Hermit crabs do not form their own shells but instead use the cast off shells of other animals. On some beaches, where shells are scarce, a crab may be forced to live in a shell that is too small for him and his grotesque, bristling body protrudes from its crowded prison.
Like hermit crabs, people do not make their own organic reputations, but must conform to pre-made categories, which fit their real selves with varying snuggness. In our democratic society, there is an abundance of shells and we are all encouraged to dwell in the largest ones we can carry on our backs. This leads to discomfort, as we drag our inflated reputations behind us, or the loss of our shells, as they slide off our backs.
Slogans like "you can do anything" and "be all that you can be" are destructive. While we thankfully don't have to live in uniformly small shells, our culture creates new misery by pushing mediocre people to live in oversized shells. Stop and consider yourself--your natural abilities and your true desires--and find a shell that fits.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Saturday, November 13, 2004
10 Reasons Why I Shouldn't Be a Man
1. I would forget flowers and things and all women would hate me.
2. I would be a misogynist.
3. I would be like Henry Higgins.
4. I would be five inches taller with broader shoulders so all the guys would be jealous of me.
5. THEREFORE...I wouldn't have any friends.
6. I might have to live in Red Hill (ick).
7. My brother would have killed me by now.
8. I couldn't be a feminist without being weird.
9. I couldn't listen to Sinead O'Connor without being really weird.
10. I couldn't wear red scarves and flared pants without being gay.
2. I would be a misogynist.
3. I would be like Henry Higgins.
4. I would be five inches taller with broader shoulders so all the guys would be jealous of me.
5. THEREFORE...I wouldn't have any friends.
6. I might have to live in Red Hill (ick).
7. My brother would have killed me by now.
8. I couldn't be a feminist without being weird.
9. I couldn't listen to Sinead O'Connor without being really weird.
10. I couldn't wear red scarves and flared pants without being gay.
Friday, November 12, 2004
From the Miasma of My Mind to Yours
It is 11:40 at night. Normally, being the sluggard I am, I'd be in bed. But I'm not. I'm writing a paper. Yes, the night before it is due. I have a minor stomach ache and a major buzz from the several servings of Starbuck's Java Chip icecream that I've consumed. A lot has happened. We've solved certain ladies' marital problems. We've eliminated Brianna's Armenian heresy. Emily's play has been a success the first night. And I learned a new word - MIASMA.
Yes, miasma, from the book I'm supposed to be reviewing, The Myth of Rome's Fall. The OED defines miasma as: Noxious vapour rising from putrescent organic matter, marshland, etc., which pollutes the atmosphere; a cloud of such vapour. How lovely! Hopefully the excitement will keep me awake for the next three hours....
Yes, miasma, from the book I'm supposed to be reviewing, The Myth of Rome's Fall. The OED defines miasma as: Noxious vapour rising from putrescent organic matter, marshland, etc., which pollutes the atmosphere; a cloud of such vapour. How lovely! Hopefully the excitement will keep me awake for the next three hours....
Saturday, November 06, 2004
The Omniscient OED
...where I can always find a new and useful word....
wanrufe - [f. WAN- + rufe var. RO n.]: disquiet, unrest
c1480 HENRYSON Robene & Makyne 28 Bot I haif mervell incertane Quhat makis the this wanrufe.
I was filled with wanrufe this morning after seeing the little apartment off campus with a miniature gas stove.
wanrufe - [f. WAN- + rufe var. RO n.]: disquiet, unrest
c1480 HENRYSON Robene & Makyne 28 Bot I haif mervell incertane Quhat makis the this wanrufe.
I was filled with wanrufe this morning after seeing the little apartment off campus with a miniature gas stove.
She's Back!
The only person who also likes Huxley, who will make a pact to go on a mescaline trip with me in ten years, the most tolerant, most gullible, most chic ALLIS WEBB!
Reason 27 why I hate politics: The Republicans sent Allis to Medina, Ohio so she's been gone all semester.
Reason 27 why I hate politics: The Republicans sent Allis to Medina, Ohio so she's been gone all semester.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Leaves in a Stream
Parts of our lives touch and cohere for a second until a whirlpool pulls us apart and reorganizes the relationship. There is an appearance of intentionality and permanency in the arrangement that is false. Some of us are delayed as we encounter a rock and the rest hurry down an eddy. We're still bright and waxy. We're not brown and soggy yet, not porous and slowly absorbing the water until we sink below the surface and become part of the muddy river bottom.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
The Umbrella Monster
Emily has seen fit to retract her comments of my last post in her blog. I'm sure we are all thankful to learn that she does not, in fact, hate intellectuals. Perhaps she merely has an inferiority complex about serious thinkers. Indeed, someone who wears umbrellas may be presumed to have many inferiority complexes. One can only conjecture...perhaps she got frustrated with her business casual wardrobe...perhaps she's been watching too much MTV...perhaps she has fantasies of being a male bullfrog.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Emily: Prolific Writers Are Boring
I: "Calvin wrote the first draft of Institutes when he was twenty-six!"
Emily: "What a boring man."
I: "You think creating a system of theology and studying under the two greatest legal humanists in Paris is boring?"
Emily: "He must have done nothing but write."
I: "So you would have preferred that he go out and impregnate his lover and get himself castrated like Peter Abelard?"
Emily (unconvincedly): "Oh, fine - Calvin wasn't boring."
Moral of the Story: Don't write too much if you want Emily to think you're interesting.
Emily: "What a boring man."
I: "You think creating a system of theology and studying under the two greatest legal humanists in Paris is boring?"
Emily: "He must have done nothing but write."
I: "So you would have preferred that he go out and impregnate his lover and get himself castrated like Peter Abelard?"
Emily (unconvincedly): "Oh, fine - Calvin wasn't boring."
Moral of the Story: Don't write too much if you want Emily to think you're interesting.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Killing the Gypsies
Sometimes I get tired of the same faces on coins, the same name on Sharpies, the same publishers of books. Even going to Canada or England is a small relief because the chocolate bars are different. But there is nowhere to go on this earth that can really satisfy someone with wanderlust anymore. Everywhere there will be Jeeps, Adidas, and someone will speak English. Every mile of desert, jungle, or tundra has been photographed by some supercilious satellite.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Dona Anna and the Goats
I had owned four goats before. The first one was the runt of a set of twins that belonged to my neighbor. I bottle-fed him KLIM until he grew up into a friendly but sharp-horned billy goat that hung himself while grazing on the hillside. I wrote my first tragic poem and thought I had a broken heart. I still remember my dad desparately pushing the goat's chest, trying to get him to breathe again while I stood behind him and sobbed.
My next goat was a big, brown, bossy nanny. I used to lie against her warm belly as she chewed her cud. Then she got sick and died. Our brown, shriveled, jibaro neighbor, Don Julio, said she had eaten a praying mantis.
Next came Chocolate Milk and Butter Milk. Butter Milk was a tiny white kid. I gave her a bath every day until she caught a cold and died. Our neighbor lady Dalia said goats weren't supposed to have baths. Chocolate Milk was a bigger goat that belonged to my brother. He gave her to me as consolation for Butter Milk. She probably lasted the longest, but then she got into the sweet feed pellets, gorging herself until her stomach burst.
So by the time Goodness and Mercy came along, I was experienced with goats, both living and dead. I knew, when we got back from Christmas in Michigan, that Dona Anna, the 80-year-old woman in the tiny house with the large pen of goats, was trying to give me a different Goodness than the one I left in her yard a month ago. This Goodness raised her triangular head into the air and rolled her rectangular yellow eyes in an odd fashion. But Dona Anna was adamant and we took the same Mercy and different Goodness home.
In a short while they were pregnant by the next-door long-haired billy. Being very good goats who didn't climb on any of the cars except the rusty old Nova and rarely charged mom's flower bed, they were allowed to have the run of the neighborhood. One day they didn't come back. Dona Maria said that goats often disappear when they are ready to give birth, but I always thought the new Goodness was a foundling who had led Mercy astray and Dona Anna was a twinkle-eyed, mischeivous gremlin.
My next goat was a big, brown, bossy nanny. I used to lie against her warm belly as she chewed her cud. Then she got sick and died. Our brown, shriveled, jibaro neighbor, Don Julio, said she had eaten a praying mantis.
Next came Chocolate Milk and Butter Milk. Butter Milk was a tiny white kid. I gave her a bath every day until she caught a cold and died. Our neighbor lady Dalia said goats weren't supposed to have baths. Chocolate Milk was a bigger goat that belonged to my brother. He gave her to me as consolation for Butter Milk. She probably lasted the longest, but then she got into the sweet feed pellets, gorging herself until her stomach burst.
So by the time Goodness and Mercy came along, I was experienced with goats, both living and dead. I knew, when we got back from Christmas in Michigan, that Dona Anna, the 80-year-old woman in the tiny house with the large pen of goats, was trying to give me a different Goodness than the one I left in her yard a month ago. This Goodness raised her triangular head into the air and rolled her rectangular yellow eyes in an odd fashion. But Dona Anna was adamant and we took the same Mercy and different Goodness home.
In a short while they were pregnant by the next-door long-haired billy. Being very good goats who didn't climb on any of the cars except the rusty old Nova and rarely charged mom's flower bed, they were allowed to have the run of the neighborhood. One day they didn't come back. Dona Maria said that goats often disappear when they are ready to give birth, but I always thought the new Goodness was a foundling who had led Mercy astray and Dona Anna was a twinkle-eyed, mischeivous gremlin.
Friday, September 10, 2004
The Sole, True and Entirely Accurate Account of our Trip to VA Beach
Friday: 8:00 am: *drowsily* "my mom said there was a hurricane headed this way." "oh well, let's go anyway - it'll be fun." "hope they have a roll-away bed."
Friday: 4:30 pm: "You mean you don't know how to check your oil? Do you know how to pump gas yet?"
Friday: 5:30 pm: *after politely being asked whether she was ready to go* "MICHAELA!!!! Will you STOP nagging. You sound like my MOTHER"
Friday: 6:23 pm: "Do you have any nail clippers?"
Friday: 6:35 pm: *three cell phones ring simultaneously* "Yes, mom, Michaela is driving - I'm sure it'll be fine...I think." "Maria did WHAT????" "That's fine, Brooks, just don't make out on campus."
Friday: 7:00 pm: *blabbering in the back seat* "Is that my exit?...um, is that my exit? IS THAT MY EXXIIIITTT?"
Friday: 10:35 pm: *quiet, small, extremely deserted intersection in the middle of nowhere* "There were too gas signs back there." *four voices* "MICCCHHHHAAEEEELAAA." "OH SH***" "D*** IT." "WHAT ARE YOU DOIINNGG?"
Friday: 11:00 pm: "did you say there was a continental breakfast?" "it's a Days Inn?" "Yuck"
Saturday: 12:00 am "there's no roll away?" "look - my knees hang of the edge of the bed." "maybe we should let the two little people sleep in one bed so we don't crush them." Friday: Saturday: 12:03 am: "MICCHHHAEEELAAA - you can't go out there - you're in your pajamas!!!!"
Saturday: 7:30 am: "oh look - they have donuts!" "MICHHAEEELAA - what did you do to the coffee maker?" "can we stop at Starbucks?"
Saturday: 9:30 am: "gosh, there sure is a lot of SAND everywhere."
Saturday: 10:00 am: "MICHHAEELLA - don't you dare take a picture back there!!!!!"
Saturday: 1:00 pm: "Are those kids feeding sea gulls? I HATE sea gulls."
Saturday: 5:00 pm: "I KNOW there's a Haggen Daz around here somewhere....." "Can we just stop at the Dairy Queen." "NOOOO."
Saturday: 5:20 pm: "Can we stop at Starbucks?"
Saturday: 6:00 pm: "Ouch - my AASSSSS is burnt!!!"
Friday: 4:30 pm: "You mean you don't know how to check your oil? Do you know how to pump gas yet?"
Friday: 5:30 pm: *after politely being asked whether she was ready to go* "MICHAELA!!!! Will you STOP nagging. You sound like my MOTHER"
Friday: 6:23 pm: "Do you have any nail clippers?"
Friday: 6:35 pm: *three cell phones ring simultaneously* "Yes, mom, Michaela is driving - I'm sure it'll be fine...I think." "Maria did WHAT????" "That's fine, Brooks, just don't make out on campus."
Friday: 7:00 pm: *blabbering in the back seat* "Is that my exit?...um, is that my exit? IS THAT MY EXXIIIITTT?"
Friday: 10:35 pm: *quiet, small, extremely deserted intersection in the middle of nowhere* "There were too gas signs back there." *four voices* "MICCCHHHHAAEEEELAAA." "OH SH***" "D*** IT." "WHAT ARE YOU DOIINNGG?"
Friday: 11:00 pm: "did you say there was a continental breakfast?" "it's a Days Inn?" "Yuck"
Saturday: 12:00 am "there's no roll away?" "look - my knees hang of the edge of the bed." "maybe we should let the two little people sleep in one bed so we don't crush them." Friday: Saturday: 12:03 am: "MICCHHHAEEELAAA - you can't go out there - you're in your pajamas!!!!"
Saturday: 7:30 am: "oh look - they have donuts!" "MICHHAEEELAA - what did you do to the coffee maker?" "can we stop at Starbucks?"
Saturday: 9:30 am: "gosh, there sure is a lot of SAND everywhere."
Saturday: 10:00 am: "MICHHAEELLA - don't you dare take a picture back there!!!!!"
Saturday: 1:00 pm: "Are those kids feeding sea gulls? I HATE sea gulls."
Saturday: 5:00 pm: "I KNOW there's a Haggen Daz around here somewhere....." "Can we just stop at the Dairy Queen." "NOOOO."
Saturday: 5:20 pm: "Can we stop at Starbucks?"
Saturday: 6:00 pm: "Ouch - my AASSSSS is burnt!!!"
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Thanks again, Uncle Sam
OK, Emily, I'm going to link to a Fox News story. You can make all the nasty comments you want. But they broke the story...http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,128198,00.html
The US Department of Agriculture, which very logically controls these sorts of things, is considering non-renewal of the waivers that allow foreign doctors to work in the USA.
Why would we send back doctors that are providing health care in a time when there is a shortage of health professionals?????
Because they might be terrorists. Let's keep ourselves safe by getting rid of all the doctors. After all, we've just received breaking new intelligence that people who hate America might try to attack our financial and political centers (http://www.lewrockwell.com/rockwell/roost.html)
The US Department of Agriculture, which very logically controls these sorts of things, is considering non-renewal of the waivers that allow foreign doctors to work in the USA.
Why would we send back doctors that are providing health care in a time when there is a shortage of health professionals?????
Because they might be terrorists. Let's keep ourselves safe by getting rid of all the doctors. After all, we've just received breaking new intelligence that people who hate America might try to attack our financial and political centers (http://www.lewrockwell.com/rockwell/roost.html)
Hollow Men?
Do you agree with T.S. Eliot (http://www.cs.umbc.edu/~evans/hollow.html) that the world ends "not with a bang but with a whimper?" Is our civilization coming to an end, has it reached stasis (a la Fukuyama), or is it basically the same as past ages? The other day I heard an interesting proposition that the extreme sarcasm and irony among the young is a sign of a declining civilization. That seems rather tenuous - Alexander Pope was the most civilized of men and was extremely sarcastic.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Are You Feeling Better Now?
My favorite Decembrist song has always been Grace Cathedral Hill. It is poetry about real life. The songwriter is trying to find some sort of cheer in an atmosphere that stinks of fish and beer, in a world that will never belong to him. Small things, a candle, a hotdog, a paper halo, can make the people in the song feel better for awhile, but the foul smells and decaying buildings still assault their senses, making the world tedious. We can never always feel good. We can only feel better for a little while.
Sometimes I think I am a bad Christian because my life seems to go in circles. The older I get, the more everything that I see and hear and smell seems the same. Sometimes I find a new world in a book or a song to distract me, but usually there is a sense of suffication. Wanderers used to be able to escape the sense of sameness by perilous dangers into unknown forests and oceans, but now there is no unknown besides the void of space. Sure, there're drugs and booze and sex, but how long does it take for those things to get old or kill you? Why bother becoming callous to yet another world?
You can say that I'm to introverted, that I don't think about God enough, but God and Love and Transcendent Ideals aren't constantly invading your eyes, your ears, your mouth, your nose. If I put out my eyes so I don't see the big plastic M at yet another intersection, I won't be able to see the lightening flashes either. I've never liked television adaptations of the classics because when I read there are pictures in my head that are better than the ones on the screen. It's kind of hard to see God in my head except as a stereotype. I have a hard time not seeing Jesus in flannelgraph, with a blue robe and a white arian face. My earthly senses make me miserable because they keep me from focusing on the transcendent but they also provide such large compensation with beauty in music, in faces, in trees.
Sometimes I think I am a bad Christian because my life seems to go in circles. The older I get, the more everything that I see and hear and smell seems the same. Sometimes I find a new world in a book or a song to distract me, but usually there is a sense of suffication. Wanderers used to be able to escape the sense of sameness by perilous dangers into unknown forests and oceans, but now there is no unknown besides the void of space. Sure, there're drugs and booze and sex, but how long does it take for those things to get old or kill you? Why bother becoming callous to yet another world?
You can say that I'm to introverted, that I don't think about God enough, but God and Love and Transcendent Ideals aren't constantly invading your eyes, your ears, your mouth, your nose. If I put out my eyes so I don't see the big plastic M at yet another intersection, I won't be able to see the lightening flashes either. I've never liked television adaptations of the classics because when I read there are pictures in my head that are better than the ones on the screen. It's kind of hard to see God in my head except as a stereotype. I have a hard time not seeing Jesus in flannelgraph, with a blue robe and a white arian face. My earthly senses make me miserable because they keep me from focusing on the transcendent but they also provide such large compensation with beauty in music, in faces, in trees.
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