When I told you I would write again soon... I lied.*
Granted, it wasn't a case of intentional deceit. It wasn't so much a hollow promise as it was a beautiful, ungraspable dream. Nevertheless, it was a false statement.
Why did I lie? That is, how did it come to be that life wrested control from my hands, such that I failed in this commitment?
I deluded myself into believing that a break meant time to engage in leisurely activities. Foolish.
See, life at Carleton is akin to getting sucked into some sort of whirlpool.
You begin the term with this visualization of a wonderful voyage through the profound waters of intellectualism and idealism. You imagine warm sunlight, the smell of the ocean spray, the rush of cold air filling your lungs to their very depth, the graceful arc of birds in flight, the lush greenery of uncharted lands... everything is vivid, robust... you feel alive and ready for adventure.
Classes? Challenging and exciting!
Volunteer work? Yes! Time to save the world!
Clubs? Join them all!
Friends? Party all day, everyday- or at least when not too busy saving the world.
I will go on strolls through the arb, I will read books in my spare time, I will write thoughtful life-reflections, I will meet new people and develop wonderful new relationships, I will exercise and stay in shape... I can and will do anything and everything! Just try and stop me, life!
This is the state of being one is in when stepping back onto Carletonian grounds- gazing at Willis Hall and the chapel with a smile of appreciation, confidently trekking the road back to "home," which, ironically, will serve as a barge carrying one into new and exciting lands.
Then you set sail.
It begins beautifully. There is the swell of pride and excitement as you embark, filled with hopes and dreams of all the wonderful things to be accomplished, all the adventures to be had, all of the new things to be seen and done. Perhaps there are a few rough patches in the initial sailing adventure- some rough waves that throw you off-balance, but you quickly catch yourself, reassure yourself, and sail on.
Before long though, something strange begins to happen... some force begins to divert the course of your ship... not much... but enough that it strikes you as strange.... Is something awry? But you do your best to suppress the concerns slowly rising to the surface of your mind.
But already, it is too late.
Your ship has chosen dangerous waters for its voyage... Forces far more powerful than you are in control. You find yourself at the edges of a whirlpool; a full-blown, mythical maelstrom.
It begins slowly at first. You stand at the rudder, concentrated on escaping the force drawing your vessel into its orbit.You try to save yourself. You think of the magical lands you were to explore, the exotic creatures you were to encounter, the many dreams which propelled your ship away from land. You try to wrest yourself away from this current, to escape, to sail off and find new lands, but your small ship is too weak, and it falls prey to the force of the vortex.
So there you are, swirling in circles ever-smaller, ever-faster, unyielding, and unstoppable, spinning away into the very heart of an ocean all too eager to claim you as its own...
As the end of term approaches, I find myself getting sucked deeper and deeper into that terrifying vortex. Midterm break was the hope of an escape, a hope that a relent in the current would allow me to escape, or to at least swing into a wider orbit and gain a bit more of time and life. But I was grossly mistaken.
At present, my vessel is whirling away at impossible speeds. It will not be long before the ocean claims me as its own.
That's another way of saying I should really be studying for my linear algebra midterm, or working on my organic chemistry quiz, or working on my ethics paper on the compatibility between utilitarianism and justice, or preparing for my orgo midterm, or working on my linear algebra or organic chemistry problem sets, or figuring out my classes for the next two terms...
Seventh and eighth week are truly akin to finding oneself in the midst of a maelstrom.
And now I must return to my sinking ship.
*Surely it is a worthy philosophical tidbit to ponder: Did I lie? Does lying require the intention of deceit? (I think that seems right.) But what if I was uncertain as to the veracity of the statement, decided to pass it off as a truth claim, and it proved false? Then should it be considered a lie?
Hmmm...
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
How Reflection Is Like (Organic) Chemistry
This here, my writing, right now- it can only be considered miraculous.
It is 8pm, 5th week, on a Thursday night, and all of the necessary schoolwork is complete. I repeat, miraculous.
But let us turn aside from this strange, beautiful occurrence and do a bit of reflecting and whatnot.
Lately I have been contemplating all sorts of interesting questions. Unfortunately, schoolwork and contemplative behavior seem to go less well together than I would like. Perhaps we could make the comparison to trying to dissolve an alcohol in water... The OH group's polarity could represent my drive to dive into the waters of reflection while the mounting pile of schoolwork is analogous to extending the size of the hydrocarbon chain, thereby pulling me out of the refreshing waters I so long for.... But this week I seem to have thrown in some alkane branching and decreased the hydrophobic character of my life. It has been quite splendid.
Today I finished writing a paper for my ethics class on the subject of whether morality and self-interest are reconcilable. For reasons I cannot entirely fathom, I seem to have dropped out of the wrong century, because I align myself pretty nicely with those good old Ancient Greeks in characteristic Annette-idealism. I highly encourage you to read a bit about virtue ethics and the concept of eudaimonia. While I delight in the contemplation of this subject- and would gladly enter into conversation with you, dear reader, on the topic if you so desire, I would rather not dwell into specifics at this point in time. (I am being totally serious. Leave a comment, or email me (martina@carleton.edu), and you can even request to read my paper! Ohh the fun we may have engaged in philosophical discussion! ....Anddd *quenches nerd-outpour*)
Instead, I will leave you with a few quotes that relate to my ideas rather nicely, and which I quite delight in. (Let's play a game! The guess-who-is-going-to-be-quoted game!)
First up, Thoreau. Oh, Thoreau! Aurora!
And, finally, Ayn Rand:
And I am afraid that this is where I will leave you all for now. Hopefully the next time I write (which should be soon) I will tackle some of those to-ponder questions, such as, where would Annette like to study abroad? Or does Annette want to go to medical school, or does she want a life of relative simplicity as a philosopher-teacher? Or, wait, does she want to become some sort of counselor or therapist... or a biochemical engineer... or what about some sort of poet/writer? (Okay, abandoning third-person now...)
What skills do I have? What do I enjoy? What do I find fulfilling? How can I live in consistency with my ideals?
That actually reminds me of the other night... I had just started thinking about my philosophy paper and thinking about what it means to be moral, virtuous, and live a fulfilling life. As seems to be the trend, this contemplative behavior occurred fairly late at night, and eventually I decided it was more than time for me to go to sleep. As I crawled (or climbed, rather- my bed is lofted ridiculously high for a not-ridiculously-tall person) into bed my mind threw a startling question at me- Do you, Annette, contribute to the goodness of the world?
I was taken aback. Pesky, pesky brain! There I was, in bed, thinking over the last hour or so's worth of idealistic ethical outpouring, and I suddenly questioned whether I lived in such a manner as to increase the happiness of the world... and I didn't know what to say to myself.
So it's been tacked onto that to-ponder list.
And now I shall go do some glorious ballroom dancing.
It is 8pm, 5th week, on a Thursday night, and all of the necessary schoolwork is complete. I repeat, miraculous.
But let us turn aside from this strange, beautiful occurrence and do a bit of reflecting and whatnot.
Lately I have been contemplating all sorts of interesting questions. Unfortunately, schoolwork and contemplative behavior seem to go less well together than I would like. Perhaps we could make the comparison to trying to dissolve an alcohol in water... The OH group's polarity could represent my drive to dive into the waters of reflection while the mounting pile of schoolwork is analogous to extending the size of the hydrocarbon chain, thereby pulling me out of the refreshing waters I so long for.... But this week I seem to have thrown in some alkane branching and decreased the hydrophobic character of my life. It has been quite splendid.
Today I finished writing a paper for my ethics class on the subject of whether morality and self-interest are reconcilable. For reasons I cannot entirely fathom, I seem to have dropped out of the wrong century, because I align myself pretty nicely with those good old Ancient Greeks in characteristic Annette-idealism. I highly encourage you to read a bit about virtue ethics and the concept of eudaimonia. While I delight in the contemplation of this subject- and would gladly enter into conversation with you, dear reader, on the topic if you so desire, I would rather not dwell into specifics at this point in time. (I am being totally serious. Leave a comment, or email me (martina@carleton.edu), and you can even request to read my paper! Ohh the fun we may have engaged in philosophical discussion! ....Anddd *quenches nerd-outpour*)
Instead, I will leave you with a few quotes that relate to my ideas rather nicely, and which I quite delight in. (Let's play a game! The guess-who-is-going-to-be-quoted game!)
First up, Thoreau. Oh, Thoreau! Aurora!
"It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour."Next, dear old Anne (credit to L.M. Montgomery), on being a teacher:
"Perhaps she had not succeeded in 'inspiring' any wonderful ambitions in her pupils, but she had taught them, more by her own sweet personality than by all her careful precepts, that it was good and necessary in the years that were before them to live their lives finely and graciously, holding fast to truth and courtesy and kindness, keeping aloof from all that savoured of falsehood and meanness and vulgarity. They were, perhaps, all unconscious of having learned such lessons; but they would remember and practice them long after they had forgotten the capital of Afghanistan and the dates of the Wars of the Roses."(Yet another reason why I wish to be Anne-like. Who wouldn't want to inspire young souls by virtue of being happy and awesome?)
And, finally, Ayn Rand:
“The purpose of morality is to teach you, not to suffer and die, but to enjoy yourself and live.”Ahh, I do love thought-provoking, insightful quotes!
“Why do they always teach us that it's easy and evil to do what we want and that we need discipline to restrain ourselves? It's the hardest thing in the world--to do what we want. I mean, what we really want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage."
And I am afraid that this is where I will leave you all for now. Hopefully the next time I write (which should be soon) I will tackle some of those to-ponder questions, such as, where would Annette like to study abroad? Or does Annette want to go to medical school, or does she want a life of relative simplicity as a philosopher-teacher? Or, wait, does she want to become some sort of counselor or therapist... or a biochemical engineer... or what about some sort of poet/writer? (Okay, abandoning third-person now...)
What skills do I have? What do I enjoy? What do I find fulfilling? How can I live in consistency with my ideals?
That actually reminds me of the other night... I had just started thinking about my philosophy paper and thinking about what it means to be moral, virtuous, and live a fulfilling life. As seems to be the trend, this contemplative behavior occurred fairly late at night, and eventually I decided it was more than time for me to go to sleep. As I crawled (or climbed, rather- my bed is lofted ridiculously high for a not-ridiculously-tall person) into bed my mind threw a startling question at me- Do you, Annette, contribute to the goodness of the world?
I was taken aback. Pesky, pesky brain! There I was, in bed, thinking over the last hour or so's worth of idealistic ethical outpouring, and I suddenly questioned whether I lived in such a manner as to increase the happiness of the world... and I didn't know what to say to myself.
So it's been tacked onto that to-ponder list.
And now I shall go do some glorious ballroom dancing.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Ugh... why should I be moral?
Why bother with morality?
It's much easier to not care about whether it is right or wrong to do something, isn't it? So why care?
I have just finished reading two selections on this subject for my ethics class.
The first, a portion of Plato's Republic, "The Immoralist's Challenge." The second, Philippa Foot's "Morality as a System of Hypothetical Imperatives."
They raise some interesting questions.
In "The Immoralist's Challenge," Socrates is challenged to explain why justice is good in itself. Justice, in this dialogue, is portrayed as a painful duty performed for the sake of the social rewards correlated with acting "justly." The problem is, if justice is good because of the reputation and power with which the just are rewarded, then this creates a movement to present a facade of justice. You can have your cake and eat it, too- that is to say, you may relish the joys of performing injustice upon others AND present yourself as a paragon of goodness to be rewarded with praise and social status. Forget behaving justly- no one likes that anyway. You only pretend to be a good person so that others treat you well.
Mind you, Glaucon (the challenger who presents this model of justice) does not actually buy that this is the extent of justice. Rather, he entreats Socrates to persuade him that this sad, corrupted notion of justice is not the true nature of justice. Glaucon wishes to rank justice as one of those goods which is desired not simply for the benefits associated with it, but also- essentially- for its own sake, but he needs reason to do so.
To my great discomfort, the selection ended abruptly. Glaucon entreats Socrates to correct him, to restore his faith in justice- and end.
What??
No answers? No restoration of faith?
Are notions of justice really naught but convenient illusions used to hold together precarious social bonds?
Plato, Socrates, help!
It was a bit disconcerting, really.
But it presents an excellent question. Why care about justice? Why is justice good for one?
Why aim to be just?
The point of the dialogue is, it has to be about justice itself. It has to be something about participating in justice that makes justice desirable. But what is it?
With these questions spinning around my head, I turned to the Philippa Foot reading (which in itself is a discussion of Kant's moral framework).
So... Kant. According to him, we have hypothetical imperatives and categorical imperatives (...what? I know. Bear with me.) Hypothetical imperatives are actions that must be done in order to achieve some end.
You want an "A" on that test? Then you should study. You want to get somewhere at 10:00? Then you should leave at 9:30.
In order to achieve your goal or fulfill your desire, you should perform an action or set of actions. Those are your hypothetical imperatives.
Then you have your categorical imperatives. These take "should" or "ought" to the next level, if you will. Categorical imperatives are actions that are "objectively necessary." They are ends in themselves.
Traditionally, moral judgments are classified under the categorical imperative category.
"You ought not kill."
BAM! That's it. Morally binding, unconditionally necessary.
But Foot wants to argue that there's something strange about relying on the magical power of "ought." What supports this reasoning? Essentially, categorical imperatives have a fundamentally duty-driven force behind them. They seem to say, this is your duty. Don't fight or argue, just do it. You have to.
To underline the problem, she points to etiquette. Even if someone doesn't care about etiquette, the rules still technically apply. If you're at some dinner party and flout all the rules, people will still say you should do otherwise, regardless of whether you actually care about it or not. That is to say, etiquette behaves like a categorical imperative, in the sense that it's not about "I want to accomplish this, so I should do this." Etiquette applies regardless of your desires. But... what if you just don't care?
This seems to put categorical imperatives under suspicion as magical forces of obligation. It's not enough to say someone ought to do something. The force of that statement is in their believing this to be true. If they don't care, then you have a problem.
So Foot suggests making the scary transition from classifying moral judgments as magical categorical imperatives, and instead thinking about them hypothetically.
Why perform acts of charity? Because I can empathize with those individuals and have an interest in seeing them happy.
That is to say, let go of the illusion that saying someone "ought to" do something holds genuine power. It is frightening to admit it, but that's not true. We must chose to care about morality. We give morality its power.
Foot's idea, on one hand, is frightening. But it is also wonderfully idealistic in its realism.
Essentially, Foot's ideas lend themselves to the following depiction. (Admittedly, it may be my relentless idealism seeping in. But I will maintain that it fits into her view.)
Morality is about a system of values. Morality relies upon a certain vision of hope... a yearning for truth, love, liberty, and justice. Moral individuals are those capable of envisioning the beauty of bringing those values to life, and of working to bring that beauty into realization.
Glaucon asks why bother with justice.
Bother with justice because it allows your life to cohere and deepen.
It allows you to create meaning. It allows you to look upon yourself with respect, to give and to receive love, to become a part of something genuine and beautiful.
So, that's why.
It's much easier to not care about whether it is right or wrong to do something, isn't it? So why care?
I have just finished reading two selections on this subject for my ethics class.
The first, a portion of Plato's Republic, "The Immoralist's Challenge." The second, Philippa Foot's "Morality as a System of Hypothetical Imperatives."
They raise some interesting questions.
In "The Immoralist's Challenge," Socrates is challenged to explain why justice is good in itself. Justice, in this dialogue, is portrayed as a painful duty performed for the sake of the social rewards correlated with acting "justly." The problem is, if justice is good because of the reputation and power with which the just are rewarded, then this creates a movement to present a facade of justice. You can have your cake and eat it, too- that is to say, you may relish the joys of performing injustice upon others AND present yourself as a paragon of goodness to be rewarded with praise and social status. Forget behaving justly- no one likes that anyway. You only pretend to be a good person so that others treat you well.
Mind you, Glaucon (the challenger who presents this model of justice) does not actually buy that this is the extent of justice. Rather, he entreats Socrates to persuade him that this sad, corrupted notion of justice is not the true nature of justice. Glaucon wishes to rank justice as one of those goods which is desired not simply for the benefits associated with it, but also- essentially- for its own sake, but he needs reason to do so.
To my great discomfort, the selection ended abruptly. Glaucon entreats Socrates to correct him, to restore his faith in justice- and end.
What??
No answers? No restoration of faith?
Are notions of justice really naught but convenient illusions used to hold together precarious social bonds?
Plato, Socrates, help!
It was a bit disconcerting, really.
But it presents an excellent question. Why care about justice? Why is justice good for one?
Why aim to be just?
The point of the dialogue is, it has to be about justice itself. It has to be something about participating in justice that makes justice desirable. But what is it?
With these questions spinning around my head, I turned to the Philippa Foot reading (which in itself is a discussion of Kant's moral framework).
So... Kant. According to him, we have hypothetical imperatives and categorical imperatives (...what? I know. Bear with me.) Hypothetical imperatives are actions that must be done in order to achieve some end.
You want an "A" on that test? Then you should study. You want to get somewhere at 10:00? Then you should leave at 9:30.
In order to achieve your goal or fulfill your desire, you should perform an action or set of actions. Those are your hypothetical imperatives.
Then you have your categorical imperatives. These take "should" or "ought" to the next level, if you will. Categorical imperatives are actions that are "objectively necessary." They are ends in themselves.
Traditionally, moral judgments are classified under the categorical imperative category.
"You ought not kill."
BAM! That's it. Morally binding, unconditionally necessary.
But Foot wants to argue that there's something strange about relying on the magical power of "ought." What supports this reasoning? Essentially, categorical imperatives have a fundamentally duty-driven force behind them. They seem to say, this is your duty. Don't fight or argue, just do it. You have to.
To underline the problem, she points to etiquette. Even if someone doesn't care about etiquette, the rules still technically apply. If you're at some dinner party and flout all the rules, people will still say you should do otherwise, regardless of whether you actually care about it or not. That is to say, etiquette behaves like a categorical imperative, in the sense that it's not about "I want to accomplish this, so I should do this." Etiquette applies regardless of your desires. But... what if you just don't care?
This seems to put categorical imperatives under suspicion as magical forces of obligation. It's not enough to say someone ought to do something. The force of that statement is in their believing this to be true. If they don't care, then you have a problem.
So Foot suggests making the scary transition from classifying moral judgments as magical categorical imperatives, and instead thinking about them hypothetically.
Why perform acts of charity? Because I can empathize with those individuals and have an interest in seeing them happy.
That is to say, let go of the illusion that saying someone "ought to" do something holds genuine power. It is frightening to admit it, but that's not true. We must chose to care about morality. We give morality its power.
Foot's idea, on one hand, is frightening. But it is also wonderfully idealistic in its realism.
Essentially, Foot's ideas lend themselves to the following depiction. (Admittedly, it may be my relentless idealism seeping in. But I will maintain that it fits into her view.)
Morality is about a system of values. Morality relies upon a certain vision of hope... a yearning for truth, love, liberty, and justice. Moral individuals are those capable of envisioning the beauty of bringing those values to life, and of working to bring that beauty into realization.
Glaucon asks why bother with justice.
Bother with justice because it allows your life to cohere and deepen.
It allows you to create meaning. It allows you to look upon yourself with respect, to give and to receive love, to become a part of something genuine and beautiful.
So, that's why.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
A Return to Chaos?
I find it amusing that my last post began by deploring my state of laziness. Boy, have things changed!
Since last I wrote, a number of remarkable things have occurred. I have lived through three incredibly distinct weeks. My last week home for the summer, with all sorts of last-minute activities, tasty food, and farewells... a trip to gorgeously mountain-y North Carolina... and a return to that other home of mine in happy, quaint little Northfield.
Perhaps words such as quaint and happy denote images of a sleepy, rural town.
Be not fooled! At least if you're thinking of sleepy in the sense of languid, rush-free living. (It would be more accurate to think of sleepy in the sense of so-busy-you-yearn-for-sleep.)
So, I've been incredibly busy since I stepped back onto my dear college campus. Unpacking, turning my dorm room into a comfy home, reconnecting with friends... starting classes... realizing how much work I have!
It poses interesting questions as to how I want to live my life. Deplorable laziness? Nay. Breathless whirlwind of activity? Also nay. How to achieve that tricky balance?
Perhaps my enjoyment of life has much to do with perspective.
I have spent a great portion of my oh-so-extensive life accusing myself of not doing enough with my time. I have always felt like I should be doing more, better. The problem comes when I try to imagine what "more" and "better" would look like. How can I fill my day such that when I go to bed at night I feel that it was a day well-lived? How can I use my time so that in a year I will look upon my life with satisfaction?
I'm not sure how to answer those questions. But I do know that, in the quest for answers, the next ten weeks shall be chaotic. In contrast to the usual holes in my schedule, my days are pretty tightly blocked off between classes, studying, working, and dancing. (And volunteering. I want to fit that in, too, somehow.)
But alas! Already in the past week I found myself falling into the treacherous trap of viewing my schedule... as a constraint, rather than a means of achieving satisfaction. Rush, rush, rush, rush.
Is rush, rush, rush really "more" and "better"?
It seems fairly obvious that the answer is no.
However, I think it's important to step back and remember why I chose to do these things.
Most notable, my classes. Demanding. I have a lot of work before me. But I'm excited about the subjects I'm studying! My studies are not merely a chore, they are an opportunity to entertain interesting ideas, to gather new perspectives, to explore interesting questions... to do all sorts of delightful things! Rather than fall into the danger of viewing my life as a checklist of burdensome chores which I need to complete, I need to savor the moment. I think I need to worry less about the fact that I need to be somewhere in half an hour, and focus more on enjoying how I have chosen to fill my time. Ah, perspective, perspective.
So have I succeeded in devising a plan for doing more and better? I'm not sure. I'm still not certain what those look like. I do know that rushing through my busy life is not going to make me happier. But I also know that I am extremely excited for everything I have before me.
Now I just need to savor it.
Since last I wrote, a number of remarkable things have occurred. I have lived through three incredibly distinct weeks. My last week home for the summer, with all sorts of last-minute activities, tasty food, and farewells... a trip to gorgeously mountain-y North Carolina... and a return to that other home of mine in happy, quaint little Northfield.
Perhaps words such as quaint and happy denote images of a sleepy, rural town.
Be not fooled! At least if you're thinking of sleepy in the sense of languid, rush-free living. (It would be more accurate to think of sleepy in the sense of so-busy-you-yearn-for-sleep.)
So, I've been incredibly busy since I stepped back onto my dear college campus. Unpacking, turning my dorm room into a comfy home, reconnecting with friends... starting classes... realizing how much work I have!
It poses interesting questions as to how I want to live my life. Deplorable laziness? Nay. Breathless whirlwind of activity? Also nay. How to achieve that tricky balance?
Perhaps my enjoyment of life has much to do with perspective.
I have spent a great portion of my oh-so-extensive life accusing myself of not doing enough with my time. I have always felt like I should be doing more, better. The problem comes when I try to imagine what "more" and "better" would look like. How can I fill my day such that when I go to bed at night I feel that it was a day well-lived? How can I use my time so that in a year I will look upon my life with satisfaction?
I'm not sure how to answer those questions. But I do know that, in the quest for answers, the next ten weeks shall be chaotic. In contrast to the usual holes in my schedule, my days are pretty tightly blocked off between classes, studying, working, and dancing. (And volunteering. I want to fit that in, too, somehow.)
But alas! Already in the past week I found myself falling into the treacherous trap of viewing my schedule... as a constraint, rather than a means of achieving satisfaction. Rush, rush, rush, rush.
Is rush, rush, rush really "more" and "better"?
It seems fairly obvious that the answer is no.
However, I think it's important to step back and remember why I chose to do these things.
Most notable, my classes. Demanding. I have a lot of work before me. But I'm excited about the subjects I'm studying! My studies are not merely a chore, they are an opportunity to entertain interesting ideas, to gather new perspectives, to explore interesting questions... to do all sorts of delightful things! Rather than fall into the danger of viewing my life as a checklist of burdensome chores which I need to complete, I need to savor the moment. I think I need to worry less about the fact that I need to be somewhere in half an hour, and focus more on enjoying how I have chosen to fill my time. Ah, perspective, perspective.
So have I succeeded in devising a plan for doing more and better? I'm not sure. I'm still not certain what those look like. I do know that rushing through my busy life is not going to make me happier. But I also know that I am extremely excited for everything I have before me.
Now I just need to savor it.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Renewing Aurora-worship
Lately I have felt extravagantly, guiltily lazy. This morning I arose from my bed at 11:15. I wasted time on the internet. I did listen to a fairly interesting philosophical podcast, but I also idled away with alarmingly mindless facebook-ing.
I often find it difficult to become energized over the summer for what appear to be essentially existential problems.
I could go and read a book. I could stare at the wall for hours. I could go for a run. I could stare emptily at a screen.
Who cares? (No one.) What difference does it make? (None at all.)
This bothers me.
I hate mindlessness, idleness, purposelessness.
It’s the accusation I can never rid myself of. I don’t know how to pinpoint flaws; there’s nothing wrong… but nothing that’s quite right, either. There’s not much of anything, really.
It’s the accusation I can never rid myself of. I don’t know how to pinpoint flaws; there’s nothing wrong… but nothing that’s quite right, either. There’s not much of anything, really.
I want very badly to do something. I crave purpose and passion. I have a passion for passion, but lack the substance at which to direct this energy. I am sorely in need of a mission.
It can be difficult for me to make the connection between my day’s decision (Do I read? Do I sketch? Do I… do nothing?) and the advancement of some worthy cause. It seems clear that it is preferable to embark on some task of self-improvement than to engage in obviously useless activities…
But why is this preferable? What assumptions are at hand? My behavior seems to suggest that my body contests assumptions which my mind is eager to promote.
It bothers me to feel overtaken by lethargy when I know that the pursuit of ideas is noble and exciting. Reading a book is a wonderful thing! Okay, maybe the production of this sketch is not particularly important, but cultivating a skill is a wonderful thing, and this is a step in that process. My life feels narrow and inconsequential, and yet I persist in believing that the individual is important!
How do I reconcile this? How do I “feel” better, when I “know” better? How do I convince myself that my decisions are consequential, when, at the moment, they seem so unbearably trivial?
I think this is part of the reason I am so enthralled by Walden. “Economy” and “Where I Lived and What I Lived For” are spectacular. Particularly the sections on Aurora*. Thoreau’s writing teems with infectious vigor, and I can always count on certain passages of Walden to inspire me to look beyond the seeming smallness of my life and to strive to take charge of my existence.
Yes, I am incredibly small. But I am neither wholly powerless nor meaningless.
Perhaps it’s not immediately apparent that my decisions carry weight. But choosing to create meaning in my life is remarkably powerful. Even if it’s just reading a book rather than thoughtlessly scrolling down a page- I will respect myself more for that decision, and if I respect myself I may trust myself to do important work for others. I may come across powerful ideas. I may gain valuable knowledge about myself and others. I may set myself on a path filled with strange wonders.
And that can, indeed, make all the difference.
*What follows is almost certainly the most inspiration-dense text I have ever come across, straight from “Where I lived and what I lived for,” Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. For me, reading this is to fall in love anew:
I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did. They say that characters were engraven on the bathing tub of King Tching-thang to this effect: "Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." I can understand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was as much affected by the faint burn of a mosquito making its invisible and unimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn, when I was sailing with door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that ever sang of fame. It was Homer's requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey in the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, instead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air- to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. After a partial cessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again what noble life it can make. All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere. The Vedas say, "All intelligences awake with the morning." Poetry and art, and the faire stand most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men. Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep. Why is it that men give so poor an account of their day if they have not been slumbering? They are not such poor calculators. If they had not been overcome with drowsiness, they would have performed something. The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?
I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did. They say that characters were engraven on the bathing tub of King Tching-thang to this effect: "Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." I can understand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was as much affected by the faint burn of a mosquito making its invisible and unimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn, when I was sailing with door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that ever sang of fame. It was Homer's requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey in the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, instead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air- to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. After a partial cessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again what noble life it can make. All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere. The Vedas say, "All intelligences awake with the morning." Poetry and art, and the faire stand most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men. Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep. Why is it that men give so poor an account of their day if they have not been slumbering? They are not such poor calculators. If they had not been overcome with drowsiness, they would have performed something. The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?
We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour. If we refused, or rather used up, such paltry information as we get, the oracles would distinctly inform us how this might be done.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan- like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever."
Monday, August 22, 2011
On Portraiture
If I could draw to satisfaction, I would draw portraits.
I think it would be a wonderful challenge to try to capture someone’s essence on canvas. So many fascinating questions present themselves! If I were to go about drawing (enter name here), how would I do it? Where would I place them? What colors would dominate the interpretation? What would the lighting be like? What of their posture? How would I dress them? Would they be looking out, staring off, or intently studying something?
Lately I have been pondering portraiture of a different sort. I have been contemplating a self-portrait. My medium is perhaps slightly unconventional, however.
I have attempted to draw myself using the colors of literary heroines.
I have attempted to draw myself using the colors of literary heroines.
The project is a very confusing one. Of the many characters I am drawn toward, how many do I sympathize with because we share similar characteristics? And which do I admire because I earnestly wish I were more like them? Tricky, tricky.
I have two “hues” (maintaining this artistic metaphor may prove tricky…) which I deem fairly reliable for the project. They are strikingly different. One would probably be something of a forest green; the other… perhaps a soft lilac. But as I stand poised before the canvas, all sorts of unforeseen complications arise, and I can’t seem to figure out where to put the strokes.
At first, I believe the matter is a fairly simple one. I feel like I have a Kel-ish exterior (allusion to Tamora Pierce’s ridiculously amazing Protector of the Small series. Go read her books!) and an Anne-ish interior (Anne of Green Gables. Do it!).
Kel is my exterior. My reserve. We present ourselves to strangers in the same way- with blank faces. I recall my many moments of fear and awkwardness, of feeling out of place or unwanted or like I simply don’t quite belong. I remember trying to find strength in Kel’s manner: the blankness of an unrippled lake or a flat stone. Remain neutral. Do not betray yourself. Do not overreact.
I slip out of rooms to shed tears. I reserve turmoil for the private lines of handwritten pages.
I slip out of rooms to shed tears. I reserve turmoil for the private lines of handwritten pages.
Sometimes I find it a bit…amusing when I realize that I have been standing in line somewhere for a large period of time, appearing very neutral, when inside my mind have been raging all sorts of passionate arguments, comical debates, or wild daydreams.
Sometimes it surprises me when my closest friends remark they have no idea what’s going through my head. I have to remind myself that however noisy the internal dialogue may be, there is silence on the outside.
Sometimes it surprises me when my closest friends remark they have no idea what’s going through my head. I have to remind myself that however noisy the internal dialogue may be, there is silence on the outside.
So perhaps I have some of Kel’s reserve… but what else do I have of her? The question seemed simple enough when first picking out my tools, but suddenly it seems nearly impossible. Kel is a doer. She has a strong sense of justice, and she acts upon it with resolution. She doesn’t overthink things.
I don’t think I can say the same for myself. I love ideas. I like working with abstract things. I often find myself wishing I did more.
I don’t think I can say the same for myself. I love ideas. I like working with abstract things. I often find myself wishing I did more.
And how exactly does Anne-ishness comes in?
Hmm. Well. Anne is associated with lovely flowers and daydreams… wonderful, light things. Anne is poetry and dandelion-wishes. So… perhaps I am Anne-like when… When I am perfectly at ease? When I am alone? When I am with my dearest friends? When I dream? When I gaze upon pretty things or bask in golden happiness?
What of idealism? Am I idealistic in a Kel-like or an Anne-like way?
I share Anne’s desire for loveliness, but I want Kel’s sturdiness. Sometimes I am as sentimental as ever the kindred-spirit-seeking redhead can be, and at others I am sensible in the way that only Kel can be. Wait. Sensible? Hmm. Am I sure it’s Kel I want, or would I do better with Austen’s Elinor? Now that I think of it, am I not perhaps more of a Jane Eyre? Plain and reserved, but nonetheless filled with a passion that is not immediately apparent...
I share Anne’s desire for loveliness, but I want Kel’s sturdiness. Sometimes I am as sentimental as ever the kindred-spirit-seeking redhead can be, and at others I am sensible in the way that only Kel can be. Wait. Sensible? Hmm. Am I sure it’s Kel I want, or would I do better with Austen’s Elinor? Now that I think of it, am I not perhaps more of a Jane Eyre? Plain and reserved, but nonetheless filled with a passion that is not immediately apparent...
The more I ponder the issue, the more all sorts of pesky questions and suspicions begin to crop up, and, soon enough, I find myself sitting before a blank canvas with a very bemused expression on my face. The problem seemed clear-cut to begin with, but at every step I find myself wandering uncertainly or running into dead-ends.
Perhaps instead of drawing a single portrait to capture someone’s essence, I would like to draw various snapshots.
Perhaps I would draw them amongst a group of strangers. Sitting in a classroom. Engaging in their favorite pastime. Puzzling over a problem.
Perhaps I would capture their expression when they feel alone. When speaking about their innermost dreams. When looking at someone they love.
Perhaps I would capture their expression when they feel alone. When speaking about their innermost dreams. When looking at someone they love.
Would I ever produce a single image to encapsulate the spirit of the whole? Or would it be best to stroll through an endless gallery of snapshot paintings?
I think I would enjoy the stroll.
Friday, August 12, 2011
It's a matter of ____.
Well, I have just returned from a four-day cruise, a novel experience for mia famiglia. The most notable feature of this cruise was probably the amount of reading that went on. This is not unusual for my father or myself (actually, it's pretty typical), and my sister also enjoys a good book (plus, summer reading makes demands upon her!)... but my mother? My mom does NOT read books. Ever. At one point my dad remarked that this was the first time he'd ever seen her reading a book in all the time they've been together. This is a big deal. Years ago, when I first read The Five People You Meet in Heaven, I insisted that my sister read it... and we decided to purchase a Spanish translation for my mom. Well, after much taunting and questioning and pleading, my mom announced she would be taking it with her, seeing as the rest of us were all loaded with plenty of pages of fine reading material. I will admit, I was incredibly skeptical, and showed as much. But... she finally read it. And she enjoyed it!
Could this be the start of something new? I'm not sure, but I feel pretty pleased with myself.
For myself, I was indulging in a bit of Margaret Atwood's writing: Alias Grace. Thus far, every encounter with Atwood's writing has been fantastic. The Handmaid's Tale was very good, and I remember coming across "Bread" in a literature book, and being quite struck by it. As soon as I read the first paragraph of Alias Grace, I knew I was going to be enchanted by it. I was.
The novel is based upon the story of Grace Marks, a nineteenth century Canadian maid accused of murdering her employer and his housekeeper-mistress, whose conviction was highly controversial.
A young doctor, interested in the possibility of opening his own insane asylum, becomes interested in Grace's case, and begins visiting her in hopes of determining whether Grace has really suffered from insanity- she claims to have gaps in her memory, and cannot recollect taking part in the murder.
So Grace begins telling her story, from the day of her birth into poverty in Ireland, her emigration to Canada, the loss of her mother on the ship, her father's drunkenness and general uselessness, her efforts to look after her numerous siblings, until she is almost thirteen and finally gains employment as a maid in a local household, after which she looses her ties to her family.
Grace's life is marked by poverty and hard-work, and her few moments of happiness end in sorrow with the tragic loss of her only friend. Cue more hard-work, unsupplemented by appreciation, or any monetary or social gain. Then throw in advances from unwanted men who believe themselves free to take advantage of worthless serving girls. It's a cheery life, that's for certain, but Grace manages to retain a sense of dignity throughout her account, which all the while leads to the question-mark of a bloody murder scene.
Grace- heartless murderess? Victim of circumstance? She couldn't have done it... could she? Is she feigning? Who is she?
You should really read the book if you get the chance.
While walking around the cruise ship, it is hard to miss the numerous people hard at work: waiters taking care of plates and bringing people food... women (and men) paid to clean bathrooms and change sheets. This reminded me of my many stays in lovely Mexican hotels with my family, surrounded by such individuals paid (a pittance) to basically wait on you hand and foot. I remember walking out of my room and delivering meek good mornings and hello's to young women laden with sheets and cleaning materials, waiting for my family to declare we were no longer sleeping in so that they could return our room to a state of cleanliness.
I have never been quite sure how to back my hello's and smiles.
I feel guilty. Excuse me while I gently traipse out of my room, and could you please make sure to put enough towels in the bathroom? There are four of us, you know. I want to be grateful for their hard work. I am tempted to pity- Wait, wait pity?
Pity strikes me as unfair. Pity suggests there is something indecent about their work. Pity emanates shame.
No, I do not think there is reason for shame. There is considerable room for pride.
My mother has spent nights sweeping floors, my father has seen suns rise while delivering papers up and down in a beat-up car.
There is no shame in making an honest living. There is dignity in working for the improvement of one's circumstances.
Now my thoughts flash back to Grace Marks, to suspicions of how much those hardworking, humble, helpful Mexican workers are paid- or not paid, to questions of justice and dignity and mobility.
I don't feel guilty because I see those men and women before me. I feel guilty because I fear I will see those same faces two, five, ten years from now, and I wonder why that would be so.
In the last four days I accumulated a good bit of email. Nothing terribly exciting. But then I came across one alerting me about "Target's rape factory". Young women working in factories, trying to make a living for themselves, trying to feed their families... Raped. Abused. Worthless serving girls.
My heart is heavy. Sad. It wants to be angry, but more than that, it wants to tend to bruises, to soothe haunted eyes, to hold hands.
This is a matter of... Of what? Just wages, equal opportunity, human dignity, basic decency, economic mobility, safe working places, education? Yes. Yes, it is all that.
It is a matter of chapped hands, tired backs, swollen feet, stiff necks, cracked nails. It is a matter of bright eyes, warm smiles, soft baby's feet, silky hair. It is a matter of stories, of jokes, of confidences; of hopes, fears, and dreams; of getting lost in someone's eyes, of watching untroubled sleep, of looking after a sickbed, of endless hugs of greeting; of trembling first steps, first kisses and final farewells.
It is a matter of looking at someone, and seeing them.
Could this be the start of something new? I'm not sure, but I feel pretty pleased with myself.
For myself, I was indulging in a bit of Margaret Atwood's writing: Alias Grace. Thus far, every encounter with Atwood's writing has been fantastic. The Handmaid's Tale was very good, and I remember coming across "Bread" in a literature book, and being quite struck by it. As soon as I read the first paragraph of Alias Grace, I knew I was going to be enchanted by it. I was.
The novel is based upon the story of Grace Marks, a nineteenth century Canadian maid accused of murdering her employer and his housekeeper-mistress, whose conviction was highly controversial.
A young doctor, interested in the possibility of opening his own insane asylum, becomes interested in Grace's case, and begins visiting her in hopes of determining whether Grace has really suffered from insanity- she claims to have gaps in her memory, and cannot recollect taking part in the murder.
So Grace begins telling her story, from the day of her birth into poverty in Ireland, her emigration to Canada, the loss of her mother on the ship, her father's drunkenness and general uselessness, her efforts to look after her numerous siblings, until she is almost thirteen and finally gains employment as a maid in a local household, after which she looses her ties to her family.
Grace's life is marked by poverty and hard-work, and her few moments of happiness end in sorrow with the tragic loss of her only friend. Cue more hard-work, unsupplemented by appreciation, or any monetary or social gain. Then throw in advances from unwanted men who believe themselves free to take advantage of worthless serving girls. It's a cheery life, that's for certain, but Grace manages to retain a sense of dignity throughout her account, which all the while leads to the question-mark of a bloody murder scene.
Grace- heartless murderess? Victim of circumstance? She couldn't have done it... could she? Is she feigning? Who is she?
You should really read the book if you get the chance.
While walking around the cruise ship, it is hard to miss the numerous people hard at work: waiters taking care of plates and bringing people food... women (and men) paid to clean bathrooms and change sheets. This reminded me of my many stays in lovely Mexican hotels with my family, surrounded by such individuals paid (a pittance) to basically wait on you hand and foot. I remember walking out of my room and delivering meek good mornings and hello's to young women laden with sheets and cleaning materials, waiting for my family to declare we were no longer sleeping in so that they could return our room to a state of cleanliness.
I have never been quite sure how to back my hello's and smiles.
I feel guilty. Excuse me while I gently traipse out of my room, and could you please make sure to put enough towels in the bathroom? There are four of us, you know. I want to be grateful for their hard work. I am tempted to pity- Wait, wait pity?
Pity strikes me as unfair. Pity suggests there is something indecent about their work. Pity emanates shame.
No, I do not think there is reason for shame. There is considerable room for pride.
My mother has spent nights sweeping floors, my father has seen suns rise while delivering papers up and down in a beat-up car.
There is no shame in making an honest living. There is dignity in working for the improvement of one's circumstances.
Now my thoughts flash back to Grace Marks, to suspicions of how much those hardworking, humble, helpful Mexican workers are paid- or not paid, to questions of justice and dignity and mobility.
I don't feel guilty because I see those men and women before me. I feel guilty because I fear I will see those same faces two, five, ten years from now, and I wonder why that would be so.
In the last four days I accumulated a good bit of email. Nothing terribly exciting. But then I came across one alerting me about "Target's rape factory". Young women working in factories, trying to make a living for themselves, trying to feed their families... Raped. Abused. Worthless serving girls.
My heart is heavy. Sad. It wants to be angry, but more than that, it wants to tend to bruises, to soothe haunted eyes, to hold hands.
This is a matter of... Of what? Just wages, equal opportunity, human dignity, basic decency, economic mobility, safe working places, education? Yes. Yes, it is all that.
It is a matter of chapped hands, tired backs, swollen feet, stiff necks, cracked nails. It is a matter of bright eyes, warm smiles, soft baby's feet, silky hair. It is a matter of stories, of jokes, of confidences; of hopes, fears, and dreams; of getting lost in someone's eyes, of watching untroubled sleep, of looking after a sickbed, of endless hugs of greeting; of trembling first steps, first kisses and final farewells.
It is a matter of looking at someone, and seeing them.
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