Saturday, May 29, 2010
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
strawberry tea, identi-tea, and confuzzled writings
This week has been an odd one - I can't seem to drink enough strawberry tea. Now, those of you who know me (or at least know my roommate of this past year) will understand that I have strong tea loyalties. On those floaty days when ties don't bind and my strings have come a bit loose, a cup of bewley's black tea is where I turn. Sure, I've been known to order the occasional cup of green when I'm feeling low on antioxidants, or peppermint when my tummy is, well, feeling low in and of itself, but fruity teas generally disturb me. They trouble my palate, distort my tastebuds, and often leave me feeling worse than when I came to the cup in the first place.
So maybe it's the shit-tetley selection available in this side of europe that has turned me off to black tea, or maybe I'm feeling a bit underhydrated (though this seems unlikely, given my levels of beer consumption). Rather, I think my tea tastes are changing....if for no other reason than because everything else seems to be changing as well. I'd like to thank ms. Maura Barnacle for her astute observations regarding human identity, human desire, human change.
Everyone needs that place. That place where questions don't seem to exist, or at least where the answers don't matter. Jan Patocka would say that this place does not exist on earth - for the greeks and the unfortunate civilizations which cannot (and did not) but follow, we have to deal with the shaking of the myth of our lives. Our strings to the gods, to God, have been cut. Or, perhaps just stretched out over a few centuries, and then plucked by whoever caused all of the stretching. We try to trace the path of our string back home, but the vibration makes it impossible for us to hang on.
I think dear Jan is right on this one. I ran away for a year so that I could somehow find myself - so that I could stop covering up whoever it is that I am with a grade point average, with history papers, with number of hours studied before finals, without angsty basketball games and angstier poetry. But I'm not finding myself here - I'm multiplying. I can't stop the questions from coming, so each time I answer I deliberately redefine the person I present to the questioner. I try on different others - I have 8 combinations of majors and minors at my disposal, I believe and I don't believe in the pope, and sometimes I'm michelle or charlotte on a Tuesday night.
But this is still progress, or if not progress, then change. When I undertook my first attempt at running away to find my authentic self, I tried to do it solitarily - what are we really made of, if we're only us in relation to someone else? What we are [I decided] is a composition of those actions which we undertake when we are alone, when no one is watching. So I kept people from watching. I kept my facebook blank and my mouth closed (to the detriment of many a seminar participation grade), except for perhaps one person, whom I haven't had contact with in a year as of this week (would that be a stretchy connection, or a snapped one?).
If that was this quietest, this is certainly the loudest year of my life. My mouth is open, and there is that white noise to deal with - that constant buzzing and straining to pick our familiar phoenemes like some sort of language vulture over a pan-euro corpse. Prague is constantly hauling my proverbial ass out of bed (also, my literal landladies with their attempts to install digital television in my flat). I've taken to setting my skype status to invisible and staying off aim most of the time - mostly because I just can't withstand any more input. I've got to do the reaching, these days. And make attempts at restful sleep in the meanwhile.
Every so often here, when I decide to wander the city alone, a weird terror overtakes me. It's that penny-spinning terror I think that's what happens when we realize that a string has been clipped, or worse, when we've clipped a string ourselves. That's going to remain an incomplete thought for a bit...
I like the scene of Maura sitting in the same cafe - the cafe that looks a bit younger, her looking a bit older. Levinas puts a lot of importance on the face - the face of the other, and, by inference, the face of the self. Maybe the strings get to know faces, and when the faces change, the strings become unsure of themselves. Their nervous knees start to wobble, maybe even without the influence of the master string plucker.
Or maybe, dear Narcissus, I should forget all of this foolishness and go bang the hell out of the czech population.
-Other
So maybe it's the shit-tetley selection available in this side of europe that has turned me off to black tea, or maybe I'm feeling a bit underhydrated (though this seems unlikely, given my levels of beer consumption). Rather, I think my tea tastes are changing....if for no other reason than because everything else seems to be changing as well. I'd like to thank ms. Maura Barnacle for her astute observations regarding human identity, human desire, human change.
Everyone needs that place. That place where questions don't seem to exist, or at least where the answers don't matter. Jan Patocka would say that this place does not exist on earth - for the greeks and the unfortunate civilizations which cannot (and did not) but follow, we have to deal with the shaking of the myth of our lives. Our strings to the gods, to God, have been cut. Or, perhaps just stretched out over a few centuries, and then plucked by whoever caused all of the stretching. We try to trace the path of our string back home, but the vibration makes it impossible for us to hang on.
I think dear Jan is right on this one. I ran away for a year so that I could somehow find myself - so that I could stop covering up whoever it is that I am with a grade point average, with history papers, with number of hours studied before finals, without angsty basketball games and angstier poetry. But I'm not finding myself here - I'm multiplying. I can't stop the questions from coming, so each time I answer I deliberately redefine the person I present to the questioner. I try on different others - I have 8 combinations of majors and minors at my disposal, I believe and I don't believe in the pope, and sometimes I'm michelle or charlotte on a Tuesday night.
But this is still progress, or if not progress, then change. When I undertook my first attempt at running away to find my authentic self, I tried to do it solitarily - what are we really made of, if we're only us in relation to someone else? What we are [I decided] is a composition of those actions which we undertake when we are alone, when no one is watching. So I kept people from watching. I kept my facebook blank and my mouth closed (to the detriment of many a seminar participation grade), except for perhaps one person, whom I haven't had contact with in a year as of this week (would that be a stretchy connection, or a snapped one?).
If that was this quietest, this is certainly the loudest year of my life. My mouth is open, and there is that white noise to deal with - that constant buzzing and straining to pick our familiar phoenemes like some sort of language vulture over a pan-euro corpse. Prague is constantly hauling my proverbial ass out of bed (also, my literal landladies with their attempts to install digital television in my flat). I've taken to setting my skype status to invisible and staying off aim most of the time - mostly because I just can't withstand any more input. I've got to do the reaching, these days. And make attempts at restful sleep in the meanwhile.
Every so often here, when I decide to wander the city alone, a weird terror overtakes me. It's that penny-spinning terror I think that's what happens when we realize that a string has been clipped, or worse, when we've clipped a string ourselves. That's going to remain an incomplete thought for a bit...
I like the scene of Maura sitting in the same cafe - the cafe that looks a bit younger, her looking a bit older. Levinas puts a lot of importance on the face - the face of the other, and, by inference, the face of the self. Maybe the strings get to know faces, and when the faces change, the strings become unsure of themselves. Their nervous knees start to wobble, maybe even without the influence of the master string plucker.
Or maybe, dear Narcissus, I should forget all of this foolishness and go bang the hell out of the czech population.
-Other
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Iron Cage to Iron Curtain
Anecdote: Yesterday, in a fit of unselfishness, the Other decided to help her father build a fence. Now, speaking on the behalf of all fellow fence-builders, this was no mean task. 7:00-19:00 (yes, I'm using the european standard), which meant working through the lovely arizonan August midday of 110 degrees. And working through bug bites. And bruises, of course.
So, with purpled legs and swollen ankles the Other trudged (or rather, drove) to the nearby Subway, where she and the aforementioned father decided upon the most rational course of action - splitting the $5 footlong. Now, the Other understands that one cannot order two different six inch sandwiches and call it a 12 inch sandwich - one tuna and one roast beef, well, that's clearly two sandwiches, not one. However, should the Other order a 12 inch roastbeef, get some toppings on the whole thing, and ask for tomatoes on one half of the sandwich, well, that would still be just one sandwich. NO. WRONG. Apparently Subway, being the sandwich masters, get to define what constitutes one sandwich or two (that's right my friends - they've finally answered Jim Risser's unanswerable question about the one and the two. All hail Subway). Apparently, six inches of sandwich with tomatoes and six inches without means that we've got two different sandwiches on our hands. Graciously, the Other was given the opportunity to choose to either leave the tomatoes off entirely or put them on the whole sandwich. Let me tell you something you might not know, fellow iron-caged philosophs - if you order 6 extra inches of tomatoes, the price of your sandwich purchase actually goes down! Yes, yes. Finally, the Other very astutely struck a bargain with said Subway worker (to hereafter be known only through her occupation)...one can ask for 'light tomatoes.' This meant that, in total, half the usual number of tomato slices were put onto the sandwich, but were spread all the way across. The Other paid her five bucks, opened the packaging and lifted the top slice of bun, and moved all the tomatoes over to one side with her fence-splintered fingers. Victory. Girl with hair the color of tomato blood, this story goes out to you.
In other news, the Other will assume the guise of a qualified first grade teacher for this next week. Wish her luck. She would also like to let her dear friend and other Narcissus know that, speaking as someone who has had both recurring dreams of dinosaurs breaking into her house and has worked as a pawn of the educational system, the educational system is truly the winner.
Also, she would like to point out that having never ventured to the czech republic, the Narc has only about as much qualification to speak on the size of the sausages of central europe as the Other does to teach america's youth.
The Other loves it when she comes up with clever things and makes herself giggle.
-Other
So, with purpled legs and swollen ankles the Other trudged (or rather, drove) to the nearby Subway, where she and the aforementioned father decided upon the most rational course of action - splitting the $5 footlong. Now, the Other understands that one cannot order two different six inch sandwiches and call it a 12 inch sandwich - one tuna and one roast beef, well, that's clearly two sandwiches, not one. However, should the Other order a 12 inch roastbeef, get some toppings on the whole thing, and ask for tomatoes on one half of the sandwich, well, that would still be just one sandwich. NO. WRONG. Apparently Subway, being the sandwich masters, get to define what constitutes one sandwich or two (that's right my friends - they've finally answered Jim Risser's unanswerable question about the one and the two. All hail Subway). Apparently, six inches of sandwich with tomatoes and six inches without means that we've got two different sandwiches on our hands. Graciously, the Other was given the opportunity to choose to either leave the tomatoes off entirely or put them on the whole sandwich. Let me tell you something you might not know, fellow iron-caged philosophs - if you order 6 extra inches of tomatoes, the price of your sandwich purchase actually goes down! Yes, yes. Finally, the Other very astutely struck a bargain with said Subway worker (to hereafter be known only through her occupation)...one can ask for 'light tomatoes.' This meant that, in total, half the usual number of tomato slices were put onto the sandwich, but were spread all the way across. The Other paid her five bucks, opened the packaging and lifted the top slice of bun, and moved all the tomatoes over to one side with her fence-splintered fingers. Victory. Girl with hair the color of tomato blood, this story goes out to you.
In other news, the Other will assume the guise of a qualified first grade teacher for this next week. Wish her luck. She would also like to let her dear friend and other Narcissus know that, speaking as someone who has had both recurring dreams of dinosaurs breaking into her house and has worked as a pawn of the educational system, the educational system is truly the winner.
Also, she would like to point out that having never ventured to the czech republic, the Narc has only about as much qualification to speak on the size of the sausages of central europe as the Other does to teach america's youth.
narc -noun slang. a government agent or detective charged with the
enforcement of laws restricting the use of narcotics.
See also tool.
The Other loves it when she comes up with clever things and makes herself giggle.
-Other
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Principle of Individuation
After a semi-brief hiatus, the Other has returned (once again under the coaxing of a man who learns his tricks from the Chinese government). I even got out my french book laptop-rest for this one, which, the fireheaded celt should know, means serious business.
After a night of disrupting the sleep of Narcissus (in a wholly kosher, albeit unotherly, way), I imagine that said self-navel-gazer is having an interesting day filled with non-functioning. This is something to always remember about our young flower-without-his-flower (tee hee. I will refrain from here introducing a story about a boy who does not know how to draw drapes or bring down the blinds). To continue - it must be known that if our little borscht does not fall asleep at 11:37 pm, a time when the Other has 100 pages of reading and 6 critical journals to write (and the celt has 200 pages and 10 journals to write), he is altogether useless. You might argue, friends, that we're long past the days of critical journals. You know what I say? Welcome to the new critical [e]journal.
Among the many conversations that kept us awake well into the witching hours (perhaps these odd sleeping patterns result from the Other having hazel eyes?), the Other learned that her company in the season of Christ's birth will be minus one. At the request of Narcissus I will refrain from naming said country which insists that if he is to visit he will be granted a single-entry only, and he had goddamned better well use it wisely. Though, I find that I agree with said country more than I had initially thought. I mean, the Other totally forsees Narcissus smuggling in shots of albuterol and slipping prednizone into the drinks of handsome young men.
Conversation then drifted to the topic of the soul. Reluctantly (and shockingly!) Narcissus actually acknowledged the existence of the souls of the Other, emily, grace, george, and matt^2. Sorry Bryson, but we all know that your lack of soul is the reason you have a wardrobe replete with vertical stripes instead of priestly vestments. Anyway, how classically self-absorbed of Narcissus, recognizing only the people closest to him (or within his circle, shall we say?) as actually being people. So I ask, nay, I challenge with the following: what of Czarina Ramsay?
This is steadily lengthening, but I suppose I making up for missed time (and words). I, too, would like to contribute a bit of creativity to these posts, so I here offer a short vision:
Narcissus and Maura visit the Kindergarten classroom of the Other, where sharing is fostered in a distinctly Levinasian fashion and poetry abounds. Children are crying because they don't have a soul and God is dead, and also because they're only pulling 3.96 GPAs on colors tests. The walls are marked with cerulean smudges and bits of red curl, and snacktime consists of nutella, dried mangoes, beer, and vegetables.
-Other
After a night of disrupting the sleep of Narcissus (in a wholly kosher, albeit unotherly, way), I imagine that said self-navel-gazer is having an interesting day filled with non-functioning. This is something to always remember about our young flower-without-his-flower (tee hee. I will refrain from here introducing a story about a boy who does not know how to draw drapes or bring down the blinds). To continue - it must be known that if our little borscht does not fall asleep at 11:37 pm, a time when the Other has 100 pages of reading and 6 critical journals to write (and the celt has 200 pages and 10 journals to write), he is altogether useless. You might argue, friends, that we're long past the days of critical journals. You know what I say? Welcome to the new critical [e]journal.
Among the many conversations that kept us awake well into the witching hours (perhaps these odd sleeping patterns result from the Other having hazel eyes?), the Other learned that her company in the season of Christ's birth will be minus one. At the request of Narcissus I will refrain from naming said country which insists that if he is to visit he will be granted a single-entry only, and he had goddamned better well use it wisely. Though, I find that I agree with said country more than I had initially thought. I mean, the Other totally forsees Narcissus smuggling in shots of albuterol and slipping prednizone into the drinks of handsome young men.
Conversation then drifted to the topic of the soul. Reluctantly (and shockingly!) Narcissus actually acknowledged the existence of the souls of the Other, emily, grace, george, and matt^2. Sorry Bryson, but we all know that your lack of soul is the reason you have a wardrobe replete with vertical stripes instead of priestly vestments. Anyway, how classically self-absorbed of Narcissus, recognizing only the people closest to him (or within his circle, shall we say?) as actually being people. So I ask, nay, I challenge with the following: what of Czarina Ramsay?
This is steadily lengthening, but I suppose I making up for missed time (and words). I, too, would like to contribute a bit of creativity to these posts, so I here offer a short vision:
Narcissus and Maura visit the Kindergarten classroom of the Other, where sharing is fostered in a distinctly Levinasian fashion and poetry abounds. Children are crying because they don't have a soul and God is dead, and also because they're only pulling 3.96 GPAs on colors tests. The walls are marked with cerulean smudges and bits of red curl, and snacktime consists of nutella, dried mangoes, beer, and vegetables.
-Other
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Foucaultian Flowers
Hello, all. This blog is born of two full days of nagging by our beloved Borscht Bayuga...that is, constant nagging, except when he was at the gym treadmill, staring himself down in the floor to ceiling mirrors. He's occupied at present, so to start us off, the Other would like to look at your face, wish you well, and wish you absolute freedom from those nasty little grammatical errors to which some of us might be prone. She hopes you wish the same in return.
So. Wikipedia tells me that the Narcissus flower is named after Narcissus. (How helpful - I couldn't have figured that one out on my own. Consider this a shout-out to the great oz behind wikipedia). To continue - crouched uncomfortably by the river's edge, this god of beauty could fall in love only with himself. He eventually died of despair (some say it was simple thirst), forever unable to grasp the 'stranger' in the water. Now, if that isn't a rough end... though, I think the worst way to go might have been depicted in some mediaeval (yeah, I spelled it with an a) primary source we once read: having nails nailed into all sides of a coffin, being nailed inside, and rolled down a hill. So maybe narcissus is on to something here?
The other would like to extend a heartfelt thanks to narcissus for his momentary lapse in writing about himself, and for redirecting the course of her life once more. She'd like to do the same in return (though, to be clear, she's not doing it just because he did it. She would have done it anyway. Vinas said so).
(1) get rid of all of your silly plans
If you don't, you know what'll happen. Just ask Dr. Wirth - God's going to start laughing, and it's not going to sound like any lion's roar. Nope. I mean, I know you fancy yourself a god and all, but you should probably start listening to the BIG god, because you don't even have gej around anymore to bless you with mass after-effects. Plus, I heard that after god is done with all of his laughing about your plans that the olympic-hosting government keeps calling off, he sticks billy bibbit on your ass. And he's the worst billy I know.
See you at 2:00 am (pacific time) for an abortion debate.
-the 2 of the 1-2 punch
So. Wikipedia tells me that the Narcissus flower is named after Narcissus. (How helpful - I couldn't have figured that one out on my own. Consider this a shout-out to the great oz behind wikipedia). To continue - crouched uncomfortably by the river's edge, this god of beauty could fall in love only with himself. He eventually died of despair (some say it was simple thirst), forever unable to grasp the 'stranger' in the water. Now, if that isn't a rough end... though, I think the worst way to go might have been depicted in some mediaeval (yeah, I spelled it with an a) primary source we once read: having nails nailed into all sides of a coffin, being nailed inside, and rolled down a hill. So maybe narcissus is on to something here?
The other would like to extend a heartfelt thanks to narcissus for his momentary lapse in writing about himself, and for redirecting the course of her life once more. She'd like to do the same in return (though, to be clear, she's not doing it just because he did it. She would have done it anyway. Vinas said so).
(1) get rid of all of your silly plans
If you don't, you know what'll happen. Just ask Dr. Wirth - God's going to start laughing, and it's not going to sound like any lion's roar. Nope. I mean, I know you fancy yourself a god and all, but you should probably start listening to the BIG god, because you don't even have gej around anymore to bless you with mass after-effects. Plus, I heard that after god is done with all of his laughing about your plans that the olympic-hosting government keeps calling off, he sticks billy bibbit on your ass. And he's the worst billy I know.
See you at 2:00 am (pacific time) for an abortion debate.
-the 2 of the 1-2 punch
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