Spanish...I am going to (attempt to) learn you...hopefully...at least some of you...

¡Hola!

With the aid of Google Translate, Spanish for Dummies, a Spanish-English diccionario and Spanish language shows/films (with and without subtitulos), I am attempting to learn me some Español. Fantástico!

Why (por qué)? Because (porque):
(1) I like Spanish
(2) I've been disappointed for many, muchos, years that my high school Spanish class was prematurely discontinued
(3) I believe that I've reached a reasonably proficient level of English (though, I'm sure many would disagree) such that it might be time to take on the challenge of a different language
(4) I feel that having knowledge of another language has some kind of 'humanity' value (though, I'm not entirely sure what I mean)

I have started my language learning by trolling for Spanish words (and their meanings) through Google Translate/Spanish for Dummies/Spanish dictionary, then trying to say the words out loud, then trying to pick out these words (and others previously not encountered) from Spanish language shows. I suspect this is not the traditional way to learn a language (as an adult) but I'm having fun.

I'm not very good, however, at joining the words together so as to form coherent sentences (I sometimes have the same problem with English). My deficiencies include, but are not limited to:
(1) sorting out the variants/gender/uses of Spanish words and, specifically, of 'the'
(2) changing the endings of words to give them the correct tense
(3) where/when to use 'accent marks' (known as 'diacritical marks', eg ñ)
- all of which creates havoc in my English-only brain.

Some of my favourite Spanish words, so far, are:

bruja(witch)/cuchillo(knife)/diablo(devil)/Feliz Navidad(Merry Christmas)/fuego(fire)/gato(cat)/gracioso(funny)/idiota(stupid)/llave(key)/infierno(hell)/loco(crazy)/luna(moon)/milagro(miracle)/muerte(death)/mujer(woman)/nieve(snow)/pesadilla(nightmare)/siento(I feel)/siesta(nap)/sombra(shadow)/suerte(luck)/tengo(I have)/tormenta(storm)/tranquilo(calm)/triste(sad)

(words have been arranged alphabetically and without explanation - though there is an evident psychological profile of my brain (cerebro) on display here)

So, obviously, the thing do to now is to use all of the above words in a sentence paragraph; firstly in English, then in Spanish. No problema (sarcasmo).

English (Inglés):
I awake abruptly from my nap; a funny nightmare has shaken me from my calm sleep. By the light of the moon, I can see my cat, Luck, going crazy. I feel cold, so I light a fire, this creates sad shadows on the wall. I have an overwhelming sensation that a storm is approaching. I look through the window and see snow. I also see a woman standing in the snow; she is holding a knife and a key. I go outside and walk towards the woman. As I get closer, I realize that she is a witch. She wishes me a Merry Christmas, but, shockingly, her "Merry Christmas" is actually a fatal curse from hell and I immediately experience death. Frustratingly, a stupid miracle happens and I am reincarnated as the Devil!

Spanish (Español):
(mostly from Google Translate/ I changed some things to make it present tense and closer to the original text/don't know if this is allowed/apologies to all Spanish speakers for my ineptitude and possible offence)
Yo despierto abruptamente de mi siesta; una pesadilla graciosa me ha sacudido de mi sueño tranquilo. Por la luz de la luna, puedo ver mi gato, Suerte, volviéndose loco. Me siento frío, así que enciendo un fuego, esto crea sombras tristes en la pared. Tengo una abrumadora sensación de que se acercándose una tormenta. Miro mediante la ventana y veo nieve. También veo a una mujer parada en la nieve; ella está sosteniendo un cuchillo y una llave. Voy afuera y caminar hacia la mujer. Como yo meterse más cerca, me doy cuenta de que ella es una bruja. Ella me desea una Feliz Navidad, pero, de manera chocante, su "Feliz Navidad" es en realidad una maldición fatal desde infierno y yo inmediatamente experiencia muerte. Frustrantemente, un milagro idiota sucede y yo soy reencarnado como el ¡Diablo!

Saludos,
Effulgent13

Fuck You, Grace!

[Special note to person's named Grace; I don't mean you...unless you are an asshole!]

"Grace" - from the (Australian Concise Oxford, 4th edition, 2004) dictionary -

• attractiveness, especially in elegance of proportion or manner or movement
• courteous good will (had the grace to apologize)
• an attractive feature; an accomplishment (social graces)
• in Christian belief - the unmerited favour of God/the state of receiving this
• goodwill
• delay granted as a favour (a year's grace)
• a short thanksgiving before or after a meal
• (Grace) (in Greek mythology) each of three beautiful sister goddesses, bestowers of beauty and charm
• (Grace) (preceded by His, Her, Your) forms of description or address for a duke, duchess, or archbishop

[For the purpose of the rest of this blog, I'm pretty much using grace to mean 'being nice to people' or 'not being a jackass'.]

Once upon a time, I believed that to strive for grace in all my actions and attitudes was a proper and noble endeavour, that being gracious (kindhearted, benevolent, civil, obliging, considerate, merciful, magnanimous, charitable) was the pinnacle of human humanity. Indecorousness; this is a word that never rolled off the tongues of my well-meaning mentors when I was growing up, as they tried to instill a sense of proper conduct into my existence. Well, the times they are a changing, and, quite frankly, I've had it with grace (though, not really) and I wonder if incorporating some elements of gracelessness (uncouth, coarse, crude, boorish, ill-mannered, unsophisticated, shameless, tactless) into my persona would be a sensible, if not liberating, path.

Can too much graciousness be stultifying? Unhealthy? Would a little more obnoxiousness pave the way to enlightenment? A socially inappropriate, expletive ridden, tantrum-fuelled rant might exorcise even the most tightly imbedded of demons; either those of a personal nature or the ones that emanate directly from Hell. If only such outbursts didn't upset proximate people; but there might be a way around this unpleasant side effect. Perhaps all people could have a screaming rant at exactly the same time, then no-one would have to listen other people's offensive diatribes but, instead, everyone would be able to simultaneously get things off their collective chests. A Universal Unburdening. We, as a society, could schedule regular therapeutic yelling - just like the people did in that wacky Orwellian novel...although it wasn't framed as therapeutic yelling so much as it was framed as The Two Minutes Hate:

"The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp."

[Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell, pg 17]

If an organized 'hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness' can contribute to a productive and accommodating society in a (so-called) dystopian novel, surely it can work in real life. After all, the novel does end on a happy note:

"But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother."

[Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell, pg 256]

And surely to love is the greatest state to which humans can aspire, so to love Big Brother surely must be super-duper. And if we can achieve this state (of grace)(see what I did), then we can know that War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength. And why has my seeming aversion to Grace led me to George Orwell? Maybe Grace is Vulgar. Or Grace is Obscene. Or Grace is Evil Incarnate. Or This Blog Post is Making Me Crazy...

The Curiosity of a Dexterous Kitty or Something even MORE sinister?

(see below for photographic evidence of the strange and disturbing incident which recently occurred in my home - and is the topic of this blog post)

I was in the kitchen when I heard a thud emanate from the lounge room. Upon entering the lounge room I discovered that my copy of Stephen King's Treatise on the Evils of The Internal Combustion Engine (aka Christine) was no longer in its usual home (aka The Bookshelf) and had, in fact, been relocated to the floor. Spooky! My feline flatmate, the legendary Ms Willow Pussycat, was sitting on the coffee table next to the bookshelf, her face displaying ernest innocence. Since I did not witness this book relocation I cannot, with certainty, explain how it happened. I do, however, have some theories (basically it was either a supernatural occurrence or it was a Ms Willow's paw occurrence):

A Poltergeist has infiltrated my flat. The unexplained relocation of a book (or other household item) certainly bears the hallmark of poltergeist agency. And the choice of a Stephen King novel lends even more credence to this theory - perhaps an attempt, by the entity, to increase the likelihood of my being freaked out.

A sinister presence is trying to communicate with me via horror novel. Isn't this always happening in scary movies, some kind of message or warning is located in a specific book, a book which just happens to move out of the bookshelf as the protagonist is walking by. And of all the books on all my bookshelves, it was a Stephen King which mysteriously 'fell' to the floor. So should I infer that this presence is likely to be iniquitous, given that the book is a horror novel?

Ms Willow is displaying an interest in reading by knocking books to the floor. Only a few days prior to this incident, Ms Willow pushed a stack of books off the back of the couch. I had assumed this was her angered response to my not letting her sit on my lap, but maybe I misjudged the situation. Perhaps Ms Willow would like to partake in the reading of the words, and knocking books to the floor is her very own special way of indicating this desire. Hence, relocating the Stephen King novel to the floor was just a continuation of this new method of communicating her interest in reading.

Ms Willow is displaying an interest in getting attention by knocking books to the floor. [Again referencing the 'pushing a stack of books off the back of the couch' incident (see previous theory)]. Given that the Stephen King novel incident occurred without an obvious reason for Ms Willow to be annoyed with me, perhaps both book relocations are just the beginning of a cascade of 'relocations' Ms Willow intends to perpetrate in order to enable a lot more Willow-noticing, goddammit!

Ms Willow has been overtaken by an evil spirit, and thus is knocking books to the floor. [And again referencing the 'pushing a stack of books off the back of the couch' incident (see previous previous theory)]. It was bound to happen, eventually - Ms Willow is the 4th cat I've 'parented'. Felines are notorious for their magical/otherworldly/creepy capabilities, so a kitty-based haunting is always going to be a possibility. Also, Ms Willow is "moving along" in years (she'll be 14 in December) and is now the oldest cat I've had - my theorizing here is that the closer a kitty is to karcking it, the easier it is for ethereal thingies to mingle with fur and whiskers.


Some things to notice in the photos -
the 45 degree angle between the novel on the floor and the bookshelf - does 45 signify something eery,
the order in which I placed the Stephen King novels in my bookshelf*,
that I own 11 Stephen King novels - does 11 signify something eery,
the presence of all Harry Potter novels in bottom right of bookshelf (I swear I didn't buy - or read - ANY of them),
that Ms Willow hides her face in almost every photo she's in, and when her face is visible it is blurred.


Observing the aftermath. (PS: The coffee table is usually parallel, and closer, to the bookshelf - I moved it so as to get a better look at the damage).

It wasn't me! (Then why won't you let your face be photographed??)

Looking for clues.

Bored now.

Eat my dust!

Conduit for demonic depravity or innocuous horror novel?

Will the remaining Stephen King novels eventually make their way to the floor? And will something horrific manifest if this occurs? Perhaps the Buffy Chess Set - protector of the bookshelf - will slay the unknown evil.

*'Tis a little tricky to read the titles from the photo, so here they are (left-to-right):
Christine (prior to floor relocation)
Salem's Lot
Firestarter
The Dead Zone
Thinner
Cujo
Carrie
The Running Man (writing as Richard Bachman)
The Shinning
Night Shift
The Dark Half

(yes, I'm old skool Stephen King)

Research Fail

[Subheading: Glaring Omission]

Dear Sam Harris,

When you were writing your anti-Religion polemic The End of Reason: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason - a book which, in part, explores and philosophizes upon, the nature of human belief, contrasting the irrational aspects of religious beliefs with the rational aspects of most other beliefs - did it ever occur to you to speak with (even interview) a person with religious beliefs and, you know, ask them how they came to have these beliefs. You could've spoken to sample groups from various religions; isn't this the kind of thing researchers do, especially researchers researching people - I think it's called primary data. You're extra harshly critical of Islam; given that Islam is the second most populous of all the religions, surely you could've found some people of this faith and asked them about their beliefs (Hint: hang outside a mosque on Friday afternoon, you're bound to find some Islamic peoples). You've written a book critiquing religion and yet you don't appear to have consulted with any theologians - either an academic or a cleric (eg a priest, a rabbi, an imam). I'm afraid I'm going to have to give this book an F.

Effulgent13
(PS: I'm not religious - lapsed Catholicism notwithstanding)

The Perils of Womb Ownership

[Warning: Blog post mentions Menstruation, Masturbation and Twilight (the Stephanie Meyer vampire series). Also, blog post is long.]

Don’t get me wrong, there are also joys of womb ownership – though, really, apart from the making of the (wanted) babies and the being a conduit for supernatural powers (re: Buffy), the having of a womb is a mostly fraught experience. It can be especially fraught for the younger owners, and even more so for those aged around 11 to 15 – the age when their wombs are ‘activated’ (ie the onset of puberty, and its partner in crime, menstruation). What this activation means is that the (very) young woman is now in possession of a human-making body. As my mother said to me, on the day I first began to menstruate, “You can become a mother, now”. Obviously, I ran screaming from the room, but I knew what she meant. She wasn’t telling me to go out and get pregnant (I must have grandchildren!). She was making sure I understood that my body had transformed into something very powerful, and, as the wisdom of Spiderman teaches, “With great power comes great responsibility”. Which is a whole lotta scary for a nearly 13 year old. (There is similar scary for boy-teenagers – “You can become a father, now” – but, since human-making doesn’t occur inside men’s bodies, I think the level of jeopardy is greater for women than for men).

Of course, some parents are loathe to scare the crap out of their children, and some want to protect their children from the realities of the adult world. But their children are on an inexorable trajectory into a precarious and hormonal adulthood. A candid (and caring) conversation/s between parent and child goes a long way towards arming a teenager against the negative external (and internal) forces which they will encounter.

So, what does any of this have to do with the Twilight phenomenon? Well, I’m glad you asked. While there are many criticisms levelled at Twilight – its insipid female lead, its insipid prose, its insipid (conservative) gender politics, the ludicrousness of vampires that sparkle in the sunlight – the books and movies are very popular. And the main demographic for this popularity is young women, especially women teenagers. Why, why, why? Of course, the main character, Bella, is also a teenager (17 years old), but there are other stories with young female protagonists. Why are so many drawn to Twilight? What is the nature of this attractive energy, which seethes between the pages/celluloid of Twilight, and lures the unsuspecting girl/woman into its lair? (Hint: the perils of womb ownership).

Here are my (probably overreaching) theories:

Theory 1: Fear of sexual desire.
[Not that sexual desire is a bad thing, or inherently frightening.]
What I mean is that sexual desire can be a powerful and consuming experience. And, for newly hormonal teenagers, sexual desire is a new (and possibly scary) experience. It can take time to acclimatize to the new sensations, and to acquire some authority over them – to feel in control. For women - who, in many cultures and societies, are indoctrinated to believe that sexual desire in women is evil or that it isn’t real - the onset of lust can be incredibly confusing, if not terrifying. In the Twilight series, vampire Edward won’t have sex with human Bella, lest his passion gets out of control and he accidentally kills her. I wonder if Edward’s fear of uncontrollable, and possibly violent, passion mirrors a fear that women (especially younger women, who are newer to lust) may have about the power of their own sexual desire - what terror may ensue if the beast is unleashed (mwahahaha). Which leads to my next theory…

Theory 2: Vampire Edward as ‘safe’ boyfriend.
Whilst it’s all very thrilling being stalked, with fierce broodiness, by a tall-pale-undead-100-year-old man, such seemingly innocent blood pumping excitement can lead a person (eg Bella) to barely restrained lust. And if the person isn’t completely sure about getting wild with their lust, but still enjoys experiencing lust, having a partner who doesn’t ‘push’ for sexual contact can be a practical and unthreatening solution. Which leads to…masturbation! Masturbation – which is often considered normal for men but an aberration for women (bite me!) - is another way in which a person can experience blood pumping lust (and bonus orgasm) without having to negotiate with a partner. So, really, vampire Edward is a metaphor for (female) masturbation…

Theory 3: SEX can lead to PREGNANCY which can lead to DEATH.
[Twilight Spoiler: In the 4th instalment of the series, titled Breaking Dawn – although it should have been titled Breaking Bella – Bella and Edward do have sex, which leads to Bella’s pregnancy, which leads to Bella’s ‘death’ (she nearly dies giving birth to a human/vampire but Edward saves her by turning her into a vampire). Lordy!]
This theory follows on from the first paragraph of this blog post – the fear of unwanted pregnancy. Sure, people can use contraception, but it’s not always 100% effective, and contraceptive choices can be limited – eg some women will develop (potentially life-threatening) blood clots if they take the contraceptive pill. Contraception isn’t always made readily available (unhelpful!). Or, sometimes, contraception is ignored in the heat of passion. So, a young woman may find herself with an unwanted pregnancy, and suddenly faced with having to make a massive and inescapable decision. None of the choices are easy: termination, adoption, young (possibly single) motherhood, or, in some circumstances, suicide. There is also the possibility of things going wrong (even fatally – for the mother or baby) during pregnancy or childbirth. It can be pretty fucking dire! Once a girl hits puberty, the possibility of pregnancy is ever present (at least until menopause), and in the early years of womanhood this can be a little overwhelming. So, I wonder if the heightened intensity of Bella and Edward’s relationship - enhanced by his vampiric thrall and the looming fear that he may get crazy and cause Bella’s death - provides an oddly comforting emotional catharsis to over-burdened (and a little freaked-out) young shoulders.


In conclusion (to this somewhat unwieldy blog post), if societies and cultures over this blue and green planet could just stop being so anally retentive and judgemental about women’s sexuality, and instead be open and nurturing, then the story of Bella and Edward wouldn’t need to be so damn popular. Or something like that.

Teenage Boys and Sex: WTF?

I have just started reading a completely ludicrous book titled "Why Gender Matters" by Leonard Sax. I have read one chapter only and have based my assessment of the book on this one chapter (chapter 6: Sex), indeed on one passage:

"The motivation for sex is fundamentally different for most teenage boys compared with teenage girls. Teenage boys want to have sex to satisfy sexual desire. It's a gut-level, base-of-the-brain impulse, not far removed from the need to have a bowel movement when you feel the urge." (Page 125)

Ah, sex and poo, quite the erotic combination - thankfully (especially for teenage boys, or so it would seem), there's a whole subsection of porn devoted to fecal lust. (OK, I'm done now).

Also, on behalf of my teenage sisters, I would like to point out that the having of sexual desire - and the wanting to satisfy sexual desire as a motivation for sex - is very much a part of we XX humans. It is completely healthy and normal to be interested in sex while being female. AND, as proof of the link between being imbued with lust and (mostly) imbued with estrogen, astute readers will notice that I, a womb-bearing member of humanity, opened the ludicrous book at the chapter on Sex. Baby!

Today's Literary Quote:

From The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

"The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand, and grinned through moving masks." (pg 159)

I have to confess that, once upon a time, like Dorian, I too kept a transferable demonic self-portrait in a 'locked room at the top of the house' - actually, the rusting boot of my old corolla, underneath the spare tyre. It did serve me well, though, for awhile. The portrait would absorb all my verbal faux pas and my ludicrous vociferations (including when I would use words like 'vociferations'). The painting's transference manifested itself as ridiculous facial expressions, and gibberish would emanate from its tainted canvas.

Eventually the noise from the portrait grew so loud that it could not be contained within the confines of my corolla's boot. Its hideous tones seeped into the car's carriage. I was unable to concentrate on my driving. Family and friends refused lifts from me. I became quite lonely and despondent. One time, I had a vision of a 'foul puppet' upon my dashboard, and I nearly crashed my car. It all became too much and I realized I was going to have to destroy the portrait. Once I had made this decision, I felt as though a great weight was no longer squashing me. It was very liberating.

Of course, once I'd destroyed the portrait - by cutting it into tiny pieces, which I then scattered across an abandoned sewerage processing plant - my ludicrous vociferations came flooding back. Years of inappropriate comments and wild streams-of-consciousness poured from lips, day and night, for many months. It was hell. I couldn't be around people, I couldn't even be around animals (who are notoriously tolerant of lunatic rantings).

Finally, the rantings began to ease. And I started to realize that I actually had some control over my mouth; I didn't HAVE to vocalize every random thought. I could, in fact, veto myself. It was a life-changing revelation. And, thankfully, I didn't need to murder anyone to come to this epiphany, unlike the tragic Dorian Gray.

The Tradition of (fictionalised) Tweenaged Girl Killers has gone Apoplectic

(Tweenaged girl killers = girls aged 9 to 12 who kill)

I am, of course, referring to the epic, ballistic (literally) and inimitable, 11 year old murderess, Mindy Macready, aka Hit Girl (from the extremely violent and slightly surreal, comic/film Kick-Ass).

Mindy Macready/Hit Girl (film version, played by Chloe Moretz):
 
I can’t help but to be in awe of such ruthless and accomplished murder in one so adorable. It’s wrong, I know, very, very wrong. Murder, and the glorification of it, is wrong. And it’s even wronger when the glorified murder is committed by a ponytailed waif. So why am I so besotted? A few possibilities come to mind:

- I like to see portrayals of strong female characters in fiction; and this pre-pubescent, gun-toting, ninja assassin, is certainly that.

- Watching Hit Girl’s ultra-violent takedown of the bad guys gives me a kind of catharsis, tinged with vengeance, for remembered childhood feelings of disempowerment and fear.

- I’m psychotic.


Other tweenaged girl killers I admire:

12 year old Mathilda Lando (from the film Leon: The Professional).
M.O: Firearms.
Admittedly, Mathilda didn’t actually kill anyone, but she had murderous intent, and she knew how to clean a gun! I suspect that it was only an unnaturally instilled abhorrence to murder (I blame society) which kept her from becoming a successful “cleaner”.

13 year old Rynn Jacobs (from the novel/film The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane).
M.O: Poison.
Admittedly, Rynn is one year too old to be a tween, but…bite me, she’s still very young!

12 year old Regan MacNeil (from the novel/film The Exorcist).
M.O: Inducing heart failure in priests/throwing people (preferably priests) down long flights of stairs.
Admittedly, Regan is portrayed as being possessed by a demon, but I think the whole “demon” thing is just an allegory for Regan’s (and all girls') natural transformation into homicidal puberty.

12 year old (kind of) Eli (from the novel/film Let the Right One In).
M.O: Persuading others to kill people for her/doing it herself using her (very strong) hands and her (very pointy) teeth.
Admittedly, Eli is actually a centuries old vampire, as well as being a castrated male, but since she ‘lives’ as a 12 year old girl (albeit one who drinks human blood and shuns daylight), I’m including Eli in the list.

Generalized Abstractions and Long-Winded Sentences are giving me a Cranky

In my quest to understand the theories of Karl Marx, it might be better if I read Marx for Dummies, instead of The Cambridge Companion to Marx. By this, I don't mean to debase the For Dummies collection, of which I've read a few and found to be an informative and helpful introduction to various subjects, unlike the Cambridge Companion, of which I am meaning to debase.

I've read about a third of the 'Companion' and found that it uses A LOT of words to say a small amount of stuff. Such verbosity can be OK, if it flows with coherence. Unfortunately, the Companion's verbosity flows like a river of congealed lard. I've just finished the 4th chapter and, since each chapter is written by a different person, I was hoping for some improvement. But, alas, so far, each writer has chosen to write in the style I've named "Obfuscatory Academic"; a style I am being very much frustrated with!

Here is an example from the chapter titled Science: Realism, criticism, history by James Farr:

"The philosophy of science, in Marx's terms, should reflect on and reconstruct the practices of the social sciences in such a way as to help prescribe the development of theories that are rigorously and self-consciously historical, both about the past and the future, and whose subject terms refer to the powers that individuals or classes have or do not have in certain social relations." (pg 122)

My best interpretation of this sentence/paragraph is that Marx believed that the study/development/progress of Science should be directed by...uh...what a society needs to ensure it is fair...??? (I'm struggling greatly with understanding what the hell 'rigorously and self-consciously historical' means). Whatever the case, I was disappointed to discover that Marx had NOT, in fact, dabbled in science, as I was led to believe by the chapter heading. Sadly, he did not partake in a little bit of Alchemy, nor did he discover an exotic plant or animal. Perhaps it was for the best, though, that he stayed out of the laboratory. Had Marx, with his ingenious mind, been obsessed with the transformation of lead into gold, well, he might not have been so inclined to turn his energies to the plight of the proletariat (which, incidentally, would be a great title for an adventure series).

The Appeal of Unrestrained Id in Grown-up Fictional Characters

[I'm using the qualifier 'grown-up' instead of 'adult' so as not to give the impression this blog entry is about porn - that discussion is for another day]

[Also, "id" as in id, ego and superego, from Freud's model of the psyche]

And when I say, fictional characters, I'm only referring to 2: Dr Sheldon Cooper from TV show The Big Bang Theory and Ignatius Reilly from the novel A Confederacy of Dunces. (I'm sure there are many other such id unrestrained characters in fiction - indeed in real life - but these are the 2 I've encountered most recently, so they're what I'm going with). I haven't studied psychology, or specifically, Freudian psychology, so I'm probably being a little free (unrestrained?) with my interpretation of unrestrained id. I'm defining the id as being that part of the brain/mind that wants what it wants - now! - and won't be told, especially by any other part of the brain/mind, to modify its wants and the behaviours which result from these wants. It's a perfectly acceptable condition in a baby, not so much in a 30-year-old.

The behaviours manifested by the unrestrained ids of Sheldon Cooper and Ignatius Reilly, and the reactions to these behaviours by their friends and family, are both disturbing and amusing. For Sheldon, the epitome of his behaviour is his overwhelming "need" to have his own spot on the couch:

“In the winter, that seat is close enough to the radiator to remain warm yet not so close as to cause perspiration. In the summer, it’s directly in the path of a cross breeze created by opening windows there and there. It faces the television at an angle that is neither direct, thus discouraging conversation, nor so far wide as to create a parallax distortion.”

For Ignatius, it's his compulsive eating, especially of the hot dogs he's meant to be selling in his capacity as a hot dog vendor. Another pivotal, and disturbing and amusing, trait of both characters is their narcissistic enjoyment of their intelligence. Sheldon's IQ is at genius level, and Ignatius believes himself to be a genius, though he does most likely have a high IQ (as well as some culinary skills):

"I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labours, I make an occasional cheese dip."

A possible explanation of the unrestrained ids of these characters could include an analysis of their 'arrested development'. In Sheldon's case, his accelerated intellectual development and scholastic achievements were acquired in the absence of normal childhood developments, with the reult that he's experiencing his childhood in his late 20's. With Ignatius it's harder to pin down, perhaps an over-pandering mother and an absent father - at some point someone really needed to give him a firm kick in the ass.

While I enjoy watching/reading these characters I wouldn't want to spend much time with them in real life. They're both verbose, egotistical, elitist snobs, and Ignatius is constantly belching and farting. So why are they popular fiction archetypes. I think, partly, it's a case of living vicariously through them. Inside all of us is a self-absorbed baby, wanting its own spot on the couch and to eat as much junk food as it can shovel into its mouth. But we wouldn't last long in the real world behaving in this way; people wouldn't want to share a couch with us and our arteries would eventually clog up and we'd die.

I Have Invented Another Reading Method

I’m calling it the Absorption method.

The Absorption Method shares some similarity with my other reading method invention, Random Reading (reading random passages at a time until one of them starts making sense; descibed in the Naked Lunch section), in that it requires a certain amount of ‘disconnectedness’ or ‘casual connectedness’ while reading a difficult text. I discovered this new method while reading Crime and Punishment (which could EASILY have been written using half the words - although, thankfully, Mr D's hypergraphia was not at the terrifying heights it reached during the writing of the Brothers K). I think the method works best with a novel which, while not being entirely incomprehensible, strongly encourages the reader’s brain to glaze over, with the possibility of subsequent unconsciousness.

The most important tenant of Absorption Reading (actually, the only tenant) is to ‘keep your eyes moving’. You need to keep your mind aware but not necessarily focused (too much focusing is a maximum danger time for brain-glaze to occur). As you move through the (seemingly endless) paragraphs, you will pick up random words. This should give you enough information to absorb the general thread of the narrative without having to read so much extraneous drivel. Periodically, you will need to go back over paragraphs/pages and read them properly – they main contain essential plot points, introductions of important characters, something interesting. As with any skill, practice brings proficiency. Don’t be discouraged if you find yourself upon the final page of your novel with no recollection of, well, the novel. Start slow; try a short but densely worded novel – maybe Heart of Darkness (which, after a couple of lacklustre attempts, I was finally able to read using the NORMAL reading method). The bookshelf is your oyster. One day, you may even find yourself holding open that most notorious of 'famous but unread' novels, Ulysses.

A word of caution, though. As effective as this reading method may seem, it is not a panacea. It will not render every intractable novel, readable. There are novels, evil novels, hidden in the deepest darkest corners of every bookstore and library, so mind boggling obscure and overwritten, that they will always be, at least for 99.9999% of humans, unreadable.

Empathy or Machiavellian Ingenuity?

"To indulge in deception, pretence and social manipulation you need to be able to put yourself in another's shoes; to take the other's point of view; to imagine what it would be like to be that other."
(page 76, The Meme Machine by Susan Blackmore)

Certainly "putting yourself in another's shoes" should enable some comprehension of the mind of another human being, but for what purpose? Foolishly, in trying to make the world a better place, I've been attempting to EMPATHETICALLY understand my fellow humans (ie care about them), when I could have been RULING the world using deception, pretence and social manipulation. What a pathetic, non-sociopath I turned out to be!

Impressions of Twilight

That's "Twilight" the brooding vampire novel by Stephenie Meyer, not "Twilight" the brooding transition into nighttime, just before the sun goes to sleep. (Not sure where"Dusk" fits into all of this - is it before or after Twilight? - ponderous).

I decided it was time I investigated the Twilight Phenomenon. I've just finished reading the first book in the series. And I now believe the Twilight Phenomenon requires no further investigation from myself. (Although I may watch the films).


I approached this important assignment from a few different angles:

1) through a "teenage filter", ie I tried to imagine how I would've reacted to the novel had I read it when I was a teenager

2) through a "sensible-adult-feminist filter", ie do I think the novel is harmful to teenagers, and especially, to girl teenagers

3) through no filter, ie what do I think of the novel as a piece of writing, no strings attached


Here are my conclusions:

1) Given that my favourite "young adult" novel when I was a teenager was Carrie by Stephen King and my second favourite "young adult" novel was The Shinning by Stephen King, I think it's quite likely that Twilight would've been a little tame for my teenaged reading tastes. However, I suspect I would've at least read, and probably found some enjoyment in, the first book. And I probably would've watched the films (peer pressure would have made watching the films mandatory). I'm not sure I would have been besotted with Edward - Edward-besottedness seems to be a large contributor to the Twilight Phenomenon. Edward's kinda bossy for my liking, and possibly a little too pretty. And I wouldn't have identified with Bella, she's a bit too perfect (bizarre clumsiness notwithstanding); she's too academically gifted and self sufficient and fragile beautied - not a pimple in sight.

2) Harmful? I found this difficult to assess. I probably wouldn't recommend Twilight to teenagers. It's not well written, it's quite bland at times, and I found the characterizations of Bella and Edward a little ridiculous. But are these things harmful? Maybe.

It's true that the Twilight Phenomenon has gotten teenagers to read (at least girl teenagers) and this is a good thing. But if it's the only book a teenager reads, then it could be harmful. Especially in regard to the Bella/Edward interaction. I don't like that Edward is given so much ownership of, and control over, Bella's lust (or 'love', as Bella thinks, fool that she is...what? Me, cynical? Never). And I think there is some danger in a romanticised portrayal of such skewed desire in young adult fiction: Being that they are people with limited life experience in the world of lust/love, they might not read it sceptically, like I did! I also think it's unrealistic that, at age 17, Bella hasn't previously experienced lust (I'd guess most people - boys and girls - would have had some dealings with lust from about age 13...ie about when puberty begins). If Bella had been familiar with the sensation of lust, she might not have been so much in Edward's thrall - she would've still been hot for him but not so ludicrously hot.

There is also something creepy about a 17-year-old getting romantically involved with a 100-year-old. That's right, Edward is just over 100 years old, but was turned into a vampire at 17, so he still looks 17. (This vast age difference thing was something I also found creepy in Buffy, ie Buffy with Angel, although Buffy did have the advantage of being able to throw Angel across the room if he threatened her). Certainly the older lover theme has it's romantic appeal to an inexperienced young person (I had a huge crush on my 35-year-old guitar teacher when I was 17). The notion that the older person will show you what it's all about, and you won't have to fumble around and work it out for yourself - a process that could take years and years! (Hint: maybe it should take years and years). But there's also a gaping power imbalance going on, one that could be easily exploited by a less-than-scrupulous operator. And I think Edward fits this description. He doesn't give Bella room to get to know herself, to become an adult, before he starts using her rampant desire for him to control her (she gets all swoony whenever he gets too close to her - Vomit!). He's incredibly selfish. And having been alive/undead for 100 years should give him some wisdom and restraint, right? Apparently not. This guy stalks Bella, listens in on her conversations, has a violent temper, will possibly kill Bella if he "loses control" around her (read: has sex with her), is very possessive of Bella AND (and this bit made me especially cranky) he instructs Bella not to go into the (dangerous) forest alone (she's only allowed "into the forest" if she's accompanied/led by Edward). Forest rant continues in next paragraph.

[Warning: Gratuitous and tenuous metaphor ensues]. Let me say, right here, right now, on this very blog, that a forest is a wondrous place, and a woman should explore "her" forest whenever, and however, she sees fit. If Bella would like to explore the forest with Edward, that's fine, but it's Bella's decision. I think it would be fantastic if Bella explored the forest by herself for awhile, so she has a thorough understanding of it - its flora and fauna, its various paths, the myriad emotions she experiences within the forest. And then, maybe, she'll have a better understanding of who she might like to accompany her into the forest - if, indeed, she even wants company.

My final rant concerns Bella's father:
Dear Bella's father,
Bella is your school-age daughter. She is NOT your domestic servant. Do your own damn dishes. Clean your own damn house. Learn to cook. AND spend some goddamn time with your daughter. Don't leave her home alone all weekend while you're out fishing. Pretty soon Bella will be off to college and you can do as much fishing as you like, but right now: BELLA NEEDS YOU. And maybe, just maybe, if you spent more time with her, she might not be hanging out with a violently-possessive, self-involved, sexually-sadistic, 100-year-old vampire.
Love, Nicole.

3) I wanna know more about vampire-Alice. Why wasn't this book about vampire-Alice? I will not be reading anymore Stephenie Meyer books unless vampire-Alice is the main character.

"a mass of glutinous coiling worms"

From the novel Solaris by Stanislaw Lem:

"Our white, naked bodies dissolve into a swarm of black creeping things, and I am - we are - a mass of glutinous coiling worms, endless, and in that infinity, no, I am infinite, and I howl soundlessly, begging for death and for an end." Page 188

Yep...pretty much describes me first thing in the morning. And mid-afternoon. And on Christmas Day.

[The passage describes part of a dream experienced by the novel's main character, Kris Kelvin, while he is in a space station orbiting the mysterious 'ocean' planet, Solaris.]

Winter Lethargy Has Filled Me With its Evil Naughtiness...

..., which means my brain has partially shut down in an effort to diffuse needed energy to the coldest parts of my body, ie everywhere, and I'm continually eating and sleeping and putting on extra jumpers (not all at once). Hence, I'm too distracted with keeping my body warm to write my usual, brilliant, blog entries. PLUS, I'm reading "The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism" by Naomi Klein (if Milton Friedman were still alive, I'd so kick his evil neo-liberalist ass) and "Crime and Punishment" by Mr D, which is requiring whatever's left of my brain energy.

This Blog Deserves An "A"...

...however, it would probably get a B or C if it were being assessed by the killjoy teachers who marked my essays in high school - "Don't use 'I' in a formal essay" - pfft! The instructions were to DISCUSS; I often preface my discussions (formal or otherwise) with "I think" or "in my opinion" or "shut up and listen". For example: "In my opinion, Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov needed a shitload of editing to give it even a modicum of readability". See. I mean, this is only my opinion, it isn't gospel - is it so wrong for me to indicate as such? There are people (strange people, living in dark, dark caves of delusion) who would stridently disagree with my opinion on The Brothers Karamazov, who may even think that the novel could use more words (God forbid!). I believe they should preface their essays with "I think" or "In my opinion, Nicole is not only wrong, but she is also a raving idiot". But I digress...back to praising my blog (which is the point of this blog entry)...

I love my blog and it loves me. My blog's love is unconditional. My blog doesn't judge me. It doesn't lecture me if I use inappropriate language. It doesn't laugh at me if I misspell a word. It doesn't make snarky comments if I use incorrect grammar. It doesn't get all elitist if I experiment with my writing style (in fact, it encourages free form expression). And, most importantly, it doesn't grade me. There are no passes or fails with my blog; no ego-enhancing "A"s or ego-deflating "F"s. There is only the freedom to say whatever I like, however I like, without the fear that my blog privileges will be taken from me because I write verb-less sentences ...(well, unless I write incredibly offensive, verb-less sentences).

Magic Mountain Count: Page 300

I'm struggling with The Magic Mountain. These last 100 pages have been something of a chore and I haven't maintained my reading schedule - weeks have gone by with barely 10 to 15 pages being read. I think it's time for, um, "hard decisions", or, at the very least, a change.

Thomas Mann's prose is a paradoxical combination of preciseness and verbosity. He can meander through a series of details, seemingly unnecessary as they are being read, which eventually piece together a comprehensive picture. I've noticed this particularly in his insightful, humorous and, occasionally, compassionate, descriptions of human behaviour, and in the descriptions of the ravages of disease on the human body. But there is much detail to wade through and I'm beginning to find the slow pace a little too slow. And the ramblings a little too rambly; being a philosophical novel, there are great swaths of character dialogue devoted to esoteric thinkings (Herr Settembrini especially - "Illness is a depravity" - is testing my patience, although, in fairness, he is also testing the patience of the novel's protagonist, Hans Castorp). Of course, The Brothers Karamazov also contained great rambly swaths, and I was able to manage those (albeit, at times, with great difficulty). But I was more tolerant of Karamazov (and Dostoyevsky). So why Karamazov and not Magic Mountain? There are a few possible reasons for this:

1) Karamazov and I have a long history; I bought the novel 12 years ago and had, at various times during those 12 years, attempted to read it - I certainly had strong motivation to finish it

2) Perhaps I connect intimately on some level with Dostoyevsky, something about him and/or his world view speaks to me

3) Starting a difficult novel so soon after finishing a difficult novel - especially one so significant to me - might have been asking too much of my brain capacity, and my endurance. I may have, inadvertently, cast Magic Mountain into the role of "rebound novel".

However, I do feel some spark with Magic Mountain; it has, at times, spoken to me - there is definitely potential. But I don't want to push things. I don't want the relationship to go sour because we got too serious too soon. So, I've decided Magic Mountain and I need more time and space, as novel and reader, to find our connection. I think we need to be just friends for awhile (NO benefits). We'll still be seeing each other, from time to time, but I'm not going to force things - I'll read it when I feel like reading it.

And, for anyone tempted to read The Magic Mountain, here is a philosophical-type excerpt to give you some idea what of to expect:

"What was life, really? It was warmth, the warmth produced by instability attempting to preserve form, a fever of matter that accompanies the ceaseless dissolution and renewal of protein molecules, themselves transient in their complex and intricate construction. It was the existence of what, in actuality, has no inherent ability to exist, but only balances with sweet, painful precariousness on one point of existence in the midst of this feverish, interwoven process of decay and repair." (pg 271)

I must now retire from this blog entry so I can attend to my very own "process of decay and repair".

Magic Mountain Count: Page 200

I'm having trouble deciding how to write this blog post - well, you could use the keyboard and type in some words - yes, THANKYOU, annoying and sarcastic voice in my head. What I mean is, I'm not sure how to capture the essence of pages 100 to 200 of The Magic Mountain. In fact, I'm not entirely sure what "the essence" is but I think that's okay since the book is 700 pages long and would probably be classified - to an extent - as a novel of ideas, which means it's unlikely to be easily accessed. Okay, what I really mean is: I don't know what the hell this novel is on about. Yet. I suspect I'll need to read at least another 100 pages, or even the entire novel, before it starts to reveal its true intentions.

Nevertheless, I will summarize what I have discovered so far. The events in the novel take place in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, in the years before World War I. The main character is Hans Castorp, a young man about to begin his career as a ship designer, who has taken himself to the sanatorium for a 3 week holiday/rest, and to visit his cousin, Joachim, who has tuberculosis. During this time Hans takes part in the daily routines of the sanatorium; walks in the alpine air, resting times ("rest cures"), lectures, music concerts (weekly) and numerous, and generous, meals. Hans begins to become acquainted with some of the other residents (mostly patients) as well as spending time with his cousin. He also begins to notice unusual aspects of his own physicality; his cheeks are frequently flushed, his cigars have lost their taste. Towards the end of his stay he senses that he's developing a cold. He takes his temperature - an activity the other residents conduct with great regularity and devotion - and discovers it is alarmingly high. A visit to one of the sanatoriums doctors reveals that Hans has a "wet area" on one of his lungs. Hans is ordered to stay at the sanatorium for another 3 weeks.

I think I've inadvertently chosen a very apt novel for myself to be reading at this point in my life - "for myself to be reading at this point in my life"; the essence of this sentence is grammatical violation. I'm kind of living the life of a confined person, although, thankfully, I'm not sick (especially with a life-threatening illness like tuberculosis) and I have the option of not being "confined". What I mean by "confined" is that I spend alot of time in my flat. A large reason for this is that I'm not employed, but also I choose not to "go out" very often. Most of the activities I enjoy doing I can do in my flat, eg reading (although I do sometimes "go out" to the library or the bookstore), sleeping, eating (occasionally I'll "go out" to eat), surfing the internet, watching dvd's (which means I have to "go out" to the dvd rentals store or the dvd shop), contemplating, exercising (sometimes I "go out" for a walk), studying my cat, writing this blog, staying in touch with friends (via email or phone - most of my friends don't live nearbye or have time-constrained lives, but I do enjoy "going out" to catch up with them when it's possible). I have to admit, though, that having the internet is a huge contributor to my being able to spend so much time by myself in my flat. I always look forward to logging on and finding out what's going on with the world - big and small. I think, despite my introverted and non-social ways, I'm not an island.

I've slightly veered away from comparing my current life to the lives of the residents of the sanatorium in The Magic Mountain. I think the similarities lie in both the reflective, retreat-like quality of our lives and the being outside of "conventional" life. In the novel, the residents refer to the towns below the Alps as "the flatlands" and speak of the flatlands as though they were a different, and, perhaps, less privileged, world. The "slowness" and "boredom" of life in the sanatorium provide a unique perspective. For myself, at the moment, this is something I really enjoy about not having a job. But I also enjoy not having work responsibilities, ie having to be at work on the required days and at the required time, having to present in a work-mode frame of mind (whatever the hell that means, maybe not being in a psychotic state - which is A LOT to ask of your average human being), being able to do the required work and continue to do the required work until the required time has elapsed, even though my every human fibre longs to be somewhere else and mortal life is short. (Yes, me and work are not affable companions at this time).

So, in conclusion...actually, there won't be a conclusion, more of a: I've waffled on enough and would like to end this blog post before my brain implodes.

Michel Foucault Can Kiss My Aneurism

[Sub-Heading: Intellectualism Rage Quit]

I've decided to try to improve the intellectualness of my brain. I know, I know, my IQ (self-assessed) is so high already that this would seem to be a pointless endeavour. But I'm a humble genius and live by the adage "it is possible, though very unlikely, that there are things in this world of which I do not have knowledge" (and quite a catchy adage I think, maybe one day someone will turn it into a rap song). So I've been attempting to read some books by French intellectual Michel Foucault (who decides that a person is an intellectual anyway? is there a vote?). I have 3 of his books on loan from the library - which I've listed in order of "started to read and then abandoned":

1) The Will To Knowledge: The history of sexuality, Vol. 1
2) Discipline And Punishment: The birth of the prison
3) The Archaeology Of Knowledge

Sex, discipline and knowledge – bring it on! Or not. Here are 3 seemingly interesting topics, surely riveting discussion would transpire. Alas, no. Or maybe it did, just not in any language I can understand (note: the books have been translated into English before anyone says: “they’re written in French, idiot. Merde.”).

Perhaps I’m being disrespectful. Academics may say: “you’re just an uneducated pleb, Nicole, you shouldn’t be reading such literature. These books were not written for you”. Then who the fuck were these books written for ??? Sorry – Then for whom the fuck were these books written??? The blurb on the back cover of The Archaeology Of Knowledge informs that “…Foucault was a man whose passion and reason were at the service of nearly every progressive cause of his time…he spearheaded public awareness of the dynamics that hold us all in thrall to a few powerful ideologies and interests.” How on earth did he spearhead public awareness if nobody could understand anything he’d written? What are these powerful ideologies and interests to which we are held in thrall? If it’s not explained to me in language I can follow (and let me remind the internet that I have read The Brothers Karamazov – I can handle the incomprehensible, up to a point, ie just before my brain explodes), then how will I be able to spot an evil ideology when I meet one? Maybe I should just trust intellectuals and leave progress in their incomprehensible hands? Perhaps important ideas shouldn’t be “dumbed down” for the stinky masses? Maybe we should let the intellectuals sort it out and then explain it to us in simpler terms? And why does the word ‘elitist’ keep fluttering through my brain?

I want to be able to think it out for myself. And intellectuals writing in incomprehensible jargon and monopolizing ideas makes this difficult. And makes me cranky. I should be able to go to an original paper, read it for myself and make my own conclusions. Even if that paper is written in French (for which I do not speak). (Although I think it’s perfectly acceptable to read the translated version).

But let me get back to the concept of “dumbing down”. Is there a fear in Academic Land that if a piece of writing is coherent it isn't worthy? Is it necessary to over-intellectualize to the point of inanity to ensure that "common" people can't understand it. I think a comprehensive intellectual piece of writing will require, on the part of the reader, a degree of concentration, occasional consultation with a dictionary, sobriety and rumination. But these things don’t render it unreadable. I found Michel Foucault to be (mostly) unreadable. And annoying. Here are some thoughts that meandered though my mind whilst I was attempting to read his writings:

• this is overly abstract
• this doesn’t make sense
• this is very obscure
• get your claws out of my leg, Willow
• I disagree with this generalization
• are you going to back up this generalization with some evidence?
• Willow is so cute when she sleeping – she’s gone all twitchy
• I strongly disagree with this generalization even though I don’t understand it
• this sentence is too long...
• ...and poorly worded...
• ...and contains too many ideas...
• ...and conveys no meaning
• I wish season 2 of True Blood was already available on DVD
• oh my god! I can’t remember the last 20 minutes
• this cryptic generalization is very sweeping
• this paragraph is imbued with a specific vagueness
• how long has it been since my last cup of tea?
• has this been written in some kind of code?
• get to the point already! Jesus…
• ..Mary and Joseph
• I think Alexander Skarsgård would be impressed that I’m reading Foucault and, because of this, become completely besotted with me, and, as a consequence, would find it necessary to get wild with me…
• …[this thought requires an “adult content” warning]
• dammit, I’m going to make another cup of tea even though I haven’t finished my current one

Magic Mountain Count: Page 100

"A great many false ideas have been spread about the nature of boredom"
The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann, pg 102

Don't be fooled by this quote, I'm not bored by this book. In fact, as someone who is very interested in 'the nature of boredom', I'm quite enjoying this slow-paced novel (though it is light speed compared to Karamazov). The sentence I've quoted is part of a wordier section discussing the passage of time - the quickness or slowness of it, depending on the type of activity or task being conducted. I think it's an apt quote for a novel set in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps. Quoting from the back cover "To this hermetic yet intrigue-ridden world comes Hans Castorp, a 'perfectly ordinary' young man who arrives for a short visit and ends up staying seven years". Ain't that the truth.

So far there hasn't been any magic (well it is called The Magic Mountain). I was hoping for some wizards or fairies, maybe even a troll. So far there's just been tuberculosis, although I guess this could be considered a kind of troll. There is sex, alluded to, rather than graphically described: "...and beyond any doubt, the game had turned bestial" pg 38 - BESTIAL! there's a word I've never used in polite conversation, or ever. But the first 100 pages of The Magic Mountain has not disappointed, it has been both literary and weird, qualities I look for in the novels I choose for my "special reading project".


Note: The edition I'm reading has been translated by John E. Woods.