May 1st, 2012

The Epistle Dedicatory to Arthur Bingham Walkley

I first read George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman, A Comedy and a Philosophy, starting sometime in 2010, and was not finished with the play until sometime (quite late) in 2011. I’m a slow reader, it’s true, but the time I took was more a reflection of the challenge presented by the piece’s opener, that being, the Epistle Dedicatory to Arthur Bingham Walkley. It was the first such letter I’ve ever come across, and probably the most instructive piece of literature –if a letter can really achieve such a thing– I’ve ever read.

Never has a text provided such a vocabulary lesson (inchoate? purlieu? saveloy?) cum reading list (Piers Plowman? Pendennis? Bleak House?). Never has a text slapped me with so many What?!s and Who?!s, or given me so many occasions to realize, after dissolving into a fit of frustration with page-long sentences peppered with references of a cultural club of which I clearly was not a member, how incredibly well a point had been made, or an idea had been phrased.

Still, I suspect I’ve done a sort of intellectual weeding in the garden of this text, pulling out the tougher bits, without having taken a seat to really admire the flowers, so there’ll be another reading in my future. Or possibly five.

Seeing as Trilema is holding a festival of readings from the letter, I’ve recorded a short clip. Luckily I was able to find a paragraph that didn’t contain any French or Latin, thus saving myself the embarrassment of trying to pronounce either.

Listen if you like.

Categoryuphill | CommentNo Comments »

March 24th, 2012

Losing Sight

My first pair of glasses seemed transformational to me when I began to wear them. It wasn’t so much the improvement in vision that struck me. Instead, it seemed I was creating a character of self –perhaps helped along by the new haircut and color I got at around the same time. I was a teenager, and in many moments was more concerned about my own appearance and presentation than with the accuracy of my senses. I’ve had a few more pairs since then, and while the style is still a point of interest for me, my vision has declined enough to make the real purpose and meaning of eyeglasses a matter of function. As a kid I routinely scored well on vision tests, but at some point my eyes began to lose their precision, and today my sight is bad enough to make getting around without glasses pretty much impossible.

For a few years I worried about the seemingly steady loss of focus and clarity. I imagined futures in which I’d end up completely blind, or relegated to perceiving only blocks of color and size without any detailed features. In truth, the thought of such a future still comes to mind from time to time, but I’m not particularly worried about it. There’s a different sort of declining sight that seems much more threatening. Throughout my life, I’ve more or less known what I wanted. Goals and objectives have changed, for sure, but it’s been a rare occurrence in which I’ve had to put much effort into making a big, directional decision. It’s been easy. Maybe because of my youth or maybe because of a lack of quality introspection, I took this ease for granted, as a natural and right and normal thing.

Now, confronting uncertainty and doubt, I recognize the blessing for what it was. Conviction may not be everything, but certainly, it helps a great deal. I’ve been mulling and hmming and hawwing these past months more than I ever remember doing before, the questions and confusion sometimes lurking in the background and sometimes demanding attention that’s unfortunately required elsewhere. Not having a convenient algorithm with which to choose, I’ve been like a buoy on the waves, floating aimlessly in constant yet unimpressive movement, pitched ridiculously by my immediate circumstances. I know I’d rather steam over the ocean in a smooth steel ship, but where? Where.

On the one hand, there may be nothing particularly wrong with this bout of questioning and uncertainty. Though it makes me more than a little nuts to imagine I’m wasting precious time, I acknowledge the need to give important decisions their due consideration, and to give myself whatever’s needed to consider well and fully. On the other hand, the mental and emotional exhaustion of the buoy dance seems to have the effect of at least temporarily blinding me to the importance and meaning of the present. There’s little question that I could ever lose sight of the future without making a deliberate effort. Yet losing sight of today and of the vague notion of “now” is a real risk.

Whether moving towards a goal or fumbling through the pages of that great goal catalog, I think taking stock and really seeing well are too often demoted in the list of priorities. It’s not necessarily a slowing down that’s called for, but an honest thread of attention, one that can identify accomplishments, interesting patterns, and deep meanings rather than impatiently skittering over the surface in order to get through a seemingly uninteresting step towards the next. What I mean to convey, of course, is further from new than the words I’m using to convey it; under the guises of “mindfulness” and various other collected theories and dictates, the need to “be here now” has been pointed out by countless others. In fact, shortly after I got that first pair of glasses, I also got a book of that very title, and laid on the grass at lunch and imagined that one day I’d be worldly and mature and would understand what it all meant.

Today I completed my work well. I cooked for myself –something healthy and delicious. I made attempts to meet certain challenges and felt disappointed by the lack of quick gratification. I watched Marilyn Monroe do her thing and felt certain I could change myself. I felt great love, and great duty, and humility. I am here –and I am grateful.

Categorythroes | CommentNo Comments »

January 31st, 2012

Batoane de Carne

Jurnal Capitanului, 30 Aprilie 2020, 6 zile in afara de Planet #$*!

Toata echipa doarme. In 6 zile, vor ajunge la #$*! cu incarcatura, care este cel mai mare sarcina trimit pana acum. Am in 5,000 barili aproximativ 750,000 litri de petrol. Nu-mi place sa zbor cu acest mult de greutate, dar extraterestrile au zis ca revendicarea a crescut nebuna in ultimul an. Amintesc cum, cand contact a fost facut cu ei, nimeni pot credeau ca primul lucru ei vreau era petrol. “Orice lucru vrei, poti ai,” ziceau lideri noi, “dar petrolul –am o nevoie prea mare, si este foarte, dar foarte limitat ca o resursa.”

“Faci lucruri prosti cu acest substanta.” Spuneau extraterestrile. “Materiale plastice sunt urate, si au un gust rau. Si pentru combustibile, n-ai nevoie de petrol. Poti faci fapturi noi mici.”

Fapturi erau…ciudati la inceput, a spune cel mai putin. Ca niste cincile, moi si cu ochi mari. Acum ei fac toti masini sa muncesc, si am primit douasprezece perechi de reproducere pe an, care-i mai mult decat suficient pentru toata lumea. Nava cosmica a mea zboara prin cerii din cauza o echipa de sase fapturi puternice. Din cand in cand, fac griji despre intrebari de durere. Ma intreb daca fapturi simt durere, in timp energiei ei este sugit pentru comoditate al oameni. Posibil e mai bine sa nu baga in seama….

Batoane de carne, suntem chemat. Extrateristrile au in loc de piele ceva metal de nu stiu ce compositie, in loc de sange, un fel de noroi negru, care curge ca melasa. Ei radeau cu bucuriei a unor bebelusi cand descopereau muschii si maruntaie nostri. Dar nimic e haios in ochi ei in comparatie cu politicieni. Nu conteaza care partid sau filozofie au oameni noi de stat. Daca politicieni se imbraca-n costumuri si fac argumente, tot e bine cu ei.

De fapt, in afara de petrolul, chestia de cea mai mult branza la Planet #$*! e politicieni la kilogram. In acest moment, cinci persoane –din Japonia, Franta, Guatemala, si doua din Sudan– sunt in nava impreuna cu barili. Probabil, vor aparea pe programe de comedie la video dupa debarcam. Am auzit ca-i o viata usoara pentru ei, chiar daca este un pic umilitoara.

Deci, noi primim o solutie din blana pentru energie, si fiinte din #$*! primesc tirani, mincinosi, si manuitori nostri pentru divertisment. Bineinteles, votam pentru cine vor fi primit la lumea noua-n cosmosul. In general primim cel mai rau indivizi putem, si ei sunt mai mult productivi ca asa, ca obiecte de umor. Gaseam cateva ani in urma ca petrolul e folosit si intr-un mod subit: este o baza pentru parfum. Inca nu stiu cum merge sex intre fiintele, dar aparent mirosul de petrol ajuta. Aici am aproape un milion de litri de afrodisiac.

Cred ca-i o relatie buna in sfirsitul, adica-i eficient pentru toti. Vai, dar drumul la #$*! este lung si obositor, fara multe obiective turistice, si nu pot dorm in nava. Doar sase zile….

***
Pentr-un concurs de fictiune.

Categoryabsurdity, fiction, romanian | Comment12 Comments »

January 19th, 2012

The Time is Implicit

The order comes mid-afternoon, as I’m curled in bed reading a pulp novel that’s become addictive mostly for the familiarity of the prose and regular opportunities to inwardly roll my eyes at the book’s wholly unbelievable characters. When it comes, the order produces a sound, more familiar than the contents of the book and so dominant in my cache of daily stimuli it sets off uncontrollable physical reactions. My heart speeds up perceptibly, climbs a few inches upward, threatening the base of my throat.

Ba-dum!

It’s my messenger program, pumping sound from behind the wall of my bedroom. Have to get up. Finish this page first. I read a few paragraphs, not really absorbing the meaning of any of the words, my head reminding me every other second that I have to get up. So I do.

On the screen, the order waits. How long has it been waiting? A few minutes. A pang of guilt. This could have just been a greeting, but it’s not, and now precious time has lapsed. There’s a phone number, and I’m to call it and reserve a table for four people, for tomorrow.

“For what time?” I ask.

“The time is implicit!”

I parse the response. It gives the impression of a foreign object in an otherwise understandable world of words. What the fuck does that mean? Without any conscious effort, I’ve already decided that the table I’m reserving is located at a restaurant, and that the reservation is for eating. The host will want to know what time the reservation is for. They’re going to ask me, in a language in which I usually have to ask for two or three repetitions to get the jist of what’s being said. I get the idea I should reply with either “evening” or “eight” when the question comes. This seems wholly inadequate, and I think about how this will probably end in disaster tomorrow. I hate this shit, hate how often and how thoroughly things do not make sense. This is taking too long. I call.

On the phone, a single ring followed by vague sounds of construction work. A grumbly, half-audible voice says, “Da.” For a second I wonder if the voice is speaking to someone else. I ask if the man speaks English. No.

I recite the little schpiel I’ve scribbled in my notebook to help me not blank out in panic while trying to speak Romanian. I want to reserve a table for tomorrow night.

A response comes, containing “it can’t be done” followed by a train of complete nonsense. I ask for a repetition. It comes again, thankfully a little slower. It can’t be done because the place is full already. Okay, thanks.

There was no question of time. “The time is implicit” makes perfect sense, and I feel a little ridiculous for having spent so much energy on it.

I remember, from back in the days of public schooling, the particular evil of standardized tests. Multiple-choice questions would occasionally contain an answer that said there wasn’t enough information in the question to correctly solve the given problem. I’d always gravitate towards this choice; more information always seemed to be needed, whether it was an actual piece of content relevant to the problem or some aspect of the question’s wording. In life, the idea that more information is needed to act is always available. It may be a tempting choice, but it isn’t the right one nearly as often as the mind would like.

Categoryconversations, logic | Comment1 Comment »

August 15th, 2011

Content Will Find a Way

The other day, I was presented with a poem selected for its style (after Lewis Carroll), but evidently not its mechanical aptitude. So after being asked if I’d like to try “fixing” the poem’s rhythm, I took a stab at it, sparking the following conversation between my master and myself:

him: Now publish it an’ link to [the blog where said poem was posted].
me: Well…
me: May I talk to you about that first?
him: Sure
me: I do not wish to publish this on my blog. My blog is not a venue for rhythm correction.
him: Why not?
me: Because I want it to be for thoughts and themes and ideas, not for editing. I want my posts to be complete pieces, and I am not interested in writing a complete piece about this poem. I just wanted to point out that the rhythm had been ruined, and when you asked if I wanted to fix it I thought it might be fun.
him: Aite. Not like you have to, but I don’t think your narrowness is really good for you.
me: Noted.
him: I mean, I thought you believed in open minds and all that.
me: Open minds. That doesn’t mean I want my blog to be the kitchen sink.
him: There is no difference I can discern between you not wanting to publish an idea of yours that is in fact complete because it doesn’t conform to some arbitrary and ill-conceived standards of puffery
him: And the attitude of some person that insists you must bow to allah this way.
me: The person who insists on bowing is applying his narrowness to someone else.
him: So are you.
me: To whom am I applying this narrowness other than myself?
him: Yourself.
me: I am other than myself?
him: Why not?
him: You should be as fair to yourself as you’d be to some other.
me: I am not trying to build something with some other.
him: If a company owned by the government owes taxes, it pays those taxes.
him: Just so, you.
me: Well this is a very interesting argument, but functionally I am different from other people because I can do/make things with myself differently than I can with other people.
him: Yes. But you shouldn’t allow that to jip you.
me: So I should assume that any brick I see or possible brick-shaped thing I might happen to come across should go into my building, just because I came across it?
me: I should have no plan and no standards, in other words?
him: Open mind. You should consider it, yes.
me: So as not to be jipped?
me: Okay. I was pretty sure I had already considered it, but in the interest of exercise, let’s see.
him: Consideration, for the record
him: Is fairly arguing the point of both sides.
me: I believe the side of “publish it” has been fairly argued.
me: Do you think otherwise?
him: I dunno.
him: Depends on the objections that are risen. But basically, it stands on the theory it should be published because it is something that you did.
me: Okay, let’s see. It’s there, it’s writing, it could be entertaining, it could be good. It could serve even as a backstop for reflecting on my own skills or interest in the future, if nothing else. It could also attract some traffic, and help me be more involved with some other blogger people.
me: Fair?
him: I think mine controls the issue.
me: Should I post audio files of my farts?
him: If you had good ones.
him: Why not?
me: Yeah. We fundamentally differ in what we think a blog is for. I’ll concede the definition to you of course, but that doesn’t change how I want to use/present mine. I’ll call the blog something else though if you think it’s necessary, so as not to confuse things.
him: I’m just saying calling the blog anything else is an exercise in allahthiswayness.
me: In the same way you not wearing bluejeans is allahthiswayness.
him: Indeed.
me: Well, I have no problem with certain abstainments.
him: Hehe ok.
him: Now it has been fairly argued.
me: Cool.

While I still have no particular inclination to post the altered poem, it struck me that the conversation was something that easily falls into my idea of what I’d like to have published here. And the irony of finding something to show in the midst of arguing against showing a thing satisfies my conviction that life’s cream often rises to the surface in unexpected places, in unexpected concentrations.

Categoryconversations, logic | Comment3 Comments »

July 29th, 2011

Life in Capslock

When I was a little girl, I’d sometimes come across a title or a proclamation in all caps, usually in the books of male relatives who had libraries and oversized chairs in which to nap and finger the fabric and leather binding of volumes that smelled like the men themselves. Such streams of important words, I thought, were likely to be read aloud by a page with trumpet and deliciously pointed shoes, should the book be read aloud at all.

Imagine my horror, then, when the capslock began to transcend the realm of secret reading scenes and enter into my everyday consciousness. You can, of course, because at some point it likely made a rude invasion into yours, as well; parading on the back of a breakfast cereal box or splattered across a contest entry form, marching onto your computer screen from the likes of unknown salesmen or following you around like a caffeinated chihuahua while you were smiting digital foes and fumbling over complicated in-game squelch commands.

Some forms of capslock seem to be more acceptable than others. While it’s easy to dismiss a not-so-casual chatterbox who types as though he were trying to look as big as possible in the presence of a grizzly bear, the ubiquitous over-sizing of the word “free” somehow fails to inspire as much ire. But the prospect of something being given freely should be enough to attract and excite on its own; decorating the word until it looks like something spelled out in the Cheshire Cat’s teeth is enough to make me suspect it’s entrapment, not altruism, the word wishes to convey.

What truly interests me about capslock, though, is whether it’s able to move past the written word. It’s been with us well before the world at large began to piddle its opinions onto keyboards, though it may not always be as easy to recognize. Certainly we’ve all seen, or worn, or both, a pair of BREASTS CAVORTING FORTH FROM BONDS OF SPANDEX, and many a capslocked utterance has escaped the lips of a righteous man and his FAITH AND GLORY IN THE LORD. But are there more subtle instances –perhaps even positive ones– possible? A drowsy morning suddenly made bright and crystalline with COFFEE or a SUNRISE, or the SMILE of a kid completely given over to some joyful initiation with the world. Is an orgasm experienced in capslock? If I could spell one out I’m sure not all the letters would be politely undercase.

Do you ever feel as though you’re living in capslock, or know someone who does? And is it just as annoying or comic as it is when written down, or can life in capslock be enjoyable?

Categoryabsurdity, language | CommentNo Comments »

May 26th, 2011

Charity

Back behind the cupboards were the cobwebs and the sediments that straddled fluid and gritty matter, where things untouched and left to the whim of the darkness accumulated, grew, stretched out in miniature tides over the powerless surfaces, spilling only the slightest hints of horror into the realm of the visible.

Jackie felt the expansion of these tiny networks of disgust reach into her, penetrating three dollars’ worth of chocolate and neroli body balm, seeping through a spray-on tan now two days past its promised lifespan, beyond the pampered strata of her skin, making a beeline towards her throat, where it installed silent mantras of self-doubt and guilt. A factory at the base of her throat fleshed out as she sat crouching on the cold kitchen tiles, the exhaust of sudden feelings fumbling forward from her mouth in patternless and quaking intervals.

Luxury’s clinging veils, stacked and undulating, beat against her in a thousand butterfly kisses, carrying a world of cares away on fleets of tiny gilded wings. But some things, being empty, could not be carried away. Holes hid deep inside her chest, unfilled by champagne or wit, cradling unknown ecstasies, the unsettling nothingness calling out to people and to places Jackie didn’t understand.

She hadn’t understood the man who walked the town’s main square day in, day out, with bare but trimmed and oft-washed feet, his hands clasped like old friends behind his back. The man’s basal and distant stare, the work of thoughts that lay beyond the confines of the square and its well-populated host, was punctuated with sporadic scenes of acute awareness in which the man’s face seemed to saturate with color and excitement, his eyes imbued with dew and light to linger on a flower or the uneven footsteps of a child chasing after overfed and lazily dispersing pigeons.

He didn’t seem so much like one of the poor, but more like a town monument, to Jackie, who watched him from the safety of sidewalk cafes, strolling past the foreground of crustless watercress sandwiches and fork-speared spirals of shrimp.

She’d never seen anybody talk to the man, or share anything more than a point or a laugh. A perambulatory statue giving substance to the square he walked, wildly streaked hair gathered in an obedient braid that swished like a horse’s tail behind his head.

Jackie wanted to give the man some thing, some token of nourishment, an artifact of the life she wrapped around the holes inside her chest like a silk pashmina. To see his eyes light up, the breath of recognition clarify the air, the smile of genuine appreciation, warm, infectious, cloying, eternal.

She had arranged three shrimp on a napkin, overlaid with one long strand of chive, the presentation so precise and rich in counterpoint it might have been a perfect logo, if logos were made of seafood or could be rolled up in napkins and generously donated to eccentric men of unspecified psychoses. This thought nervously skittered its way around a particular emptiness somewhere in Jackie’s viscera as she left the shaded cafe terrace and walked towards the north end of the square.

Her fingers tapped out minute tremors against the air and the prized morsels in her hand loosened in their wrapping, the parcel losing sudden weight as one shrimp fell out. Jackie turned, a reflex pouring fast into her joints to retrieve the shrimp, but she recoiled when a pigeon’s head flashed forth and darted at the pink and orange flesh, the pointed beak tossing the shrimp obscenely into the air and attracting the attention of every other pigeon in the square.

A young boy’s steady stream of bubbling laughter rushed over the crowding pigeons like a sudden waterfall and turned, as if by some invisible and joyous inertia, the head of the walking man. He didn’t look at Jackie. Coming closer to take in the free-for-all, the man moved slowly past Jackie and her barely-outstretched hand as she fruitlessly fought to find a phrase of offering that wouldn’t be offensive, that wouldn’t be too personal, that would somehow convey her longing to stop up the vacancies inside her with the kind of calmness, the unfettered, naked movement he so obviously possessed.

A fat, uneven-feathered pigeon late to the buffet walked drunkenly past Jackie’s feet and shat unceremoniously on her beloved taupe suede pumps, the wetness trickling down between her exposed toes.

“Oh, fuck, shit!” the words poured out of her in sympathetic excrement. The man turned and looked at Jackie, his face devoid of the amber glow of new discovery, devoid of the serene lines of total acceptance.

His face, ugly for the first time, frowned at Jackie and her helpless isolation from a moment shared between a real person and the real world. And so she left the square, two shrimp still in hand, and sank inside the leather silence of a taxi, taken home to tuck the holes to bed on the superficial face of cleanliness and sanity on the kitchen floor.

Categoryfiction, i spy dystopia | CommentNo Comments »

April 17th, 2011

It’s Just What’s Done

Outside of most apartment buildings in Romania, somewhere by a little garden fenced in by bits of scrap metal and sticks that might one day know the glory of being bushes if only the tenders would stop paring them down to the last branch, exists a metal frame. Three lines, like a giant staple coming out of the ground, crude and unadorned save for the occasional peeling strips of paint. For a while, I wasn’t sure what these frames were for; maybe it was a bring-your-own-swing facility or a slightly confused reincarnation of monkey bars. I eventually saw one of these objects in use as a woman beat a rhythmic din into a rug thrown over the top.

An odd amenity, but an understandable one for a country so obsessed with the spirit of household chores it advertises pastel-colored irons for Easter in its newspapers. Aside from feeling somehow transported to a 1950′s style domestic wholesomeness, I’ve come to recognize that like the proper level of over-zealous cleaning, there are many local practices that seem to be carried out not because anybody particularly enjoys it, or because there’s some rational argument to be had, but because that’s just what’s done.

Being barefoot, to be sure, is not what’s done in Romania. I’ve seen multiple charity sites and philanthropic calls to action insisting that the people of Romania need shoes, but I haven’t yet seen a barefoot person, nor any city street that isn’t littered with shoe stores. Being barefoot inside, no matter the environs, is also not what’s done. People have slippers set aside in their houses for visitors. Doctors direct you to a shoe selection should you need to undress. A visitor to my own home, horrified upon seeing me barefoot, inquired as to whether the floor was heated. It doesn’t matter if you’re taking a stroll around the living room or moving five feet from the bath to the towel rack. I’ve heard the general idea is that if you expose your precious footsies to the ground, the ability to bear children is somehow snatched away, but seeing as this same rule is apparently applied to sitting on the floor or exposing one’s back to the air, I’m satisfied that it’s more of a superstition than a genuine belief.

I recently had a one inch nickel pipe clamp installed around my neck as a collar. Heading out to shop one spring afternoon, I wore a tank top and knee-length skirt and made my first stop at a pharmacy. The clerk looked at me in shock, but not because of the clamp. “Is it really,” she wanted to know, “so warm outside you can wear that?!” Thankfully I’d had the heart to blow-dry my hair that morning, otherwise I suspect the woman would have fainted over her concern for my lack of concern about the Romanian concern over allowing one’s body temperature to fall below a moderate fever. Wandering around the town, I’ve been asked on a few occasions by perfect strangers, mid-step, whether I’m not too cold.

Granted, some Romanian habits are rather nice and actually sensible, such as the inclination to begin meals with soup. Granted also that in the US, habits performed simply because they’re what’s done are by now less easily generalized and largely confined to the more abstract worlds of thought and language. Still, when I see the metal staple-frames standing proudly by their buildings as if to proclaim the decency and correctness of the dwellings they so inadequately decorate, I frown a little at the power that “it’s just what’s done” can exert on a landscape, beating it rhythmically into a familiar, but not especially functional, shape.

Categoryabsurdity, critischism, i spy dystopia | Comment2 Comments »

March 22nd, 2011

A Cog of God

If I were a whirling dervish, first I’d attach crayons to the ends of two long poles, which would in turn be fastened to my wrists, and as I whirled I’d make spirographic patterns on large sheets of butcher’s paper laid out on the floor. I’d sell the paper to tourists, or to crackpots intent on developing some kind of sacred dervish geometry.

I’d save up the money, and after a little while, I’d buy a furry mouse toy, probably one that squeaked on impact. I’d sew the mouse’s tail to the hem of my dervish skirt. I’d also buy an elaborate crazy straw. With the rest of the money I’d buy two turbines; one fairly small with only a few long, thin blades, with a flat nose at the center, and one fairly large, with a very long nose, attached on the other end to the ceiling of my dervish temple. The very long nose would have a special end cut to fit perfectly into my hollow fez.

With the turbines in place, I’d find a stray cat. The cat’s hind legs would be tied, loosely, to one of the blades of the small turbine, which would be laid only slightly above the floor. I would probably give him some catnip before placing the straw in my mouth and starting to go into my trance. Then I would stand on the flat nose of the small turbine, and connect my fez with the long nose of the large turbine, and I would spin, the toy mouse flying around in a circle and prompting the cat to pull the blade attached to its legs while the long nose nestled in my hat would spin with me.

I would, of course, before all of this, connect the turbines to proper gearboxes and generators, feeding into a transformer which would power a set of small electric burners strategically placed beneath a number of beakers, these items having also been purchased with the money earned from tourists and crackpots. The fluid from the beakers would slowly drip into a glass canal connecting each, the mixture producing a steady supply of dimenhydrinate, the active ingredient in Dramamine. Every hour, marked by the familiar sound of my mahogany cuckoo clock, which I would not have to purchase separately, it being the treasured and only relic of my pre-religious foray into antiquing, I would tilt my head slightly and catch the end of my straw in a pool of dimenhydrinate leaked by an outlet in the glass canal, making contact for just a moment mid-spin to suck down a tiny dose. And I would spin, then, and spin, free and not the slightest bit dizzy, a cog of god.

Sadly, though, I don’t think I’d ever get the cat to also use a crazy straw.

Categoryabsurdity | Comment2 Comments »

March 19th, 2011

Offsetting Hypocrisy

Scenario 1: You own a small courier service. You feel compelled to keep your business socially conscientious, and you hear about the ill effects that various company operations may have on the environment. There’s the modest fleet of vans and the gas with which they’re powered, the headquarter office where lights, computers, fax machines, and other power-hungry possessions demand a steady stream of electricity from the local coal plant, and there’s plenty of waste, not all of which fits neatly into the color-coded recycling bins out back.

So you decide you’re going to take the initiative and do something. Except, you don’t actually know what to do –a courier needs its fleet, after all. Then you remember hearing about some big company –or was it an actual country?– that used offsetting to “nullify” the ill effects of its inefficiency and waste. A swift bank transaction and a cute marketing campaign later, you’re satisfied with your trendsetting responsibility and the positive new image you’ve instilled in your customers’ minds.

Scenario 2: Let’s face it, Ted’s an asshole. You’ve known him since grade school, back when he wouldn’t let you play with his toys and got better breakfast cereal than you did, and he hasn’t changed much. Blunt, loud, selfish, and somehow always just sort of “around,” Ted makes your life more or less miserable. Unfortunately, this isn’t the experience of your boss at the insurance firm, who has recently hired Ted and is hinting that he’s on the fast track to usurping your coveted corner office.

The time has come to take action. You’ve entertained the fantasy of hacking Ted to bits with some kind of fancy martial arts weapon, which he would look at with crushing envy before his drawn out made for TV movie death, but surely you couldn’t really do that. Then you remember that time your parents made you go to the dentist for a painful procedure that, as far as you were concerned, had no real purpose other than to make you feel bad. When it was over, your parents took you out for ice cream, patted your head, and talked about how brave you were. Everyone seemed to feel that in the end, it was okay.

You don’t really know what to do with a katana or nunchucks though, so one day you simply poison Ted’s afternoon coffee, and serve it to him personally under the guise of clearing the air and making a new start. After Ted’s death, you start showering your friend John with as much kindness as you can manage. You take him to dinner and go to his house unannounced to deliver presents or help with household chores. John gets creeped out and tells you not to call him anymore. So you have a baby –hey, creating a new life oughta offset ending an old one–, and direct your affections to it, satisfied with your Ted-free existence.

***

There are some laws that govern potential environmental damage and related activities, just as there are laws that relate to killing people. Certain things, we’ve decided, are wrong, and how reprehensible or threatening they may be is a matter typically dealt with in terms of sentences. Somehow, though, we’ve recently talked ourselves into believing that some bad things are okay if we “offset” them by doing good things in the meantime, mostly because we just don’t know how to stop doing the bad stuff.

The offsetting hypocrisy sets a fairly dangerous precedent for moral action, and for interaction with the law. And while I don’t know what to do about -that-, I’m going to publish this instead of not writing anything today and then playing with magnetic poetry on the fridge later to make up for it.

Categorycritischism, i spy dystopia | CommentNo Comments »

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