I identify with her lucidity. I feel like it keeps me away from "normal", makes me suspicious of others and vice versa. I become aware all at once that there is no group to which I completely belong, where I am completely a member. There are always conditions for membership, and I am loathe to follow conditions. I stand on the edge of everything, watching everything, half wanting to be involved, half pleased to walk away. And many consider me "strange", perhaps even "mad". Certainly "deviant".
Earlier this week I went to one of the universities where I teach to attend a couple of talks, have dinner with a friend, and attend a faculty get-together. The first talk was given by a student on the genre of film noir. He mentions the femme fatale, whose presence stands in opposition to that of the mother, the nurturer. The femme fatale is independent, she adopts many male behaviors, she may even be dangerous. She is always tragic. We discussed archetypes of women--the virgin, the mother, the whore. It occurred to me that these archetypes are still very strong in society. I do believe it's why people mistake me for a wild woman. I don't fit the virgin category, and I don't fit the mother category. So I must be a whore. And simply ask any of my sexually liberated friends--they will tell you that I am decidedly the opposite, almost to derision. My colleague suggested that I was more "motherly", but that is also a mistake. I tend to attract men who want to be mothered, because I come across as strong and independent. In fact, what I want is another strong, independent man whom I can trust and respect--and who will be the same for me. I'm not interested in being anyone's mother, except perhaps the cat. I can't imagine a more loathsome type of relationship. But, I am also not virginal and innocent, a mistake still others will make because of my spiritual bent. So what am I?
I came across a test on a writer's blog, where you could paste in some of your writing, and it would analyze it and tell you if it was written by a man or a woman. I pasted in 3 different writing samples--two were fiction, one was a blog post. For two out of three, it said the piece was written by a man. Which, linguistically says that I use "male" words. Whatever that means. In any event, it makes me think that I am some sort of psychological androgyne, and some people find this fascinating, others find it unsettling. I look at the faces of people meeting me, and sometimes they furrow their brow, pull back in suspicion. What are you? And what do you want? seem to be the unspoken questions.
What I want is irrelevant. I expect nothing from anyone. I get what is mine, and not through manipulating or using someone else. We always get what is ours, and don't get what isn't. There is no need to worry about it. I am interested in what you are, but not because of what you can do for me. There is nothing utilitarian about my friendship. If I like you I will seek to spend time with you, but not obsessively. If I love you, I will go out of my way to be with you, but will still not be obsessive or jealous. I don't own anyone. And they don't own me. If you really care about someone you respect their space, and their choices, regardless of whether or not you agree with them.
Maybe it goes back to my stubborn refusal to decide. Why is it "us and them"? Why is it "either/or"? Whatever we are, we're also the opposite. That might be what bothers people--they want clear categories and labels, they want to know which shelf they can put you on. Anything else is chaos, as far as they're concerned. But the shelf is a hallucination. There is no logical order to the psyche.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Some Blog News and Stats of Interest
One of the things I really dislike about Wordpress blogs is their statistics. They tell you almost nothing about your audience, and they don’t let you install external tracking codes. I don’t see why they think this is useful. Blogspot is a Google product, and therefore it’s easy to use Google Analytics tracking. I love Google Analytics.
I’d like to share some things I’ve discovered on Analytics. But first, a couple of announcements.
First—I discovered a great new blog reviewing books and other things associated with Lovecraft , horror, and weird fiction. It’s called Grim Reviews. Pretty much every book reviewed here is something I’d want to read. If you like this sort of thing, I recommend checking it out.
Second—congrats to my friend Mark at Youdopia for getting one of his links posted at The Guardian (a UK newspaper). Such links drive traffic way up, and I hope he’s gotten a few more readers as a result. I read Youdopia on Google Reader, which is good and bad—when you subscribe to an RSS feed, you no longer count as a “hit” in the Web tracking software, because you often don’t go directly to the site.
OK, so, back to stats of interest. Since its inception, there have been:
304 posts (this is 305)
10,110 visits
14,259 pageviews
7,305 unique visitors
Not bad for what really started out as a personal reflections site. Of more interest:
I’ve had visits from 95 countries, with the U.S. being the top (6,996 visits) and the U.K. following (1,060 visits). The top 10 include the U.S., the U.K., Canada, Australia, India, Italy, Germany, Japan, France, and Brazil.
What are people looking for? In general:
Ghost Hunters
Doppelgangers
Na Karmana (Sannyasa Sukta)
John Foxx
Grimoires
The West Virginia Penitentary pentagram
Inverted Pentagrams
Found Footage Festival
Exorcism
Alan Robeson Chillingham Castle
Maggie Nelson’s “Bluets”
Midge Ure (shudder)
A variety of other blogs by people named Brigid (or Bridget or Brighid, etc.)
The weirdest searches were as follows (and I don’t think I answer any of these queries in my postings):
Barry fitzgerald nude ghost hunters international (no, I have no nude photos of Barry. Sorry.)
Cataloging books that might be hoaxes (my question would be: why bother?)
Does seducing women through hypnosis work (No.)
Email picture of cars driving through a very high wall (don’t think I have any of those, either.)
Has anything happened to people on the haunted wall (I don’t know, but tell me if you find out.)
Invoking spirits through lalitasahasranam (You’re missing the point.)
Karborn mother (yes, I’ve met Karborn’s mother. )
Someone stole my billiard balls, where can I get a replacement (Couldn’t tell you.)
Us airforce base Alaska 1953 fire brigid burke casualty (Really? I had no idea I died in 1953. Sounds like a legend-appropriate death, though. You know—Brigid, fire...)
Is John Foxx married (No, but he’s not available. He’s in that category of “men I would love to be with, but are seriously involved with someone else”. But I don’t write about that, because it’s his private business.)
Metaphors about driving (these always come from the U.K.—what is it with you Brits and driving metaphors?)
I hope you’ve found this enlightening, and maybe I’ve answered some of your questions. Next time I'll write a real post.
I’d like to share some things I’ve discovered on Analytics. But first, a couple of announcements.
First—I discovered a great new blog reviewing books and other things associated with Lovecraft , horror, and weird fiction. It’s called Grim Reviews. Pretty much every book reviewed here is something I’d want to read. If you like this sort of thing, I recommend checking it out.
Second—congrats to my friend Mark at Youdopia for getting one of his links posted at The Guardian (a UK newspaper). Such links drive traffic way up, and I hope he’s gotten a few more readers as a result. I read Youdopia on Google Reader, which is good and bad—when you subscribe to an RSS feed, you no longer count as a “hit” in the Web tracking software, because you often don’t go directly to the site.
OK, so, back to stats of interest. Since its inception, there have been:
304 posts (this is 305)
10,110 visits
14,259 pageviews
7,305 unique visitors
Not bad for what really started out as a personal reflections site. Of more interest:
I’ve had visits from 95 countries, with the U.S. being the top (6,996 visits) and the U.K. following (1,060 visits). The top 10 include the U.S., the U.K., Canada, Australia, India, Italy, Germany, Japan, France, and Brazil.
What are people looking for? In general:
Ghost Hunters
Doppelgangers
Na Karmana (Sannyasa Sukta)
John Foxx
Grimoires
The West Virginia Penitentary pentagram
Inverted Pentagrams
Found Footage Festival
Exorcism
Alan Robeson Chillingham Castle
Maggie Nelson’s “Bluets”
Midge Ure (shudder)
A variety of other blogs by people named Brigid (or Bridget or Brighid, etc.)
The weirdest searches were as follows (and I don’t think I answer any of these queries in my postings):
Barry fitzgerald nude ghost hunters international (no, I have no nude photos of Barry. Sorry.)
Cataloging books that might be hoaxes (my question would be: why bother?)
Does seducing women through hypnosis work (No.)
Email picture of cars driving through a very high wall (don’t think I have any of those, either.)
Has anything happened to people on the haunted wall (I don’t know, but tell me if you find out.)
Invoking spirits through lalitasahasranam (You’re missing the point.)
Karborn mother (yes, I’ve met Karborn’s mother. )
Someone stole my billiard balls, where can I get a replacement (Couldn’t tell you.)
Us airforce base Alaska 1953 fire brigid burke casualty (Really? I had no idea I died in 1953. Sounds like a legend-appropriate death, though. You know—Brigid, fire...)
Is John Foxx married (No, but he’s not available. He’s in that category of “men I would love to be with, but are seriously involved with someone else”. But I don’t write about that, because it’s his private business.)
Metaphors about driving (these always come from the U.K.—what is it with you Brits and driving metaphors?)
I hope you’ve found this enlightening, and maybe I’ve answered some of your questions. Next time I'll write a real post.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Relative Experiences
6 AM and the downstairs cats are meowing away, wanting to be fed. I snap on the side porch light, but then quickly snap it off again. I will not compete with the full moon.
The wind has been howling all night. At times it seems like an airplane is about to land on my house. I wonder how many of my garbage cans, recycling bins, and other items not tied down will still be in my yard when I go out this morning.
I glance over at the cemetery. In the last couple of years I've seen light coming from there, and it was puzzling because I could not see the source. Then I realized that they put up a huge crucifix on one side of the cemetery, and have it lit by floodlights. Jesus dares to compete with Selene and Eos.
I butter an English muffin and make some tea, and find myself wondering how much is "enough." I am referring to that thing we call "experience." You may say that there is never enough, that we have to keep living, keep moving--to stop experiencing is to stop living. But I'm not thinking of the rest of my life; I'm thinking of my life so far.
I will be 40 years old next year, and I think I have lived a rather unusual life. I did not take the expected steps of settling down with a family and driving the kids around to dance lessons and soccer practice in the dependable minivan. I tried the marriage thing, and it was a catastrophe--the best thing I can say about it is that I gained a LOT of life experience about what love should not be--more than I want, actually. I've traveled all over, I've associated with all kinds of people from nuns and Jehovah's Witnesses to hardcore Satanists, from poor and recovering drug addicts to celebrities, I've pursued careers that interested me rather than doing something "for the money", I've bought my own house and learned how to do plumbing and all other sorts of repairs, I've read countless books and received two postgraduate degrees, I know 3 languages, I took martial arts for 4 years, I've written notebooks full of stories, vignettes, and poems (some of them published), I've been blessed with experiences of inner stillness that many people never have in their lifetime, I am fully equipped to manage crises, I've handled my own court cases without a lawyer, I do not rely on my parents to take care of my financial needs. Yet, somehow--I am still not considered to be an "adult", and I am seen to be "lacking in life experience" by certain people.
Don't get me wrong--I haven't done it all, I don't know it all, and I'm not suggesting that I do. There are many people with a lot more experience than me, and also different experiences that I'll never have. But I think I've done "enough" to establish at least a moderate sense of credibility. I'm a terrible liar, so I can't bullshit you about things I know nothing about. In fact--I'm pretty sure that a lot of people--more than you think--get by on bullshit rather than experience. I'd like to believe that I have some degree of authenticity. I will give you my honest opinion if you ask. The trouble is that people ask and don't really want to know.
I suppose there's nothing to be done about it. It's one of those paradoxes of communication that the more you say the less you are heard, and the more you are considered the problem than the person trying to open up real communication about the problem. People want to talk at you, but don't want to hear anything in response. I don't mind people who vent, but if I have to listen to enough of the same monologue, I usually recommend a therapist or a brick wall. Both will listen without comment, and you can bang your head against the latter in frustration if you want. I assume that there is a breaking point--if you haven't resolved your issue and you can't stop talking about it, and aren't interested in taking any action to fix it, then I really can't help you. And no, I don't want to listen over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over every time I see you. I don't want to be able to recite your rant back to you like a favorite Monty Python sketch.
The age aspect of this is definitely weird. I'm somehow perpetually a child, yet I'm already periomenopausal. If this should surprise you, I should note that my mother hit menopause at 43, and we've followed similar patterns with such things in our lives. Well, almost similar. My mother always had a mild monthly experience, and then one day everything just stopped. She also bore 4 children. Whereas my uterus is something of a Celtic warrior; it has stoutly resisted any attempts at fertilization, has to be sedated with hormones to keep me from become murderous once a month, and will no doubt go out kicking and screaming. Just like the rest of me.
In order to clear my head of such thoughts, I ventured outside, and found that the lid to my garbage can was two houses down, even though it's supposedly a "locking" lid. So much for that. I also discovered that it's bone-chilling cold out there. And still windy. Interesting how the sun makes the weather look deceptively nice. Now that the snow has melted, I realize that I am living in the wastelands of a great tree war. There are huge tree branches everywhere--in the driveway, in the yard, in the road, on my patio. Huge limbs that haven't only fallen, they look shattered, like they were hit by a grenade. I note the greenness of the grass. I guess underneath it all, no one got the memo it was winter. Perhaps the tree war was a distraction.
Getting into my car, I look at the thermometer, and I realize that "bone-chilling" is 28 degrees Fahrenheit. How quickly we get spoiled by spots of warm weather. A month ago I would have been begging for 28 degrees.
It's all relative I suppose. Like age and experience.
The wind has been howling all night. At times it seems like an airplane is about to land on my house. I wonder how many of my garbage cans, recycling bins, and other items not tied down will still be in my yard when I go out this morning.
I glance over at the cemetery. In the last couple of years I've seen light coming from there, and it was puzzling because I could not see the source. Then I realized that they put up a huge crucifix on one side of the cemetery, and have it lit by floodlights. Jesus dares to compete with Selene and Eos.
I butter an English muffin and make some tea, and find myself wondering how much is "enough." I am referring to that thing we call "experience." You may say that there is never enough, that we have to keep living, keep moving--to stop experiencing is to stop living. But I'm not thinking of the rest of my life; I'm thinking of my life so far.
I will be 40 years old next year, and I think I have lived a rather unusual life. I did not take the expected steps of settling down with a family and driving the kids around to dance lessons and soccer practice in the dependable minivan. I tried the marriage thing, and it was a catastrophe--the best thing I can say about it is that I gained a LOT of life experience about what love should not be--more than I want, actually. I've traveled all over, I've associated with all kinds of people from nuns and Jehovah's Witnesses to hardcore Satanists, from poor and recovering drug addicts to celebrities, I've pursued careers that interested me rather than doing something "for the money", I've bought my own house and learned how to do plumbing and all other sorts of repairs, I've read countless books and received two postgraduate degrees, I know 3 languages, I took martial arts for 4 years, I've written notebooks full of stories, vignettes, and poems (some of them published), I've been blessed with experiences of inner stillness that many people never have in their lifetime, I am fully equipped to manage crises, I've handled my own court cases without a lawyer, I do not rely on my parents to take care of my financial needs. Yet, somehow--I am still not considered to be an "adult", and I am seen to be "lacking in life experience" by certain people.
Don't get me wrong--I haven't done it all, I don't know it all, and I'm not suggesting that I do. There are many people with a lot more experience than me, and also different experiences that I'll never have. But I think I've done "enough" to establish at least a moderate sense of credibility. I'm a terrible liar, so I can't bullshit you about things I know nothing about. In fact--I'm pretty sure that a lot of people--more than you think--get by on bullshit rather than experience. I'd like to believe that I have some degree of authenticity. I will give you my honest opinion if you ask. The trouble is that people ask and don't really want to know.
I suppose there's nothing to be done about it. It's one of those paradoxes of communication that the more you say the less you are heard, and the more you are considered the problem than the person trying to open up real communication about the problem. People want to talk at you, but don't want to hear anything in response. I don't mind people who vent, but if I have to listen to enough of the same monologue, I usually recommend a therapist or a brick wall. Both will listen without comment, and you can bang your head against the latter in frustration if you want. I assume that there is a breaking point--if you haven't resolved your issue and you can't stop talking about it, and aren't interested in taking any action to fix it, then I really can't help you. And no, I don't want to listen over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over every time I see you. I don't want to be able to recite your rant back to you like a favorite Monty Python sketch.
The age aspect of this is definitely weird. I'm somehow perpetually a child, yet I'm already periomenopausal. If this should surprise you, I should note that my mother hit menopause at 43, and we've followed similar patterns with such things in our lives. Well, almost similar. My mother always had a mild monthly experience, and then one day everything just stopped. She also bore 4 children. Whereas my uterus is something of a Celtic warrior; it has stoutly resisted any attempts at fertilization, has to be sedated with hormones to keep me from become murderous once a month, and will no doubt go out kicking and screaming. Just like the rest of me.
In order to clear my head of such thoughts, I ventured outside, and found that the lid to my garbage can was two houses down, even though it's supposedly a "locking" lid. So much for that. I also discovered that it's bone-chilling cold out there. And still windy. Interesting how the sun makes the weather look deceptively nice. Now that the snow has melted, I realize that I am living in the wastelands of a great tree war. There are huge tree branches everywhere--in the driveway, in the yard, in the road, on my patio. Huge limbs that haven't only fallen, they look shattered, like they were hit by a grenade. I note the greenness of the grass. I guess underneath it all, no one got the memo it was winter. Perhaps the tree war was a distraction.
Getting into my car, I look at the thermometer, and I realize that "bone-chilling" is 28 degrees Fahrenheit. How quickly we get spoiled by spots of warm weather. A month ago I would have been begging for 28 degrees.
It's all relative I suppose. Like age and experience.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Week-End
My weekend started a bit early. I went to work very early Friday, and left at noon. As I sat drinking Cabernet in a French restaurant on an abnormally warm afternoon, I found myself digging through the pages of a Hélène Cixous book. Here are a few quotes:
Love Itself: In the Letter Box
"It begins with fear, passion begins with a fear. Fear is the trembling of faith. One cannot have faith without being afraid. One cannot have faith, no human being Being human is that: to have faith that's been fractured then stuck back together."
"Telephoned. Nothing is known about the voice. I imagine when God says his speech without words without voice without language without face, he opens his non-eyes he closes his non-eyes, he starts over"
"I-ate is a visit to the Museum of the living-being."
"They were the shortbreads that I had gotten into the habit of buying for my long stays in the British Museum. By metonymy the little wedges of pastry had absorbed the voluminous and fertile idea of the most substantial library in the world. To eat shortbreads was to let melt on your tongue the sacred host of venerated books. I read you. Hoc est meum corpus and your body was also for me the bread of all the venerated books."
I took a long walk in the warm afternoon when I finished, but it started to get windy, and by Saturday, cold again. I watch my neighbor's recycling bins go bouncing across the road, into the abandoned property across the street, towards the cemetery.
I have decided to watch The Call of Cthulhu today:
The movie ends with a quote from Johansen's journal: "The most merciful thing is the inability of the human mind to correlate its contents."
Indeed. Our minds are filters, distractions from terror. Here are a few Cthulhu-related distractions:
Oil gusher unleashes Cthulhu on South Park
My First Necronomicon
The Adventures of Lil Cthulhu:
And--if you didn't see it in one of my earlier postings--here is a commercial for a "good book" (parody of a commercial for the Book of Mormon):
I'm off to make supper. Just remember--"Ph'nglui Mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."Thank you, and good night.
Love Itself: In the Letter Box
"It begins with fear, passion begins with a fear. Fear is the trembling of faith. One cannot have faith without being afraid. One cannot have faith, no human being Being human is that: to have faith that's been fractured then stuck back together."
"Telephoned. Nothing is known about the voice. I imagine when God says his speech without words without voice without language without face, he opens his non-eyes he closes his non-eyes, he starts over"
"I-ate is a visit to the Museum of the living-being."
"They were the shortbreads that I had gotten into the habit of buying for my long stays in the British Museum. By metonymy the little wedges of pastry had absorbed the voluminous and fertile idea of the most substantial library in the world. To eat shortbreads was to let melt on your tongue the sacred host of venerated books. I read you. Hoc est meum corpus and your body was also for me the bread of all the venerated books."
I took a long walk in the warm afternoon when I finished, but it started to get windy, and by Saturday, cold again. I watch my neighbor's recycling bins go bouncing across the road, into the abandoned property across the street, towards the cemetery.
I have decided to watch The Call of Cthulhu today:
The movie ends with a quote from Johansen's journal: "The most merciful thing is the inability of the human mind to correlate its contents."
Indeed. Our minds are filters, distractions from terror. Here are a few Cthulhu-related distractions:
Oil gusher unleashes Cthulhu on South Park
My First Necronomicon
The Adventures of Lil Cthulhu:
And--if you didn't see it in one of my earlier postings--here is a commercial for a "good book" (parody of a commercial for the Book of Mormon):
I'm off to make supper. Just remember--"Ph'nglui Mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."Thank you, and good night.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Surges
Chris Rock had an interesting metaphor for the American Tea Party movement. He said it was a bit like “kids acting up before they go to sleep”. All riled up and then they’re knocked out. He said it makes him hopeful, because it seems like racism’s last gasp in this country.
I do hope he’s right.
There’s been an astonishing shift in the Middle East, though it’s still not easy to tell where all the chips will fall. Certainly it’s herd mentality working in the opposite direction. Normally the “herd” is swept into mindless idiocy, but this time they’re encouraged by each other’s good examples. If one group of people can break free of a dictator, then others in other countries feel empowered to try as well. I recall the story of a town in India where Amma and her swamis were working to build homes for the poor and disenfranchised. The villagers stood around and watched them, but as soon as they saw them working together, everyone started to pitch in. That is the kind of infectious cooperation that one hopes for—it manages to turn a human liability into a strength.
As I said, it’s hard to interpret recent patterns. Are they an emerging trend, or just a temporary swell? It’s tempting to view this as a swing of the pendulum away from older orders, but there are many complicating factors. To see it in such terms is to re-engage in the perpetual good/evil battle. And such a battle does not really exist; it’s a hallucination—an interpretation based on how we are affected by a given event.
Though one wonders how “real” something becomes if enough people participate in the hallucination.
There is a tendency to want to “measure” the existence of God by some human yardstick. The common yardstick is answered prayers. George Carlin had the old joke about praying to Joe Pesci, because his prayers were answered 50% of the time—odds about the same as praying to God. But this is a faulty yardstick. It assumes that a. God is a real anthropomorphic being, and b. that God is there to shower you with favors. A “good” life is evidence of God. A “bad” life marred by misfortune is evidence that there is no God.
Recently I read a story about the witches in Romania. The government is now taxing their services, and apparently they are liable for punishment if their spells don’t work and their prophecies don’t come true. The rationale for this is the same as the God/prayer rationale—the measure of the “realness” of something is statistically significant results. In fact, this is absurd—not because there isn’t a Mystery to confront, but because the very thing you are confronting is a Mystery. You might try to influence the flow, work with it, maybe even fight it—but you can’t control it.
The whole point is that it is beyond our reasoning and nature. If we could understand it, it wouldn’t be a mystery. You notice I don’t say “being”. I don’t have any evidence that the Mystery is a being. The notion of “being” is a convenient metaphor.
Amma once said of prayer that it has to be for everyone. If you pray for something individually, you take away something from someone else. To answer one prayer is to deny another. You might pray that no one in your town dies, but the undertaker has the opposite prayer. After all, to answer your prayer is to put him/her out of business.
This isn’t to say that people don’t or shouldn't have individual goals and aspirations. You can take whatever steps you like to fulfill them. But a certain amount of flexibility is required. Sometimes the path that you think is most logical isn’t the way life flows. And if you just go with the flow, you end up where you need to be—and may get other things in the bargain. You might even find that you don’t really want the thing you thought you wanted. Or that your desire was actually harmful.
I imagine I am thinking about this because I feel like I’m being pulled in multiple directions right now. Not by work, but by an unresolved past and present unknowns. I don’t really know how things will shake out—and I can’t worry about it. I take it one day at a time, and see what develops. We always get what is ours.
In the meantime, I am trying to turn my own liabilities into strengths, and pour them into writing. Not just blog posts, but things for publication that I have been stalling on due to lack of inspiration. Nothing inspires like conflict.
I do hope he’s right.
There’s been an astonishing shift in the Middle East, though it’s still not easy to tell where all the chips will fall. Certainly it’s herd mentality working in the opposite direction. Normally the “herd” is swept into mindless idiocy, but this time they’re encouraged by each other’s good examples. If one group of people can break free of a dictator, then others in other countries feel empowered to try as well. I recall the story of a town in India where Amma and her swamis were working to build homes for the poor and disenfranchised. The villagers stood around and watched them, but as soon as they saw them working together, everyone started to pitch in. That is the kind of infectious cooperation that one hopes for—it manages to turn a human liability into a strength.
As I said, it’s hard to interpret recent patterns. Are they an emerging trend, or just a temporary swell? It’s tempting to view this as a swing of the pendulum away from older orders, but there are many complicating factors. To see it in such terms is to re-engage in the perpetual good/evil battle. And such a battle does not really exist; it’s a hallucination—an interpretation based on how we are affected by a given event.
Though one wonders how “real” something becomes if enough people participate in the hallucination.
There is a tendency to want to “measure” the existence of God by some human yardstick. The common yardstick is answered prayers. George Carlin had the old joke about praying to Joe Pesci, because his prayers were answered 50% of the time—odds about the same as praying to God. But this is a faulty yardstick. It assumes that a. God is a real anthropomorphic being, and b. that God is there to shower you with favors. A “good” life is evidence of God. A “bad” life marred by misfortune is evidence that there is no God.
Recently I read a story about the witches in Romania. The government is now taxing their services, and apparently they are liable for punishment if their spells don’t work and their prophecies don’t come true. The rationale for this is the same as the God/prayer rationale—the measure of the “realness” of something is statistically significant results. In fact, this is absurd—not because there isn’t a Mystery to confront, but because the very thing you are confronting is a Mystery. You might try to influence the flow, work with it, maybe even fight it—but you can’t control it.
The whole point is that it is beyond our reasoning and nature. If we could understand it, it wouldn’t be a mystery. You notice I don’t say “being”. I don’t have any evidence that the Mystery is a being. The notion of “being” is a convenient metaphor.
Amma once said of prayer that it has to be for everyone. If you pray for something individually, you take away something from someone else. To answer one prayer is to deny another. You might pray that no one in your town dies, but the undertaker has the opposite prayer. After all, to answer your prayer is to put him/her out of business.
This isn’t to say that people don’t or shouldn't have individual goals and aspirations. You can take whatever steps you like to fulfill them. But a certain amount of flexibility is required. Sometimes the path that you think is most logical isn’t the way life flows. And if you just go with the flow, you end up where you need to be—and may get other things in the bargain. You might even find that you don’t really want the thing you thought you wanted. Or that your desire was actually harmful.
I imagine I am thinking about this because I feel like I’m being pulled in multiple directions right now. Not by work, but by an unresolved past and present unknowns. I don’t really know how things will shake out—and I can’t worry about it. I take it one day at a time, and see what develops. We always get what is ours.
In the meantime, I am trying to turn my own liabilities into strengths, and pour them into writing. Not just blog posts, but things for publication that I have been stalling on due to lack of inspiration. Nothing inspires like conflict.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
New Posts on BBFiction Blog
Lately I have not been sleeping nights. While I have been mysteriously awake, I have been writing.
I should have another story ready for publication soon, thanks to my caffeine-deprived nightmares. I have another story and poem up at BBFiction, my other blog.
Check out "Monsters", and see what you think.
If you haven't read my previous work, check out other posts on bbfiction and:
Trickster
Anima (available in print in the Spring 2010 issue of Dark Gothic Resurrected)
("Senex" has been taken down due to archives cleanup at Writing Raw. I'll see if they can put it back).
I should have another story ready for publication soon, thanks to my caffeine-deprived nightmares. I have another story and poem up at BBFiction, my other blog.
Check out "Monsters", and see what you think.
If you haven't read my previous work, check out other posts on bbfiction and:
Trickster
Anima (available in print in the Spring 2010 issue of Dark Gothic Resurrected)
("Senex" has been taken down due to archives cleanup at Writing Raw. I'll see if they can put it back).
Laughter
So, Michelle Obama says that “laughter” is the key to her relationship. I imagine the Obamas would have to laugh a great deal; given the pressure of his job, the alternative would not be so pleasant.
We laugh because we encounter things that are funny. But “funny” isn’t always light and humorous; sometimes it’s downright terrifying. Or, to put it another way, we face things that are so absurd, we are so overwhelmed, that if we don’t laugh we might find ourselves crushed.
I can think of a time more than 10 years ago that was like this. I was getting ready to schedule the oral defense for my Master’s thesis. I had worked on it for 9 months, turned in drafts to my primary advisor, and she assured me things were great. Then, at the beginning of April—5 days before the defense deadline—I received a call from her. “I’ve finally read your thesis. I think you need to start over again.” Note the word finally. She had never read it to begin with; she had simply decided that it would be fine because I knew how to write. Yes, I know how to write, but whether I was going in the right direction was another matter. I was shattered when I hung up the phone—I could not imagine starting all over again. I don’t cry often, but I cried then. My very helpful husband saw me, and said, “You disgust me. I hate you,” and walked out. (Are any of you who knew my ex still wondering why we ended up divorced?)
Ten minutes later my advisor called back and asked if I was all right. “Of course I’m not all right,” I told her. “You waited until 4 days before the department deadline to tell me this?” “Oh, is that all you have? Oh, but you know how to write—I’ll get you another week, and you can get it fixed.” I thought, a week? This woman is either incredibly naïve or has an unwarranted amount of faith in me.
The next day, I got a call from my friend Liz—her father just died suddenly at the age of 52. That was followed by a call from another friend, whose house was destroyed in a flood. Between that and the bickering with my husband, who thought I was a horrible person for showing any sign of weakness or breakdown, I had hit that threshold. Things were just so badly out of hand that I no longer cried about it. It was funny—I had to laugh. And I laughed telling people the story. They probably thought I was crazy. But I was beyond that—things were just terrifyingly absurd.
In the end, my husband and I muddled through another 2 years, and I managed to re-write my thesis 3 times in 3 weeks, and still graduated, even though I am thoroughly uncomfortable with the thesis I wrote. My friend managed to get insurance to pay for rebuilding her home, and as for Liz—well, I went to the funeral, and tried to be supportive. I’m not sure that sort of thing ever gets better. Nonetheless, life went on, even though it appeared to go up in flames.
I think this is why I’ve lost all sense of expectation of anything. It’s like buying a house in Centralia, PA—you never know when the ground underneath you will suddenly catch fire. If I take it all too seriously, my life will be very grim indeed. It does come back to the issue of control; when things spiral out of control, the only thing to do is let go and let whatever is happening actually happen. Hanging on is worse.
This, I think, is the appeal of satire and dark humor. When we see such light reactions to dark events, it reminds us of this very thing. One doesn’t laugh because it’s “funny”; one laughs because there isn’t any other choice, except maybe going crazy or driving off a cliff.
Speaking of satire, I will leave you with this wonderful article from the Onion:
Nation Somehow Shocked by Human Nature Again
We laugh because we encounter things that are funny. But “funny” isn’t always light and humorous; sometimes it’s downright terrifying. Or, to put it another way, we face things that are so absurd, we are so overwhelmed, that if we don’t laugh we might find ourselves crushed.
I can think of a time more than 10 years ago that was like this. I was getting ready to schedule the oral defense for my Master’s thesis. I had worked on it for 9 months, turned in drafts to my primary advisor, and she assured me things were great. Then, at the beginning of April—5 days before the defense deadline—I received a call from her. “I’ve finally read your thesis. I think you need to start over again.” Note the word finally. She had never read it to begin with; she had simply decided that it would be fine because I knew how to write. Yes, I know how to write, but whether I was going in the right direction was another matter. I was shattered when I hung up the phone—I could not imagine starting all over again. I don’t cry often, but I cried then. My very helpful husband saw me, and said, “You disgust me. I hate you,” and walked out. (Are any of you who knew my ex still wondering why we ended up divorced?)
Ten minutes later my advisor called back and asked if I was all right. “Of course I’m not all right,” I told her. “You waited until 4 days before the department deadline to tell me this?” “Oh, is that all you have? Oh, but you know how to write—I’ll get you another week, and you can get it fixed.” I thought, a week? This woman is either incredibly naïve or has an unwarranted amount of faith in me.
The next day, I got a call from my friend Liz—her father just died suddenly at the age of 52. That was followed by a call from another friend, whose house was destroyed in a flood. Between that and the bickering with my husband, who thought I was a horrible person for showing any sign of weakness or breakdown, I had hit that threshold. Things were just so badly out of hand that I no longer cried about it. It was funny—I had to laugh. And I laughed telling people the story. They probably thought I was crazy. But I was beyond that—things were just terrifyingly absurd.
In the end, my husband and I muddled through another 2 years, and I managed to re-write my thesis 3 times in 3 weeks, and still graduated, even though I am thoroughly uncomfortable with the thesis I wrote. My friend managed to get insurance to pay for rebuilding her home, and as for Liz—well, I went to the funeral, and tried to be supportive. I’m not sure that sort of thing ever gets better. Nonetheless, life went on, even though it appeared to go up in flames.
I think this is why I’ve lost all sense of expectation of anything. It’s like buying a house in Centralia, PA—you never know when the ground underneath you will suddenly catch fire. If I take it all too seriously, my life will be very grim indeed. It does come back to the issue of control; when things spiral out of control, the only thing to do is let go and let whatever is happening actually happen. Hanging on is worse.
This, I think, is the appeal of satire and dark humor. When we see such light reactions to dark events, it reminds us of this very thing. One doesn’t laugh because it’s “funny”; one laughs because there isn’t any other choice, except maybe going crazy or driving off a cliff.
Speaking of satire, I will leave you with this wonderful article from the Onion:
Nation Somehow Shocked by Human Nature Again
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