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So what have you done this week?
Um, so I'm getting hitched.
Mar. 9th, 2012 09:09 amWhich is not a surprise, or anything. But I'm getting civil married in State-where-I-live as opposed to State-where-I'm-from, in order to get the Gentleman's immigration paperwork started. And, so, that's happening Saturday next week, the day after I turn in my final thesis.
At this point I should act like I'm going to be posting less. But fuck that. I'm going to be posting a lot.
At this point I should act like I'm going to be posting less. But fuck that. I'm going to be posting a lot.
Ethos of Argumentation
Mar. 8th, 2012 09:40 pmSo, appropos of Lakoff and Johnson's book Metaphors We Live By, which by the way, is older than me and appears to be kind of a big deal, given that my library has seven copies of it in English alone.* I think maybe the undergrads all have to read it....
The main thing that Lakoff and Johnson want to point out is that, hey, we use metaphors! Not only to we use isolated metaphors, we use them in SYSTEMS of interlocking coherent metaphors that work off a similar meaning! It's so cool!
L&J work first from a really, really obvious one that doesn't stick out until they point at it:
ARGUMENT IS WAR.
Examples: I attacked his argument. I defended my position. I rallied my arguments. I felt his reasoning was entrenched. I had a good idea but I shot my mouth off. I exploded his argument. My points blew them all away. I won the argument. I lost the argument. You have something more to say? Shoot! I dropped a truth-bomb on them! I decimated his argument. I surrender! I give up.
What L&J point out here, is that this is not noticeably metaphorical language. We consider this fairly normal discourse (Okay, well the last one is something I've heard my brother say, sometimes....). But it's not like it's purple prose, or like I really had to reach back in my mind to having heard these ways of talking about argument before- they sprang readily to mind. This way of talking is alive in the language and culture.
Now, obviously you can push this beyond the common way of using ARGUMENT IS WAR and into figurative language that people actually really notice: I took my flamethrower to his ideas. I invaded his concepts. I heard the lamentations of his argument's women!**
But in discussing how metaphors work to shape systems of how we think about things, L&J did something that really, really intrigued me. They offered lots of other ways of thinking about what an ARGUMENT IS that we also actually use. Like, ARGUMENT IS A BUILDING (The foundation of my theory...), ARGUMENT IS A JOURNEY (Where I mean to lead us in this argument), ARGUMENT IS A CONTAINER (his points don't have a lot in them). These metaphors do a lot of work for us too, in this consideration, but they still don't push ARGUMENT IS WAR out of the picture.
And then L&J threw a concept my way just to play with it.
ARGUMENT IS DANCE.
Think about that for a second
The idea of an argument where you have a skilled partner who helps show off your argument to its very best moves! Where you help sashay your arguing-partner across the floor of the argument, bowing to your points and letting your partner dip you to show you his. Where you intertwine your views to reach a greater lift for both, where a poorly matched arguing partner loses his footing and steps on your toes and makes you trip over your own ideas rather than crisply spinning you, and the weakness of his points means you shuffle instead of step. Where your can get off-beat and lose your step and your partner leads you back to your own points. Where the point is the performance of the dance to the height of both partners' abilities, because it does take two to tango!
See, the problem that I have with the ARGUMENT IS WAR model, is that there's no point in taking the field if you are outgunned but your opponent needs to charge ahead anyways, because that's what you do to win. Whereas, in the dance metaphor, each dancer is only as strong as their partner. A weak partner makes for a bad argument! Your won't get to show off your best moves, your practice will be in vain, and it's not like you could do it by yourself!
And as I've been doing this writing with the New Atheists, I'm trying not to find the weakest part of each argument and attack it, but try and get each author to show off his best moves so that I can respond with my best, and bring other strong partners like Tillich into the chorus line, so that we can all get the best show we can. Because the strength of the argument is not determined by who wins and who loses, because then what's the point in joining the dance? A plurality of ideas might thrive on argumentation, but constant conflict feels often like it leaves some folks as wallflowers with two left feet, or partners who both want to lead. It's not a fun night out, is what I'm saying, and I think we can do get better in step with one another. I'm made stronger by taking letting someone else dance lead for a little so that I can make my show-stopping number, too.
I'M NOT HERE FOR A FIGHT, I'M HERE TO DANCE, MOTHERFUCKERS!
And that's kind of my underlying thought for my paper. It's not about opponents or war or battlefields. It's about making each other look the best we can so that when we actually do hit the floor, it actually means something full and amazing and beautiful, without anyone getting kicked in the shin.
*My library has maybe two copies of Augustine's City of God in English. And then one in Latin, French, German, Russian, and Spanish. But this is Augustine, MAJOR PLAYER on the Christian football team, so, really, they should have more.
** I have used this in conversation.
The main thing that Lakoff and Johnson want to point out is that, hey, we use metaphors! Not only to we use isolated metaphors, we use them in SYSTEMS of interlocking coherent metaphors that work off a similar meaning! It's so cool!
L&J work first from a really, really obvious one that doesn't stick out until they point at it:
ARGUMENT IS WAR.
Examples: I attacked his argument. I defended my position. I rallied my arguments. I felt his reasoning was entrenched. I had a good idea but I shot my mouth off. I exploded his argument. My points blew them all away. I won the argument. I lost the argument. You have something more to say? Shoot! I dropped a truth-bomb on them! I decimated his argument. I surrender! I give up.
What L&J point out here, is that this is not noticeably metaphorical language. We consider this fairly normal discourse (Okay, well the last one is something I've heard my brother say, sometimes....). But it's not like it's purple prose, or like I really had to reach back in my mind to having heard these ways of talking about argument before- they sprang readily to mind. This way of talking is alive in the language and culture.
Now, obviously you can push this beyond the common way of using ARGUMENT IS WAR and into figurative language that people actually really notice: I took my flamethrower to his ideas. I invaded his concepts. I heard the lamentations of his argument's women!**
But in discussing how metaphors work to shape systems of how we think about things, L&J did something that really, really intrigued me. They offered lots of other ways of thinking about what an ARGUMENT IS that we also actually use. Like, ARGUMENT IS A BUILDING (The foundation of my theory...), ARGUMENT IS A JOURNEY (Where I mean to lead us in this argument), ARGUMENT IS A CONTAINER (his points don't have a lot in them). These metaphors do a lot of work for us too, in this consideration, but they still don't push ARGUMENT IS WAR out of the picture.
And then L&J threw a concept my way just to play with it.
ARGUMENT IS DANCE.
Think about that for a second
The idea of an argument where you have a skilled partner who helps show off your argument to its very best moves! Where you help sashay your arguing-partner across the floor of the argument, bowing to your points and letting your partner dip you to show you his. Where you intertwine your views to reach a greater lift for both, where a poorly matched arguing partner loses his footing and steps on your toes and makes you trip over your own ideas rather than crisply spinning you, and the weakness of his points means you shuffle instead of step. Where your can get off-beat and lose your step and your partner leads you back to your own points. Where the point is the performance of the dance to the height of both partners' abilities, because it does take two to tango!
See, the problem that I have with the ARGUMENT IS WAR model, is that there's no point in taking the field if you are outgunned but your opponent needs to charge ahead anyways, because that's what you do to win. Whereas, in the dance metaphor, each dancer is only as strong as their partner. A weak partner makes for a bad argument! Your won't get to show off your best moves, your practice will be in vain, and it's not like you could do it by yourself!
And as I've been doing this writing with the New Atheists, I'm trying not to find the weakest part of each argument and attack it, but try and get each author to show off his best moves so that I can respond with my best, and bring other strong partners like Tillich into the chorus line, so that we can all get the best show we can. Because the strength of the argument is not determined by who wins and who loses, because then what's the point in joining the dance? A plurality of ideas might thrive on argumentation, but constant conflict feels often like it leaves some folks as wallflowers with two left feet, or partners who both want to lead. It's not a fun night out, is what I'm saying, and I think we can do get better in step with one another. I'm made stronger by taking letting someone else dance lead for a little so that I can make my show-stopping number, too.
I'M NOT HERE FOR A FIGHT, I'M HERE TO DANCE, MOTHERFUCKERS!
And that's kind of my underlying thought for my paper. It's not about opponents or war or battlefields. It's about making each other look the best we can so that when we actually do hit the floor, it actually means something full and amazing and beautiful, without anyone getting kicked in the shin.
*My library has maybe two copies of Augustine's City of God in English. And then one in Latin, French, German, Russian, and Spanish. But this is Augustine, MAJOR PLAYER on the Christian football team, so, really, they should have more.
** I have used this in conversation.
On the nature of argumentation
Mar. 8th, 2012 09:25 amWould you be interested in this? In my paper, I think I'm actually working out a kind of ethos of arguments that's more about revealing the best in each argument than about beating the other person.
I'm going to have to include a section on how I'm arguing in my paper, which is something I've been thinking about and it seems like it it's going to be actually kind of interesting on a general level. I mean, I've been kind of thinking about this stuff on and off for the whole of the paper, so I'm wondering if you want to see it.
I'm going to have to include a section on how I'm arguing in my paper, which is something I've been thinking about and it seems like it it's going to be actually kind of interesting on a general level. I mean, I've been kind of thinking about this stuff on and off for the whole of the paper, so I'm wondering if you want to see it.
Hunting for a Quote
Mar. 5th, 2012 12:46 pmI know I've read this in a book on American religion in last hundred years (I think.)
"You have to do a lot of work before you can get to a point where you actually disagree." The author was making the point that religious folks, or folk in any kind of argument, often think they are disagreeing when in reality they are simply talking past each other. Neither hears what the other has to say, or why, or why it matters. To get to a point where you actually know enough about the other person to really understand what they mean and disagree with takes much much longer than merely shouting at each other.
"You have to do a lot of work before you can get to a point where you actually disagree." The author was making the point that religious folks, or folk in any kind of argument, often think they are disagreeing when in reality they are simply talking past each other. Neither hears what the other has to say, or why, or why it matters. To get to a point where you actually know enough about the other person to really understand what they mean and disagree with takes much much longer than merely shouting at each other.
The "How did THAT happen?" reaction is the best name I've come across for shit like this. I had to get a marriage license this week, and I got a doozy.
When giving my parents' last and maiden names to the stern unfriendly lady at the county clerk's office, she gave me one of those "how did that happen?" reactions.
Clerk's Clerk: Your last name is "Mom's-Daddy's"?
Me: Yup!
*Typing occurs*
Clerk's Clerk: Your father's last name is "Mom's", right?
Me: No, his last name is "Mom's-Daddy's" as well.
*Typing occurs*
Clerk's Clerk: And what's your mother's maiden name?
Me: It's "Mom's"- Spelled like the part of my name before the hyphen.
Clerk's Clerk: *NOT TYPING IN SHEER DISBELIEF* Your FATHER took your MOTHER'S name? (Read this in exactly the same tone as if I had just told her that my mother eats babies' faces.)
Me: *bewildered to find that this merits note* Well, they took each other's names?
Clerk's Clerk: *Clearly does not believe me, but types it up anyway.*
Me: HIS maiden name was "Daddy's," if there's a space for that.
Me: *Texts Dad with this story*
Dad: Screw 'em. As I've been saying since 1974.
When giving my parents' last and maiden names to the stern unfriendly lady at the county clerk's office, she gave me one of those "how did that happen?" reactions.
Clerk's Clerk: Your last name is "Mom's-Daddy's"?
Me: Yup!
*Typing occurs*
Clerk's Clerk: Your father's last name is "Mom's", right?
Me: No, his last name is "Mom's-Daddy's" as well.
*Typing occurs*
Clerk's Clerk: And what's your mother's maiden name?
Me: It's "Mom's"- Spelled like the part of my name before the hyphen.
Clerk's Clerk: *NOT TYPING IN SHEER DISBELIEF* Your FATHER took your MOTHER'S name? (Read this in exactly the same tone as if I had just told her that my mother eats babies' faces.)
Me: *bewildered to find that this merits note* Well, they took each other's names?
Clerk's Clerk: *Clearly does not believe me, but types it up anyway.*
Me: HIS maiden name was "Daddy's," if there's a space for that.
Me: *Texts Dad with this story*
Dad: Screw 'em. As I've been saying since 1974.
But, Dammit, I want them
Mar. 3rd, 2012 06:42 pmI am not going to buy these blue shoes to wear for my wedding. That is too much to spend on shoes. Even if they are very blue.
My Tic Tac Tale Tile
Title: Instead of Isaac and Ishmael
Author: Kitewithfish
Fandom: West Wing (TV series)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Donna Moss, Josh Lyman, OfC
Warning(s): suicide (minor character), terrorism, catastrophe
Prompt(s): Tic Tac Tales Prompts: (right down) Cardigan, Radiation Contamination, Parapet
Summary: Instead of Isaac and Ishmael, this is what happened.
( Read more... )
Title: Instead of Isaac and Ishmael
Author: Kitewithfish
Fandom: West Wing (TV series)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Donna Moss, Josh Lyman, OfC
Warning(s): suicide (minor character), terrorism, catastrophe
Prompt(s): Tic Tac Tales Prompts: (right down) Cardigan, Radiation Contamination, Parapet
Summary: Instead of Isaac and Ishmael, this is what happened.
( Read more... )
In which we deal with the fact that the calendar and the earth DO NOT AGREE!
Jezebel: Wacky Tradition of Leap Day Allows Women to Ask Men Out
In which I wrote the following comment, which I reproduce her for FEMINISM! And romance, and some laziness.
"Yeah, Leap Day is cool for calendar reasons but kind of silly for dictating the actions of humans.
"I proposed to my fiance in late October two years ago, because the ring I bought for him was faster to make than the ring he bought for me. I got down on one knee and his immediate response? "Nooo! You were supposed to wait so we could do dueling proposals!" And then he said yes.
"Of course, this did come after I asked him on public transport, "So, I wanna marry you- why aren't we married yet?" (Don't surprise people with proposals! Check and make sure they want to marry you first! If you can't lay the groundwork, don't pop the question!)
"But, my proposal seems to surprise people. Lots of people ask about how *he* proposed, and no one has ever preceded that with a question of *who* proposed. And then I get to feeling like the person is now making all sorts of judgements about me and how I'm pushy and annoying and stole his moment of manly romanticalness by my harpyish hyphenated-last-name-having feminazi ways.
"And then I remember that, instead of being missish and dancing around someone I wanted hoping that he would read my mind, I got engaged instead. Woohoo!"
Yeah, I'm pretty happy with my decision there.
Jezebel: Wacky Tradition of Leap Day Allows Women to Ask Men Out
In which I wrote the following comment, which I reproduce her for FEMINISM! And romance, and some laziness.
"Yeah, Leap Day is cool for calendar reasons but kind of silly for dictating the actions of humans.
"I proposed to my fiance in late October two years ago, because the ring I bought for him was faster to make than the ring he bought for me. I got down on one knee and his immediate response? "Nooo! You were supposed to wait so we could do dueling proposals!" And then he said yes.
"Of course, this did come after I asked him on public transport, "So, I wanna marry you- why aren't we married yet?" (Don't surprise people with proposals! Check and make sure they want to marry you first! If you can't lay the groundwork, don't pop the question!)
"But, my proposal seems to surprise people. Lots of people ask about how *he* proposed, and no one has ever preceded that with a question of *who* proposed. And then I get to feeling like the person is now making all sorts of judgements about me and how I'm pushy and annoying and stole his moment of manly romanticalness by my harpyish hyphenated-last-name-having feminazi ways.
"And then I remember that, instead of being missish and dancing around someone I wanted hoping that he would read my mind, I got engaged instead. Woohoo!"
Yeah, I'm pretty happy with my decision there.
She selects a wide soft brush, squirts a dollop of foundation onto the back of her hand, and sets to work. Chin, cheeks, foreheads, smoothed and perfected and simple. She picks up her glasses to check in better detail, squinting through them without unfolding the legs.
She sets the brush aside to be cleaned, not by her of course, and selects again. This one pointed as a misericorde and bearing the another pale peachy shade, lighter than the foundation but not by too much, not so much you'd see it once she's done, and she strokes it slowly over the lines of the narrow scars. Those are from the flying glass. The shrapnel scars tend to be slightly sunken ovals, whatever the shape of the original hot metal. Those get a soft pat from a fatter brush to correct for the shadow they would leave on her face without correction. A fluff of powder to blend and set, and she is done.
The surface is smooth, a canvas ready for her ministrations. She is alone now, so she will paint as she likes.
She'll be wearing the green coat today, she's already decided that- something solid and bright so that the cameras will pick her up at a distance, so that the crowd will be able to make her out even at the back. She will draw the eye. The weather means that she will already be rouged by the wind, so she doesn't both with blush. Instead, she selects a shade for her eyes, a warm and subtle purple that will be just out of the range of the natural blush of her pale skin.
The room is quiet, selected especially for it- a refurbished pantry closet that happened to have a window to the east for natural light, but small enough that aides and assistants will not be able to linger one atop the other while she prepares.
She could have a professional do this-- who wouldn't be honored to call themselves the personal esthiologist, cosmetic assistant, whatever it's called now, to the august lady herself. But she does not have the poise in private that people born to her position seem to drink in from the water in these ancient houses with their rusty pipes. She could not help but smile and be sweet to a stranger in her service, and chooses not to spare the effort. She'll need the effort for other things, most days.
Another quick glance through the glasses, and it's time for lips. She tried bleaching her teeth once, and her mouth felt itchy for days, so she chose another route and now picks redder lipstick to push the contrast. Her smile for her people will be genuine, because even on her worst day she knows that she can't fake it, so she finds a thought to make her laugh and holds it for as long as she needs to. They were not kind to her in the first few months after the wedding, and her early pictures look defensive. She was untried, and the skills have come after a long hard slog. But she learned.
After the first bomb, and the short hospital stay and the first set of scars, when the epithets applied suggested more "hero" than "interloper", she took advantage of the respite to rally her forces. She studied her enemies, rested, stretched the muscles she was growing, gathered allies, and returned to the public eye with the scars as the chief weapon in her arsenal- who could call her unwelcome now, when she had bled to save their prince? Who could challenge her loyalty, when she pushed past security to grab the explosive first and throw it away from the crowds? If royalty is a matter of blood, then has she not shed her own beyond the call of a wife's duty? They forget she was a soldier first, and that the scars they see are only the ones on her face. There is a reason she does not care for backless gowns. They think this was her first time returning a grenade to its source.
The lipstick is the perfect red. She thinks of otters floating in the hostile sea holding hands to keep each other close, and smiles. Her teeth gleam. She is ready. She replaces her tools unlingeringly but without hurry, and in the mirror she looks calm, poised, prepared but not plastic. The camouflage of her status has set, and they forget again she is a soldier.
She sets the brush aside to be cleaned, not by her of course, and selects again. This one pointed as a misericorde and bearing the another pale peachy shade, lighter than the foundation but not by too much, not so much you'd see it once she's done, and she strokes it slowly over the lines of the narrow scars. Those are from the flying glass. The shrapnel scars tend to be slightly sunken ovals, whatever the shape of the original hot metal. Those get a soft pat from a fatter brush to correct for the shadow they would leave on her face without correction. A fluff of powder to blend and set, and she is done.
The surface is smooth, a canvas ready for her ministrations. She is alone now, so she will paint as she likes.
She'll be wearing the green coat today, she's already decided that- something solid and bright so that the cameras will pick her up at a distance, so that the crowd will be able to make her out even at the back. She will draw the eye. The weather means that she will already be rouged by the wind, so she doesn't both with blush. Instead, she selects a shade for her eyes, a warm and subtle purple that will be just out of the range of the natural blush of her pale skin.
The room is quiet, selected especially for it- a refurbished pantry closet that happened to have a window to the east for natural light, but small enough that aides and assistants will not be able to linger one atop the other while she prepares.
She could have a professional do this-- who wouldn't be honored to call themselves the personal esthiologist, cosmetic assistant, whatever it's called now, to the august lady herself. But she does not have the poise in private that people born to her position seem to drink in from the water in these ancient houses with their rusty pipes. She could not help but smile and be sweet to a stranger in her service, and chooses not to spare the effort. She'll need the effort for other things, most days.
Another quick glance through the glasses, and it's time for lips. She tried bleaching her teeth once, and her mouth felt itchy for days, so she chose another route and now picks redder lipstick to push the contrast. Her smile for her people will be genuine, because even on her worst day she knows that she can't fake it, so she finds a thought to make her laugh and holds it for as long as she needs to. They were not kind to her in the first few months after the wedding, and her early pictures look defensive. She was untried, and the skills have come after a long hard slog. But she learned.
After the first bomb, and the short hospital stay and the first set of scars, when the epithets applied suggested more "hero" than "interloper", she took advantage of the respite to rally her forces. She studied her enemies, rested, stretched the muscles she was growing, gathered allies, and returned to the public eye with the scars as the chief weapon in her arsenal- who could call her unwelcome now, when she had bled to save their prince? Who could challenge her loyalty, when she pushed past security to grab the explosive first and throw it away from the crowds? If royalty is a matter of blood, then has she not shed her own beyond the call of a wife's duty? They forget she was a soldier first, and that the scars they see are only the ones on her face. There is a reason she does not care for backless gowns. They think this was her first time returning a grenade to its source.
The lipstick is the perfect red. She thinks of otters floating in the hostile sea holding hands to keep each other close, and smiles. Her teeth gleam. She is ready. She replaces her tools unlingeringly but without hurry, and in the mirror she looks calm, poised, prepared but not plastic. The camouflage of her status has set, and they forget again she is a soldier.
Oh, delightful brain.
Feb. 13th, 2012 09:34 pmThis is the first time I've read Tillich in about year. It's amazingly clear and yet just deeply hard to wrap your brain around at the same time. Copious notes are all that save me.
In other news, I have received roses, and shall make mint brownies in return.
Whenever I get roses, I think of this passage from Alan Moore's V for Vendetta. The personal is political in Valerie's Letter.
In other news, I have received roses, and shall make mint brownies in return.
Whenever I get roses, I think of this passage from Alan Moore's V for Vendetta. The personal is political in Valerie's Letter.
...4.5.6.7 turn 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9. turn then 7 then 9 then 7. She measured the limits of her world in against the only rubric she had- her own strides. She rode close to the walls, seeking the familiar patterns of rough and smooth against the blistered sides of her feet as she traced the walls.
Stop.
Did she just measure 10 strides on this wall?
Can't be. Can't be ten. Confused. Not paying attention. Start over.
Steps back, backwards in the dark, and begins again. Measures it perfectly, confident, knows exactly when her hand will trail over the patch of bare concrete where the paint has peeled and become powder (it grows so slowly but she won't pick at it!), the small sharp spur against her left foot where the metal baseboard has cracked and pulled outward, the smooth expanse of the wall. And in the dark she adjusts her stride, pulls her step back just a hair to keep from breaking her toenails against the wall where on the ninth step, her foot will hit...
empty air. Nine strides leaves the wall unfinished, but she stops anyways. Can't be right. Can't be right. This wall is nine, that wall is seven.
Begins again, hand fisted against the wall so that the bare concrete of the paintless patch scrapes her knuckles, scruffs her foot on the spur, reaches step nine and puts her hand out to meet the wall...
And the wall is out of reach. She has walked seven steps (as it should be), turned, walked nine (as it should be) and
she cannot reach the wall. Both hands outstretched, but rooted to the spot of that ninth step, the borders of her world. Reaching into the dark.
(and there is a wild rush in her mind of doors and windows and skylights, half forgotten in the dark, of spaces vast and free and unconfined and she cannot remember them but she knows she did once, she knows that once she ran and struck nothing and she can't remember hope, it was something she gave up when it cost too much, it drove her mad and it was better to forget, to just accept and respect the walls as inevitable so she did, she gave it up and lived in her room 7 by 9 by 7 by 9 by 7, the circuit around her stretching out into eternity except that it's not any more and what does that mean and she'd almost forgotten the fear of never getting out because it had been a bosom companion for so long and a better friend than hope so she'd kept it close to warm her at night and now it was eating her up.)
What was she supposed to do when the world fell open?
She is crying. There are no echoes.
Her world is broken.
She takes another step. Ten. The world is broken. What is she supposed to do?
Eleven.
Twelve.
Stop.
Did she just measure 10 strides on this wall?
Can't be. Can't be ten. Confused. Not paying attention. Start over.
Steps back, backwards in the dark, and begins again. Measures it perfectly, confident, knows exactly when her hand will trail over the patch of bare concrete where the paint has peeled and become powder (it grows so slowly but she won't pick at it!), the small sharp spur against her left foot where the metal baseboard has cracked and pulled outward, the smooth expanse of the wall. And in the dark she adjusts her stride, pulls her step back just a hair to keep from breaking her toenails against the wall where on the ninth step, her foot will hit...
empty air. Nine strides leaves the wall unfinished, but she stops anyways. Can't be right. Can't be right. This wall is nine, that wall is seven.
Begins again, hand fisted against the wall so that the bare concrete of the paintless patch scrapes her knuckles, scruffs her foot on the spur, reaches step nine and puts her hand out to meet the wall...
And the wall is out of reach. She has walked seven steps (as it should be), turned, walked nine (as it should be) and
she cannot reach the wall. Both hands outstretched, but rooted to the spot of that ninth step, the borders of her world. Reaching into the dark.
(and there is a wild rush in her mind of doors and windows and skylights, half forgotten in the dark, of spaces vast and free and unconfined and she cannot remember them but she knows she did once, she knows that once she ran and struck nothing and she can't remember hope, it was something she gave up when it cost too much, it drove her mad and it was better to forget, to just accept and respect the walls as inevitable so she did, she gave it up and lived in her room 7 by 9 by 7 by 9 by 7, the circuit around her stretching out into eternity except that it's not any more and what does that mean and she'd almost forgotten the fear of never getting out because it had been a bosom companion for so long and a better friend than hope so she'd kept it close to warm her at night and now it was eating her up.)
What was she supposed to do when the world fell open?
She is crying. There are no echoes.
Her world is broken.
She takes another step. Ten. The world is broken. What is she supposed to do?
Eleven.
Twelve.
Last night I had a dream where I was traveling secretly across Europe via freight trains. I had paid a beautiful Romani girl in jeans and a tee-shirt $2000 to guide me around, and grumbled to myself about how I couldn't really afford it but I had to get going. (Why? Dunno.) We hopped a train and got moving. She reminded me of someone from college.
The first night, we slept in the woods, only to be attacked by velociraptors and other bird-like dinosaurs. (This was a great arial shot of the little camp site with the three of us (because my Gentleman showed up from nowhere, but he does belong in Europe....) as little loafs inside our sleeping bags with the 'raptors approaching through the trees.)
We fought the 'raptor off with swords that we brought with us- some of which were battered rusty old rapiers, some more heavy, and went back to sleep. Only the raptors attacked again throughout the night, so we were exhausted in the morning.
The next nights, we traveled around and stayed in empty houses left behind by German tourists, which were all incredibly rich and full of dark wood. The 'raptors got in anyways, so we still had to have umbrella stands full of swords in every house to fight them off while they slinked around the nice furniture. The last night, the actual owners of the house were still there, and I walked in on the woman standing naked in a hip bath while her pudgy husband sat reading a magazine on a stool in their HUGE bathroom. Aside from going, "Oh!" they didn't notice us at all, but they were no help at all fight off the raptors.
When the 'raptors came back, the German couple was useless- they didn't do anything but we sort of had to protect the bathroom all the same because letting the 'raptors eat them would be Wrong.
I woke up really tired.
The first night, we slept in the woods, only to be attacked by velociraptors and other bird-like dinosaurs. (This was a great arial shot of the little camp site with the three of us (because my Gentleman showed up from nowhere, but he does belong in Europe....) as little loafs inside our sleeping bags with the 'raptors approaching through the trees.)
We fought the 'raptor off with swords that we brought with us- some of which were battered rusty old rapiers, some more heavy, and went back to sleep. Only the raptors attacked again throughout the night, so we were exhausted in the morning.
The next nights, we traveled around and stayed in empty houses left behind by German tourists, which were all incredibly rich and full of dark wood. The 'raptors got in anyways, so we still had to have umbrella stands full of swords in every house to fight them off while they slinked around the nice furniture. The last night, the actual owners of the house were still there, and I walked in on the woman standing naked in a hip bath while her pudgy husband sat reading a magazine on a stool in their HUGE bathroom. Aside from going, "Oh!" they didn't notice us at all, but they were no help at all fight off the raptors.
When the 'raptors came back, the German couple was useless- they didn't do anything but we sort of had to protect the bathroom all the same because letting the 'raptors eat them would be Wrong.
I woke up really tired.
In the past few days a number of things that had felt pinned down and settled in my life decided to FLARE back up again. I'm feeling a bit more settled now.
But I did end up getting that IUD that I've been trying to get since last year (when I discovered my insurance was worth bupkis in this part of the country) and while that took a chunk out of my week, I'm still sitting pretty. With some ibuprofen. But pretty!
Someone on LJ commented that she'd watched the first episode of West Wing and she wondered if this President Jed Bartlett was going to become a major character, and now I have to go and rewatch that first episode again.
I never saw the first episode of West Wing when it first came out. I think my family only got to watching it in the third season, so it wasn't until they started doing reruns of the first season at all. The idea of actually getting to start off that series with the actual first episode would be kind of shocking, actually. I came to it already knowing how some things were going to turn out, so I watched it with assumption that certain people were going to leave, annoyed at the presence of some people who are only really in the first season, and kind of basically wanting it to move along.
But I did end up getting that IUD that I've been trying to get since last year (when I discovered my insurance was worth bupkis in this part of the country) and while that took a chunk out of my week, I'm still sitting pretty. With some ibuprofen. But pretty!
Someone on LJ commented that she'd watched the first episode of West Wing and she wondered if this President Jed Bartlett was going to become a major character, and now I have to go and rewatch that first episode again.
I never saw the first episode of West Wing when it first came out. I think my family only got to watching it in the third season, so it wasn't until they started doing reruns of the first season at all. The idea of actually getting to start off that series with the actual first episode would be kind of shocking, actually. I came to it already knowing how some things were going to turn out, so I watched it with assumption that certain people were going to leave, annoyed at the presence of some people who are only really in the first season, and kind of basically wanting it to move along.
Quick update
Jan. 17th, 2012 08:23 amI'm still reading Hitchens, and I wouldn't be adverse to doing more readings-through if I didn't need to step up my pace. Grad school is no place for a slow reader.
In other news, I have two doctor's appointments today, one for the womb (which is behaving) and one for the foot (which is slowly coming to heel) and class and such and it's just... at this point in the quarter, I wish I actually was free to do all the socializing that I'm invited to (and want to do!)
In other other news, the Gentleman wonked his knee fairly assiduously at Heavy Fighting Practice on Sunday, and so I've been treating him very gingerly since. He thinks it's getting better, but I am still paranoid about it and doing most of the around-the-house stuff for a bit. He's just hard to get up and down. This, when yesterday I'd got about four hours sleep and was just dead tired. Meh. He's off to work today, so I think things are on the upswing.
In other news, I have two doctor's appointments today, one for the womb (which is behaving) and one for the foot (which is slowly coming to heel) and class and such and it's just... at this point in the quarter, I wish I actually was free to do all the socializing that I'm invited to (and want to do!)
In other other news, the Gentleman wonked his knee fairly assiduously at Heavy Fighting Practice on Sunday, and so I've been treating him very gingerly since. He thinks it's getting better, but I am still paranoid about it and doing most of the around-the-house stuff for a bit. He's just hard to get up and down. This, when yesterday I'd got about four hours sleep and was just dead tired. Meh. He's off to work today, so I think things are on the upswing.
Reader's background: I am an Episcopalian, white, bisexual, cisgender woman in the process of getting her Masters of Divinity. I have a number of important people in my life, one of whom is atheist after a childhood spent in a country where religion is the major determining factor in a person's ethnic identity, and the leaders of the dominant religion seem to perpetrate a state of tension that leads to continual (ie, for the last several hundred years) ethnic violence.
My project: (and this description is nebulous because I have an instinct about this rather than a clear thought) a paper in which I am trying to figure out a common ground and a common critical language to use to talk between atheist and liberal Protestant(ish)* communities, which seem to have a lot of cultural overlap.
Writer's Background: The late Mr. Christopher Hitchens.
The Book: God is Not Great
Chapter 1
After becoming embarrassed and annoyed at the incompetence of his religious instructors in scientific thought (one teacher tells him that God made the grass green to delight and rest the human eye, and it was very clear to the young Mr. Hitchens that the eye adjusted to find the color green restful rather than the grass changing to fit us) and their seeming inability to justify the point of religious practice, a young Mr. Hitchens sincerely doubted the point of religion. (He seems to be making England's Anglican Church the measuring stick for religion in this example.)
He comes to make four conclusions about religion
1) it misrepresents the origins of man (sic) and the cosmos
2) that (1) makes it maximally servile and maximally solipsistic
3) it results/causes a dangerous sexual repression
4) it is grounded on wish thinking.
Atheism, on the other hand, embraces principles of science and reason rather than faith. Most religions are either irrational and easily turned to violence, or have turned to an "admirable but nebulous humanism" (and here he cites Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran pastor and theologian hanged to refusing to cooperate with Nazis).
I'm going to say that this is a good pick, in terms of strategy. Bonhoeffer is an official saint in several mainline Protestant(ish) denominations, including my own, and his theology is widely read and respected for its focus on social justice. I don't know him well enough to say if he's a liberation theologian, actually, but he's on my To-Read list. Picking Bonhoeffer effectively defangs several strands of Christian thought as "nebulous humanism" rather than the actual religion that Mr Hitchens finds objectionable. However, speaking for the nebula, I don't think we'd agree with his assessment.
Religion, Mr. Hitchens writes, has served its purpose for furthering humanity- it will survive as a vestige of a less advance era, but it has nothing new to say. Atheism is not just an opposition to wonder and amazement- pictures from the Hubble telescope will bring about more awe than Moses and a burning bush.
Consolation, a major component of the point of religion, seems to Mr Hitchens to be better served by actually addressing the harms that influence people's drive to turn to religion rather than merely providing comfort. (Yes, he quotes Marx. No, it's not terribly sensationalist- it's a decent reading of Marx's line, from what I know of him.)
The most devastating critique to be made of religion, Mr Hitchens claims, is that it is man-made. Believers claim to know everything, down to the nubbins, and that is deeply arrogant. To claim certainty is just dead wrong.
Moving into his next argument, Mr Hitchens does not want to abolish religion (which he thinks is impossible anyways), but rather to just leave it alone, and be left alone by it. But this is not to be. For! Mr Hitchens dramatically ends the chapter, "Religion poisons everything."
*The Episcopal Church maintains that it is both Catholic and reformed. This has some interesting ecumenical ramifications. For instance, when the Roman Catholic church decided that baptisms were only valid when done in "the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit", the Episcopal Church made damned sure that its priests were using that EXACT PHRASE in baptisms. Now, we're free to use a more radical interpretation of the Trinity right after it, but there's now a rule. Reciprocally, when the Methodists and Quakers ordained woman, the Roman Catholic church gave not a single damn. When the Episcopalians did it- big. effing. deal.
My thoughts on this are a bit mixed. Mr Hitchens seems to want to claim himself as a smartass intellectual asshole so that he can proceed to be just that without remorse. It's an choice that gives him a lot of leeway to be smarmy.
On the other hand, he's also arguing cleverly- see the Bonhoeffer note. But he while he pushes the nice religious folks who think that they are doing religion onto the sidelines, he does not offer a clear definition of religion to compare. Which, admittedly, most religious scholars have a huge amount of trouble doing- religion is hard to effectively pin down. Religion can be defined in such a way as to leave out all the nice stuff, or to include only the nice stuff and not the violent stuff, and lots of people do just that. I'm feeling like it's kind of sloppy but! maybe he's doing something with it that will make it clear why later.
On the "radical and devastating critique" that religion is "man-made," I'm not feeling particularly wowed by that. I mean, while I'm in the nebula of fluffy nice people who only think that we're doing religion, I actually think that it's a fairly well-acknowledged idea that a lot of what a particular religion does it arbitrary and that something else might be just as valid, which acknowledges that religion (at least parts of it) are man-made. Pluralism kind of makes the idea that aspects of religion are influenced by humans not terribly shocking. I waved around a metal ball full of burning incense this Sunday because there's Christians comes from a ritual history that thinks frankincense communicates something about the divine, humanity, and honor- I'm prepared to admit that this is historically contingent.
However, my feeling of threatenedness (or not) may not be the rubric by which Mr. Hitchens wishes to be measured.
On one note, however, I'm going to be clear: every time Mr Hitchens uses the word "man" to mean "humanity" or "human beings," I feel [sic].
My project: (and this description is nebulous because I have an instinct about this rather than a clear thought) a paper in which I am trying to figure out a common ground and a common critical language to use to talk between atheist and liberal Protestant(ish)* communities, which seem to have a lot of cultural overlap.
Writer's Background: The late Mr. Christopher Hitchens.
The Book: God is Not Great
Chapter 1
After becoming embarrassed and annoyed at the incompetence of his religious instructors in scientific thought (one teacher tells him that God made the grass green to delight and rest the human eye, and it was very clear to the young Mr. Hitchens that the eye adjusted to find the color green restful rather than the grass changing to fit us) and their seeming inability to justify the point of religious practice, a young Mr. Hitchens sincerely doubted the point of religion. (He seems to be making England's Anglican Church the measuring stick for religion in this example.)
He comes to make four conclusions about religion
1) it misrepresents the origins of man (sic) and the cosmos
2) that (1) makes it maximally servile and maximally solipsistic
3) it results/causes a dangerous sexual repression
4) it is grounded on wish thinking.
Atheism, on the other hand, embraces principles of science and reason rather than faith. Most religions are either irrational and easily turned to violence, or have turned to an "admirable but nebulous humanism" (and here he cites Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran pastor and theologian hanged to refusing to cooperate with Nazis).
I'm going to say that this is a good pick, in terms of strategy. Bonhoeffer is an official saint in several mainline Protestant(ish) denominations, including my own, and his theology is widely read and respected for its focus on social justice. I don't know him well enough to say if he's a liberation theologian, actually, but he's on my To-Read list. Picking Bonhoeffer effectively defangs several strands of Christian thought as "nebulous humanism" rather than the actual religion that Mr Hitchens finds objectionable. However, speaking for the nebula, I don't think we'd agree with his assessment.
Religion, Mr. Hitchens writes, has served its purpose for furthering humanity- it will survive as a vestige of a less advance era, but it has nothing new to say. Atheism is not just an opposition to wonder and amazement- pictures from the Hubble telescope will bring about more awe than Moses and a burning bush.
Consolation, a major component of the point of religion, seems to Mr Hitchens to be better served by actually addressing the harms that influence people's drive to turn to religion rather than merely providing comfort. (Yes, he quotes Marx. No, it's not terribly sensationalist- it's a decent reading of Marx's line, from what I know of him.)
The most devastating critique to be made of religion, Mr Hitchens claims, is that it is man-made. Believers claim to know everything, down to the nubbins, and that is deeply arrogant. To claim certainty is just dead wrong.
Moving into his next argument, Mr Hitchens does not want to abolish religion (which he thinks is impossible anyways), but rather to just leave it alone, and be left alone by it. But this is not to be. For! Mr Hitchens dramatically ends the chapter, "Religion poisons everything."
*The Episcopal Church maintains that it is both Catholic and reformed. This has some interesting ecumenical ramifications. For instance, when the Roman Catholic church decided that baptisms were only valid when done in "the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit", the Episcopal Church made damned sure that its priests were using that EXACT PHRASE in baptisms. Now, we're free to use a more radical interpretation of the Trinity right after it, but there's now a rule. Reciprocally, when the Methodists and Quakers ordained woman, the Roman Catholic church gave not a single damn. When the Episcopalians did it- big. effing. deal.
My thoughts on this are a bit mixed. Mr Hitchens seems to want to claim himself as a smartass intellectual asshole so that he can proceed to be just that without remorse. It's an choice that gives him a lot of leeway to be smarmy.
On the other hand, he's also arguing cleverly- see the Bonhoeffer note. But he while he pushes the nice religious folks who think that they are doing religion onto the sidelines, he does not offer a clear definition of religion to compare. Which, admittedly, most religious scholars have a huge amount of trouble doing- religion is hard to effectively pin down. Religion can be defined in such a way as to leave out all the nice stuff, or to include only the nice stuff and not the violent stuff, and lots of people do just that. I'm feeling like it's kind of sloppy but! maybe he's doing something with it that will make it clear why later.
On the "radical and devastating critique" that religion is "man-made," I'm not feeling particularly wowed by that. I mean, while I'm in the nebula of fluffy nice people who only think that we're doing religion, I actually think that it's a fairly well-acknowledged idea that a lot of what a particular religion does it arbitrary and that something else might be just as valid, which acknowledges that religion (at least parts of it) are man-made. Pluralism kind of makes the idea that aspects of religion are influenced by humans not terribly shocking. I waved around a metal ball full of burning incense this Sunday because there's Christians comes from a ritual history that thinks frankincense communicates something about the divine, humanity, and honor- I'm prepared to admit that this is historically contingent.
However, my feeling of threatenedness (or not) may not be the rubric by which Mr. Hitchens wishes to be measured.
On one note, however, I'm going to be clear: every time Mr Hitchens uses the word "man" to mean "humanity" or "human beings," I feel [sic].
I'm sipping down a cup of tea with a pile of homework that I should be doing sits comfortably next to me.
I've changed my thesis project- I'm considering writing something on the New Atheists philosophy, with reference to the thoughts of some of the major thinkers I've read and enjoyed. I'm vaguely considering writing up some of my notes for this blog-thing- would anyone be interested? I'll be starting with "God is Not Great" by Christopher Hitchens, and I'm planning to continue reading through a few big names before I really start digging into the philosophy of it.
In other news, my dear and delighted language study bunch has returned to having study sessions at 5pm- this is the time I'm normally cooking dinner before the Gentleman gets home.
I've started to exercise a little bit- only four days in a row so far, and it is NOT a New Year's Resolution (TM), but it feels... sustainable. I do a little bit of crunches and push-ups and then mostly a bit of prancing about and throwing punches and kicks when the dance moves fail me. I put something interesting to watch on in the background and use that to time myself. I stop when I want to, I stretch when I want to, I get more intense when I want to- it's quite nice.
There are some people, I think, who really enjoy the feeling of being "in their body," for lack of a better term. They like the feel of being attentive and careful with their bodies as they are exercising and moving around. I don't do that- I exercise best when I am not thinking about my body, when I am distracted and my body is just a nice stable hum in the background, doing what I need it to. Paying too much attention to it just makes me stumble and get worried about it something feels wrong or right
I've changed my thesis project- I'm considering writing something on the New Atheists philosophy, with reference to the thoughts of some of the major thinkers I've read and enjoyed. I'm vaguely considering writing up some of my notes for this blog-thing- would anyone be interested? I'll be starting with "God is Not Great" by Christopher Hitchens, and I'm planning to continue reading through a few big names before I really start digging into the philosophy of it.
In other news, my dear and delighted language study bunch has returned to having study sessions at 5pm- this is the time I'm normally cooking dinner before the Gentleman gets home.
I've started to exercise a little bit- only four days in a row so far, and it is NOT a New Year's Resolution (TM), but it feels... sustainable. I do a little bit of crunches and push-ups and then mostly a bit of prancing about and throwing punches and kicks when the dance moves fail me. I put something interesting to watch on in the background and use that to time myself. I stop when I want to, I stretch when I want to, I get more intense when I want to- it's quite nice.
There are some people, I think, who really enjoy the feeling of being "in their body," for lack of a better term. They like the feel of being attentive and careful with their bodies as they are exercising and moving around. I don't do that- I exercise best when I am not thinking about my body, when I am distracted and my body is just a nice stable hum in the background, doing what I need it to. Paying too much attention to it just makes me stumble and get worried about it something feels wrong or right
Lethargic Kite
Jan. 8th, 2012 06:15 pmIt barely 6pm here, and I've fed the Gentleman (who was out since 1pm whacking people in armor with sticks, and dodging).
The both of us can barely keep our eyes open- when he came in at 5:30, I was halfway dozed off over an episode of The Closer. I just barely managed to notice "Hey, that's the door. I'm being robbed." before nodding back off. (Somehow it didn't seem urgent.)
The both of us can barely keep our eyes open- when he came in at 5:30, I was halfway dozed off over an episode of The Closer. I just barely managed to notice "Hey, that's the door. I'm being robbed." before nodding back off. (Somehow it didn't seem urgent.)
