Despite my best intentions, I've become a planner.
I wasn't always this way. Growing up, the day could just as easily been spent on the beach or in the library. Waking up, I never really knew what was in store for me, and I tended to just go with the flow. This was the sort of mentality that you had to have growing up in a beach town. Especially one where the surf report could make or break your afternoon.
Meanwhile, I was steadily being pumped full of potential. I've always thought that if you start out with more than a speck of talent, the people around you will fill you up with the idea of brilliance so fast that you have choice but to become capable. Destined for big things. People start with a small amount of potential, and the rest is artificially implanted.
Along the way, I got an ego. A big one. A particularly dangerous one because it was based on my ability to figure people out quickly. I could read them, know their goals, fears and methods in a short amount of time. I say particularly dangerous because it allowed me the means to manipulate people.
I've looked for a lighter phrase than that. I can't find one.
It seems that just by knowing how to get certain reactions out of people, you instantly become sinister. Even the most well-meaning thing is diluted by the fact that you don't have to wonder whether the person can be persuaded. You know exactly what to say and do to make them jump to your side. Having that knowledge means that you lack a certain innocence about the whole process.
It occurred to me that there's something I haven't heard talked about ever in regards to ethics: living without an agenda.
My adolescent surfer brain loves the idea - no plans, no rules, etc. There's certainly freedom in it. But the harder part of it would be to enter into every relationship with zero expectations. This is something I struggle with, especially with girls, but it's something that I've recently come to admire so strongly that I almost have no other choice but to adhere to it. I'm being naturally drawn to it. I'm reverting back to my teenage self where meeting someone new meant I could either have a new friend or not, and the outcome didn't make me break a sweat. I wasn't caught up in impressing or looking into the future of this person. I was a blank slate ready to be written on, and if the person chose not to pick up the pen, I was no worse off for it.
During college, I was devastated if people didn't pick up the pen. I questioned what was wrong with me, why I wasn't getting affirmation, why life was so terrible and cruel. See, the flip-side to being able to read people is being wrong about them. And it happens enough to shake your confidence. Without expectations, there's nothing to throw you off your game.
Because there is no game.
Your not playing with another person. Instead, you're just standing with them alone in a field tossing the ball around and chatting about how nice the sunset looks. And it's pretty much impossible to be disappointed by a sunset.
It's also much easier to wait for someone to show you what to expect from them than to place the burden on them with a handshake.
26 February 2008
The Sextant
I'm willing to admit that I've never been that great at navigating.
For one, I usually write down the directions to a place in the vaguest possible way, using symbols and abbreviating street names. Forget about even jotting down the miles between each turn. It seems so frivolous to me - to know exactly how far down the next street you're looking for is.
And yet without knowing how far you have to go, you're just looking around trying to spot your destination - not really keeping your eyes on the road.
I remember in my third or fourth week in Los Angeles, I wanted to go to Pink's Hot Dogs to try one of their historic, iconic dogs. The place has been open before the invention of agriculture and catered (and still does) to the big stars of the day. Since I was still in tourist mode, I really wanted to soak in LA culture - and this is just another part of it.
So I set out from my place with some poorly written directions and headed out. I hit La Brea just off 3rd and started making my way through traffic north toward Hollywood Blvd. Pink's is a smaller building, sort of hard to see, but their sign is large and memorable. Still, I didn't see it. I had been driving for several blocks and I felt totally lost. I still didn't know the city well, my directions were lousy and it should have been just up ahead on the left. I should have been, I thought, always just on the next block. But it wasn't, and I was starting to get worried that I had gone too far.
It may seem like worry is an odd reaction to not seeing a hot dog stand, but if you've ever driven in LA, you understand that having to turn around or find an alternate way to get to where you're going, especially when you've only been there a month, is like being asked to parallel park a monster truck into a teacup.
The worry spread. It grew and locked in on my whole body until I was convinced that I had passed it - that I had gone too far. The feeling was so real, and I had so convinced myself that it was true, that I made the decision to turn around. I just needed the right street and a little access to pull around and head back down La Brea.
And then I spotted it. Just a block ahead on the left.
This is a really common story in my life. Maybe because I write terrible directions, maybe because it's just human nature, but it seems that at the very moment I give up hope, I find what I'm looking for.
For one, I usually write down the directions to a place in the vaguest possible way, using symbols and abbreviating street names. Forget about even jotting down the miles between each turn. It seems so frivolous to me - to know exactly how far down the next street you're looking for is.
And yet without knowing how far you have to go, you're just looking around trying to spot your destination - not really keeping your eyes on the road.
I remember in my third or fourth week in Los Angeles, I wanted to go to Pink's Hot Dogs to try one of their historic, iconic dogs. The place has been open before the invention of agriculture and catered (and still does) to the big stars of the day. Since I was still in tourist mode, I really wanted to soak in LA culture - and this is just another part of it.
So I set out from my place with some poorly written directions and headed out. I hit La Brea just off 3rd and started making my way through traffic north toward Hollywood Blvd. Pink's is a smaller building, sort of hard to see, but their sign is large and memorable. Still, I didn't see it. I had been driving for several blocks and I felt totally lost. I still didn't know the city well, my directions were lousy and it should have been just up ahead on the left. I should have been, I thought, always just on the next block. But it wasn't, and I was starting to get worried that I had gone too far.
It may seem like worry is an odd reaction to not seeing a hot dog stand, but if you've ever driven in LA, you understand that having to turn around or find an alternate way to get to where you're going, especially when you've only been there a month, is like being asked to parallel park a monster truck into a teacup.
The worry spread. It grew and locked in on my whole body until I was convinced that I had passed it - that I had gone too far. The feeling was so real, and I had so convinced myself that it was true, that I made the decision to turn around. I just needed the right street and a little access to pull around and head back down La Brea.
And then I spotted it. Just a block ahead on the left.
This is a really common story in my life. Maybe because I write terrible directions, maybe because it's just human nature, but it seems that at the very moment I give up hope, I find what I'm looking for.
Jolly Old
"If you bring forth what is inside you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is inside you, what you bring forth will destroy you."
Throughout college I groaned whenever people would talk about finding themselves. I remember a particularly aggravating instance in a coffee shop known as Common Grounds, where this guy Jeff told me that he really felt like he was finding out who he was because of college. He really felt this connection to his classes, he was being challenged and he thought that his real personality was shining through finally. He blathered on and on about this for sometime while I feigned interest and wondered why all coffee shops have to be named using a caffeinated play on words.
You may find me unfeeling about this brand of self-revelation, but it's because I just don't buy it. I don't buy the concept that who we are is something decided outside of us. That who we are is some sort of present, offered up on a silver platter for us to either accept or deny. If the real me is deep inside waiting to be found, who is the person that's doing the searching?
Maybe I'm splitting hairs about a cliche - of course what my friend really means is that he's exploring worldly options and figuring out what sort of things attract him the most. He's really finding the world, not finding himself. Jeff was a philosopher major though, so every week he had found a new version of himself - attempting to find the middle path in January and then striving to become an ubermensch in April.
I had another illuminating conversation with a close friend of mine about changing focus in life - the idea that what you find important might not be that important. I suggested he shift his focus a bit if he was unhappy, and responded that he didn't think it was in his nature. As if who he was was an inescapable fact, never to be changed. His nature was a ball and chain, some albatross slung around his neck for him to endure.
The problem is, I can't really prove them wrong.
I suppose it's because it's an uphill battle against what we're naturally inclined to do. A certain way of life is just easier for us to handle, even when it comes with pain and baggage. But should inertia be the only reason we remain the way we are?
The quote I listed above is from a wise man who has been quoted all over the place. I'm not sure why, but this quote concomitantly gives me hope and irritates me. It speaks of an infinite optimism, that if we just look inside ourselves, what we live for will bring us great joy. But the part about what's inside me bothers me. Maybe it speaks to a larger problem I have with religion, a lack of control, the idea that who I am is predetermined. It also seems to mix metaphors - telling me to work against my nature and to seek my true one. To battle uphill to find what comes easiest to me.
Depending on how you believe, the author of the quote is either Jesus Christ or his nephew Thomas pretending that it was Jesus Christ in a futile attempt to be featured in The Bible.
The quote does have a great impact, I think, though. In either case, it's a matter of what we produce that destroys us. It doesn't speak at all about what we bottle up inside. It seems to claim that, no matter what, we cannot help but produce things. They can be a dirty look at someone who we know spoke ill of us, a lack of action when an old lady needs help across the street, a kind word for a friend with a problem, or a phone call home to your mother because you know she misses you. Whether we act or do not, we produce something. We communicate what we're really about. What's inside of us.
I just hope that I have more control of shaping what that is.
Throughout college I groaned whenever people would talk about finding themselves. I remember a particularly aggravating instance in a coffee shop known as Common Grounds, where this guy Jeff told me that he really felt like he was finding out who he was because of college. He really felt this connection to his classes, he was being challenged and he thought that his real personality was shining through finally. He blathered on and on about this for sometime while I feigned interest and wondered why all coffee shops have to be named using a caffeinated play on words.
You may find me unfeeling about this brand of self-revelation, but it's because I just don't buy it. I don't buy the concept that who we are is something decided outside of us. That who we are is some sort of present, offered up on a silver platter for us to either accept or deny. If the real me is deep inside waiting to be found, who is the person that's doing the searching?
Maybe I'm splitting hairs about a cliche - of course what my friend really means is that he's exploring worldly options and figuring out what sort of things attract him the most. He's really finding the world, not finding himself. Jeff was a philosopher major though, so every week he had found a new version of himself - attempting to find the middle path in January and then striving to become an ubermensch in April.
I had another illuminating conversation with a close friend of mine about changing focus in life - the idea that what you find important might not be that important. I suggested he shift his focus a bit if he was unhappy, and responded that he didn't think it was in his nature. As if who he was was an inescapable fact, never to be changed. His nature was a ball and chain, some albatross slung around his neck for him to endure.
The problem is, I can't really prove them wrong.
I suppose it's because it's an uphill battle against what we're naturally inclined to do. A certain way of life is just easier for us to handle, even when it comes with pain and baggage. But should inertia be the only reason we remain the way we are?
The quote I listed above is from a wise man who has been quoted all over the place. I'm not sure why, but this quote concomitantly gives me hope and irritates me. It speaks of an infinite optimism, that if we just look inside ourselves, what we live for will bring us great joy. But the part about what's inside me bothers me. Maybe it speaks to a larger problem I have with religion, a lack of control, the idea that who I am is predetermined. It also seems to mix metaphors - telling me to work against my nature and to seek my true one. To battle uphill to find what comes easiest to me.
Depending on how you believe, the author of the quote is either Jesus Christ or his nephew Thomas pretending that it was Jesus Christ in a futile attempt to be featured in The Bible.
The quote does have a great impact, I think, though. In either case, it's a matter of what we produce that destroys us. It doesn't speak at all about what we bottle up inside. It seems to claim that, no matter what, we cannot help but produce things. They can be a dirty look at someone who we know spoke ill of us, a lack of action when an old lady needs help across the street, a kind word for a friend with a problem, or a phone call home to your mother because you know she misses you. Whether we act or do not, we produce something. We communicate what we're really about. What's inside of us.
I just hope that I have more control of shaping what that is.
Shining Right Above You
Here's the thing: people aren't going to like you.
Most of our lives are going to be spent battling uphill to make sure that people enjoy us or to maintain connections with people that do. For some reason or another, most people I meet have their default set at distrust. Maybe it's because we've all been hurt too many times before or maybe we're afraid of laying ourselves bare for another human. It might even be that a relationship might sound like too much work to endure. But we have to.
Most art in my mind is a process of being embedded with other people and retreating to collect your thoughts on it all. There's a long list of artists who have said this in much clearer or more poetic ways. I think that it rings true with artists because they are so in tune with judging society. It's their job to reflect what's going on, and in order to do that, one must keep one's eyes open at all times.
Sometimes I find myself thinking in plot lines and dialog.
One thing I struggle with is being on the wrong side of it, though. Apologizing has never been my strong suit, but then again, who is really good at it? As you can probably tell, I screwed up recently, which is why the idea of being out of favor is on my mind. But it's led me to an even greater question about friendship.
How many fights have you had with your friends? I can only remember a few. It speaks to the even flow of my relationships with certain people. We seem to get along without effort. I'm not sure what that says about them. After all, we're supposed to define ourselves by struggle. Don't we grow in our relationships after a fight? Isn't reconciliation a sign of maturity? And in order to have that, you have to have something to reconcile.
The greater question on my mind now is how deep that struggle should be.
The first night I met my friend James, he and I clicked instantly. We've been that way ever since. I honestly can't remember a real fight we've had. I can't remember a single time that one of us slighted the other. Our friendship has been effortless. We've driven to see each other, kept in phone conversations, and I've bothered him while he's in law school classes, but it's never been what I consider work to remain his friend.
The summer after junior year of college, I was sitting on the beach having my first fight ever with my best friend Anand. We were in Corpus during a break, seeing each other for the first time in semesters and decided to watch Closer. We saw the movie with different eyes, but it wasn't that we disagreed with each other that mattered. It was how we spoke to each other. We didn't give each other any room to breathe, any leverage in the argument. We cooled off and decided to drive to the beach with some beer and cigarettes - a perfect remedy.
Only, we didn't really talk until the fight started. That tension that rests between two people was keeping our tongues hostage. I don't remember anything about the fight itself, except afterward I was worried that we weren't friends anymore. It seems childish now (we never really lose that childish view of getting friends) but we'd never fought before. I wanted to know what it meant. I wanted to know if we'd changed irrevocably. I wanted to feel like we were perfect again, but I knew that we'd crossed a certain threshold and couldn't go back.
He took a drag and said calmly, "No, we'll be alright."
There was something in the reassurance of his voice. He was so confident that it didn't matter. We had grown in different directions, but he knew, somehow, that things were going to be fine. I imagine he'd seen the future of us playing checkers on a porch in our late 120s, he spoke so plainly.
And I believed him.
I bring all this up not to be auto-biographical, but because I think they are all common moments to us, to friends. Some friendships are easy, some are hard. Nothing groundbreaking there.
But when do you know when to give up? When is it just too much work to earn the privilege of calling yourself 'friend'?
Most of our lives are going to be spent battling uphill to make sure that people enjoy us or to maintain connections with people that do. For some reason or another, most people I meet have their default set at distrust. Maybe it's because we've all been hurt too many times before or maybe we're afraid of laying ourselves bare for another human. It might even be that a relationship might sound like too much work to endure. But we have to.
Most art in my mind is a process of being embedded with other people and retreating to collect your thoughts on it all. There's a long list of artists who have said this in much clearer or more poetic ways. I think that it rings true with artists because they are so in tune with judging society. It's their job to reflect what's going on, and in order to do that, one must keep one's eyes open at all times.
Sometimes I find myself thinking in plot lines and dialog.
One thing I struggle with is being on the wrong side of it, though. Apologizing has never been my strong suit, but then again, who is really good at it? As you can probably tell, I screwed up recently, which is why the idea of being out of favor is on my mind. But it's led me to an even greater question about friendship.
How many fights have you had with your friends? I can only remember a few. It speaks to the even flow of my relationships with certain people. We seem to get along without effort. I'm not sure what that says about them. After all, we're supposed to define ourselves by struggle. Don't we grow in our relationships after a fight? Isn't reconciliation a sign of maturity? And in order to have that, you have to have something to reconcile.
The greater question on my mind now is how deep that struggle should be.
The first night I met my friend James, he and I clicked instantly. We've been that way ever since. I honestly can't remember a real fight we've had. I can't remember a single time that one of us slighted the other. Our friendship has been effortless. We've driven to see each other, kept in phone conversations, and I've bothered him while he's in law school classes, but it's never been what I consider work to remain his friend.
The summer after junior year of college, I was sitting on the beach having my first fight ever with my best friend Anand. We were in Corpus during a break, seeing each other for the first time in semesters and decided to watch Closer. We saw the movie with different eyes, but it wasn't that we disagreed with each other that mattered. It was how we spoke to each other. We didn't give each other any room to breathe, any leverage in the argument. We cooled off and decided to drive to the beach with some beer and cigarettes - a perfect remedy.
Only, we didn't really talk until the fight started. That tension that rests between two people was keeping our tongues hostage. I don't remember anything about the fight itself, except afterward I was worried that we weren't friends anymore. It seems childish now (we never really lose that childish view of getting friends) but we'd never fought before. I wanted to know what it meant. I wanted to know if we'd changed irrevocably. I wanted to feel like we were perfect again, but I knew that we'd crossed a certain threshold and couldn't go back.
He took a drag and said calmly, "No, we'll be alright."
There was something in the reassurance of his voice. He was so confident that it didn't matter. We had grown in different directions, but he knew, somehow, that things were going to be fine. I imagine he'd seen the future of us playing checkers on a porch in our late 120s, he spoke so plainly.
And I believed him.
I bring all this up not to be auto-biographical, but because I think they are all common moments to us, to friends. Some friendships are easy, some are hard. Nothing groundbreaking there.
But when do you know when to give up? When is it just too much work to earn the privilege of calling yourself 'friend'?
Stealing from Klosterman 7
Q:
You are offered a Brain Pill. If you swallow this pill, you will become 10 percent more intelligent than you currently are; you will be more adept at reading comprehension, logic, and critical thinking. However, to all other people you know (and to all future people you meet), you will seem 20 percent less intelligent. In other words, you will immediately become smarter, but the rest of the world will perceive you as dumber (and there is now way you can ever alter the universality of this perception).
Do you take this pill?
Short answer: Yes.
1) I'd be able to do things faster and comprehend more. I might even be able to learn another language finally - something I've struggled with for a long time. My math skills would increase, I'd be able to read more books a year, and hopefully I'd be able to write with more precision.
2) If people thought I was dumber, I wouldn't have to deal with the pressure of potential as much.
3) Downside? I'd probably be a lot sadder. Ignorance is bliss and all that.
You are offered a Brain Pill. If you swallow this pill, you will become 10 percent more intelligent than you currently are; you will be more adept at reading comprehension, logic, and critical thinking. However, to all other people you know (and to all future people you meet), you will seem 20 percent less intelligent. In other words, you will immediately become smarter, but the rest of the world will perceive you as dumber (and there is now way you can ever alter the universality of this perception).
Do you take this pill?
Short answer: Yes.
1) I'd be able to do things faster and comprehend more. I might even be able to learn another language finally - something I've struggled with for a long time. My math skills would increase, I'd be able to read more books a year, and hopefully I'd be able to write with more precision.
2) If people thought I was dumber, I wouldn't have to deal with the pressure of potential as much.
3) Downside? I'd probably be a lot sadder. Ignorance is bliss and all that.
Stealing from Klosterman 6
Q:
You have been wrongly accused of a horrific crime: Due to a bizarre collision of unfortunate circumstances and insane coincidences, it appears that you have murdered a prominent U.S. senator, his beautiful young wife, and both of their infant children. Now, you did not do this, but you are indicted and brought to trial.
Predictably, the criminal proceedings are a national sensation (on par with the 1994 O.J. Simpson trial). It's on television constantly, and it's the lead story in most newspapers for almost a year. The prosecuting attorney is a charming genius; sadly, your defense team lacks creativity and panache. To make matters worse, the jury is a collection of easily confused sheep. You are found guilty and sentenced to four consecutive life terms with virtually no hope for parole (and - since there were no procedural mistakes during the proceedings - an appeal is hopeless).
This being the case, you are (obviously) disappointed.
However, as you leave the courtroom (and in the days immediately following the verdict), something becomes clear; the "court of public opinion" has overwhelmingly found you innocent. Over 95 percent of the country believes you are not guilty. Noted media personalities have declared this scenario "the ultimate legal tragedy." So you are going to spend the rest of your life amidst the general population of a maximum-security prison...but you are innocent, and everyone seems to know this.
Does this knowledge make you feel (a) better, (b) no different, or (c) worse?
Wow. It's tough to get into the mindset of this situation because it's so tragic. Especially to think of it happening to yourself. I also can't even begin to imagine my mindset throughout the whole process. I'd be distraught beyong belief, as I'm sure anyone else would be.
I think if the court of public opinion's verdict didn't change my sentence in any meaningful way, it would be tough to consider a factor. I think it would make me happy that a large amount of people considered me innocent. It wouldn't frustrate me - I think the blunt force of being found guilty of a horrific multiple-homocide and faced with an eternity behind bars would have hardened me beyond frustration.
If people did think of me as innocent, I might be able to communicate more with the outside world. I might even be able to write a book about the whole ordeal and sell it. Or continue to write books and get them published. Now that I think about it, I might be able to live out a fairly decent life (sans the constant workout yard fights I would get into) as a writer. In today's culture of tragedy and survivorism, people worship those who have been put through the ringer. People who have been put through things that they can't imagine. Stuff that shouldn't happen to anyone. And this would definitely qualify. I could find a publisher in no time - because I wouldn't be a normal criminal. I'd be innocent, and everyone loves to hear the story of an innocent man.
New York Times best seller list here I come.
Thanks prison!
You have been wrongly accused of a horrific crime: Due to a bizarre collision of unfortunate circumstances and insane coincidences, it appears that you have murdered a prominent U.S. senator, his beautiful young wife, and both of their infant children. Now, you did not do this, but you are indicted and brought to trial.
Predictably, the criminal proceedings are a national sensation (on par with the 1994 O.J. Simpson trial). It's on television constantly, and it's the lead story in most newspapers for almost a year. The prosecuting attorney is a charming genius; sadly, your defense team lacks creativity and panache. To make matters worse, the jury is a collection of easily confused sheep. You are found guilty and sentenced to four consecutive life terms with virtually no hope for parole (and - since there were no procedural mistakes during the proceedings - an appeal is hopeless).
This being the case, you are (obviously) disappointed.
However, as you leave the courtroom (and in the days immediately following the verdict), something becomes clear; the "court of public opinion" has overwhelmingly found you innocent. Over 95 percent of the country believes you are not guilty. Noted media personalities have declared this scenario "the ultimate legal tragedy." So you are going to spend the rest of your life amidst the general population of a maximum-security prison...but you are innocent, and everyone seems to know this.
Does this knowledge make you feel (a) better, (b) no different, or (c) worse?
Wow. It's tough to get into the mindset of this situation because it's so tragic. Especially to think of it happening to yourself. I also can't even begin to imagine my mindset throughout the whole process. I'd be distraught beyong belief, as I'm sure anyone else would be.
I think if the court of public opinion's verdict didn't change my sentence in any meaningful way, it would be tough to consider a factor. I think it would make me happy that a large amount of people considered me innocent. It wouldn't frustrate me - I think the blunt force of being found guilty of a horrific multiple-homocide and faced with an eternity behind bars would have hardened me beyond frustration.
If people did think of me as innocent, I might be able to communicate more with the outside world. I might even be able to write a book about the whole ordeal and sell it. Or continue to write books and get them published. Now that I think about it, I might be able to live out a fairly decent life (sans the constant workout yard fights I would get into) as a writer. In today's culture of tragedy and survivorism, people worship those who have been put through the ringer. People who have been put through things that they can't imagine. Stuff that shouldn't happen to anyone. And this would definitely qualify. I could find a publisher in no time - because I wouldn't be a normal criminal. I'd be innocent, and everyone loves to hear the story of an innocent man.
New York Times best seller list here I come.
Thanks prison!
13 February 2008
Stealing from Klosterman 5
Q:
You work in an office, performing a job you find satisfying (and which compensates you adequately). The company that employs you is suddenly purchased by an eccentric millionare who plans to immediately raise each person's salary by 5 percent and extend an extra week of vacation to all full-time employees.
However, this new owner intends to enforce a somewhat radical dress code: every day, men will have to wear tuxedos, tails, and top hats (during the summer months, male employees will be allowed to wear gray three-piece suits on "casual Fridays"). Women must exclusively work in formal wear, preferably ball gowns or prom dresses. Each employee will be given an annual $500 stipend to purchase necessary garments, but that money can only be spent on work-related clothing.
The new regime starts in three months.
Do you seek employment elsewhere?
I decided to tackle this one right before to bed because it's easy.
Of course, I don't seek employment elsewhere. Not only that, but I think I have a good idea about how I'll be running my company after it starts up.
Only I'll get to wear a monocle because I'll be the boss.
You work in an office, performing a job you find satisfying (and which compensates you adequately). The company that employs you is suddenly purchased by an eccentric millionare who plans to immediately raise each person's salary by 5 percent and extend an extra week of vacation to all full-time employees.
However, this new owner intends to enforce a somewhat radical dress code: every day, men will have to wear tuxedos, tails, and top hats (during the summer months, male employees will be allowed to wear gray three-piece suits on "casual Fridays"). Women must exclusively work in formal wear, preferably ball gowns or prom dresses. Each employee will be given an annual $500 stipend to purchase necessary garments, but that money can only be spent on work-related clothing.
The new regime starts in three months.
Do you seek employment elsewhere?
I decided to tackle this one right before to bed because it's easy.
Of course, I don't seek employment elsewhere. Not only that, but I think I have a good idea about how I'll be running my company after it starts up.
Only I'll get to wear a monocle because I'll be the boss.
12 February 2008
Stealing from Klosterman 4
Q:
At the age of thirty, you suffer a blow to the skull. The head trauma leaves you with a rare form of partial amnesia -- though you are otherwise fine, you're completely missing five years from your life. You have no memory of anything that happened between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-eight. That period of your life is completely gone; you have no recollection of anything that occurred during that five-year gap.
You are told by friends and family that -- when you were twenty-five -- you (supposedly) became close friends with someone you met on the street. You possess numerous photos of you and this person, and everyone in your life insists that this individual was your best friend for over two years. You were (allegedly) inseparable. In fact, you find several old letters and e-mails from this person that vaguely indicate you may have even shared a brief romantic relationship. But something happened between you and this individual when you were twenty-seven, and the friendship abruptly ended (and apparently - you never told anyone what caused this schism, so it remains a mystery to all). The friend moved away soon after the incident, wholly disappearing from your day-to-day life. But you have no memory of any of this. Within the context of your own mind, this person never even existed. There is tangible proof that you deeply loved this friend, but -- whenever you look at their photograph -- all you see is a stranger.
Six weeks after your accident, you are informed that this person has suddenly died.
How sad do you feel?
This is the sort of situation that acts as a base for a romantic comedy or love drama. I think I love that about it. My first inclination is that I'd not really feel sad at all. I'd feel just about as sad as I would if I heard that a cousin of an acquaintance's friend had died. It's sad in a universal way, but there's no real personal connection. The photos and letters would be like getting to know a plot line from a television show. Seeing myself as a character. I imagine part of having five years of my life erased from my memory would be a lot like that.
Five years is a serious amount of time. In re-reading my thought emails from less than a year ago, I'm surprised at where my head was at. Five years ago, I was 18 years old, and I was in my second semester at Baylor. Where were you? How much would you have changed between now and then?
It would be difficult to see myself during that time as "me".
It's tough to even figure out what seeing someone else in my life would be like.
And now to reveal my insanity.
If I read through the letters, saw the photos, talked to friends about my relationship, I'd start to see myself and that close friend as characters the same I would any characters from a book or movie. And since it's me, I'd already relate to and love the main character, and most likely, my friend.
So I'd be about as sad about that friend dying as I would finding out that Edward Bloom from Big Fish was dead or Superman had passed. That is actually sadder than you'd imagine.
Of course we all know that Superman actually settled down with Lois Lane and changed his name in order to avoid the pitfalls of super hero life in "Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?".
But I digress.
At the age of thirty, you suffer a blow to the skull. The head trauma leaves you with a rare form of partial amnesia -- though you are otherwise fine, you're completely missing five years from your life. You have no memory of anything that happened between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-eight. That period of your life is completely gone; you have no recollection of anything that occurred during that five-year gap.
You are told by friends and family that -- when you were twenty-five -- you (supposedly) became close friends with someone you met on the street. You possess numerous photos of you and this person, and everyone in your life insists that this individual was your best friend for over two years. You were (allegedly) inseparable. In fact, you find several old letters and e-mails from this person that vaguely indicate you may have even shared a brief romantic relationship. But something happened between you and this individual when you were twenty-seven, and the friendship abruptly ended (and apparently - you never told anyone what caused this schism, so it remains a mystery to all). The friend moved away soon after the incident, wholly disappearing from your day-to-day life. But you have no memory of any of this. Within the context of your own mind, this person never even existed. There is tangible proof that you deeply loved this friend, but -- whenever you look at their photograph -- all you see is a stranger.
Six weeks after your accident, you are informed that this person has suddenly died.
How sad do you feel?
This is the sort of situation that acts as a base for a romantic comedy or love drama. I think I love that about it. My first inclination is that I'd not really feel sad at all. I'd feel just about as sad as I would if I heard that a cousin of an acquaintance's friend had died. It's sad in a universal way, but there's no real personal connection. The photos and letters would be like getting to know a plot line from a television show. Seeing myself as a character. I imagine part of having five years of my life erased from my memory would be a lot like that.
Five years is a serious amount of time. In re-reading my thought emails from less than a year ago, I'm surprised at where my head was at. Five years ago, I was 18 years old, and I was in my second semester at Baylor. Where were you? How much would you have changed between now and then?
It would be difficult to see myself during that time as "me".
It's tough to even figure out what seeing someone else in my life would be like.
And now to reveal my insanity.
If I read through the letters, saw the photos, talked to friends about my relationship, I'd start to see myself and that close friend as characters the same I would any characters from a book or movie. And since it's me, I'd already relate to and love the main character, and most likely, my friend.
So I'd be about as sad about that friend dying as I would finding out that Edward Bloom from Big Fish was dead or Superman had passed. That is actually sadder than you'd imagine.
Of course we all know that Superman actually settled down with Lois Lane and changed his name in order to avoid the pitfalls of super hero life in "Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?".
But I digress.
11 February 2008
Stealing from Klosterman 3
Q:
Assume everything about your musical tastes was reversed overnight. Everything you once loved, you now hate; everything you once hated, you now love. For example, if your favorite band has always been R.E.M., they will suddenly sound awful to you; they will become the band you dislike the most. By the same token, if you've never been remotely interested in the word of Yes and Jethro Tull, those two groups will instantly seem fascinating. If you generally dislike jazz today, you'll generally like jazz tomorrow. If you currently consider the first album by Veruca Salt to be slightly above average, you will abruptly fint it to be slightly below average. Everything will become its opposite, but everything will remain in balance (and the rest of your personality will remain unchanged). So - in all likelihood - you won't love music any less (or any more) than you do right now. There will still be artists you love and who make you happy; they will merely be all the artists you currently find unlistenable.
Now, I conceded that this transformation would make you unhappy.
But explain why.
This transformation would make me unhappy because of a fundamental flaw in the question. It's unreasonable to assume that you could change something so intrinsic without affecting "the rest of my personality". Part of the way that I see myself comes from my musical taste. It is a major part of my self-reflection.
And that's the point being made here. Why do we consider something like artistic taste to have such a high impact on how we see ourselves? After all, art is subjective, but we have trouble operating at that level. There's nothing to suggest that art isn't completely subjective, but as soon as someone says something contrary to our taste, we'll defend it with honor. Some of us, anyway. Others don't mind too much. Oddly enough, this instinct transcends artistic taste. Consider someone who collects records and listens to indie music (like me) and someone who only listens to Top 40 radio plays and has a Maroon 5 poster on his/her (probably her) wall. Make fun of The Mars Volta, and my first instinct is to defend them. But make fun of The Backstreet Boys, and our second person would have the same reaction.
Because we're defending ourselves by defending our tastes.
But if all art is subjective, it shouldn't matter. Part of us knows this and still gets defensive about it because art reflects who we are. We want to portray a certain personality by showcasing who we enjoy listening to.
That's why switching our tastes around would make us unhappy. It would, theoretically, change our self-perception from what it is now to its complete opposite. And who would like that?
I'm trying to come to terms with the subjectivity of it all. To try and rise above the idea of defending bands I like in favor for being neutral and just enjoying.
But even in doing that, I recognize that it's shaping my self-perception. I'm trading elitism for an even stronger version.
And, you know, Jethro Tull really isn't that bad.
Assume everything about your musical tastes was reversed overnight. Everything you once loved, you now hate; everything you once hated, you now love. For example, if your favorite band has always been R.E.M., they will suddenly sound awful to you; they will become the band you dislike the most. By the same token, if you've never been remotely interested in the word of Yes and Jethro Tull, those two groups will instantly seem fascinating. If you generally dislike jazz today, you'll generally like jazz tomorrow. If you currently consider the first album by Veruca Salt to be slightly above average, you will abruptly fint it to be slightly below average. Everything will become its opposite, but everything will remain in balance (and the rest of your personality will remain unchanged). So - in all likelihood - you won't love music any less (or any more) than you do right now. There will still be artists you love and who make you happy; they will merely be all the artists you currently find unlistenable.
Now, I conceded that this transformation would make you unhappy.
But explain why.
This transformation would make me unhappy because of a fundamental flaw in the question. It's unreasonable to assume that you could change something so intrinsic without affecting "the rest of my personality". Part of the way that I see myself comes from my musical taste. It is a major part of my self-reflection.
And that's the point being made here. Why do we consider something like artistic taste to have such a high impact on how we see ourselves? After all, art is subjective, but we have trouble operating at that level. There's nothing to suggest that art isn't completely subjective, but as soon as someone says something contrary to our taste, we'll defend it with honor. Some of us, anyway. Others don't mind too much. Oddly enough, this instinct transcends artistic taste. Consider someone who collects records and listens to indie music (like me) and someone who only listens to Top 40 radio plays and has a Maroon 5 poster on his/her (probably her) wall. Make fun of The Mars Volta, and my first instinct is to defend them. But make fun of The Backstreet Boys, and our second person would have the same reaction.
Because we're defending ourselves by defending our tastes.
But if all art is subjective, it shouldn't matter. Part of us knows this and still gets defensive about it because art reflects who we are. We want to portray a certain personality by showcasing who we enjoy listening to.
That's why switching our tastes around would make us unhappy. It would, theoretically, change our self-perception from what it is now to its complete opposite. And who would like that?
I'm trying to come to terms with the subjectivity of it all. To try and rise above the idea of defending bands I like in favor for being neutral and just enjoying.
But even in doing that, I recognize that it's shaping my self-perception. I'm trading elitism for an even stronger version.
And, you know, Jethro Tull really isn't that bad.
07 February 2008
Stealing from Klosterman 2
Q: Think of someone who is your friend (do not select your best friend, but make sure the person is someone you would classify as "considerably more than an acquaintance").
This friend is going to be attacked by a grizzly bear.
Now, this person will survive this bear attack; that is guaranteed. There is a 100 percent chance that your friend will live. However, the extent of his/her injuries is unknown; he might receive nothing but a few superficial scratches, but he also might lose a thumb (or multiple limbs). He might recover completely in twenty-four hours with nothing but a great story, or he might spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
Somehow, you have the ability to stop this attack from happening. You can magically save your friend from the bear. But his (or her) salvation will come at a peculiar price: if you choose to stop the bear, it will always rain. For the rest of your life, wherever you go, it will be raining. Sometimes it will pour and sometimes it will drizzle - but it will never not be raining. But it won't rain over the totality of the earth, nor will the hydrological cycle be disrupted; these storm clouds will be isolated, and they will focus entirely on your specific whereabouts. You will never see the sun again.
Do you stop the bear and accept a lifetime of rain?
This is, like most trade-off questions, nearly impossible to answer. It pits empathy against self-interest. It also pits a physically harmful conclusion for a friend against an emotionally impacting conclusion for yourself. If the roles were reversed, I'm not sure anyone would choose rain for their friend. The 'correct' answer is to be selfless, to claim that you'd be fine enduring a mostly shallow cost to stop a potentially horrific outcome.
I'm not sure I could live with rain, though.
Since I don't travel as much as I'd like, it would mean it would always be raining on DC. I can't imagine this phenomenon happening without people taking notice. I go to the same office five days a week. It would always be raining over the White House during the week. Logistically, I would be able to deal with constant rain. I would figure out how to live after a while. Always having an umbrella, etc. I don't think the rain is really what matters here - what matters is never seeing the sun. I assume I'd get incurably depressed at a certain point. Which would probably make my writing much better and more prolific.
I chose my friend Marco (just the first person that came to mind), and I can specifically see him turning the experience of a bear attack into something really unique in life. Some people, I could see it destroying them, but even if Marco was in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, he would greet it well.
So it's a toss up between the possibility of him being wheelchair-bound for life, injured to an incredible to degree or the inevitability that I'll have rain on me forever, guaranteed. The possible versus the inevitable.
I choose my friend to be mauled by a bear. That's right. I took the selfish route. Statistically, he could come out unharmed while I most definitely would not. I base the decision partly on who I chose before knowing what the concept was, and I would probably choose rain for several people in my life, but Marco seems strong enough to handle it.
I would hope he'd choose for me to get mauled, too.
This friend is going to be attacked by a grizzly bear.
Now, this person will survive this bear attack; that is guaranteed. There is a 100 percent chance that your friend will live. However, the extent of his/her injuries is unknown; he might receive nothing but a few superficial scratches, but he also might lose a thumb (or multiple limbs). He might recover completely in twenty-four hours with nothing but a great story, or he might spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
Somehow, you have the ability to stop this attack from happening. You can magically save your friend from the bear. But his (or her) salvation will come at a peculiar price: if you choose to stop the bear, it will always rain. For the rest of your life, wherever you go, it will be raining. Sometimes it will pour and sometimes it will drizzle - but it will never not be raining. But it won't rain over the totality of the earth, nor will the hydrological cycle be disrupted; these storm clouds will be isolated, and they will focus entirely on your specific whereabouts. You will never see the sun again.
Do you stop the bear and accept a lifetime of rain?
This is, like most trade-off questions, nearly impossible to answer. It pits empathy against self-interest. It also pits a physically harmful conclusion for a friend against an emotionally impacting conclusion for yourself. If the roles were reversed, I'm not sure anyone would choose rain for their friend. The 'correct' answer is to be selfless, to claim that you'd be fine enduring a mostly shallow cost to stop a potentially horrific outcome.
I'm not sure I could live with rain, though.
Since I don't travel as much as I'd like, it would mean it would always be raining on DC. I can't imagine this phenomenon happening without people taking notice. I go to the same office five days a week. It would always be raining over the White House during the week. Logistically, I would be able to deal with constant rain. I would figure out how to live after a while. Always having an umbrella, etc. I don't think the rain is really what matters here - what matters is never seeing the sun. I assume I'd get incurably depressed at a certain point. Which would probably make my writing much better and more prolific.
I chose my friend Marco (just the first person that came to mind), and I can specifically see him turning the experience of a bear attack into something really unique in life. Some people, I could see it destroying them, but even if Marco was in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, he would greet it well.
So it's a toss up between the possibility of him being wheelchair-bound for life, injured to an incredible to degree or the inevitability that I'll have rain on me forever, guaranteed. The possible versus the inevitable.
I choose my friend to be mauled by a bear. That's right. I took the selfish route. Statistically, he could come out unharmed while I most definitely would not. I base the decision partly on who I chose before knowing what the concept was, and I would probably choose rain for several people in my life, but Marco seems strong enough to handle it.
I would hope he'd choose for me to get mauled, too.
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