Went into the city last night for a final hurrah. Chilled with Eric, drinking beer and watching basketball until Josh and Sam made it over (Kira paid us a visit part way through the night). Then went out to George Keeley's on 83rd and Amsterdam. A kind soul deposited $10 into the jukebox (which were sitting next to) and told us to put on some good music. The Band and Radiohead didn't seem to go over so well, but Kelly Clarkson was a hit. Mosied over to The Gin Mill on 81st and Amsterdam for a rousing game of beer pong (not actually, but it was fun). Went on back to Sam's, and stopped at a Middle Eastern food truck on 94th and B'way. I was drunk enough to attempt to speak Arabic with the man serving us (I had heard him in conversation with the customer before us). Unfortunately I can't do much more than marhaba, hamdulah and shukran these days, but even that seemed to entertain him. It's incredible how friendly people become when they see you make an effort to speak their language or pay respect to their culture and heritage in some other way (he ended up giving Sam and I free donuts with our main orders). It was a great experience, and it makes me wish that I had taken a language at Yale. Maybe I still will next year. It's not like I have much else to do, and it may be the most 'useful' way to spend my time. I'll think on it.
Earlier this afternoon, I was reflecting on language in a different way. Specifically, I was contemplating the T9 function on cellphones, and what it implies about what we say to one another nowadays. The fact that an application can predict so infallibly what we say in our messages speaks poorly of the extent of the average person's vocabulary and, more disturbingly, to the banal nature of what we say when we communicate. The form that these messages take (i.e. the words used) - which is what T9 actually predicts - doesn't NECESSARILY correlate perfectly with the substance of the messages, but I would argue that the whole is, in many ways, not much more than the sum of the parts, and if the parts are so mundane that they can be so easily predicted, the whole itself must be unoriginal. This sort of ties in to a concern that I've had for a few years. How much of what we say to each other is actually of consequence? How much is just a set script that we follow everyday, or lists of what we've done that no one really pays attention to? How much of conversation is just empty, and unimportant except for the fact that conversation was had? I find the notion that when we speak we actually say nothing pretty terrifying.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Chacos - May 28
Nothing too exciting happened today. Went into the city for a doctor's appointment (my first one since 2006 apparently). Then walked over to Eric's, we hung out for a while with Aaron and Josh. Aaron left to celebrate Shavuot (sp?) and Eric, Josh and I watched the basketball game and drank some beer. I felt very American. On my way home, my Chacos got me into two conversations with strangers. The coincidence was such that I couldn't help but mention it. While waiting for the 1 at 79th I sneezed, and a friendly woman said bless you and then asked 'you're not from around here are you?' I replied that I was from Westchester, and asked why she had assumed what she had. She replied that I was wearing Chacos, and apparently no one she had met in the city knew what Chacos were. Very strange.
On the walk back up from the Hastings station to home, I was walking next to a young looking professional. He commented on my wearing sandals in the cold misty weather. We continued chatting for a minute or two until he turned on to Warburton to go home. Very odd.
On the walk back up from the Hastings station to home, I was walking next to a young looking professional. He commented on my wearing sandals in the cold misty weather. We continued chatting for a minute or two until he turned on to Warburton to go home. Very odd.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Science and Superstition - May 27
I decided to watch daytime television today, which is generally a pretty questionable decision. Brothers Grimm, the 2005 film starring Heath Ledger and Matt Damon, was on. I began watching about halfway through, so all of the movie’s fantastical elements that hold the plot together appeared particularly unbelievable and ridiculous. During a commercial break, an ad came on for a set of beauty products endorsed by Cindy Crawford. The ad attempted to weave some sort of narrative that explained how these products were created by Crawford’s aging doctor: a French guru that caters to the rich and famous. He took his secret ingredient, (I kid you not) a rare melon grown in the south of France that is incredibly rich in antioxidants, and infused a bunch of creams with it. As one testimonial put it, “it’s like a face lift in a bottle!” The juxtaposition of this commercial with the film was fascinating. Brothers Grimm plays on the idea of superstition and fiction, exhorting us to have faith in fiction and the fantastic. The film casts the French Enlightenment as the force that made these terms pejorative and put a premium on truth and rationality.
Today, advertisers use science as a sort of superstition to sell their products. Watching the commercial for Cindy Crawford’s beauty products, I wondered how many people knew what antioxidants were, or what they did. Even assuming that the average viewer knows that antioxidants are chemicals that decrease the number of free radicals by preventing oxidation reactions, the theory that free radicals are what account for aging is certainly not absolutely accepted science (I’m sure it’s much more controversial than say, evolution). By mentioning antioxidants, the commercial invokes our blind belief in science in order to substantiate its own (probably outlandish) claims about the effect of the product it’s selling. In this way, science has become a location of superstition. I don’t want to go so far as to make the argument that science is a form of orthodoxy based on faith, &c. I just thought that the prevalence of superstition in areas of culture where it might not be expected was fascinating.
Today, advertisers use science as a sort of superstition to sell their products. Watching the commercial for Cindy Crawford’s beauty products, I wondered how many people knew what antioxidants were, or what they did. Even assuming that the average viewer knows that antioxidants are chemicals that decrease the number of free radicals by preventing oxidation reactions, the theory that free radicals are what account for aging is certainly not absolutely accepted science (I’m sure it’s much more controversial than say, evolution). By mentioning antioxidants, the commercial invokes our blind belief in science in order to substantiate its own (probably outlandish) claims about the effect of the product it’s selling. In this way, science has become a location of superstition. I don’t want to go so far as to make the argument that science is a form of orthodoxy based on faith, &c. I just thought that the prevalence of superstition in areas of culture where it might not be expected was fascinating.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Tradition, Prizes, Love
Looking back on Class Day and Graduation I realize that they constituted a very strange experience. Class Day was incredibly silly: all the students and professors wearing over-the-top hats, a light speech by Buckley and a pretty ridiculous senior memories video (featuring footage of making out in the stacks, Toads, etc.). On the other hand, the actual commencement itself was a ceremony steeped in the stuffiest of traditions. I would reprint the descriptions of all the various maces that the heads of school carry if they weren’t so tedious. Degrees were presented to the deans of each school in a formulaic, inflexible way. The intonation didn't even change. Students process into old campus accompanied by actual fanfare. Yale seems to swing between one extreme and another: overly silly and unnecessarily stuffy. The moment that brought this all home to me was when Bill T. Jones approached Rick Levin to receive his honorary doctorate. On the way he stopped, spread his arms wide, dipped and performed a pirouette. It was an authentic expression of pure joy and elation, something that I think captures what the attitude of the graduates and spectators ought to be during commencement. The stuffiness of the ceremony had smothered this sort of emotional response. People were dozing off while witnessing these ancient traditions that used to mean something, but now seem to serve no purpose but to act as a sort of empty placeholder for the idea of a grand academic tradition. On the other hand, Class Day was a little too free and unregulated. Obviously, the day serves in some way to allow each class to attempt to differentiate itself from others that have come before through their speakers (both the invited one and the students), the film and even the wacky hats that everyone wears. Unfortunately, the whole thing (excepting perhaps the guest speaker) turns out coming off as indulgent and pointless. I probably wouldn’t mind either of these things if I were a parent of someone directly involved, but it just seems a little idiotic to dedicate an entire day to what amounts to telling inside jokes.
The other thing that struck me about Yale’s graduation was the prevalence of prizes and markers of academic achievement. In one sense, the prizes and things like ‘cum laude’ certainly celebrate and reward students who have labored for four years. On the other, they are capable of shaming those who haven’t worked as hard on academics, but have devoted their energies elsewhere and achieved in other ways. I suppose I wouldn’t find this so offensive if the descriptions of the prizes simply said what they were actually awarded for (i.e. GPA) instead of insisting on using high-flown rhetoric about leadership and moral purpose. Certainly part of this is my own academic insecurity (there’s no way I’ll be graduating with distinction in my major or any sort of ‘laude), but I also think it’s lazy, unfair and myopic for an academic institution to equate excellence in studies with ‘high moral purpose.’
Ended tonight with an interesting conversation with Aaron: the idea of love as an expansion of the singular, first person pronoun, or an expansion/fundamental shift in each subject's unitary narrative.
The other thing that struck me about Yale’s graduation was the prevalence of prizes and markers of academic achievement. In one sense, the prizes and things like ‘cum laude’ certainly celebrate and reward students who have labored for four years. On the other, they are capable of shaming those who haven’t worked as hard on academics, but have devoted their energies elsewhere and achieved in other ways. I suppose I wouldn’t find this so offensive if the descriptions of the prizes simply said what they were actually awarded for (i.e. GPA) instead of insisting on using high-flown rhetoric about leadership and moral purpose. Certainly part of this is my own academic insecurity (there’s no way I’ll be graduating with distinction in my major or any sort of ‘laude), but I also think it’s lazy, unfair and myopic for an academic institution to equate excellence in studies with ‘high moral purpose.’
Ended tonight with an interesting conversation with Aaron: the idea of love as an expansion of the singular, first person pronoun, or an expansion/fundamental shift in each subject's unitary narrative.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
May 23 - Outside The Self and Graduation
For the last two days I've been lazing around New Haven with Mara and her family. I've been treated to wonderful meals at Zinc, Bar and Miya's. It's been great. Not too much to tell besides that, besides the fact that College Nationals are happening right now and I'm following them fairly closely.
I finished 'An Imaginary Life' yesterday. Despite beginning as a book dominated by Ovid's internal monologue and concerned with the interior workings of a mind, the novel moved beyond these constraints by the end. As I implied in my title of my last post, there's a certain connection between an internal life and imprisonment. This is not a necessary association, but for certain characters (especially Coetzee's protagonist in 'Youth') the interior life with its ambitions, neuroses and obsessions trumps any other forms of existence and locks one within their own mind. Malouf's Ovid is necessarily trapped because he cannot speak the language of his hosts. Later in the story, Malouf introduces a feral child whom Ovid decides to take under his wing. The child has no self in our sense, he IS the world. There are no boundaries to his consciousness, he inhabits all things. This type of selflessness is an interesting contrast to the sort of self that is evident in 'Youth.' There is much more freedom, but much less constancy or sureness. Another interesting point is the fact that while John in 'Youth' is miserable, Ovid, especially when he is interacting with the child (with whom he has an incredible connection) is very happy. Anyway, I thought i'd end with a sentence from Malouf that I particularly liked:
"What else should our lives be but a continual series of beginnings, of painful settings out into the unknown, pushing off from the edges of consciousness into the mystery of what we have not yet become, except in dreams that blow in from out there bearing the fragrance of islands we have not yet sighted in our waking hours, as in voyaging sometimes the first blossoming branches of our next landfall come bumping against the keel, even in the dark, whole days before the real land rises to meet us." (135-6).
I finished 'An Imaginary Life' yesterday. Despite beginning as a book dominated by Ovid's internal monologue and concerned with the interior workings of a mind, the novel moved beyond these constraints by the end. As I implied in my title of my last post, there's a certain connection between an internal life and imprisonment. This is not a necessary association, but for certain characters (especially Coetzee's protagonist in 'Youth') the interior life with its ambitions, neuroses and obsessions trumps any other forms of existence and locks one within their own mind. Malouf's Ovid is necessarily trapped because he cannot speak the language of his hosts. Later in the story, Malouf introduces a feral child whom Ovid decides to take under his wing. The child has no self in our sense, he IS the world. There are no boundaries to his consciousness, he inhabits all things. This type of selflessness is an interesting contrast to the sort of self that is evident in 'Youth.' There is much more freedom, but much less constancy or sureness. Another interesting point is the fact that while John in 'Youth' is miserable, Ovid, especially when he is interacting with the child (with whom he has an incredible connection) is very happy. Anyway, I thought i'd end with a sentence from Malouf that I particularly liked:
"What else should our lives be but a continual series of beginnings, of painful settings out into the unknown, pushing off from the edges of consciousness into the mystery of what we have not yet become, except in dreams that blow in from out there bearing the fragrance of islands we have not yet sighted in our waking hours, as in voyaging sometimes the first blossoming branches of our next landfall come bumping against the keel, even in the dark, whole days before the real land rises to meet us." (135-6).
Friday, May 22, 2009
May 21 - The Inner Life And Imprisonment
Woke up early-ish, and finished 'Youth.' I guess in the end a large part of what I got from it was the idea that you can't wait for fate or destiny to find you, you have to pursue it through disciplined work. Not such a novel idea, but Coetzee has a very forceful way of getting it across. I caught the train into the city to meet Mara and started in on another book, 'An Imaginary Life,' by David Malouf. The novel is about Ovid's exile from Rome, told from Ovid's perspective. Like 'Youth,' the novel was at first preoccupied with its protagonist's inner life, largely because at the start of the book Ovid doesn't understand the local tongue of his place of exile. I think it's interesting that I was drawn to this book after 'Youth.' I'm relatively sure it wasn't a conscious decision. I suppose that in the course of delving into myself through this journal/blog and in trying to resurrect my own powers of initiative, I've become drawn to the internal lives of others, and how they are constructed and expressed. No grand conclusions as of yet.
Made it into the city and people-watched in Central Park for an hour or two. I ran into Patrick, a former camper of mine. The fact that he said hi and recognized me was great, and shed some light on how my own high school teachers had reacted to me the previous day. Ate dinner at a sushi place a few blocks south east of astor place and barely caught the 8:07 back to New Haven. On the train Bret, one of the guys who I'll be working with this summer, called to finalize plans for exactly what I'd be doing. I had been nervous before this conversation, anxious that I would end up with nothing to do, but those fears were quickly put at ease. My work at HRC-FedUp! will be largely two-fold. I'll be corresponding with prisoners from two state correctional institutions and cataloguing any reported human rights abuses. On top of that, I'm going to write a report on the psychological effects of solitary confinement, using the testimony of prisoners. I'm actually quite excited. In many ways, this is a paper that I might write for school, but the fact that its main function is to help people by documenting and publicizing their awful plight separates it from pure academia in my mind, and makes it something that I anticipate will be both worthwhile and fulfilling.
Made it into the city and people-watched in Central Park for an hour or two. I ran into Patrick, a former camper of mine. The fact that he said hi and recognized me was great, and shed some light on how my own high school teachers had reacted to me the previous day. Ate dinner at a sushi place a few blocks south east of astor place and barely caught the 8:07 back to New Haven. On the train Bret, one of the guys who I'll be working with this summer, called to finalize plans for exactly what I'd be doing. I had been nervous before this conversation, anxious that I would end up with nothing to do, but those fears were quickly put at ease. My work at HRC-FedUp! will be largely two-fold. I'll be corresponding with prisoners from two state correctional institutions and cataloguing any reported human rights abuses. On top of that, I'm going to write a report on the psychological effects of solitary confinement, using the testimony of prisoners. I'm actually quite excited. In many ways, this is a paper that I might write for school, but the fact that its main function is to help people by documenting and publicizing their awful plight separates it from pure academia in my mind, and makes it something that I anticipate will be both worthwhile and fulfilling.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
May 20 - Visiting Fieldston And More On South Africa
I got up at around 12:30 today, having stayed awake until 3 the night before, doing absolutely nothing. Grabbed the uptown 1 train with Sam (my cousin) and rolled into Fieldston at about 1:45. We had a fantastic day. It's always a little intimidating coming back to visit, but it always turns out incredibly well. The school has certainly changed, but the vague memories and sense of deja vu brought back by the simple physical presence of Fieldston are incredibly powerful and rich. It seems to me that one of the easiest ways to see how much you've changed is to return to a place that conjures strong associations with your past. On top of that, I love seeing the ways in which my interactions with my former teachers have changed and how my perception of them changes. Every time I visit, I'm able to hold myself up against my high school role models and see how I've progressed towards becoming the sort of adult that I looked up to as an adolescent. I saw Church, Montera, Waldman, Aune, Baglio, Reynolds, Harry Dawe, Vinni, Wern and Meyers. I had wonderful conversations with many of them, and I was, as always, impressed and surprised by how well they all remembered me and how happy they were to see their former students coming back to bother them. In particular, I really enjoyed talking to Harry (who I hadn't been planning to see) about Orhan Pamuk, Turkey, the west, hockey, frisbee and his frank take on college admissions.
After visiting, I went out to the upper field to run Fieldston's frisbee practice (something I hadn't realized I had signed up to do until I ran into Matteo Bessone digging holes for the outdoor classroom behind the Tate Library at 2:30). I recognized two of the current team members from my senior year (they're now seniors themselves) and they both remembered me, which was gratifying. The practice itself was a bit of a mess. I clearly was not expecting a practice as intense or serious as what we do in college, but I was a little shocked at how unorganized things were. Meyers and Wern coach jointly, but neither seems to have much respect among the team, nor have they instilled anything close to a normal routine or knowledge of frisbee. In fact, I doubt that either of them know the game as well as I do. There was no set warm-up routine (John Acheson and I ran dynamic warm-ups with them today), nor is there much discipline (case in point: water breaks were spontaneous affairs, initiated by whichever kid decided that he needed some time out of the sun). That being said, the kids were great, and it was fun to play with them and try to teach them something (we worked on dumping and swinging all day). On top of that, many of them seemed to have good instincts and showed a good deal of promise. All in all, the experience made me realize exactly what I've gained from devoting so much time to ultimate at Yale. I'm much better at recognizing group dynamics, as well as motivating a group and gaining respect from them than I would be otherwise. I was pretty surprised at Wern and Meyers' inability to do this (though to be fair, perhaps they were exhausted from teaching during the day), despite the fact that both have taught at Fieldston for a considerable number of years and have coached the team for the entire season. In light of their social and communication skills, I found myself wondering if being a teacher was really unsuited for me, and reconsidering my initial rejection of that profession.
After practice, I caught a ride back into the city with my mother in order to eat dinner with Sam, Kathy, Jerry, Phyllis (the daughter of my great-grandmother's second husband), Ellie (Phyllis' daughter) and John (her husband). I had never met John or Ellie before, though we had stayed at their house in Bagni di Lucca when we visited Italy (a trip that probably took place almost a decade ago, incredible how time flies). Dinner was wonderful, and it was great to see everyone. John is from South Africa, and I had a great time talking to him. To begin with, we happened to be sporting the exact same shirt. He was also keen to talk about South African literature (particularly J.M. Coetzee) and recommended 'The Age of Iron' as well as 'The Kindly Ones' (not a Coetzee novel, but something he was highly excited about). Additionally, he related to Sam and myself the story of the only film he tried to produce. He had worked on a movie written by Athol Fugard during apartheid. Apparently, Fugard was trashed the entire time, and was having an affair with another woman despite the fact that his wife was there. The director came out of the closet about halfway through filming, and, because the cast was multiracial, the secret police followed them everywhere. John mentioned that he thought that there might be a correlation between political action and unrest and artistic production. It's certainly an idea that seems plausible to me, and I wonder to what extent art can create political unrest. I'll certainly pay attention to the idea as I finish Coetzee's memoir.
After visiting, I went out to the upper field to run Fieldston's frisbee practice (something I hadn't realized I had signed up to do until I ran into Matteo Bessone digging holes for the outdoor classroom behind the Tate Library at 2:30). I recognized two of the current team members from my senior year (they're now seniors themselves) and they both remembered me, which was gratifying. The practice itself was a bit of a mess. I clearly was not expecting a practice as intense or serious as what we do in college, but I was a little shocked at how unorganized things were. Meyers and Wern coach jointly, but neither seems to have much respect among the team, nor have they instilled anything close to a normal routine or knowledge of frisbee. In fact, I doubt that either of them know the game as well as I do. There was no set warm-up routine (John Acheson and I ran dynamic warm-ups with them today), nor is there much discipline (case in point: water breaks were spontaneous affairs, initiated by whichever kid decided that he needed some time out of the sun). That being said, the kids were great, and it was fun to play with them and try to teach them something (we worked on dumping and swinging all day). On top of that, many of them seemed to have good instincts and showed a good deal of promise. All in all, the experience made me realize exactly what I've gained from devoting so much time to ultimate at Yale. I'm much better at recognizing group dynamics, as well as motivating a group and gaining respect from them than I would be otherwise. I was pretty surprised at Wern and Meyers' inability to do this (though to be fair, perhaps they were exhausted from teaching during the day), despite the fact that both have taught at Fieldston for a considerable number of years and have coached the team for the entire season. In light of their social and communication skills, I found myself wondering if being a teacher was really unsuited for me, and reconsidering my initial rejection of that profession.
After practice, I caught a ride back into the city with my mother in order to eat dinner with Sam, Kathy, Jerry, Phyllis (the daughter of my great-grandmother's second husband), Ellie (Phyllis' daughter) and John (her husband). I had never met John or Ellie before, though we had stayed at their house in Bagni di Lucca when we visited Italy (a trip that probably took place almost a decade ago, incredible how time flies). Dinner was wonderful, and it was great to see everyone. John is from South Africa, and I had a great time talking to him. To begin with, we happened to be sporting the exact same shirt. He was also keen to talk about South African literature (particularly J.M. Coetzee) and recommended 'The Age of Iron' as well as 'The Kindly Ones' (not a Coetzee novel, but something he was highly excited about). Additionally, he related to Sam and myself the story of the only film he tried to produce. He had worked on a movie written by Athol Fugard during apartheid. Apparently, Fugard was trashed the entire time, and was having an affair with another woman despite the fact that his wife was there. The director came out of the closet about halfway through filming, and, because the cast was multiracial, the secret police followed them everywhere. John mentioned that he thought that there might be a correlation between political action and unrest and artistic production. It's certainly an idea that seems plausible to me, and I wonder to what extent art can create political unrest. I'll certainly pay attention to the idea as I finish Coetzee's memoir.
May 19 - New York and Youth
Spent the morning of May 19 lazing around in New Haven, recovering from last night. Fortuitously made it to Old Campus in time to say goodbye to many of my friends. Went to a showing of Star Trek in the afternoon at the Criterion. It was very good for the first half, but lost its way a little bit when it dealt with traveling back and forth through time. The plot seemed better suited for a television mini-series, but I suppose that makes sense. Caught a train out of New Haven for New York at 7 with Liz Breit and Gideon, another Yale student.
Spent the first half the ride talking, the second reading 'Youth' a memoir by Coetzee. The book was fascinating. My usual problem with Coetzee's writing is that as a narrator, he seems so distant from his own characters. Everything is presented starkly and abstractly, and it is difficult to relate the men and women that people his books. I suppose this might also be a function of the sorts of characters he chooses to write about. 'Youth' was entirely different though. The main character is dissected in a methodical, merciless way by the author and, frankly, the character reminded me of myself when I was younger. More than anything, I was impressed with the level of self-examination, and fascinated by the idea of self-reliance, especially as it was connected with the how narrow the protagonist's world view was. The young man is obsessed with his studies and becoming an artist to such an extent that he barely weighs in on the dramatic politics of South Africa. It has always seemed to me that any profession worth pursuing ought to involve a moral aspect, and some way of affecting 'the world.' I don't mean to imply that being an artist necessarily involves a disconnection from morality and changing reality, nor do Imean to say that this inheres in politics. In 'Youth' the character appears to be concerned with art basically for the sake of his own ego. There is only a naked desire to be an important writer, and no impetus behind that ambition. I'm only about a quarter of the way through the book, and I'm interested to see whether Coetzee attempts to justify being a writer in this way, or if he holds a different view on what makes an occupation worthwhile and satisfying. As this blog itself is evidence of, I don't disdain a little indulgent self-examination or intellectual masturbation now and again, but I can't imagine spending my entire life at either of those things, and it seems that in many ways writing novels and poetry embodies both of them.
Spent the first half the ride talking, the second reading 'Youth' a memoir by Coetzee. The book was fascinating. My usual problem with Coetzee's writing is that as a narrator, he seems so distant from his own characters. Everything is presented starkly and abstractly, and it is difficult to relate the men and women that people his books. I suppose this might also be a function of the sorts of characters he chooses to write about. 'Youth' was entirely different though. The main character is dissected in a methodical, merciless way by the author and, frankly, the character reminded me of myself when I was younger. More than anything, I was impressed with the level of self-examination, and fascinated by the idea of self-reliance, especially as it was connected with the how narrow the protagonist's world view was. The young man is obsessed with his studies and becoming an artist to such an extent that he barely weighs in on the dramatic politics of South Africa. It has always seemed to me that any profession worth pursuing ought to involve a moral aspect, and some way of affecting 'the world.' I don't mean to imply that being an artist necessarily involves a disconnection from morality and changing reality, nor do Imean to say that this inheres in politics. In 'Youth' the character appears to be concerned with art basically for the sake of his own ego. There is only a naked desire to be an important writer, and no impetus behind that ambition. I'm only about a quarter of the way through the book, and I'm interested to see whether Coetzee attempts to justify being a writer in this way, or if he holds a different view on what makes an occupation worthwhile and satisfying. As this blog itself is evidence of, I don't disdain a little indulgent self-examination or intellectual masturbation now and again, but I can't imagine spending my entire life at either of those things, and it seems that in many ways writing novels and poetry embodies both of them.
Reason
Why did I feel the need to start a blog? I think that blogs (particularly ones like this, where the author does not even give the pretense of presenting interesting or original information for his audience) run the risk of being incredibly self-indulgent and meaningless. I've chosen not to delude myself with the notion that other people will want to read this. This blog is absolutely an indulgent and personal exercise. I've attempted on a number of occasions in the past to keep a journal, and have always failed, but it is my hope that keeping a blog will be a novel experience, and will hold my interest. Keeping this blog also ties in to my desire to begin to write again over the course of the next year and a half, and is a part of a larger attempt to return to some semblance of the discipline that I had in high school. I will be spending this summer living with my friend Ian Cutler in Pittsburgh, and working for a prisoners' rights group that doesn't seem to have much direction. From staying in shape for frisbee, to taking initiative in my work, discipline will be incredibly important this summer. At any rate, those are my primary justifications, and I'm really tired of hearing myself ramble on (though I suppose I'll have to build up a greater tolerance if I'm to do this all summer).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)