Here be some more.
"Dear Bonnie Prince Billy"
"So These Aliens"
"Gecko"
"Cook County Caelus"
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Aunt Pat Responds to Chomsky
Well, Aunt Pat read the post on Chomsky, and asked me a good question.
Let me back up for a moment. Aunt Pat is a Peter Gabriel FANATIC. She follows him around the country when he's on tour, she flies to England to see him record, she undoubtedly dreams about him most nights.
So when she saw that I wrote about Chomsky, she asked about the Peter Gabriel line in "Animal Nation" that goes “Chomsky and Skinner, how could they be so blind?" Well, I'm going to try to make Aunt Pat's day.
I THINK PETER GABRIEL IS RIGHT AND HE IS SMARTER, WISER, AND MORE ENLIGHTENED THAN CHOMSKY AND SKINNER. (And of course, by association, I am saying [in this case] that I am smarter and more enlightened than Chomsky and Skinner too . . . Harvard trains you in this kind of intellectual arrogance). So here's the quick explanation of what I think Sir Gabriel is saying:
Chomsky's linguistic analysis says that language is a specific feature of human beings . . . it distinguishes us from other animals, even more dramatically than opposable thumbs do. This also implies that animals don't have a rich language amongst themselves, either inter and intra species.
But if you're Peter Gabriel, or an American Indian, or a hunter gatherer, or a dweller of the rainforest, (or a white suburban man from the suburbs of Chicago who wishes he was in touch with nature) you would say that not only do animals have rich and ongoing languages, but that the natural world speaks amongst itself all the time. Rivers talk to fish who talk to the wind who talks to the worms who talk to the sunset who talks to the mountain range who talks to the coyotes. And those nature-based people can hear and speak the language too--and NOT as a metaphor. Us "civilized" folks in modern times might say that it's a nice "metaphor" when they think they "talk" to nature. NO. The nature-based people would say they aren't talking to nature as a metaphor, they are ACTUALLY talking to nature. They know the language still, while we have forgotten it. Russian is unintelligible to me because I never grew up speaking it. The language of nature is unintelligible to me because, also, I didn't grow up speaking it.
I know, it sounds crazy . . . it sounds crazy to me too. But I always wonder, who is crazier? The culture that talks to nature, and treats it with respect as a friend and mother, or modern culture that doesn't talk to nature, and has cut down 75% of its trees (globally), and sends 100 species into extinction every single day?
Not bad Peter Gabriel, not bad.
Let me back up for a moment. Aunt Pat is a Peter Gabriel FANATIC. She follows him around the country when he's on tour, she flies to England to see him record, she undoubtedly dreams about him most nights.
So when she saw that I wrote about Chomsky, she asked about the Peter Gabriel line in "Animal Nation" that goes “Chomsky and Skinner, how could they be so blind?" Well, I'm going to try to make Aunt Pat's day.
I THINK PETER GABRIEL IS RIGHT AND HE IS SMARTER, WISER, AND MORE ENLIGHTENED THAN CHOMSKY AND SKINNER. (And of course, by association, I am saying [in this case] that I am smarter and more enlightened than Chomsky and Skinner too . . . Harvard trains you in this kind of intellectual arrogance). So here's the quick explanation of what I think Sir Gabriel is saying:
Chomsky's linguistic analysis says that language is a specific feature of human beings . . . it distinguishes us from other animals, even more dramatically than opposable thumbs do. This also implies that animals don't have a rich language amongst themselves, either inter and intra species.
But if you're Peter Gabriel, or an American Indian, or a hunter gatherer, or a dweller of the rainforest, (or a white suburban man from the suburbs of Chicago who wishes he was in touch with nature) you would say that not only do animals have rich and ongoing languages, but that the natural world speaks amongst itself all the time. Rivers talk to fish who talk to the wind who talks to the worms who talk to the sunset who talks to the mountain range who talks to the coyotes. And those nature-based people can hear and speak the language too--and NOT as a metaphor. Us "civilized" folks in modern times might say that it's a nice "metaphor" when they think they "talk" to nature. NO. The nature-based people would say they aren't talking to nature as a metaphor, they are ACTUALLY talking to nature. They know the language still, while we have forgotten it. Russian is unintelligible to me because I never grew up speaking it. The language of nature is unintelligible to me because, also, I didn't grow up speaking it.
I know, it sounds crazy . . . it sounds crazy to me too. But I always wonder, who is crazier? The culture that talks to nature, and treats it with respect as a friend and mother, or modern culture that doesn't talk to nature, and has cut down 75% of its trees (globally), and sends 100 species into extinction every single day?
Not bad Peter Gabriel, not bad.
What Could Be Worse?
I'm sure we've all had the following experience at some point: as you are saying something TERRIBLE about another person, you realize they are right behind you, listening to your every word.
With the advent of modern technology, I think this happens a LOT more. Landlines, cell phones, lists phone numbers, text messaging, the internet . . . it's all ripe for hitting the wrong button and saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.
(I bet it used to be a LOT easier to cheat on your spouse when you couldn't leave endless clues in your inbox, or on your cell phone bill, etc.)
Recently I wrote an email to a friend in which I called someone "a caricature of a human being." Only I didn't sent it to my friend, I SENT IT TO THE PERSON I WAS INSULTING.
What could be worse? How could I be so careless?
What do you say after that? How can you take it back? You can't. You can only feel sick to your stomach, and resolve that you'll never ever say a mean thing about anyone ever again.
(Which lasts for about an hour, tops).
With the advent of modern technology, I think this happens a LOT more. Landlines, cell phones, lists phone numbers, text messaging, the internet . . . it's all ripe for hitting the wrong button and saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.
(I bet it used to be a LOT easier to cheat on your spouse when you couldn't leave endless clues in your inbox, or on your cell phone bill, etc.)
Recently I wrote an email to a friend in which I called someone "a caricature of a human being." Only I didn't sent it to my friend, I SENT IT TO THE PERSON I WAS INSULTING.
What could be worse? How could I be so careless?
What do you say after that? How can you take it back? You can't. You can only feel sick to your stomach, and resolve that you'll never ever say a mean thing about anyone ever again.
(Which lasts for about an hour, tops).
El Salvador Part 5
I knew there was a reason I'm in an Arts in Education program.
When I was in El Salvador, I had the chance to talk to the director of the only art museum in the country. He started by telling us some of their recent history, including a brutal 10 year civil war, followed by the crime and delinquency that still grips the nation.
I asked him what could curb the violence, and without hesitation he said, "more art."
When I was in El Salvador, I had the chance to talk to the director of the only art museum in the country. He started by telling us some of their recent history, including a brutal 10 year civil war, followed by the crime and delinquency that still grips the nation.
I asked him what could curb the violence, and without hesitation he said, "more art."
El Slavador Part 4
Oscar Romero is the national hero of El Salvador. He was a Catholic priest/activist who stood up to the oppressive, U.S.-backed Guatemalan government in the 70's. He cared deeply about all of his followers and the people of El Salvador. In 1980 he was killed by an assassin (trained by the U.S.) while he was conducting mass.
In as San Salvador university you can find a moving display of Romero's clothing, books, and artifacts, some of them blood-stained from the violence. But most affecting of all is his Bible that was torn through the middle by a stray bullet. It looks like a metal speed boat had cut through the pages, leaving a widening wake behind.
I'm not religious, but I might have been for a moment or two as I stood and stared.
In as San Salvador university you can find a moving display of Romero's clothing, books, and artifacts, some of them blood-stained from the violence. But most affecting of all is his Bible that was torn through the middle by a stray bullet. It looks like a metal speed boat had cut through the pages, leaving a widening wake behind.
I'm not religious, but I might have been for a moment or two as I stood and stared.
El Salvador Part 3
In both Tanzania and Ecuador, the people would often fawn over a white visitor from the U.S. They wanted my friendship, they wanted me as a guest, they wanted me as a connection to the richest country in the world. A lot of it was their kindness and hospitality, but it often felt like it was a sense of inadequacy that made them glorify me and my country.
Not so in El Salvador. The country is so tough, so (recently) war-torn, so crime-ridden, that the people don't have time to fawn. They don't have the same insecurities, because they've seen to much, and they've survived too much. It's sort of like, "Oh, you're from America? O.K. What else have you got?"
Not so in El Salvador. The country is so tough, so (recently) war-torn, so crime-ridden, that the people don't have time to fawn. They don't have the same insecurities, because they've seen to much, and they've survived too much. It's sort of like, "Oh, you're from America? O.K. What else have you got?"
El Slavador Part 2
In every poor country I've ever been to, you can always find a bland, cheap carbohydrate that makes up the bulk of the diet. In Tanzania it was ugali, a tasteless corn mash. In El Salvador it was a thick, heavy tortilla. In Ecuador it was mostly rice.
Pick your 3rd world country, and then look for their cheap calorie-delivery system.
Pick your 3rd world country, and then look for their cheap calorie-delivery system.
El Slavador Part 1
Being in El Salvador reminded me of an unpleasant fact in a world divided into rich and poor.
Some bellies are very full, some are not.
There's usually enough food to go around.
So why are some bellies empty?
Some bellies are very full, some are not.
There's usually enough food to go around.
So why are some bellies empty?
Ethiopian Food
Lord knows I have tried, but you cannot get good Ethiopian food in Boston or the Boston area.
My Mother Wants Shorter Posts
So the other day I was on the phone with my mother, and I asked her if she'd read my blog lately. She said, "Yes, I've read them. They're getting a little long, aren't they? Can't you write shorter ones?"
Well, since I'm always the dutiful son, I will soon write some shorter posts. But not just yet. How about one more long one. But I'll be nice to my mother--I'll make it one of great interest to her. It'll be about her husband (otherwise known as my father).
A few years ago, for my father's birthday, my mother asked all of her kids to write something about their Dad, which she would compile as a lovely gift. Little did my mother know that she was prepping me for a future Harvard assignment.
Two weeks ago in my Moral Development class we were asked to write about a moral mentor. I took some of the ideas and structure from the birthday writing, and spun it into a whole paper. Thanks Mom. I'll paste it below:
My Father as Moral Mentor
I learned about morality at the International House of Pancakes. I was seventeen years old, and my father and I were driving back to Chicago after a college visit to Marquette. On our way home we stopped for dinner at an IHOP that was just off the highway. We both ordered a big meal, and then sat chatting in our booth. A few minutes later the waitress came with all our food and drinks on one tray, but as she approached she tripped and sent the tray flying . . . right into my father. He tried to move out of the way, but a tidal wave of milk, sauce, grease, meat, and soup crashed into him. The waitress, visibly upset, apologized profusely and cleaned up as best she could, then scurried away in shame. Five minutes later she came back to our table with a second waitress who apologized for her, because our waitress was too upset to speak.
I would have understood if my father had been agitated. It had been a long day; we had just sat in traffic and faced miles more of it before we would be home. My father sat doused in food and drink that would be on him until he took a shower later that evening. And the IHOP décor can put anyone in a bad mood. But without hesitation, my father looked directly at the tearful waitress and told her to think no more of the incident. Accidents happen, we’re all human and we all make mistakes. It’s just food and stains wash out, and it could have happened to anyone. Watching my father as he spoke, I could tell he wasn’t just “saying” the right thing. He truly meant it. He harbored no anger, and he didn’t want the waitress to continue to feel so bad.
I’ve thought of this incident when the class discussed the issue of shame. The waitress appeared to be shameful instead of just regretful, since her reaction was so intense. If she had been merely regretful, she would have apologized, chalked it up to bad luck, and moved on with her day. But her accident seemed to access some deeper insecurity, which led to her feeling of deep shame. But my father’s response encouraged her to trade her shame for regret. When he said “accidents happen” or that “it could have happened to anyone,” he made the spilling of food a common occurance, not something that defines a self. My father knew how painful shame is, and he helped me see the obligation we all have to minimize the shame others may feel.
I also thought of this IHOP incident when the class talked about the importance of modeling morality. Professor Weisbourd spoke of how small, daily examples of moral behavior are much more effective than grandiose edicts of what’s right and what’s wrong. I cannot recall a single time that my father ever instructed me on moral behavior. But I don’t think he had to, because his moral behavior at the IHOP speaks volumes. And maybe it was better that he never told me how I was supposed to conduct myself. If he had spent my childhood talking about the importance of kindness, then forgiving the waitress would have seemed like he was trying to live up to his words. But because my father never spoke of it, when I saw him forgive the waitress, it seemed like it emerged from the core of his being, as if it was a part of his DNA. Therefore it was even more powerful, because I knew this is how he was. And because I was in the process of idealizing him, it was how I wanted to be too.
Professor Weissbourd also emphasizes the importance of appreciation, and my father helped me develop this moral capacity as well. For example, I remember one Memorial Day when I was very young, perhaps in third or fourth grade. Our suburban town was holding a fair, a parade, and other activities at one of our parks, including a cadre of local soldiers who fired rifles and cannons into the air to honor those who serve our country. During the gunfire, I remember my brother and I delighting in the booming noises we felt in our chests, and we started to run in and out of the gun smoke. But then I looked up, and I saw my father with his head down, standing silent, with his baseball hat over his heart. My father had emigrated from war-torn Yugoslavia and Germany when he was in his teens, settling in Chicago and making a life for himself that included a college degree, a successful career, and a family. As I saw him standing with his head down, I knew immediately that he was in deep appreciation of the U.S. and the chance it had given him. I often struggle with the concept of patriotism, wondering what part it plays in the narrow mindedness and war-mongering that sometimes afflicts this county. But maybe patriotism wasn’t the issue on that Memorial Day. That image of my father standing with his hat in his hand still resonates with me years later, because it helped me realize the value of deep, genuine appreciation.
I could write pages about my father as my model of morality, about how he refused to eat at a restaurant that wouldn’t serve his African-American teammate, how he put no pressure on either of his sons to continue playing sports when we lost interest, and how I truly felt free to attend any college I wanted. But I will end this essay on the soccer field. When I was young, from first grade through eighth grade, my father was the coach of our local soccer team. And he always made sure Mark Christensen played at least half of each game, even though Mark was the worst player on the team. Mark was slow, uncoordinated, and lacked fundamentals. He also suffered from severe learning disabilities and had trouble tracking the flow of the game. But my father always put him in, even if the score was close. I don’t recall any player ever getting upset—it just seemed like something that was supposed to happen. This was a good example of being committed to other people, in this case the people on your soccer team. The team would have had a better chance to win if Mark wasn’t on the field, but my father prioritized our commitments to each other over the happiness or self-esteem that comes from winning a game. A few years later, when I was in high school, I had a class with Mark. I chose to sit by him, not because I felt like he needed the charity, or that I was doing some honorable thing. I sat by him because once again he was an inextricable part of the community of the class, and he was a distinct individual that I wanted to know better. I realize now that this approach towards Mark was the same as my father’s. My moral capacity had been well developed by high school, thanks to the moral mentoring I had received. And I can only hope that my father’s influence is with me to an even greater degree as an adult.
Well, since I'm always the dutiful son, I will soon write some shorter posts. But not just yet. How about one more long one. But I'll be nice to my mother--I'll make it one of great interest to her. It'll be about her husband (otherwise known as my father).
A few years ago, for my father's birthday, my mother asked all of her kids to write something about their Dad, which she would compile as a lovely gift. Little did my mother know that she was prepping me for a future Harvard assignment.
Two weeks ago in my Moral Development class we were asked to write about a moral mentor. I took some of the ideas and structure from the birthday writing, and spun it into a whole paper. Thanks Mom. I'll paste it below:
My Father as Moral Mentor
I learned about morality at the International House of Pancakes. I was seventeen years old, and my father and I were driving back to Chicago after a college visit to Marquette. On our way home we stopped for dinner at an IHOP that was just off the highway. We both ordered a big meal, and then sat chatting in our booth. A few minutes later the waitress came with all our food and drinks on one tray, but as she approached she tripped and sent the tray flying . . . right into my father. He tried to move out of the way, but a tidal wave of milk, sauce, grease, meat, and soup crashed into him. The waitress, visibly upset, apologized profusely and cleaned up as best she could, then scurried away in shame. Five minutes later she came back to our table with a second waitress who apologized for her, because our waitress was too upset to speak.
I would have understood if my father had been agitated. It had been a long day; we had just sat in traffic and faced miles more of it before we would be home. My father sat doused in food and drink that would be on him until he took a shower later that evening. And the IHOP décor can put anyone in a bad mood. But without hesitation, my father looked directly at the tearful waitress and told her to think no more of the incident. Accidents happen, we’re all human and we all make mistakes. It’s just food and stains wash out, and it could have happened to anyone. Watching my father as he spoke, I could tell he wasn’t just “saying” the right thing. He truly meant it. He harbored no anger, and he didn’t want the waitress to continue to feel so bad.
I’ve thought of this incident when the class discussed the issue of shame. The waitress appeared to be shameful instead of just regretful, since her reaction was so intense. If she had been merely regretful, she would have apologized, chalked it up to bad luck, and moved on with her day. But her accident seemed to access some deeper insecurity, which led to her feeling of deep shame. But my father’s response encouraged her to trade her shame for regret. When he said “accidents happen” or that “it could have happened to anyone,” he made the spilling of food a common occurance, not something that defines a self. My father knew how painful shame is, and he helped me see the obligation we all have to minimize the shame others may feel.
I also thought of this IHOP incident when the class talked about the importance of modeling morality. Professor Weisbourd spoke of how small, daily examples of moral behavior are much more effective than grandiose edicts of what’s right and what’s wrong. I cannot recall a single time that my father ever instructed me on moral behavior. But I don’t think he had to, because his moral behavior at the IHOP speaks volumes. And maybe it was better that he never told me how I was supposed to conduct myself. If he had spent my childhood talking about the importance of kindness, then forgiving the waitress would have seemed like he was trying to live up to his words. But because my father never spoke of it, when I saw him forgive the waitress, it seemed like it emerged from the core of his being, as if it was a part of his DNA. Therefore it was even more powerful, because I knew this is how he was. And because I was in the process of idealizing him, it was how I wanted to be too.
Professor Weissbourd also emphasizes the importance of appreciation, and my father helped me develop this moral capacity as well. For example, I remember one Memorial Day when I was very young, perhaps in third or fourth grade. Our suburban town was holding a fair, a parade, and other activities at one of our parks, including a cadre of local soldiers who fired rifles and cannons into the air to honor those who serve our country. During the gunfire, I remember my brother and I delighting in the booming noises we felt in our chests, and we started to run in and out of the gun smoke. But then I looked up, and I saw my father with his head down, standing silent, with his baseball hat over his heart. My father had emigrated from war-torn Yugoslavia and Germany when he was in his teens, settling in Chicago and making a life for himself that included a college degree, a successful career, and a family. As I saw him standing with his head down, I knew immediately that he was in deep appreciation of the U.S. and the chance it had given him. I often struggle with the concept of patriotism, wondering what part it plays in the narrow mindedness and war-mongering that sometimes afflicts this county. But maybe patriotism wasn’t the issue on that Memorial Day. That image of my father standing with his hat in his hand still resonates with me years later, because it helped me realize the value of deep, genuine appreciation.
I could write pages about my father as my model of morality, about how he refused to eat at a restaurant that wouldn’t serve his African-American teammate, how he put no pressure on either of his sons to continue playing sports when we lost interest, and how I truly felt free to attend any college I wanted. But I will end this essay on the soccer field. When I was young, from first grade through eighth grade, my father was the coach of our local soccer team. And he always made sure Mark Christensen played at least half of each game, even though Mark was the worst player on the team. Mark was slow, uncoordinated, and lacked fundamentals. He also suffered from severe learning disabilities and had trouble tracking the flow of the game. But my father always put him in, even if the score was close. I don’t recall any player ever getting upset—it just seemed like something that was supposed to happen. This was a good example of being committed to other people, in this case the people on your soccer team. The team would have had a better chance to win if Mark wasn’t on the field, but my father prioritized our commitments to each other over the happiness or self-esteem that comes from winning a game. A few years later, when I was in high school, I had a class with Mark. I chose to sit by him, not because I felt like he needed the charity, or that I was doing some honorable thing. I sat by him because once again he was an inextricable part of the community of the class, and he was a distinct individual that I wanted to know better. I realize now that this approach towards Mark was the same as my father’s. My moral capacity had been well developed by high school, thanks to the moral mentoring I had received. And I can only hope that my father’s influence is with me to an even greater degree as an adult.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Arts in Education - Those Vicious Debates
What? Are there debates in the world of Arts in Education? And they're vicious?
I figure that anytime you get deep enough into one field, you will always uncover some kind of crucial debate. You should see how cutthroat it gets at those model railroad meetings.
But one of the BIG debates in Arts in Education is whether or not you can measure art, or the artistic experience. Or even should.
Well, since this is a blog, and I've already fully accepted the obsession with self that comes along with it, I will tell you my position.
You should never, ever, ever try to measure it.
Last semester a great philosophy professor named Catherine Elgin and a teaching fellow named Edward Clapp gave a lecture about art. And in said lecture, Mr. Clapp innocently suggested "you cannot measure the sublime"--which sent the audience into an uproar as they began to insist (shout) that you COULD measure the sublime.
May I just say that I agree with Mr. Clapp. Fervently.
Not only do I think the sublime can't be measured, I don't think we should even try. Because once you attempt to start measuring, you will create a condition in which the experience of the sublime will be less likely to happen. Too much measuring, and the possibility of the sublime will disappear altogether.
And Mr. Clapp is in good company. As we talked about this during section, I began to write down a list of authors who agree with Edward, who have agreed in their poetry, novels, and essays. They say it in various ways--sometimes it's a comment on science, or literary criticism, but I think the point is the always same. These authors are concerned with the mechanical mindset of modern times, that then gets projected onto the sublime, and therefore destroys something vital--destroys one of those rare things that make us feel truly alive.
Here is Edgar Allen Poe on what science can do to art:
"Sonnet--To Science"
"Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise?
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?"
Here is David Foster Wallace on what kills the sublime in literature (and jokes):
"We all know that there is no quicker way to empty a joke of its peculiar magic than to try to explain it -- to point out, for example, that Lou Costello is mistaking the proper name "Who" for the interrogative pronoun 'who,' etc. We all know the weird antipathy such explanations arouse in us, a feeling not so much of boredom as offense, like something has been blasphemed. This is a lot like the teacher's feeling at running a Kafka story through the gears of your standard undergrad-course literary analysis -- plot to chart, symbols to decode, etc. Kafka, of course, would be in a unique position to appreciate the irony of submitting his short stories to this kind of high-efficiency critical machine, the literary equivalent of tearing the petals off and grinding them up and running the goo through a spectrometer to explain why a rose smells so pretty."
Here is Walt Whitman, who like Poe wonders about the costs of using science to explain the sublime:
"WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars."
From Frederico Garcia Lorca:
"These black sounds are the mystery, the roots that probe through the mire that we all know of, and do not understand, but which furnishes us with whatever is sustaining in art."
"[I]ntellect is oftentimes the foe of poetry because it imitates too much."
Goethe:
"[Paganini has] a mysterious power that all may feel and no philosophy can explain."
And though no one can ever fully explain what is happening in the lyrics of a Pavement song, I think this applies:
"And the stories you hear, you know they never add up
I hear the natives fussing at the data chart."
And jazz musicians always seem to know about these things before the rest of us do:
"If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know." - Louis Armstrong
"I’ll play it first and tell you what it is later." - Miles Davis
A couple of quotes from a previous post, which relate (and are so good they bear repeating):
"How can we know the dancer from the dance?" - William Butler Yeats
"How wonderful it is . . . except after explanation." - Herman Melville
And why might all this be so important? Because I think, culturally, we are mired in an epidemic of numbness--of intellectual and spiritual deadness. A sort of desiccation of the soul that is so pervasive for so many, that it begins to just feel like life itself. And this is everywhere. For example, it might be the point of pornography:
"At the essence pornography is the image of flesh used as a drug, a way of numbing psychic pain." - David Mura
Or it might be the point of technical language or PR language:
"Every emotionally significant moment or event or development gets conveyed in either computeresque staccato or else a prepackaged PR-speak whose whole function is (think about it) to deaden feeling." - David Foster Wallace
In closing, (and to continue this quote-a-rama), I think this is one of those times when Wittgenstein is right, that "The solution is to be seen in the disappearance of the problem." The problem for many is how to measure the sublime. I think the solution is to not even make that a "problem" in the first place.
I know, I know, sometimes the only way to get money is to work within the system. Yes, if some evil company like Texaco (poisoning the Amazon) or GE (poisoning the Hudson) were to give me money to help a school where I was teaching, I would take it in a second. No, I wouldn't shortchange underprivileged kids by being such an ethical purist that I would turn down funds or opportunities that would help them.
But, BUT, I am always watching for that line, that exists somewhere, that when you cross it, you are no longer doing the work you intended and you are no longer the person you wanted to be. Or as Thomas Paine said:
"Let them call me rebel and welcome, I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils, were I to make a whore of my soul."
Steve
I figure that anytime you get deep enough into one field, you will always uncover some kind of crucial debate. You should see how cutthroat it gets at those model railroad meetings.
But one of the BIG debates in Arts in Education is whether or not you can measure art, or the artistic experience. Or even should.
Well, since this is a blog, and I've already fully accepted the obsession with self that comes along with it, I will tell you my position.
You should never, ever, ever try to measure it.
Last semester a great philosophy professor named Catherine Elgin and a teaching fellow named Edward Clapp gave a lecture about art. And in said lecture, Mr. Clapp innocently suggested "you cannot measure the sublime"--which sent the audience into an uproar as they began to insist (shout) that you COULD measure the sublime.
May I just say that I agree with Mr. Clapp. Fervently.
Not only do I think the sublime can't be measured, I don't think we should even try. Because once you attempt to start measuring, you will create a condition in which the experience of the sublime will be less likely to happen. Too much measuring, and the possibility of the sublime will disappear altogether.
And Mr. Clapp is in good company. As we talked about this during section, I began to write down a list of authors who agree with Edward, who have agreed in their poetry, novels, and essays. They say it in various ways--sometimes it's a comment on science, or literary criticism, but I think the point is the always same. These authors are concerned with the mechanical mindset of modern times, that then gets projected onto the sublime, and therefore destroys something vital--destroys one of those rare things that make us feel truly alive.
Here is Edgar Allen Poe on what science can do to art:
"Sonnet--To Science"
"Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise?
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?"
Here is David Foster Wallace on what kills the sublime in literature (and jokes):
"We all know that there is no quicker way to empty a joke of its peculiar magic than to try to explain it -- to point out, for example, that Lou Costello is mistaking the proper name "Who" for the interrogative pronoun 'who,' etc. We all know the weird antipathy such explanations arouse in us, a feeling not so much of boredom as offense, like something has been blasphemed. This is a lot like the teacher's feeling at running a Kafka story through the gears of your standard undergrad-course literary analysis -- plot to chart, symbols to decode, etc. Kafka, of course, would be in a unique position to appreciate the irony of submitting his short stories to this kind of high-efficiency critical machine, the literary equivalent of tearing the petals off and grinding them up and running the goo through a spectrometer to explain why a rose smells so pretty."
Here is Walt Whitman, who like Poe wonders about the costs of using science to explain the sublime:
"WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars."
From Frederico Garcia Lorca:
"These black sounds are the mystery, the roots that probe through the mire that we all know of, and do not understand, but which furnishes us with whatever is sustaining in art."
"[I]ntellect is oftentimes the foe of poetry because it imitates too much."
Goethe:
"[Paganini has] a mysterious power that all may feel and no philosophy can explain."
And though no one can ever fully explain what is happening in the lyrics of a Pavement song, I think this applies:
"And the stories you hear, you know they never add up
I hear the natives fussing at the data chart."
And jazz musicians always seem to know about these things before the rest of us do:
"If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know." - Louis Armstrong
"I’ll play it first and tell you what it is later." - Miles Davis
A couple of quotes from a previous post, which relate (and are so good they bear repeating):
"How can we know the dancer from the dance?" - William Butler Yeats
"How wonderful it is . . . except after explanation." - Herman Melville
And why might all this be so important? Because I think, culturally, we are mired in an epidemic of numbness--of intellectual and spiritual deadness. A sort of desiccation of the soul that is so pervasive for so many, that it begins to just feel like life itself. And this is everywhere. For example, it might be the point of pornography:
"At the essence pornography is the image of flesh used as a drug, a way of numbing psychic pain." - David Mura
Or it might be the point of technical language or PR language:
"Every emotionally significant moment or event or development gets conveyed in either computeresque staccato or else a prepackaged PR-speak whose whole function is (think about it) to deaden feeling." - David Foster Wallace
In closing, (and to continue this quote-a-rama), I think this is one of those times when Wittgenstein is right, that "The solution is to be seen in the disappearance of the problem." The problem for many is how to measure the sublime. I think the solution is to not even make that a "problem" in the first place.
I know, I know, sometimes the only way to get money is to work within the system. Yes, if some evil company like Texaco (poisoning the Amazon) or GE (poisoning the Hudson) were to give me money to help a school where I was teaching, I would take it in a second. No, I wouldn't shortchange underprivileged kids by being such an ethical purist that I would turn down funds or opportunities that would help them.
But, BUT, I am always watching for that line, that exists somewhere, that when you cross it, you are no longer doing the work you intended and you are no longer the person you wanted to be. Or as Thomas Paine said:
"Let them call me rebel and welcome, I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils, were I to make a whore of my soul."
Steve
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Chomsky in the House!
I saw Chomsky! I saw Chomsky! I saw Chomsky!
What can I say . . . Noam Chomsky has been a hero of mine for years. When I thought about going to Harvard for the first time, my second thought was "well, Chomsky works in Cambridge, maybe I'll get to see him live."
And I did. And it's a good thing, because time is running short. I think he's well into his 80's, and his wife and colleagues like Howard Zinn have already passed on.
But that 80 year old dissident is as sharp as ever. He may walk like an old man, but he doesn't talk like one. He talked about Iran, 9/11, the Vietnam War, Obama's foreign policy, on and on and on.
My guess is that a brain like his comes along once every few hundred years.
And when he passes away, we'll have to take his life as an inspiration and continue to do the most trenchant thinking for ourselves. Which is what he wanted all along.
What can I say . . . Noam Chomsky has been a hero of mine for years. When I thought about going to Harvard for the first time, my second thought was "well, Chomsky works in Cambridge, maybe I'll get to see him live."
And I did. And it's a good thing, because time is running short. I think he's well into his 80's, and his wife and colleagues like Howard Zinn have already passed on.
But that 80 year old dissident is as sharp as ever. He may walk like an old man, but he doesn't talk like one. He talked about Iran, 9/11, the Vietnam War, Obama's foreign policy, on and on and on.
My guess is that a brain like his comes along once every few hundred years.
And when he passes away, we'll have to take his life as an inspiration and continue to do the most trenchant thinking for ourselves. Which is what he wanted all along.
Getting an Earful
I saw Ralph Nader speak last week.
O.K., let's settle down, let's get a grip. I know many are angry about Ralph Nader, about how he effected the 2000 election, etc. I bet my father, if he reads the blog, has already smashed the computer screen upon reading his name.
I have no interest in rehashing that past history. And when I set aside that problematic dimension of his career, I see Nader as an amazing man who deeply loves America, and has dedicated his entire life to justice. He very well have saved more lives than any single person in our country in the last 100 years. Really.
So last week he was at Harvard to talk to the Harvard Law Students. And if you CAN set aside all of his old baggage, he said some pretty striking things. Such as:
Harvard Law School “is filled with highly proficient drones.”
Harvard Law School “doesn’t ask any of the big questions.”
Harvard Law School “needs to be picked up by its neck and shaken,” because it's a “massive waste of human resources,” and the students will graduate and become “strategists and greasers of corporate power.”
Harvard Law School “is a puppet of the oligarchy.”
Harvard Law School “doesn't fight the ongoing lethal destruction of people and the environment.”
Additionally,
"The academic world needs to have an arm's length distance from the corporate world to retain its freedom and critical inquiry."
"Dissent is the mother of all assent."
"To know and not to do is not to know." (Chinese proverb)
"University curriculums are brilliant at denying reality."
So there you go. Whether you think the Harvard Law School is deserving of such commentary or not, it can be really refreshing (sometimes) to hear someone who doesn't bother to qualify anything he really thinks.
And I couldn't help but wonder what he might have said to the Ed School if he had the chance.
O.K., let's settle down, let's get a grip. I know many are angry about Ralph Nader, about how he effected the 2000 election, etc. I bet my father, if he reads the blog, has already smashed the computer screen upon reading his name.
I have no interest in rehashing that past history. And when I set aside that problematic dimension of his career, I see Nader as an amazing man who deeply loves America, and has dedicated his entire life to justice. He very well have saved more lives than any single person in our country in the last 100 years. Really.
So last week he was at Harvard to talk to the Harvard Law Students. And if you CAN set aside all of his old baggage, he said some pretty striking things. Such as:
Harvard Law School “is filled with highly proficient drones.”
Harvard Law School “doesn’t ask any of the big questions.”
Harvard Law School “needs to be picked up by its neck and shaken,” because it's a “massive waste of human resources,” and the students will graduate and become “strategists and greasers of corporate power.”
Harvard Law School “is a puppet of the oligarchy.”
Harvard Law School “doesn't fight the ongoing lethal destruction of people and the environment.”
Additionally,
"The academic world needs to have an arm's length distance from the corporate world to retain its freedom and critical inquiry."
"Dissent is the mother of all assent."
"To know and not to do is not to know." (Chinese proverb)
"University curriculums are brilliant at denying reality."
So there you go. Whether you think the Harvard Law School is deserving of such commentary or not, it can be really refreshing (sometimes) to hear someone who doesn't bother to qualify anything he really thinks.
And I couldn't help but wonder what he might have said to the Ed School if he had the chance.
Values in the Classroom
Here's a tough one . . . something I've been trying to figure out for years.
Teachers have their own personal values. Do you voice them to the students in your classroom?
It always bothers me when teachers brag that when they discuss crucial issues with their students, they always stay neutral. One of the reasons it bothers me is that the teacher wasn't even being a human, who undoubtedly has opinions about important issues. And more than just about anything, teachers are giving students a model of one way a person can exist in the world, and what are you modeling when you pretend like everything is neutral? I always think about a classroom in the early 1800s in America, where a class in the south was debating whether slavery was justified or not. What was that teacher supposed to do, keep valuing both sides of the debate? Keep encouraging students to come to their own conclusions about slavery, even if 75% of the class decided they were pro slavery?
Of course there is a danger here when teachers do express their opinons, because teachers are very influential just by the nature of their position. They have the authority in the room, so when they say something, it will have extra (more than extra, a lot) of weight. And if a teacher is throwing around their position, some students might be very reluctant to speak up, especially if they disagree. And that would mean you're no longer having a healthy discussion. Ideally the teacher has to pull off a very difficult thing (though not impossible). They have to be able to say what they believe, but hopefully they have constructed a classroom environment in which a student would still feel comfortable disagreeing with the teacher. It would be the best of all worlds.
So let's try to follow an example of how this might play itself out in a classroom. (This is a real example from the last few years of my own teaching).
I am adamantly pro gay. I am for gay marriage and gay adoption. I wish that students could be openly gay in high school without any ridicule or condemnation. I wish gay adolescents could go to the prom together, hold hands, kiss in the hallway (like heterosexual couples do).
I made my position very well-known to my students. I know that there are a LOT of teachers and parents who would disagree with my disclosure. They might say I am trying to assert a political viewpoint, or that I am promoting my own values, or that there is no place for such comments in the classroom.
And I can see their point. Because if I heard that a teacher down the hallway told the students that homosexuality was a sin, that gays were going to hell, and that homosexuality would undermine our society, then I would want to muzzle that teacher.
Then again, I know that my open assertion of support for homosexuals made a BIG difference for students who were in the closet, because they told me at the end of the year.
So now what are we supposed to do? I was asserting my sense of morality. Then again, I am SURE that other homophobic teacher (who really did exist in my high school) sincerely thought he was promoting what he thought was morality by denouncing gays.
I suppose if I want the right to express my views about homosexuality, then I must be ready to accept the possibility that the teacher down the hallway will be expressing his.
So we're left with a cost benefit analysis of sorts. Do the benefits of my overt position on homosexuality surpass the cost of having the homophobic teacher express his position?
Teachers have their own personal values. Do you voice them to the students in your classroom?
It always bothers me when teachers brag that when they discuss crucial issues with their students, they always stay neutral. One of the reasons it bothers me is that the teacher wasn't even being a human, who undoubtedly has opinions about important issues. And more than just about anything, teachers are giving students a model of one way a person can exist in the world, and what are you modeling when you pretend like everything is neutral? I always think about a classroom in the early 1800s in America, where a class in the south was debating whether slavery was justified or not. What was that teacher supposed to do, keep valuing both sides of the debate? Keep encouraging students to come to their own conclusions about slavery, even if 75% of the class decided they were pro slavery?
Of course there is a danger here when teachers do express their opinons, because teachers are very influential just by the nature of their position. They have the authority in the room, so when they say something, it will have extra (more than extra, a lot) of weight. And if a teacher is throwing around their position, some students might be very reluctant to speak up, especially if they disagree. And that would mean you're no longer having a healthy discussion. Ideally the teacher has to pull off a very difficult thing (though not impossible). They have to be able to say what they believe, but hopefully they have constructed a classroom environment in which a student would still feel comfortable disagreeing with the teacher. It would be the best of all worlds.
So let's try to follow an example of how this might play itself out in a classroom. (This is a real example from the last few years of my own teaching).
I am adamantly pro gay. I am for gay marriage and gay adoption. I wish that students could be openly gay in high school without any ridicule or condemnation. I wish gay adolescents could go to the prom together, hold hands, kiss in the hallway (like heterosexual couples do).
I made my position very well-known to my students. I know that there are a LOT of teachers and parents who would disagree with my disclosure. They might say I am trying to assert a political viewpoint, or that I am promoting my own values, or that there is no place for such comments in the classroom.
And I can see their point. Because if I heard that a teacher down the hallway told the students that homosexuality was a sin, that gays were going to hell, and that homosexuality would undermine our society, then I would want to muzzle that teacher.
Then again, I know that my open assertion of support for homosexuals made a BIG difference for students who were in the closet, because they told me at the end of the year.
So now what are we supposed to do? I was asserting my sense of morality. Then again, I am SURE that other homophobic teacher (who really did exist in my high school) sincerely thought he was promoting what he thought was morality by denouncing gays.
I suppose if I want the right to express my views about homosexuality, then I must be ready to accept the possibility that the teacher down the hallway will be expressing his.
So we're left with a cost benefit analysis of sorts. Do the benefits of my overt position on homosexuality surpass the cost of having the homophobic teacher express his position?
Television and Passivity
Here's a critique of television.
I know, I know, you watch television, you like it, you have great shows that you watch, television at its best can be a work of art, it's entertainment, it gives you something to talk about with other people, etc., etc.
I understand. I watch television too. I will watch every episode of Family Guy this season. Same with 30 Rock. I often needs me some Daily Show. Parks and Recreation seems to be finding its legs this year.
But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.
So here's a bit on television, the arts, and marginality. Or something.
"You have two choices. You can either play Guitar Hero, or play a real guitar. Guitar Hero will ask you to match the colors streaming down your TV screen with corresponding buttons on your toy guitar. Real guitar will entail hours of practice, interaction with a teacher, and a consideration of musical styles; in a few years you may even start writing your own songs. Though Guitar Hero demands some small motor skills, it mostly asks for your passive participation in matching their color streams. Real guitar demands you take an active and committed role in developing your new craft.
Amongst many other possible factors, I would like to consider the phenomenon of passivity and how it contributes to the marginalization of the arts. To start, art making is the antithesis of passivity. When a painter stares at the blank canvas, or an author at the blank paper, she knows she is responsible for every forthcoming detail of her creation. But because art is so challenging, it can also provide the deepest reward. In every high school where I’ve ever worked, I’ve seen a marked difference in the way students feel about their art classes: they excitedly talk about their work, they eagerly show it to their teachers and friends, and they say it’s their favorite class. Much of this love comes from the pride they have in making art that is truly their own. They see their hand in every brush stroke, every poetic phrase, every melody.
In stark contrast, watching television demands very little of the viewer; an imagination need not stray any farther than the images on the screen. Comparing the act of making art with the act of watching television helps us see the degree to which our culture is mired in passivity. 99% of American households have a television, and the average citizen watches over four hours a day. What percentage of Americans work on art for over four hours a day? Suppose 99% of American households had ample art supplies, and everyone worked on their chosen art form for four hours a day—how would our country be different? How would our schools be different?
I first thought about a culture of passivity when I was traveling in Belize years ago. One evening, while I was staying in San Ignacio, I chatted with an archeologist who had lived in the area for the past five years. He told me when he first arrived, all of the families would emerge from their homes after dinner to walk the streets, mingle, run into neighbors, and generally talk the night away. Then the families started to by their first TV sets, and in months the evening streets were bare and everyone was inside watching TV. I realized the same thing had happened to the U.S. years ago, before I was born.
I think this culture of passivity has made its way into our education system. Standardized exams insist on the passivity implicit in rote memorization and multiple-choice questions. A poorly conceived rubric will elicit formulaic writing, never insisting the students struggle with their thesis and organization. And I have had valedictorians in my classroom from time to time, and they are never the most interesting and curious of my students. Usually they display a striking subservience to the teacher and an affinity for following the rules. I had to conclude that obsequiousness was what the school system wanted most, since it rewarded these students with the highest honor. But an art class demands originality, creativity, curiosity and experimentation, which run counter to the above trends. So it is no surprise that the arts are sent to the margins of school curricula.
Last year I started a Voluntary Simplicity program with some students. For the entire month of December, we didn’t watch any T.V. By the end of the month the students were saying things like 'I find my homework a lot more interesting,' and a junior named Ryan said his head had been 'exploding with ideas' for his next paintings. Without television, the students had stepped away from some of their passivity, and their active impulses had come to the fore. Earlier in the year I had tried to make the program a regular class for regular credit, but the administration said no. I could only run it once a week, in the evening, for no credit. My students had been pushed to the margins of the high school. Maybe they weren’t being passive enough."
I know, I know, you watch television, you like it, you have great shows that you watch, television at its best can be a work of art, it's entertainment, it gives you something to talk about with other people, etc., etc.
I understand. I watch television too. I will watch every episode of Family Guy this season. Same with 30 Rock. I often needs me some Daily Show. Parks and Recreation seems to be finding its legs this year.
But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.
So here's a bit on television, the arts, and marginality. Or something.
"You have two choices. You can either play Guitar Hero, or play a real guitar. Guitar Hero will ask you to match the colors streaming down your TV screen with corresponding buttons on your toy guitar. Real guitar will entail hours of practice, interaction with a teacher, and a consideration of musical styles; in a few years you may even start writing your own songs. Though Guitar Hero demands some small motor skills, it mostly asks for your passive participation in matching their color streams. Real guitar demands you take an active and committed role in developing your new craft.
Amongst many other possible factors, I would like to consider the phenomenon of passivity and how it contributes to the marginalization of the arts. To start, art making is the antithesis of passivity. When a painter stares at the blank canvas, or an author at the blank paper, she knows she is responsible for every forthcoming detail of her creation. But because art is so challenging, it can also provide the deepest reward. In every high school where I’ve ever worked, I’ve seen a marked difference in the way students feel about their art classes: they excitedly talk about their work, they eagerly show it to their teachers and friends, and they say it’s their favorite class. Much of this love comes from the pride they have in making art that is truly their own. They see their hand in every brush stroke, every poetic phrase, every melody.
In stark contrast, watching television demands very little of the viewer; an imagination need not stray any farther than the images on the screen. Comparing the act of making art with the act of watching television helps us see the degree to which our culture is mired in passivity. 99% of American households have a television, and the average citizen watches over four hours a day. What percentage of Americans work on art for over four hours a day? Suppose 99% of American households had ample art supplies, and everyone worked on their chosen art form for four hours a day—how would our country be different? How would our schools be different?
I first thought about a culture of passivity when I was traveling in Belize years ago. One evening, while I was staying in San Ignacio, I chatted with an archeologist who had lived in the area for the past five years. He told me when he first arrived, all of the families would emerge from their homes after dinner to walk the streets, mingle, run into neighbors, and generally talk the night away. Then the families started to by their first TV sets, and in months the evening streets were bare and everyone was inside watching TV. I realized the same thing had happened to the U.S. years ago, before I was born.
I think this culture of passivity has made its way into our education system. Standardized exams insist on the passivity implicit in rote memorization and multiple-choice questions. A poorly conceived rubric will elicit formulaic writing, never insisting the students struggle with their thesis and organization. And I have had valedictorians in my classroom from time to time, and they are never the most interesting and curious of my students. Usually they display a striking subservience to the teacher and an affinity for following the rules. I had to conclude that obsequiousness was what the school system wanted most, since it rewarded these students with the highest honor. But an art class demands originality, creativity, curiosity and experimentation, which run counter to the above trends. So it is no surprise that the arts are sent to the margins of school curricula.
Last year I started a Voluntary Simplicity program with some students. For the entire month of December, we didn’t watch any T.V. By the end of the month the students were saying things like 'I find my homework a lot more interesting,' and a junior named Ryan said his head had been 'exploding with ideas' for his next paintings. Without television, the students had stepped away from some of their passivity, and their active impulses had come to the fore. Earlier in the year I had tried to make the program a regular class for regular credit, but the administration said no. I could only run it once a week, in the evening, for no credit. My students had been pushed to the margins of the high school. Maybe they weren’t being passive enough."
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
How Can We Know the Dancer from the Dance?
Last week, in my "Moral Adults: Moral Children" class, we read articles about adult development. One of the articles explained that adult development is characterized by an increasing ability to have a meta-awareness of yourself. It seemed that maturity was marked by the ability to step outside of yourself, to almost watch yourself as a third person, to see what your decisions meant and how they were related to the contexts in which you exist.
I suppose that does make sense, but it also bummed me out a bit. Because some of the best moments of our lives are when we aren't outside of ourselves, or aren't watching ourselves in any way. That's why it was so great to be a kid--because when you played make-believe, you really were what you were imagining. When I was in my backyard pretending to hit a ninth inning home run for the Chicago Cubs, I wasn't outside of myself observing how I was role-playing. Instead, I was in the stadium, hitting a baseball as the true hero of my beloved team.
This still happens, occasionally, even though we're now adults. It's those times when we are no longer ourselves, because we have merged with something. Artists know this feeling well--the transcendent moments when you are no longer aware that you're painting, but instead become part of the paints and the canvas. Or you are no longer playing an instrument in the symphony, you are the song. It's why Yeats wrote "[H]ow can we know the dancer from the dance?"
Or why Melville writes in Moby Dick, "[H]ow wonderful it is . . . except after explanation."
Or why Alan Watts says the biggest mistake a person can make is to think they're just a "skin encapsulated ego."
It happens when you see a great movie and forget you are in a theater, because you're livinginside the film. And then the lights come up and you have to look around and remind yourself that you actually exist in this world.
There's more. It's when you have a first kiss. Or when you play your stereo and dissolve into the sound waves. When you sit on top of a mountain and linear time falls away.
(And yes, it's what happens when we have an orgasm. I know you were wondering).
And athletes know this experience as well as anyone. That's why they say "be the ball" when you're shooting a free throw, as in "don't be yourself, merge with the game." Or when a player has an especially good night, the slang is to say he or she was "unconscious," meaning they reached the optimal, desirable state where they were no longer an individual with deliberate actions, but instead had let the game play them.
That's how I knew I loved poetry. In 1990 I was sitting in professor Jacobson's class at the University of Illinois as we worked through Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning." At some point I was no longer a student in a room at a desk with a professor and an American Lit anthology in front of me. Instead I crawled up inside the beautiful lines of that poem and rolled around in the words and forgot who I was.
So I wonder, as we get older and become more meta-aware of ourselves, can we still have the ability to lose ourselves in something? Can we move back and forth between the two? Because what we had when we were children was so good, I'd hate to think that magic is slowly leaking away.
I suppose that does make sense, but it also bummed me out a bit. Because some of the best moments of our lives are when we aren't outside of ourselves, or aren't watching ourselves in any way. That's why it was so great to be a kid--because when you played make-believe, you really were what you were imagining. When I was in my backyard pretending to hit a ninth inning home run for the Chicago Cubs, I wasn't outside of myself observing how I was role-playing. Instead, I was in the stadium, hitting a baseball as the true hero of my beloved team.
This still happens, occasionally, even though we're now adults. It's those times when we are no longer ourselves, because we have merged with something. Artists know this feeling well--the transcendent moments when you are no longer aware that you're painting, but instead become part of the paints and the canvas. Or you are no longer playing an instrument in the symphony, you are the song. It's why Yeats wrote "[H]ow can we know the dancer from the dance?"
Or why Melville writes in Moby Dick, "[H]ow wonderful it is . . . except after explanation."
Or why Alan Watts says the biggest mistake a person can make is to think they're just a "skin encapsulated ego."
It happens when you see a great movie and forget you are in a theater, because you're livinginside the film. And then the lights come up and you have to look around and remind yourself that you actually exist in this world.
There's more. It's when you have a first kiss. Or when you play your stereo and dissolve into the sound waves. When you sit on top of a mountain and linear time falls away.
(And yes, it's what happens when we have an orgasm. I know you were wondering).
And athletes know this experience as well as anyone. That's why they say "be the ball" when you're shooting a free throw, as in "don't be yourself, merge with the game." Or when a player has an especially good night, the slang is to say he or she was "unconscious," meaning they reached the optimal, desirable state where they were no longer an individual with deliberate actions, but instead had let the game play them.
That's how I knew I loved poetry. In 1990 I was sitting in professor Jacobson's class at the University of Illinois as we worked through Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning." At some point I was no longer a student in a room at a desk with a professor and an American Lit anthology in front of me. Instead I crawled up inside the beautiful lines of that poem and rolled around in the words and forgot who I was.
So I wonder, as we get older and become more meta-aware of ourselves, can we still have the ability to lose ourselves in something? Can we move back and forth between the two? Because what we had when we were children was so good, I'd hate to think that magic is slowly leaking away.
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