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Wednesday, November 11th, 2009
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Sudden Poll!
1. What are our responsibilities to people we love?
2. What are our responsibilities to people who love us?
3. Why?
4. Where do these responsibilities overlap?
5. What kind of love did you default to while answering this poll?
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Saturday, November 7th, 2009
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"You haven't stopped being a child. ... You still think that home, at the end of a long journey, is a place where a man finds peace." (229)
"I knew you lived," she said. She did not mention his wounded arm.
"And you must live too," he said. "The crowd is growing larger." He said nothing of the aching of the wound in his right shoulder, or of the flame radiating outward through his body from it. He said nothing of the pounding of his heart when he looked at her. He felt short of breath after his long ride. He did not use the word "love". For the last time in his life he wondered if he had wasted his love on a woman who only gave her love until it was time to take it back. He set the thought aside. He had given his heart this once in his life and counted himself blessed to have had the chance to do so. The question of whether she was worthy of his love had no meaning. His heart had answered that question long ago. (298)
~ The Enchantress of Florence, Salman Rushdie
...
A friend of mine recently emailed to ask my opinion of psychotropic drugs (that is, Prozac and Paxil and Wellbutrin and all their ilk -- not mushrooms and acid and suchlike). I tried to compose a reply only to discover that it became long, too long, and remembered that anyway people ask me this question a lot. So it might as well be a LiveJournal post, to which I can direct people at will.
This is going to be rambly, but so many factors go into my feelings about these things ....
My Opinions On and Experience With Psychotropic Drugs
(a.k.a. a very limited memoir of my time up through my first year of college)
Firstly, let me say that I don't have much pity for my younger self; I say this because I'm afraid that my upcoming remarks could be somewhat interpreted as a request for sympathy. I did not fit in well at school, but there were a few people I could talk to, and I never lacked for books or art supplies or solitary amusements (including, when it came along, the Internet). And although my parents had a lot of difficulty with each other, they did their best to make it always entirely clear that they loved me and were proud of me. They are also both very intelligent and interesting people, who did their best to treat me as a likewise intelligent person; I can still recall one childhood neighbor returning home from visiting me and telling his parents in shock that, "Lydia's parents talk to her like she's a grown-up!"
More to the point .... My ex-housemate Laura sent me a letter after I came here to Swaziland containing a line that struck me: we'd had a number of conversations about our history, and she described me as a "precocious child who acquired an early disdain for conformity, which developed into an overwhelming fear of mediocrity". I've always vainly wanted to consider myself as a precocious child, but I'm wary of it, too, because I'm so aware that enormous swaths of my early development -- for instance, the fact that I went to CTY (nerd camp) to take college courses starting in middle school; the fact that I went to college when I was 16 -- these things are at least as based on my socioeconomic privilege as any native intelligence I could claim. And I've often thought that my inability to fit in at school was, in many ways, a refusal to fit in, a refusal to take the other kids' perspectives seriously: a facet of my own overwhelming fear of mediocrity. A superiority complex. Which is not admirable ... not something I should value.
(And yet being in Swaziland has reminded me what it feels like to be attempting conversation, constantly, with people with whom I have almost no cultural context or intellectual bond .... The feeling is familiar and demoralizing. I don't know if the heart of it, way back when, was that I haughtily rejected my schoolmates, or I just couldn't figure out how to have an extensive conversation with them. If I was just in culture shock against normal America. I don't know. I really don't know.)
At any rate. As far as I'm concerned, I turned out fine, and -- although I sometimes wonder what on Earth will become of such an idiosyncratic creature as myself -- I'm happy with where/who I am now.
Okay. Disclaimers done. Oh, wait, I'm required to write this one: The contents of this blog are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the US Government or the Peace Corps.
Okay. Disclaimers done.
I must have been pretty unhappy when I was younger. I've got any number of fond memories from my hometown of Hastings-on-Hudson, which I sometimes find difficult to reconcile with memories that seem to indicate my own unhappiness. But then again none of these images, fond or un, are easy to grasp. I feel as though the minute I walked away from Hastings my life got so much more vivid, so much more present .... So much more real. I once spoke to a filmmaker who, fascinated by high school, longed to make movies set in high school because she said that "high school is such a universal experience": this quotation has stuck in my head ever since because it totally bewilders me. Universal for who? What do they find universal? I barely remember my two years of high school, and what I do seems to indicate that it was pretty different from most peoples' high school experience. Does not compute.
I first started seeing therapists in elementary school. I don't remember why; I was probably threatening suicide or something. I went through more than one, was never much engaged with any of them. The memory that sticks out the most is from -- Dr. Slater, I think his name was -- in fourth grade or so. I'd been reading some book I found lying around, Zhuangzi Speaks, a spectacular graphic novel adaptation of the philosophy of Zhuangzi (a Chinese contemporary of Confucius, really funny and warm and down-to-earth and worth reading). I was discovering relativism, how exciting! One parable in particular struck me; it was about a man who feared death, to whom Zhuangzi said: "Maybe death will be so great we'll end up regretting having ever lived."
Thrilled and awed, I read this line to Dr. Slater. He had piercing blue eyes and glasses, and his expression currently said: you-poor-troubled-child-don't-worry-your-little-head-I-understand-everything. "Is that what you think?" he asked gently. "That death will be so great, you'll regret having ever lived?" He was plainly all set to jot my latest suicidal ideations in his notebook. Disgusted, I changed the subject. Within the year I had evaded Slater's clutches, and he was my last therapist for a while.
( Read more... )
... and so. So. So, Lydia, what do you think about psychotropic drugs?
... How do I pull together my experience into a coherent opinion?
I don't know if they helped me. I don't know if they'll help you, either.
Maybe bullet points will assist this process.
* Cultural baggage: It's not nearly as bad as it used to be, but there is still a ton of stigma surrounding the usage of psychotropic drugs (and psychotherapy in general). I think anyone who goes on them ought to examine their own assumptions about psychotropics. What stereotypes do you hold? What stereotypes do people you care about hold? Are you going to feel comfortable being "out" about your psychotropic usage? Are there any judgments that you fear?
* Side effects: Know them. I recommend a second opinion outside your doctor and maybe some independent research, too. Track the side effects as you start taking them. And remember that we have no longitudinal studies and no complete understanding of what these drugs "really" do. This is true of many drugs, of course.
* Outside pressures: How much of this decision is yours? If other people are influencing it, why and how are they doing so? What are their biases?
* Therapist / psychologist mesh: You'll need someone to prescribe the drugs. I definitely recommend shopping around until you have one whom you both like and trust. This might take a while but is worth the effort.
* Employability: Just keep it in mind. Most jobs won't be able to discriminate against you, but some -- e.g. Peace Corps -- are free to do so, and might very well do so. (Let me say this again: The contents of this blog are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the US Government or the Peace Corps.)
* Life circumstances: Are there things about your life that are really hurting you, that you could change? Is whatever it is that's leading you to this decision an outside factor that can be adjusted?
That's the best I can do.
....
Management manual by gamers
Imagine the value if you could transfer the excitement and focus found in great games to the office. What if your employees could solve customer problems, design new software, or configure better shipping routes working inside a game environment at work?
This isn't just possible, say Byron Reeves and J. Leighton Read; it's inevitable. As employee productivity and engagement become more critical, the user experience provided by game technology offers a tantalizing solution for business. This is far more than a quaint metaphor or a twist on e-learning. Game design elements can address a host of business problems with morale, communication, and alignment while honing skills like data analysis, teamwork, leadership, and more.
Middle East female sex activist!
Wedad Lootah does not look like a sexual activist. A Muslim and a native Emirati, she wears a full-length black niqab — with only her brown eyes showing through narrow slits — and sprinkles her conversation with quotes from the Koran.
Yet she is also the author of what for the Middle East is an amazingly frank new book of erotic advice in which she celebrates the female orgasm, confronts taboo topics like homosexuality and urges Arabs to transcend the backward traditions that limit their sexual happiness.
Does anyone else feel a bit uncomfortable with the tone here? I mean, I'm glad to read about this woman, but ... "backward"? In terms of sex-positivity, too, there's a lot of pot-and-kettle from America to the Middle East.
The Promoted Fanboy
"My entire career has been a secret plan to get this job. I applied before but I got knocked back because the BBC wanted someone else. Also I was seven."
~ Steven Moffat, upon being named lead writer/producer for Doctor Who
Some fans have all the luck. Somehow they've managed to be a part of the very industry—or even sometimes the exact show—that they're a fan of. This can range from the minor, such as a Contest Winner Cameo, to the point where the fan has creative control and is Running The Asylum.
With a long list of oddly fascinating examples! I found this page because someone linked to it while referring to me (I count as a Promoted Fan because I worked for White Wolf after writing considerable fan content). Hilarious.
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Tuesday, October 20th, 2009
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My personal favorite thing in this entire country is a billboard that hangs over the Manzini bus rank. It says: "Are you thinking of raping a child today? Consider the consequences." It would take a severely disturbed person to find anything funny about that billboard, so let me assure you that I am that person. But this entire paragraph is probably too culturally insensitive for me to post publicly, so I'll stop.
...
Lightning Capital of the World
Swaziland is the Lightning Capital of the World; more Swazis are killed by lightning, per capita, than any other country's population. SiSwati for "it's lightning-y" is liyamanyata, which I want to name one of my daughters someday. Peace Corps Swaziland safety training included lightning safety tips (for instance, I unplug all appliances when I'm not using them, and I never plug anything in during a storm); the safety precautions installed on my homestead included a lightning rod. I dutifully absorbed all this information during training, of course, but I didn't think about what it would look like until we had a major storm last Friday. (As it happens, a Swazi was killed by lightning during that very storm. He was in his kitchen and there were no electrical appliances operating. I read this in the paper, so it might be true.)
I was cooking when the rain started. Rain on a tin roof is amazingly loud. I've gotten used to it. But this was so loud, it was hard to concentrate. I left my electric stove on for the bare minimum of time to finish my dinner; the power went out a moment later. Glancing out the window, I saw one, two, three flashes within the span of a blink. It was pretty astonishing, even from indoors -- one bolt must have struck nearby: I felt the air around me electrify, with the faintest shock all the way down to my bare soles. I stood at the window, torn about going outside, and eventually couldn't deny the urge.
The night itself was dark, and only candleglow lit my homestead's windows, but it was actually easy to see by the continuous hallucinatory flares. Small rivers of water poured across the yard's red earth. Some of the homestead's kids ran, shrieking, from the kitchen to Grandmother's house through the downpour. Awed, I huddled under the eaves of the main house to look out over the fields; then I ran across the yard to cower under the tarpaulin over my malume's ("uncle"'s) doorway, so I could have a better angle. With each flash, it seemed that the air itself shone ... as if it held the charge, the light, within itself. (Maybe it did -- I don't know anything about lightning.) The main, pale house kept flashing from silhouette to whiteness as if with an irregular strobe. It felt swifter than seconds; it was impossible to look at the sky for the briefest moment without seeing one, two, three quadrants lit white.
( Read more... )
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For Linguistics Nerds: Everything You Always Wanted to Know About siSwati But Were Afraid To Ask
I hate this language. And by hate, I mean love. Language was my favorite part of training. We did it in small groups (mine was four people), each with its own native speaker to teach us (a Language and Culture Facilitator, or LCF). My friend Reid and I would pounce on every new piece of information and try to tease it apart and loudly went insane, often with the peals of hysterical laughter that can only be prompted by utter despair, while the other two people in our language group went insane more quietly. My group eventually got to the point of predicting my reaction upon learning a particularly disturbing new piece of information: I would begin to freak out, take a moment to examine the data, breathe deeply, and then say, "Okay, great. No, this is great. This is awesome. I love this."
There are clicks (c and ch). They are hard to pronounce. Swazis laugh at me for many reasons, but attempting to pronounce the clicks is one of the most frequent. I had the extremely exciting realization a few weeks ago that one logical extension of this is that baby talk includes clicks: the local two-year-old was harassing me and suddenly went "cacaca!" instead of the usual "mama!" or "gogo!"
There are also tones. We did not bother with these during language training; our teacher assured us that people would understand us without the tones, and siSwati is hard enough as it is. And he was puzzlingly reticent about the "to be" verb. I'd ask direct questions about it or try to figure it out from other constructions, and he'd change the subject. Eventually, Reid and I were reading the dictionary and we realized: in the present tense, the "to be" verb is denoted by tones. Yes! Hence, sihlala is "tree", but sihlala with a different tonal intonation means "it is a tree". I would have thrown the dictionary across the room, but it was Reid's copy, so I just rolled around on the floor laughing instead. But it gets better.
Nouns pluralize in front, which is cool. There are nine classes of nouns that all take different plurals, which is less cool. Hence, the plural of likhaya ("home") is emakhaya, likati ("cat") emakati, lilangeni (the local currency) emalingeni; but the plural of singani ("boyfriend") is tingani, sigebengu ("thug") tigebengu. Lest you think it's easy to tell what type a noun is just by looking at the beginning, let me assure you that it isn't. There's an entire class of nouns that doesn't have regular beginnings -- make, babe, gogo ("mother", "father", "grandmother") all pluralize with bo- (thus, bomake, bobabe, bogogo). (As a small mercy, this class can sometimes be sort of predicted, in that most "kinship" or family-related words are in there; another example is that two people surnamed Dlamini would be boDlamini.) Also, some of the types are very similar to each other: the plural of umuti ("house") is imiti, but the plural of umfana ("boy") is bafana; the singular of tinyanga ("traditional healers") is inyanga, but the singular of tibuko ("mirrors") is sibuko. Some noun classes only have one form for each word: usually this kind of makes sense, as with kufa ("death"); occasionally it makes me want to bang my head against the wall, my personal favorite example being buhlalu ("beads"). Exactly -- there's no such thing as a singular bead. And then there are -- you guessed it -- irregular nouns! Yay! I haven't come across too many of these, and our LCF assured us they are rare. One example is liso ("eye"), which pluralizes to emehlo. Another is emanti ("water" or "liquid"), which has no singular.
( Read more... )
...
I've been having the chance to read more, which is nice, and one of the better books I've read lately is Lawrence Durrell's Justine. It's all about a beautiful woman, a courtesan type; self-destructive and obsessive and dramatic and dark; and how everyone around her falls in love with her. You can already tell that it was practically written with my tastes in mind.
In another glorious example of my improbability field, this book was lent to me by another PCV (she said: "You know, I've got this book ... it's about four people and their weird sexual relationships ... I bet you'd like it,") who is a Nigerian-American girl about my age -- and then less than a week later it was recommended to me in a letter from another friend, who is a middle-aged ex-Green Beret and sexuality commentator. What do these people have in common? Mid-1900s reading material, apparently ....
Anyway. Quotery!
She gave me an impression of someone engaged in giving a series of savage caricatures of herself -- but this is common to most lonely people who feel that their true self can find no correspondence in another. (47)
"Idle," she writes, "to imagine falling in love as a correspondence of minds, of thoughts: it is a simultaneous firing of two spirits engaged in the autonomous act of growing up. And the sensation is of something having noiselessly exploded inside each of them. Around this event, dazed and preoccupied, the lover moves examining his or her own experience; her gratitude alone, stretching away toward a mistaken donor, creates the illusion that she communicates with her fellow, but this is false. The loved object is simply one who has shared an experience at the same moment of time, narcistically; and this desire to be near the beloved object is at first not due to the idea of possessing it, but simply to let the two experiences compare themselves, like reflections in different mirrors." (50)
"i expect that every time you are unfaithful to me and consumed by guilt you would like to provoke me to beat you up and give a sort of remission for your sins. My dear, I simply refuse to pander to your satisfactions. You must carry your own burdens. You are trying hard to get me to use a stockwhip on you. But I only pity you." (page 69)
She pressed a warm hand to my mouth to stop me talking and said something like: "Quick. Engorge-moi. From desire to revulsion -- let's get it over." She had, it seemed, already exhausted me in her own imagination. But the words were spoken with such weariness and humility -- who could forbear to love her? (71, slightly paraphrased for tense)
I remember the edges and corners of so many meetings, and I see a sort of composite Justine, concealing a ravenous hunger for information, for power through self-knowledge, under a pretence of feeling. Sadly I am driven to wonder whether I ever really moved her -- or existed simply as a laboratory in which she could work. She learned much from me ... perhaps what I took to be love was merely a gratitude. (71)
( Read more... )
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Saturday, September 5th, 2009
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(I had to come to Swaziland to get into Beyonce's music. But she's so good!)
Okay. Here I am! I'm alive and well, and will remain so as long as I continue to take my malaria prophylactic pill, not to mention boil, filter and put bleach in all the water I drink. I miss you all very much.
I thought I'd have more time to write once I was done with Pre-Service Training (PST) and out in the field, but there's so much to do out here ... between settling in, introducing myself around the community, getting to know my host family, continuing to practice siSwati, reading the ten thousand books Peace Corps gave me, and implementing the various assessment tools and integration process assigned by Peace Corps, I'm still really busy.
However, I have good news about Visitors!
I told everyone they shouldn't visit me before I left, because PC had informed me that it would count towards my vacation time. As it happens, this is not true in PC Swaziland -- if you visit me and I keep working, then it won't count towards my vacation. So you're welcome to come if you really want to! But you have to be prepared to live like I do -- don't come if you can't do a lot of sitting still in very high temperatures. I believe that the plane tickets cost about a thousand dollars round-trip if you come through Johannesburg, and then we'd have to figure out a bus to Swaziland or something.
Some Reasons Why Peace Corps Blogs, In Particular, Tend To Be Relentlessly Boring
I have seen very few travel blogs that weren't relentlessly boring. I'll do my best not to fall into that mold, but there are some complications.
Firstly, I can't post anything that could potentially give away my exact location or the location of another Peace Corps Volunteer; we're very strong potential targets for crime. Secondly, I cannot take political stances; Peace Corps is a thoroughly neutral organization. Thirdly, I cannot say anything that might be construed as culturally insensitive.
If you send me an email or a letter telling me about your life, though, I can send you a letter that might do some of the above ....
Oh yeah, and by the way, the contents of this blog are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the US Government or the Peace Corps.
Swazi Public Transit: the Khumbi System
People sometimes complain about the transit here, but the khumbi system is pretty amazing considering that it serves the entirety of this country -- most of which is rural. Khumbis (sometimes spelled kombis) are large vans that stand idle at their departure points (usually cities) until they are full. Once full, the driver gets in, puts on very loud music of his choice (this varies from gospel to electronic to pop to breathy love ballads), and speeds to the end of his route hell-for-leather, pausing only to pick up people who flag the khumbi down or when a passenger says "siteshi" ("station"). For some reason, the drivers always seem to hear a person who says "siteshi", no matter how loud the music is. Drivers drink frequently; one of our Peace Corps Safety Tips was to make sure we pay attention to the driver's apparent state of intoxication before taking a khumbi.
Individual khumbis have varying degrees of personality -- I think the drivers may be allowed to decorate them however they want, as long as the starting and ending points are written on the front and back of the van. The fonts used for this purpose are unpredictable; it's often a plain Helvetica or whatever, but another favorite is that drippy monster / Halloweeny font, and yet another is a New-York-Times-esque heavy calligraphy gothic capitals. (Maybe this has to be seen for the jarring effect to be fully appreciated.) Many khumbis are painted with gospel slogans or praises for the Lord; one is painted entirely red (yay). I've spotted one that has STREET VIBE painted across the back in skater script, and there's another that says NCESI (which means "excuse me", as in "excuse me, I seem to have just run you over because my driver is totally plastered").
Slogans
Slogans spotted around the place by myself and some other local Peace Corps Volunteers:
1) For the Koo brand of canned beans: "It's the best you can do."
2) The name of a general store near Mbabane, the capital: "Siyazama" ("we are trying".)
3) The name of another general store: "Take A Chance".
Are these hilarious, or is it just us?
Libraries!
The libraries here are really interesting. Almost all the books are in English, and many donated from the First World, so the collection is a bit idiosyncratic. There are a few classics, a bunch of thrillers, and a surprisingly high percentage of science fiction and fantasy. When I first browsed the local library branch, I found six novels of Gor on the shelves in the fiction section (none of which were, by the way, the first in the series). The amusement I felt upon encountering these was matched only by the sudden dropped-stomach pang of despair that hit me when I realized I know exactly nobody on this continent who'd understand why their presence is both hilarious and scandalous. There's a Tanith Lee book there, too -- and one of her more obscure ones, Sung in Shadow, which retells Romeo and Juliet.
To request a library card, one must submit two passport-sized photos -- and in lieu of proof of address or anything like that, I had to get a local friend with a good reputation to sign the application as a reference.
I just recently made friends with one of the local librarians -- a young woman who grew up in Manzini and studied in South Africa. She seems to feel a bit bored in this little town, and said that I'm unlikely to find anyone "like me" out here; that nobody reads. (Literacy is high in Swaziland, 80% or so, though of course that doesn't mean anyone actually uses it.) At another library, I asked one of the librarians why there weren't any books in siSwati. He looked at me over his glasses. "Swaziland is still a backwards country," he said. "No one is writing here."
That quotation is representative of an attitude I see a lot. A lot of people here really feel that they're living in a "backwards country", and aren't embarrassed to say so. And they often do so in language that a culturally sensitive person in the USA would blush to use: for instance, "backwards country". There's this fascinating consciousness of themselves as "backwards" or, better yet, "undeveloped".
Gender Equality Dynamics
That same consciousness makes for interesting attitudes around gender equality. Gender equality (one facet of which is often considered to be opposition to polygamy) is seen as a development issue here. Apparently, greater gender equality is very aligned with more highly-developed countries, and so now many development agencies "market" gender equality by saying that. One result of this is that gender equality is kinda being imposed "top-down" -- you see a lot of government speakers and media groups and such that are very consciously pushing gender equality, while the general population might not otherwise be inclined to think about the movement on its own.
And then, on top of that top-down effect, you also have a very weird feeling about the movement among the people we're teaching. For instance, during training we had to teach a practice class in a local high school, so my friend Ali and I chose to teach a gender lesson. When we asked the students why it's important to create gender equality, one of them answered that we should do it for the development advantages. Not because equal opportunity is a human right, not because all people should be accorded the same amount of respect, not because diversity is important ... etc. Because it'll make Swaziland more developed.
Of course, gender / feminism points are routinely oversimplified in the States too, but that tends to go ... in a different direction. In the States, you have people rattling off lines about how the media gives women unrealistic body image (kind of true, and kind of way oversimplified -- the media and the existing cultural norms are an interlocking system that can't be separated so easily). Here, you have people rattling off lines about how creating gender equality will be a major step forward in fighting the HIV pandemic (kinda true, and kinda way oversimplified -- it would certainly help if women felt more empowered to insist on condom use, etc).
... Okay. I know that's not much, but I'll post more when I can. In the meantime -- yeah, I really do miss you guys. Next time I'll post about the siSwati language (impossible to learn!), the tinyanga and sangoma ("traditional healers"), and much more!
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I'm exhausted. I'm scared. My flight for Swaziland leaves today. Send me an email to get information on how to send me mail. I'm telling myself this is gonna be incredible.
That's about all, really. I'll miss you guys.
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Thursday, June 18th, 2009
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I am acquiring a Kindle e-book reader for use in Africa! I feel like a vile traitress to the used book trade.
Sudden Poll! Got any references for awesome reads that I can port over to my Kindle? I probably won't be able to load books onto the Kindle when I get there, so they need to be files that you can email me -- or that I can download / find online -- within the next few days. My email: dragonladyflame fwip gmail mrow com.
Files of the following types can automatically be read on the Kindle:
* Kindle (.AZW, .AZW1)
* Text (.TXT)
* Unprotected Mobipocket (.MOBI, .PRC)
Files of the following types may easily be converted to the Kindle format:
* Microsoft Word (.DOC)
* Structured HTML (.HTML, .HTM)
* RTF (.RTF)
* JPEG (.JPEG, .JPG)
* GIF (.GIF)
* PNG (.PNG)
* BMP (.BMP)
* PDF (.PDF)
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Vegetarian Deconstruction
Okay. So I'm standing by the refrigerator in my vegetarian co-op and I open the door to see what I can eat and I see, what do I see, but some sausages. Apparently, I discover, we have tons of sausages. And chicken. Vast quantities of meat have stuffed the co-op to the gills -- all of it left over from a local art festival. It will go to waste if we don't eat it. And there is tons of it.
If I eat this meat, then I'll be breaking my vegetarianism. But my vegetarianism is about the resource usage that goes into American meat, and it's about the cruelty inflicted on animals in American farms; it's not, in my mind, about my health (health-wise, I could probably use some meat; I'm not so good at the protein thing). So if I eat this sausage, then I'm not actually having any effect at all on the problems I purport to care about -- because this sausage has already been purchased, is left over, and will go to waste if nobody eats it.
But I could leave it to my housemates to eat.
But it doesn't matter, because whether I eat it or not, it will be eaten, and the effect has already been had anyway -- viz., the commercial support of fucked-up treatment of animals has already happened, and so has the commercial support of an industry that uses completely insane amounts of resources. What difference does it make?
Well, I could argue that I am setting an example by being vegetarian. That I am helping the vegetarian movement by standing true to my beliefs and showing others that yes, giving up meat is actually not that big a deal, and in fact it's an important moral decision that we can stick to. Except that it's 2AM on a Sunday and no one else is awake to see me eat this meat, so what example? Where? I see no example.
So really the choice I'm facing is whether or not I stick to a rigid moral code in face of a choice that will hurt nothing. I mean, what does it matter if I eat meat that I didn't buy, that was basically rescued from the trash, with nobody observing me? The only reason not to eat it would be "because I don't eat meat, that's all," and shouldn't any moral code be flexible? Shouldn't everything be flexible, doesn't flexibility = survival and effectiveness?
But the moral crisis that led me to vegetariansm taught me that I had to acknowledge the line, that I had to toe the line, that I could not allow myself "room to maneuver". And yeah, I haven't been perfect about that this year. I've fucked up a few times. But I think I've done my best. I think. I don't know. I haven't done my best, but maybe I've done my best at doing my best. Argh, it's not enough. How about this -- I tried.
Anyway, the point is that I have to make a line and toe it. Psychologically. Surely the psychological angle matters. I have to make myself feel guilty for eating all meat because what keeps me from eating meat if not guilt? And how do I maintain my vegetarianism if I let the guilt slip? Except that I don't really believe that the only thing maintaining my vegetarianism is guilt. I have not historically needed a whole lot of guilt in order to do the right thing; my convictions seem to stem from something else. Unless the guilt goes deeper than I think it does, which it might. Anyway ... anyway ... anyway, surely I have to draw a bright line and force myself on one side of it psychologically. Force myself to see things in black and white.
But on the other hand, do I? I actually think that a lot of problems have stemmed from seeing things in black-and-white. It gets dangerous, it makes people follow the letter rather than the spirit, it blinds people to important understanding and compassion, it allows people to feel less responsible for their decisions ("I was following my code!"), it disappears all the shades of grey -- and life is shades of grey. Inflexible moral codes create monsters. Morality isn't about the words in the code, it's about the intent and the effect.
So really, if I want to show that I'm actually a thinking being who isn't blindly following a rigid and unchangeable moral code, I should eat the sausage.
Actually I think the moral of the story is that I should eat nothing at all and go back to what I was doing, which was working on wrapping up my biggest project before I go to Swaziland. In a week. A week. Not that I'm panicking or anything. Everything is fine and I am totally capable of getting everything done before I catch my plane next Sunday. Totally. Fucking. Capable. And not hungry at all. I don't need sausage. Or food. Ever again. Eating is for chumps.
...
Saddam's Palaces: An Interview with Richard Mosse
These extraordinary images — published here for the first time — show the imperial palaces of Saddam Hussein converted into temporary housing for the U.S military. Vast, self-indulgent halls of columned marble and extravagant chandeliers, surrounded by pools, walls, moats, and, beyond that, empty desert, suddenly look more like college dormitories. Weight sets, flags, partition walls, sofas, basketball hoops, and even posters of bikini'd women have been imported to fill Saddam's spatial residuum. The effect is oddly decorative, as if someone has simply moved in for a long weekend, unpacking an assortment of mundane possessions.
... Fascinated by the dozens and dozens of incredible photos Mosse emailed — only a fraction of which appear here — I asked him to describe the experience of being a photographer in Iraq.
Detailed description of Hindenburg interiors from zeppelin history site
from ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/syndicated.gif) cooper_korman.
Elaborate dice collection plus pictures
Includes ancient dice! Matt and I found it while discussing what ancient dice might be made of -- turns out basically anything from ivory to stone to metal to wood.
Research shows robots forming human-like societies
Dario Floreano and his team at the Laboratory of Intelligent Systems in the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology built a swarm of mobile robots, outfitted with light bulbs and photodetectors. These were set loose in a zone with illuminated "food" and "poison" zones which charged or depleted their batteries. ... At intervals, the robots were shut down and those that had the most charge left in their batteries were chosen as "successful", and their neural programming was combined to produce the next generation of the robots. ... Within fifty generations of this electronic evolution, co-operative societies of robots had formed -- helping each other to find food and avoid poison. Even more amazing is the emergence of cheats and martyrs. Transistorized traitors emerged which wrongly identified poison zone as food, luring their trusting brethren to their doom before scooting off to silently charge in a food zone .... Some robots advanced fearlessly into poison zones, flashing warning lights to keep other robots out of harms way.
Bibliodyssey: Books, Illustrations, Science, History, Visual Materia Obscura, Eclectic Bookart
Incredible antique book illustrations.
from my mother.
Antique vampirism articles
The "vampirism" tag from a blog whose description is: My current research has me looking through microfilmed tabloid newspapers of the 1930s. My progress is greatly impeded by my inability to scroll past unrelated “human interest” stories, most of them tiny nightmares like something out of Nathanael West’s Miss Lonelyhearts (which you should read immediately if you haven’t already). Anyway, I’ve started this blog as a place to memorialize these spectral and transient tragedies.
from Housemate Ackerman.
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Putting up this entry scares me more than anything else I've ever written here. I don't know what people will think of me. I'm superficial. I'm vain. I'm self-centered. I'm seeking attention. I'm a brainless bimbo.
I've been writing this off-and-on for ages. It doesn't go anywhere. It feels like a pathetic excuse. It feels like something obscene. It feels like I'm whining, and not just whining, but whining about something totally stupid. It's going to run too long. And maybe tl;dr is the best reaction to hope for.
But I want to talk about beauty. About the idea of being beautiful. And about how I look. I'm circling around the thing it scares me to say. Maybe I'll be able to say it by the end of the entry. There's no way I could have this conversation with someone in person. I feel like a bitch for writing this, but I'd feel like even more of a bitch if I tried to talk about it.
...
Beauty, the idea of being beautiful, matters. I can't speak for anyone else, any other woman. I don't know how much, if any, of my experience is true for other people.
Maybe I have obsessed over appearance more than most people; but I always fantasized about being beautiful. It was always a core part of the early stories I wrote, the characters I created. I always drew, primarily, beautiful women. My avatars were inevitably beautiful.
I didn't date in high school. I spent the bulk of my time running around the Internet, playing computer games, and reading. I was not, one might say, popular. One of the Popular Girls once said I'd look great if I had a makeover, and offered to give me one; another of the Popular Girls once came up to me while I was wearing a new shirt and said, "Lydia! You look so trendy today!" ... I remember this interaction primarily because it made me feel ill, it made me want to go home and change. Oh, I wanted to be beautiful -- but far more deeply, far more powerfully, I didn't want to be like the Popular Girls. I hated what I could see of their world. And I wanted to be beautiful only on my own terms.
I didn't understand yet that there's no way to be beautiful on your own terms.
...
I remember the first time a boy my age -- someone besides my parents, or the doctor, or someone else way older than me -- told me I was beautiful. I was sixteen. It was my first week at Simon's Rock College, and a sophomore boy had taken me on a walk around the lake. It was late at night, mist was curling everywhere, and he'd been saying how he could just imagine a grey dragon materializing from the mist.
He said, "I feel very connected to you right now," and I said something stupid like, "Why?" and he hesitated and looked at me, "Well --" he said, "you're very beautiful." Just a line? Maybe. It seemed sincere. The way he was looking at me seemed sincere. I caught my breath, my eyes fluttered closed, my pulse slammed into my throat. His words were like a slap in the face. Leaving me breathless. (Though it's maybe weird to say "I feel connected to you because you're beautiful", as opposed to feeling connected to someone because of a mental/emotional commonality or shared experience or whatever ....)
It was something I'd always dreamed about, of course, being beautiful enough to have moments like that along the side of a lake. It was something I'd thought about so much that it almost seemed ... inevitable. Like, "Oh, there it is; this is the part of my story where the ugly duckling grows up!" But after the moment passed I didn't know how to act. I knew how to be brassy and forthright and abrasive and angry; I also knew how to be silent and absorb myself in a book and disappear. I knew how to dress in glitter and bright colors and interesting jewelry and incredible costumes, and I knew how to ignore the way people looked at me when I was wearing something ridiculous. I knew how to flirt with someone online; I'd played out any number of romances in online games, as Shataina. I even had some idea of how to flirt with a guy in real life. I'd even kissed a boy once, no way! But I still didn't know what to say to the way that boy was looking at me right then.
I don't think I've ever learned what to say. I've learned, since then, to pretend the compliment didn't happen; or to pass it off like it's not important; or to be sarcastic, to derail the conversation; or to look away while I thank the person, and quickly change the subject.
And I've unlearned the reaction that I got, long ago by the lake. It doesn't hit me like that anymore; not unless it's someone I care about, saying it. Not unless it's someone I trust a great deal. Anyone else says it, and it makes me feel put on the spot, self-conscious and defensive. Or I feel sick. Or I feel nothing.
...
Interestingly, when I started playing tabletop roleplaying games -- in college -- I always made my characters beautiful. Always. I always spent the points necessary -- and it always did cost points, even in games where there are no obvious in-game advantages (e.g., many White Wolf games charge for the Appearance statistic, but it's very rarely useful). It felt necessary, even for characters that had nothing to do with being beautiful (like ninjas). When I created Shataina as a character -- my avatar, the character I always thought of as closest to myself -- I always made Shataina as beautiful as I possibly could. More beautiful than any other character I made. I spent the maximum points.
I could deal with being beautiful in a game, where it wasn't real. I could even revel in it. I loved the fantasy. But I also accepted a certain level of disempowerment -- maybe partly out of guilt; I felt guilty for daring to have such a vain shallow fantasy in the first place. Having a beautiful character was never primarily a benefit, though it sometimes was useful. GameMasters would occasionally give me some kind of benefit for it, but would also frequently impose penalties because my character was a beautiful woman: penalties on trying to disguise her, for instance, that would not be imposed on an handsome male character or any other unusual-looking character. Or social costs, or abuse. One of my characters was coerced into sex by another character, and the reason given was that she was beautiful (this experience was a major contributing factor to that article I wrote about rape in RPGs, back in 2005).
(For comparison's sake, imagine a character who's really strong or intelligent. Now try to imagine a GameMaster imposing a penalty on some unrelated skill check, because your character's so strong or intelligent. It doesn't happen. But it happens for high-Appearance characters. Particularly female ones.)
Later in my life, when I volunteered for True Dungeon -- they tend to dress their female characters in very revealing outfits. One year in particular I remember badly, because the True Dungeon people dressed me in a really stripperiffic dress and didn't give me any spoken lines, and I was basically a "girl not wearing much clothing" prop for my entire experience. But the worst part of that situation wasn't actually the way they dressed me or told me to act, which I did -- after all -- consent to (even if I felt uncomfortable about it during and afterwards, I did consent). The worst part was when one group came through True Dungeon and one of the women said something angry about my character. Which was reasonable, because my character was kind of a bitch. But one of the men said, "Oh, you're jealous," and the other men all snickered, and I didn't know what to say and I ended up letting the moment pass without venting my spleen.
But it made me feel sick, it made me want to scream. If I could go back in time and slap that man across the face, I would. "I hate you and your male entitlement, the way you so casually take possession of my appearance and use it as a weapon. Don't feel entitled to how I look. Don't use a comment about my appearance to disempower that woman's perspective. Don't use me to make other women feel bad."
...
A while ago, I discovered a brand of jeans that fits me really well. Caslon, by Nordstrom. I really wanted more of these jeans, so I did an Internet search for them, and one of the first hits was a blog post from a woman who absolutely hated Caslon jeans. (This is no longer true; the top hits for Caslon jeans have changed, and I don't know where that blog post is now.)
This woman said Caslon jeans were ridiculous, unreal, that no actual woman could ever fit them. I remember reading her blog with an odd sense of displacement ... maybe, as if I were outside my body looking in. Apparently, the jeans that fit me perfectly were disempowering to this woman. Apparently, my body couldn't be real. Part of me felt a little frustrated at the way she was denying my experience -- claiming that I could not possibly exist -- shaming me, even. But more of me felt sympathy for her. Felt guilty. My body, by fitting Nordstrom's jeans, had betrayed her. By existing, I was contributing to a hostile world for her.
...
If a friend told me they liked me -- if a man told me he loved me -- for my intelligence or my skill at writing or my irony or my perspective or any facet of my personality, really, I'd be happy. If someone told me they liked me, or loved me, for my appearance -- I'd feel hurt. Confused. Sickened. Even now, when I feel like my boyfriend is saying "You're beautiful" too often, I get ... uneasy.
I've dated one man who never said I was beautiful. I think he complimented my appearance exactly once, and it was with a somewhat reserved term ("cute"). Sometimes his lack of feedback on my appearance made me feel safer with him. But sometimes with this particular thing ... appearance ... I'd think he disliked me for it. Not because he wasn't attracted to me, but because he was. He implied once that he felt guilty for being attracted to the people he's attracted to (presumably including me). He implied more than once that he thought I was too focused on my appearance, and disliked that.
How do I address an implication like that? "You're very focused on your appearance," he said once, in a vaguely accusatory tone. What does that mean -- what sin am I committing? At the time I said defensively, "Well, appearance is important," and he nodded and turned away; I should have asked him what he meant and why it bothered him. I think I was afraid to get into it. His opinion mattered to me so much ... I was afraid I might find out that he considered me shallow and/or vain. I could have tried to talk about façades and image control and making people think certain things about you, and really, when I think about that particular ex, I know that he was quite preoccupied with his image -- though not with beauty. We could have had an interesting conversation about the way we think about appearances. But I felt too ... accused ... to start that conversation.
...
I don't wear lipstick or concealer or eyeliner; I don't shave my legs. I don't do these things because they bore/annoy me to implement ... but when someone tells me, "You're very focused on your appearance," it makes me feel as though I have to make it up somehow, as though I have to prove my "appearance doesn't matter" cred. It makes me feel as though not wearing makeup, not shaving, is an obligation. It makes me feel as though even if I wanted to, I shouldn't start doing those things.
A gentleman recently told me that he loved how I don't shave my legs because it's like a statement of power ... a statement that I don't care. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I guess it's nice to be validated. On the other hand, I hate the fact that not shaving my legs is A Thing. I don't do it because it takes me a while to do and I hate the way my legs feel afterwards, not because I'm trying to make a statement, but at this point, I've had to think about and defend it so much that it's become by default A Thing and that makes me crazy. Why do I have to spend so much goddamn time thinking about a single cosmetic practice? I don't actually believe this -- but I'm tempted to say that his comment was nearly as repressive as any pro-shaving comment might be.
Using makeup feels like a sin. When I do it, I feel awkward about it. I don't wear significant makeup unless it's really really obvious -- I only do it when I feel like I'm putting on some kind of costume. You know, dramatic makeup -- sparkles or cat-eyes or bright colors. I would never even consider plastic surgery, unless I was scarred; then it would be "reasonable", it would be "fair", it would be "acceptable" to get plastic surgery to reverse the damage. Getting plastic surgery just to make myself more beautiful? That'd be "fake" and "superficial".
I did some modeling for fun a few years ago -- mostly what the industry calls "trade for pictures"; I was only ever paid once -- and I always felt awkward about it. Early on, I mentioned it to some of my friends, but I tried to pass it off lightly. With most people I never mentioned it at all. And a lot of the reason I stopped was -- partly because I figured I couldn't make the grade as a pro -- but also partly because I thought, "If I do make the grade as a pro, then that makes me nothing more than a vain self-centered model."
Then last year I did some more modeling projects for fun, because I had free time, was going slowly mad and needed to do something with my time. I loved the pictures but I felt torn every time I wanted to share them with my friends. I adopted the same kind of semi-open, semi-hidden behavior I've used in the past re: modeling; I feel strange being proud of the pictures. I think I've posted a total of one modeling picture to LiveJournal ever, and it was highly stylized, not one I thought of as attractive. I used some modeling pictures as Facebook avatars at one point this year, because I loved them ... but I also felt relieved when outside circumstances made it wise for me to take them down.
I remember very clearly that when I posted this picture of my Halloween makeup, I cropped out my body and only included my head. The full picture, with my body, involved a corset and looked fabulous. I felt too self-conscious to post it; it was too good a picture.
...
Occasionally, people will talk to me as if there's some assumption behind my appearance, as if it's taken for granted. My college friend Vinny once asked me, "Hey Lydia, do hot people sit around and talk about other people who aren't hot?" Or sometimes some guy will be hitting on me, and he'll say something like, "Well, you know how pretty you are ..." as if we're on the same page, somehow, as if we both understand each other automatically. But what does it mean if I agree with that statement? Is that allowed? It feels like a trap. Not to mention, it doesn't feel real.
I remember a moment with an ex-boyfriend where we were both very intoxicated, and I looked at him and asked: "Do you think I'm pretty?" And he looked back at me and said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Yes." One of his friends laughed and said, "You know, my girlfriend will also say the most out-there stuff when she's messed up," and I didn't know what to say. Is it such a weird question to ask? When images of heartbreakingly beautiful women are everywhere, I am really supposed to simply assume that I'm pretty?
...
Back when I was working as a game writer, one of my housemates suggested that I create a website where I put up pictures of myself and marketed myself as "the hot game writer girl". The idea was nauseating. I couldn't stand it. But it probably would have worked: after all, when I was writing games, one of my employers outright told me that he hired me because he thought I was cute.
If I'm beautiful, it calls all my accomplishments into question. Was I hired, recruited, accepted for my appearance? It calls all my friendships with men or gay/bi women into question. Do they like me because they want to fuck me? If I'm beautiful, I can't feel secure in it. Better not get used to it, because by the time I'm 30 it's gone, right? If I'm beautiful, that beauty isn't mine. I can't take credit for it, I don't own it ... I certainly don't deserve it.
"I'm beautiful." That's the thing it scares me to say. That's the thing I've been circling around. I can write it only because it's in quotes, it's not real -- and typing the words still makes me wince. I'm not beautiful. I can't be beautiful. If I'm beautiful, I don't deserve it. If I'm beautiful, I'll inevitably lose it. If I'm beautiful, what does that make me?
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My boyfriend (this one's name is Matt) should never have logged into Facebook on my computer.
Suggestions welcome. If your suggestion makes it to me before Matt (a) realizes what's going on and does whatever you have to do to log someone else out of your Facebook account at a distance or (b) reads this livejournal entry, then I will totally implement it.
So far:
* Changed his icon, obviously
* Made him a fan of many Pókemon pages
* Sent messages to several of his female friends saying that he's madly in love with them
* I'm not going to list all the changes because I know he's going to read this
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Housemate Mike wanted to get my perspective on this article on a rationalist web site titled, "Do fandoms need awfulness?" I wrote an irate response that I will now post here.
In re: Jack Vance (who is highly praised in the article), there are aspects of Jack Vance's work that are monumentally bad. Trust a rationalist to be so excited about Vance, who completely sucks at character and emotion but excels at shiny-looking logic puzzles and clever solutions to dungeon crawls.
I've encountered arguments like the one made in that rationalist article before. Always stuff like, "Wow, since we all think X piece of art is totally awesome, then I guess fans of X must really like awful things!" As if there's no possibility that X actually has significant redeeming qualities, or that other people might have different tastes from the reviewer. It consistently irritates me that people apparently prefer to criticize the fans for liking X "awful" fandom, than to figure out what's appealing about Fandom X. It's all a product of considering some cultures better than others -- high culture vs. low culture, etc; it's a function of stigma and bias, and it pisses me off particularly to see it on a so-called rationalist site.
Tangentially (as I mentioned in a recent post), something similar has been happening with Internet culture and new Internet publishing tools -- people from more established publishing media will say snarky things about how "those damn kids" must have no taste, or must like really awful stuff, because we're using blogs and forums and Twitter etc etc. Rather than trying to figure out what's successful about the blog/forum/Twitter model, and how people can use it/are using it in intelligent ways, they simply decide that people who like blogs/forums/Twitter are stupid. Quit patronizing my generation! :roar:
...
I found the most incredible karaoke place ever the other night. Cabaret room. Lounge singer style. I was wearing leather pants and I sang "Blood and Roses", also one of my companions convinced me to sing the female part of "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" despite the fact that the song is everything wrong with heteronormative America. It was sheer class.
...
Quick links:
An entire blog devoted to the Arabian Nights!
Awesome! I found this, by the way, because I was trying to figure out when Mary Zimmerman's version of "The Arabian Nights" is going up. Zimmerman is known for such myth-based plays as "Metamorphoses", "Mirror of the Invisible World", and "Argonautika", and she is incredible. And her version of "The Arabian Nights" is playing in Chicago right now! And I'm still here for it! Amazing!
Wikipedia's list of unusual articles
Hours of fun. Includes the Facteur Cheval!
from Housemate Rebecca.
Glass Petal Smoke: Gleanings from the World of the Senses
Glass Petal Smoke was created out of a personal passion for things olfactive and gustatory. The back story regarding a raw material or finished product is often rich with history, myth and folklore. When all of these aspects are brought together, they tell a story of our common humanity, as expressed through the senses. Because Glass Petal Smoke is a blog, an element of cyber anthropology infuses the space in which it exists. Culture is about human nature and people who love food and fragrance are acutely aware of the connection between the senses and memory. Glass Petal Smoke appeals to readers who possess such awareness and those who aspire to it.
from my mother.
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1) OK, fine. Dreamwidth. Apparently it's quite easy to migrate over there, and you can crosspost to LiveJournal. LiveJournal is on its way out and I'm contemplating which service to back myself up on. How does one get a Dreamwidth invite code?
2) I got a very sober email from Mary Marcy today, talking about layoffs at Simon's Rock. Anyone know who?
3) Sudden Poll!
You're born in the eighties, grow up in the middle-class or upper-middle-class First World, go through college and one or two jobs plus several romantic relationships throughout your late teens and early twenties. There are some ups and downs; all kinds of learning experiences! After a while -- late twenties, early thirties -- you start dating one person you really like. Ze* is really into you, puts a fair bit of effort into seducing you, makes you feel wanted and appreciated. The two of you laugh a lot together. Travel well together. The sex is good. Around the same time, the two of you work (or luck) your way into decently-paid jobs that interest and challenge you. You settle into those jobs, and into each other.
Years pass. You've long since said your "I love you"s. And you do love each other. Ze knows you better than anyone, you can't imagine life without hir. You talk seriously about getting married, you work through the vague inevitable skittishness around the idea of marriage and settlement, you go into the wedding clear-eyed.
You have kids. Both you and your partner raise the kids as well as could be expected. Grow old together. A few career changes, but your livelihood ends up fine; no serious catastrophes materialize for your decades-long life. You retire and travel to exotic locales. Charming hobbies, kids and grandkids occupy your older years. And the two of you always get along fine. The sex remains good forever. You die in hir arms, surrounded by loving descendants.
Q. Where did you go wrong?
... It's sort of a clumsy imitation of David Foster Wallace. But I am serious about the question.
* Gender-neutral pronoun
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Insanely busy, going crazy, etc. When was the last time I posted? For that matter, where am I and what the hell is going on in my life? But as I was writing out strategies for Bookstore Y to market itself in Today's Ridiculous Bookstore-Unfriendly World (tm), I came upon this thought tangent. And what else are thought tangents for if not LiveJournal? Plus, I've been thinking about marketing, so I get to use boldface everywhere.
There's a lot of tales in ancient mythology (particularly Greek) about attempts to avoid prophesied death by doing pretty rough things, frequently involving killing children. Perseus is an example of this -- Perseus was the son of Zeus and Danae. Danae's father, King Acrisius, set Danae and her son adrift on the sea because of a prophecy that Perseus would kill him.
Sometimes people will act all weird about stuff like this, as if it's totally crazy for a dude like Acrisius to kill his own daughter and grandson. But what people don't understand is that back in the day, this was actually a perfectly viable strategy. That is, in 95% of cases where concerned parents bricked their daughter up in the back room and left her to starve, said daughter would in fact starve to death and would not birth the foretold son who returned to kill his grandfather (or whatever the prophecy was).
Fashions in the manner of killing one's troublesomely fated children would fluctuate. Partly, this was determined by success rate -- "immure girl in tower and forbid anyone ever to see her" was a surprisingly effective strategy for escaping Fate, at 97%, whereas "stick infant in basket and send down river" only boasted 65% success. There were also PR debacles -- no one did the reed basket thing after the Moses incident. But it was also a matter of convenience, of course. Not everyone has the time, resources or inclination to build massive doomy dungeons for their family members.
Also, children in the neighborhood would totally spread prophesies to get each other in trouble.
"Ed took my favorite blocks and won't give them back. Let's tell everyone he's gonna kill his dad and marry his mom!"
"You got prophesied! You are so grounded!"
The above were common refrains among scampering kids in the agora.
Anyway so, seen in this context, it is clear that the stories passed down to us re: Greeks doing things like killing their fathers and marrying their mothers aren't really intended to be sobering parables about the remorselessness of the gods, or human helplessness in the vast universe. They're more of a "Wow, really?" ... the kind of thing where ancient peoples would tell the story, shake their heads, and be like, "Well ain't that the damnedest thing?"
"Dude, did you hear Acrisius got killed by his son after all?"
"Jeez, poor guy. Who'da thunk that'd happen?"
"Yeah ... after all the effort he put into setting his daughter adrift in the sea. And I mean, he gave her a much nicer death than I gave my daughter last year -- I just flung the girl to the dogs."
"Just goes to show, man."
"Yeah." (pause, pull on beer) "Just goes to show."
...
And now that I've written that I might as well post some links.
Taxidermy!
Examples of taxidermy articles from antique "Popular Mechanics" magazines. Just trust me. It's awesome. And I even found it myself!
I assume you all heard that it's over for Geocities.
What this ending of Geocities does make me realize is, for all our scary talk of how we need to watch what our slutty, drunken selves put online because oh no someone who may pay us to do something might see it, is how not permanent so much of the web truly is.
from Audacia Ray.
Oh my God there's a "Journey to the West" TV show!
In case you've never heard of the Chinese epic Journey to the West, you have a treat awaiting you.
Journey to the West is a household legend and myth throughout East Asia, especially China, and among Chinese throughout the world. It is based on the real life monk Xuan Zang's (also known as Tripitaka or Tang San Zang) pilgrimage to India, to fetch back some Buddhist scriptures. Nonetheless, this fictional retelling focuses on San Zang's first disciple, the monkey king, Sun Wu Kong, who captured readers' hearts and imagination with his bold, daring, and mischievous personality. He was also very rebellious. As a matter of fact, Wu Cheng En wrote Journey to the West to criticize China's political system and society.
from my mom.
On the trail of Trebitsch Lincoln, 1920s triple agent
Searching at random I came across entries for Trebitsch in almost every year between 1921 and 1938. These were frequently of a piquant nature, tantalizing by reason of their brevity. Thus the entry for 1923: ''LINCOLN, Trebitsch (alias Patrick Keelan) Activities in connection with Chinese deputation to General Ludendorff respecting Sino-German relations.''
Or for 1924: ''LINCOLN, Trebitsch (alias Trautwein) Alleged sale of bogus German military plans to French authorities.''
As I moved into the volumes dealing with the 1930's, the arena of activity appeared to shift. 1931: ''Initiated as Buddhist priest.'' 1937: ''Japanese propaganda activity.'' 1938: ''Activity in Tibet.''
Found this one myself too, and all because I work in a ridiculous bookstore with obscure books about every which fact. I love my job, it's breaking my heart to know that I'm finally leaving. Even if it is a "finally".
(McSweeney's) ENG 371WR: Writing for Nonreaders in the Postprint Era
Instant messaging. Twittering. Facebook updates. These 21st-century literary genres are defining a new "Lost Generation" of minimalists who would much rather watch Lost on their iPhones than toil over long-winded articles and short stories. Students will acquire the tools needed to make their tweets glimmer with a complete lack of forethought, their Facebook updates ring with self-importance, and their blog entries shimmer with literary pithiness. All without the restraints of writing in complete sentences. w00t! w00t! Throughout the course, a further paring down of the Hemingway/Stein school of minimalism will be emphasized, limiting the superfluous use of nouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, conjunctions, gerunds, and other literary pitfalls.
You know, as I get older I get more and more bored by the handwringing of my elders over the death of writing. This article half-amuses me and half feels unbearably pretentious. The Internet is replacing print because it's a better technology, people, it's not because we kids are idiots who can't string a thought together. Oh well. Here endeth my rant.
from someone I definitely don't follow on Twitter. Because I don't use Twitter. Twitter is for the peasantry.
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Wednesday, April 22nd, 2009
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My mom has a blog now. Much like the woman herself, the blog is awesome, and she updates a lot more often than I do.
"Being Diggitt's musings on matters large and small: including but not limited to life as a Unitarian Universalist divinity student, Indian cooking, the earth and life sciences, photography, and ethics ... and sometimes friends, ferrets, and other family members." (Yes, her name is Diggitt. My mom, let me repeat, is awesome.)
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Wednesday, April 1st, 2009
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I have been accepted to the Peace Corps and will depart on June 22 for Swaziland.
Ready or not, here I come!
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(Actual conversation I conducted recently by text message with my random friend Amul.)
Random friend Amul: Apparently a furry dressed as Tigger got arrested last night. Eeyore almost got arrested but he told the cops he was sorry. I am not making this up!
Me: on what grounds? where? why god why? (At this point, I'm picturing this as an anti-furry police action that took place out of prejudice. I am angry on the furry's behalf.)
Amul: Tigger was arrested for disturbing the peace. I'm at a con.
Me: that only opens up more questions! disturbing how -- in a psychological sense? a philosophical sense?
Amul: Tigger musta been all "Back off, copper! Don't you know who I am? T-I-double guh-er, muthafucka!"
Me: that is a beautiful thought. get Tigger's autograph for me.
Amul: He actually told the cop to "chill the fuck down."
Me: (Still upset about the anti-furry prejudice) why were the police even talking to them? were they protesting? causing mayhem?
Amul: Tigger and Eeyore were trying to break down a hotel room door, apparently.
Me: (Suddenly realizing that the cops may actually have been justified) wow. ok. that puts an entirely new cast on the matter. who was in the room? (christopher robin?) what did they plan to do once they broke in?
Amul: Maybe he was gonna show Winnie the Pooh where the honey really is.
(This story has no conclusion. But I would like you to imagine the following. Suppose you're a cop, and you come upon a person dressed as Tigger trying to break down a hotel room door. Then suppose that person tells you to "chill the fuck down." What do you do?)
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edit Amul has sent me a followup email with information:
Here's the full story, or as much of it as I know:
I was at MidSouth Con, which is just outside of Memphis. Compared to other Sci-Fi cons, MSC is notable in two major ways. First, costumes are very popular there -- people actually show up to register in costume, and it's not uncommon for people to bring six or seven costumes to wear over the three day event. The other noteworthy exception is that if you're over 21, your registration fee includes all the free beer you can drink.
Friday night, three attendees were dressed up in fursuits. I don't know if they were actual furries. One was dressed as Tigger, another as Eeyore, and a third dressed as a sheep. They got very drunk, and were quite uncouth. At some point, they tried to get into a hotel room. I don't know if it was their room or somebody else's, but someone else was apparently in the room, ignoring them.
Con Security tried to calm them down, but they became belligerent. The cops were called. Eeyore immediately calmed down and apologized for his behavior when he saw the uniforms. Tigger and Sheep did not. The Sheep became unreasonably upset when one of the cops referred to him as being "dressed in a bunny suit." The cops threatened to take Sheep into custody if he didn't calm down. Tigger prodded a police officer with his finger while telling him to "you're the one that needs to calm the fuck down," or something to that effect. He was arrested for assaulting the cop and thrown in the drunk tank for the night. It's assumed he was let go the next morning, but nobody I talked to actually knew.
Emphasis mine.
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Saturday, March 21st, 2009
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Not much theory on this blog lately, eh? I'm letting out my theoretical discussion urges in other fora. But at least I'll post fun links this time.
Contact has been re-stablished with my long-lost Cousin Andrew. I like him. We have a lot in common. One of my favorite moments from tonight was me finishing up an explanation of what I've been doing with my life lately, and him nodding and informing me of similar interests. Pause. Then he said philosophically, "I guess we're an open-minded family."
It will never be okay. But I'm so lucky to have this much. And I'm so grateful.
...
"Our love is like a fire in a nursery ... the terrified infants of your affection are helpless against my encroaching flames."
~ San Francisco friend, Dylan
In San Francisco, a coed retreat dedicated to female sexuality
A core of 38 men and women -- their average age the late 20s -- live full time in the retreat center, a shabby-chic loft building in the South of Market district. They prepare meals together, practice yoga and mindfulness meditation and lead workshops in communication for outside groups as large as 60.
But the heart of the group’s activity, listed cryptically on its Web site’s calendar as “morning practice,” is closed to all but the residents.
At 7 a.m. each day, as the rest of America is eating Cheerios or trying to face gridlock without hyperventilating, about a dozen women, naked from the waist down, lie with eyes closed in a velvet-curtained room, while clothed men huddle over them, stroking them in a ritual known as orgasmic meditation — “OMing,” for short. The couples, who may or may not be romantically involved, call one another “research partners.”
from Housemate Sam; One Taste has also been mentioned to me by others, but I didn't realize that it's a co-op for God's sake. A co-op. And a female orgasm learning center. Someone tell me again why I don't live in San Francisco.
My brilliant coworker Alan writes hilarious bookstore blog entry
Well I thought it was funny. I probably like it more because the store blog originated as my project. Also I recommend Alan's other recent entry on our store blog, which has a charming 1950s-science-fiction edge.
Forgotten Chicago: Bridge out for good
In Chicago, a disused or demolished crossing of every type can be found. Here we are focusing on vehicular bridges over water where a connection no longer remains.
Three Lessons Activists and Marketers Can Learn From India’s Valentine’s Day Pink Panty Campaign
Briefly, journalist Nisha Susan set up The Consortium of Pubgoing, Loose, and Forward Women on Facebook and urged women to gift pink panties to Pramod Mutalik, the head of the ultra-conservative Hindu group Shri Ram Sena, in order to shame him into backing down from his threats to disrupt Valentine’s Day celebrations.
The campaign has become one of the best Indian examples of how a grassroots community can come together, collaborate and take collective action using social media tools.
from sexartpolitics.
White Whine
A new white person complaint every day of the week!
Some of my favorites:
“Why do people have to send me private messages in Facebook when they have my personal email address!”
“I hate that Fiji water is square-shaped. It won’t fit in my cup holder.”
“Ugh, I have so many passwords.”
I love that upper-middle-class white people are finally realizing that we are a subculture too -- that even though we're the dominant culture, we're not the norm.
... it's sort of like that other brilliant blog, Stuff White People Like. Speaking of which, they did an amazing recent post: Stuff White People Like: Taking a Year Off.
When someone goes through a stressful experience they usually require some time off to clear their head, regain focus, and recover from the pain and suffering. Of course, in white culture these experiences are most often defined as finishing high school, making it through three years of college, or working for eleven months straight with only two weeks vacation and every statutory holiday .... Though you might consider finishing school or having a good job to be “accomplishments” many white people view them as burdens. As such, they can only handle them for so long before they start talking about their need to “take a year off” to travel, volunteer, or work abroad.
It is most common for the person taking the year off to use this time to travel ... If you work with this person, be sure to give them a FAKE email address on their last day on the job or you will be inundated with emails about spiritual enlightenment and how great the food is compared to similar restaurants back home. Also, within the first five days following departure, this person will come up with the idea to write a book about their travel experience. Sadly, more books about mid-twenties white people traveling have been written than have been read.
The Typophiles
For more than seventy years the Typophiles have shared their abiding pleasure in fine printing through convivial meetings and handsomely produced publications. The Typophiles is a not-for-profit educational association that encourages the appreciation and production of fine typography and bookmaking.
thanks to my mother.
Public Health Museum
The Public Health Museum is a non-profit educational and cultural museum dedicated to preserving artifacts and records of our nation's history in public health.
See also: Science Museum -- Brought to Life: Exploring the History of Medicine
also from Mom, I think.
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My uncle on my father's side committed suicide today.
I half-hate myself for writing things like this. Shallow, self-centered, so boring. I should shut down. Shut off. Close myself into work, into projects, into something else.
My family tends to be prickly, abrasive, critical, violently emotional. You see where I get it. In recent years I've gotten a million times better at being gentle, at clamping a lid on myself when I'm angry. I'm nowhere near perfect, but now I know a surprising number of people who seem to think I'm quite nice and level-headed, and I can never get away from the thought: "You have no idea who I am." Prickly violence feels like such a part of me; when someone can't see it, I think they can't see me ... or that I'm being a hypocrite. A liar. Not being myself.
But I digress.
He didn't make it easy for us to be there for him. But I'm blaming the victim. He deserved affection. I failed him.
A prickly, abrasive, critical, violently emotional man. He was a recurrent alcoholic, a hunter, a gambler. Conservative in his politics and insulting towards liberals. When I saw him at Christmas he gave me a lecture about how useless it is for me to be a vegetarian. When I was a child he gave me a lecture about how my dad isn't a real man, because he's never sat in a tree for six hours waiting to shoot a deer.
But Uncle Phil ... also. So funny, so charming, so smart. Somewhat misogynistic, I guess, and he alienated most of his cousins' wives by means of harassment. But he could also give a woman a look -- a quick compliment -- that made her light up. A blustery asshole, but a friendly one -- he could be a hilarious asshole. I remember so clearly, this past Christmas, a tense moment as my parents and I and Phil sat around and played cards. It was Phil who dispelled the moment; Phil, with an acidic, brilliant wisecrack. When I was a kid he taught me practically every card game I know (that's a lot of card games), and his casual irreverence towards just about everything -- always made me laugh. Rudeness can be a virtue. He had it as a drawback, but he also had it as a virtue.
My cousin Andrew -- Uncle Phil's only son -- Andrew cut off contact with Uncle Phil, with our entire side of the family, more than ten years ago. He won't speak to us, any of us. When my grandmother died, Andrew accepted his inheritance, but did not attend the funeral. I've tried to get in touch with Andrew many times, see how he's doing, tell him I love him. He's hard to find. When I think I've found him, I get no answer. Andrew was a sensitive kid, a sweetheart really. It must have been hard for him to have a hard-drinking father who measures masculinity in shooting animals and insulting women. There was a messy divorce there, too, between Phil and Andrew's mother ... I don't think Uncle Phil ever made it easy on Andrew. But he loved his son so much ... Andrew's abandonment hurt him so much. Uncle Phil truly loved his son, and he didn't know how to make it easier. And Andrew must have seen that; he could at least have called, every once in a while.
But I could also have called more. Far more. Far, far more. Uncle Phil has attempted suicide before, I knew he was isolated and hurting. I didn't live close, but I lived in his city and I hardly ever saw him.
When I was last in New York, I had a long conversation with Dad about how I think society shouldn't take too much time trying to "protect" -- shouldn't interfere overmuch with people who are alcoholic or in some other serious mental/addictive trouble. My father came at this conversation from the perspective of someone whose life has been profoundly shaped by alcoholic loved ones. I came at it from a position of privilege. What right do I have to that opinion? What right did I have to give him that opinion? I believe so strongly in leaving people alone, in giving people the freedom to be themselves, even if that includes self-harm. I even believe that as someone who has attempted suicide. But me, my case is privileged. I got support -- long ago -- when I was rough around the edges; and I've never been badly hurt by someone else's self-harm. Are my politics cold, heartless, hypocritical -- what right do I have to believe these things?
Dad was closed off when I talked to him, shut down, hurting so much, I could hear it in his voice and all I could say was that I love him and I miss him ... but I know it's not enough.
When my mother called me with the news, I said I felt guilty and Mom said, "I knew you'd say that." I have to feel that way, don't I? I'd be inhuman if I didn't. A monster. I knew he was in trouble. I lived in the same city and I hardly ever saw him. I don't deserve half the happiness and centeredness and health and affection and luck I feel in my life right now, all through my life ... not even half ... and I knew Phil didn't have much support and I could have helped.
Cousin Andrew cut off his father ... cut him off entirely. I've felt the emotional need to cut people off in the past. I've done it. It can be so necessary to cut people off; I believe that. But this. How are my parents even going to get in touch with Andrew to let him know? How is Andrew going to feel when he understands he can never reconcile, can never talk to his father again? I can't even imagine. I try to ensure that the people I care about know how much I love them. This is a priority for me. I can't stand the idea that someone I love wouldn't know, wouldn't recognize how I feel, wouldn't know my support is there. And this story ... makes me afraid.
... If I may distract from this moment for a meta-livejournal aside ... my "shocked" mood fox looks just like all the "pleased" mood foxes. I want better foxes. Oh wait, I can relabel other mood foxes with new emotions. Sweet, the "blank" mood fox looks much closer to how I feel right now, and I can call it "shaken". How great is it that I can use Internet social media to nicely approximate my emotional state right now? God, what a world we live in.
Am I allowed to be sarcastic right now, ridiculous, laugh at shadows? Is that allowed? I think it is. But I have to ask.
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Thursday, March 12th, 2009
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The other naif [that is, besides Henri Rousseau] whom Surrealism especially admired was not a painter but a builder who, in the obscurity of his own country garden, created what was perhaps the most elaborate, beautiful, and mysterious "unofficial" work of art made by any nineteenth-century artist. He was Ferdinand Cheval, a postman or facteur in the village of Hauterives, about forty miles from Lyon. The Facteur Cheval (as he is usually called) had done nothing remarkable for forty-three years of his life. But one day in 1879, on his delivery round, he picked up a pebble. It was a piece of the local greyish-white molasse or tufa, gnarled and lumpy, about four inches long -- his "stone of escape", as he later called it. He put it in his pocket and, from then on, began first to collect more odd-looking stones, then tiles, oyster-shells, bits of glass, wire, iron, and other junk. Back in his garden, he began to lay foundations and build walls. He was, by his own account, bored of "walking forever in the same decor", and so:
... to distract my thoughts, I constructed in my dreams a faëry palace, surpassing all imagination, everything the genius of a humble man could imagine (with grottoes, gardens, towers, castles, museums and sculptures), trying to bring to a new birth all the ancient architectures of primitive times; the whole thing so beautiful and picturesque that the images of it remained alive in my brain for ten years at least ... but the distance from dream to reality is great; I had never touched a mason's trowel ... and I was totally ignorant of the rules of architecture.
He began to take a wheelbarrow on his rounds, collecting more and more of the bizarre stones of the region, rock-collecting by night, building in the morning and evening, delivering letters by day, and sleeping very little. This routine went on for a third of a century. The result, the Facteur's Ideal Palace, contained all his ideas -- mostly built, like the Douanier Rousseau's, on pictures he had seen in magazines, photos, and almanacs like the Magasin Pittoresque -- about the "true origins" of ancient Greek, Assyrian, and Egyptian architecture, with side-glances at the Taj Mahal, the Maison Carrée in Algiers, the mosques of Cairo, the White House, and the Amazon Jungle. Dark grottoes (which the Facteur called "Hecatombs", meaning today "Catacombs") ran through it, and wild bristlings of minarets and sculptured palms crowned its towers. Almost every surface that was not ornamented with the writhing effusions of the Facteur's imagination carried an inscription: "Interior of an Imaginary Palace: the pantheon of an obscure hero. The end of a dream, where fantasy becomes reality." "The work of giants." "Remember: will is power." And, very movingly:
For forty years I dug
to make this faery palace
rise from the earth.
For my idea's sake, my body has confronted all:
time, ridicule, the years.
Life is a swift charger
but my thought will live on in this rock.
It took this proud and certain man, by his own reckoning, 10,000 working days (or a total of 93,000 hours) to finish his Ideal Palace. When he did so in 1912, he at once set to work on the construction of his tomb in a cemetery nearby, which he also finished well before his death, at the age of eighty-eight, in 1924. Thus Breton and the other Surrealists could have met him, though they did not; it is not known when they first went to Hauterives, but the Palais Idéal immediately became one of the sacred spots of the surrealist world. Max Ernst made a collage in praise of the Facteur Cheval, and Breton wrote a poem about him (a companion piece to the verses Apollinaire had written on the Douanier Rousseau). This, it appeared, was the palace of the unconscious mind that no architect had ever built, a nearly sublime fantasy in which the formal means of Edwardian garden-builders -- grottoes, stones, shells -- had suddenly shot up to the heights of obsession and revelation.
(Pages 229-231, Robert Hughes' The Shock of the New: Second Edition, 1980. Evidence of Cheval's work is easy enough to find!)
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Latest t-shirt idea:
"I eat my young"
Also, I'm in New York and I'm realizing I've never actually been to a New York City goth club. Didn't I grow up here or something? I guess, in retrospect, it took me a long time to start really enjoying nightclubs. Wow. Suddenly I'm getting one of those "who am I?" moments that I get when I start thinking about what I've done with my life so far .... Philosophy/Religion/Studio Art degree? Fantasy game design career? Chairman of the Board at a housing cooperative? Gender studies nerd? Antiquarian bookstore girl?
Eh, I guess it all fits together pretty well actually. I'm stereotypical when I think about it.
Anyway. Sudden Poll! Goth club recommendations in New York City!
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Monday, February 23rd, 2009
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... Okay, yeah, I've been busy. :grin: I'm exhausted and loopy and don't even really have time to be writing this post. Oh well.
Recently I was sitting around with Mr. Ben and he told me about this great idea: custom trophies with absurd etched plaques. You know how you can get custom trophies, right -- with your exact name, or your contest's winner's name, or the position of your organization, or whatever, on them? Like, you can commission a trophy that says "First place in Lydia's Awesome Contest: Ferret!"
So, here's the idea: commission trophies with much better plaques. One of my favorite concepts was a trophy saying, "For Christ's sake." Or perhaps, if you still want to make these trophies look like awards, you could try one labeled "Sodomite". There were many other brilliant ideas but I hate to poison the well, so, without further ado:
Sudden Poll! Give me your best trophy plaque idea. If you need a mental image for trophies on which to put legends, try looking here -- all kinds of options, including trophies with movable parts and trophies that wobble and trophies that take dumb arty shapes and and and ....
Bonus points if you can come up with plaques that do particularly well with these terrifying bobble-head trophies, or these astoundingly tacky purple girly star trophies, or some of the "antique" ones such as the poker hand.
...
Right, my stolen computer. So here's what happened. I was sitting on a moving El train (specifically, the Red Line) late at night, using my computer, and absorbed in something I was writing. As the train pulled to a stop at Sox-35, a dude standing next to me suddenly grabbed my computer and raced out the doors just as they opened. I chased him, shouting, but he got away. That's about it. It was a frustrating encounter and it was personal and it really, really sucked -- but I'm sorry people were worried about me, because nothing too awful happened. It's not like he directly attacked me physically or threatened me with bodily harm or anything. I think I would probably rather have been stabbed or badly beaten than lost my computer, but oh well. Grass is always greener and all that. At least I didn't lose a limb or get raped.
What mostly sucks is that I lost (a) eight months of journal entries and (b) my entire most recent short story. The journal entries really hurt -- they chronicled rough patches but also some amazing times in my life, during which I felt really hopeful and well-developed and whole. The story is really bad too -- not just the story was lost but my entire outline, and it was the most complicated story I've ever tried to write ... I don't even know how to start reconstituting it.
The police thought I was a total naïve little princess, and maybe I am, but I mean. I was actively using my computer ... on a moving train ... in the midst of many people. It simply never occurred to me that it would be stolen under those circumstances.
I have a new Mac now. It does not run Classic. Heartbreak.
Just in case anyone Googles the serial number for my old computer for some reason (I can't imagine why anyone would do this, but stranger things have happened), it's UV4330HQRD7. That's my computer you have there, fella. Don't suppose you'd consider letting me try to mine the hard drive for my files, even if it's been wiped? Please? I'd be happy to pay for the privilege.
...
Star Trek-inspired corsets
Anthropologist's war death reverberates: reflections on the Human Terrain Teams
Have I mentioned the Human Terrain Teams before? They're so cool. And this is such a great article. I love warfare ethics, and this has made me think about some topics I hadn't considered for a while. I should email my college philosophy prof and see what he thinks about the Human Terrain Teams ....
As part of a new military program that uses social scientists to improve the troops' understanding of the local population, Loyd began interviewing a gregarious stranger who approached her with a jug of cooking fuel in his hands ... just as her guards motioned it was time to leave, he lit his jug on fire and engulfed the 36-year-old Loyd in flames.
Minutes later, her fellow researcher shot and killed the man, adding a violent coda to a case that has already increased debate about the worsening conditions in Afghanistan and the military's attempt to use social science to cure insurgency.
The attack on Loyd, who died in a Texas hospital on Jan. 7 after a two-month struggle for her life, has reverberated from the Wellesley campus, where people grieve for the energetic scholar who seemed to be a natural peacemaker, to national academic circles, where anthropologists carry on a heated debate over whether social scientists should be working for the military, to the Afghan mountains, where soldiers vow to give meaning to her death by fighting on.
Some dude that Publishers Weekly seems to think is important calls for redefinition of "the book"
In a talk entitled “A book is a place…” Stein argued that the traditional conception of a book as an object “used to move ideas around time and space” is no longer accurate.
He argued that a reader’s ability to comment on a text suggests that the hierarchy between the writers and readers is false. By commenting on a text, either scribbled in a bound book or as a comment posted online to a digital text, the reader places him or herself in a parallel role to that of the author. Stein proposed the new definition of a book as “a place where readers (and sometimes authors) congregate.”
Wow. The Internet really has totally revolutionized the way we think about all media. I love it so much.
My new favorite museum: the Museum of Broken Relationships
The individual gets rid of ‘controversial objects’, triggers of momentarily ‘undesirable’ emotions, by turning them into museum exhibits, and thereby participating in the creation of a preserved collective emotional history.
The museum has everything from romantic and touching letters to different gifts given to lovers like teddy bears and photos, but also such unusual examples as leg prosthesis donated by a war veteran who fell in love with his physiotherapist or a gall stone. Every single object on display is anonymous, and has a description / story related to the relationship that was behind. After the success of the first display in Zagreb this unique museum is touring the world.
Unbelievably hilarious foreign movie posters
Most movie posters are boring as hell. It's always some Photoshop of the stars, and maybe an explosion thrown in if it's an action movie.
Or at least, that's the way they are in America. Go to Eastern Europe, or Japan, and you'll find posters that have absolutely nothing to do with the film, and everything to do with melting a hole in your brain.
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working.
shaken.