Adam: Last time he went on vacation all he told us about was how he saw Canadian geese.
Raychul: How do you know the geese were Canadian??
Adam: *totally deadpan* Well, we're from Canada, so we can tell.
Raychul: Huh? How!?
Brian: Canadian Geese are a species of geese - it's not like, geese that live in Canada.
Raychul: . . .Oh.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Raychul hearts Books
“Reading Lolita in Tehran” is the story of an Iranian literature professor, Dr. Azar Nafisi, who returns to her home in Tehran only to become trapped there in the wake of Iran’s religious revolution of the early 1980’s. On the most surface level, the story it tells is of Nafisi’s time in Iran – her teaching, her family, and, most importantly, the secret book club she held in her home with nine of her best female students. Below the obvious narrative is another tale, the story of a story. Or rather, the story of the power of stories.
In the Arabian novel “A Thousand and One Nights”, the tales given to the reader are really stories within a greater story: the tale of Schererazade’s triumph over the domineering and brutal king through her imagination. The king, pushed to the brink of madness, marries a virgin each night and kills her the next morning. Schererazade volunteers to be the king’s next bride, but each evening, before they can consummate their union, she says they must wait because she has to tell him a story. In this way, she puts off her demise until the king himself is free from his obsession. The tales in the book are Schererazade’s; they are her way out of the life that is being forced upon her, and indeed upon all of the women in her kingdom.
Azar Nafisi opens up her memoir of life in Iran with reference to "A Thousand and One Nights", just as she opens up her first meeting of the secret book club. The reason for this choice becomes clear as Nafisi weaves her tales of life in Iran, as she writes about her girls under pretend names lest the Iranian authorizes find them today. Nafisi, like the fictional Schererazade, is subject to the imposition of what she calls a “fictional reality”, a way of life imagined by another and thrust upon those unlucky enough to lack the ability to escape. Both heroines realize that their only escape – indeed, anyone’s only escape – is in circumventing reality as it’s framed by the dominant group or individual. Both heroines also accomplish this in the same way: by framing another reality through storytelling.
I’ve always believed that telling a story is more than just conveying information or ideas, but I’d never really conceived of storytelling as subversive. Now it makes sense to me that in a reality where the very information people have access to is controlled with an iron fist, making information available outside of the dominant metaphor is the very essence of subversion. This is what Schererazade knew: her escape lay in creating another reality, a reality beyond what her new husband knew. And it seems that Nafisi subtely continues this tradition by exposing her students – also the unwitting objects of a male-dominated, violent regime – to the realities that are denied them in the contraband stories that Americans toss aside in exchange for the Cliff’s Notes.
Roland Barthe explains this phenomenon of multiple realities in Mythologies, where he outlines his understanding of what he calls myth. A myth, according to Barthe, is any narrative. He also points out something that we all know: the story that we know as true is always the narrative of the dominant. But Barthe goes beyond this to say that, despite what we accept, there simply is no narrative that’s true: every version of history is colored by perspective, and no narrative is unbiased. Knowing this, our job is to be mythologists, by constantly striving to deconstruct the narratives we’re told until we find our own truth.
I’m not a person who believes that there’s no absolute truth. But even the existence of an absolute doesn’t get around the fact that our knowledge of it is based on our own perspective, and is as unique to each of us as our own fingerprints. This isn’t a bad thing – it means that every person can teach something to every other person, that it’s completely impossible for anyone to know everything. It’s the responsibility that we each have to get to know each other.
In the time since I first read Barthe, I’ve realized that being a mythologist is a damn lot of work. It takes constant vigilance (to borrow a phrase from J.K. Rowling), not just to examine what you’re told, but also to keep your skepticism from evolving into negativity. It takes more self-awareness than I’ll probably ever have, and the ability to Listen. The Baha’I Writings give the following advice on seeking Truth:
In the Arabian novel “A Thousand and One Nights”, the tales given to the reader are really stories within a greater story: the tale of Schererazade’s triumph over the domineering and brutal king through her imagination. The king, pushed to the brink of madness, marries a virgin each night and kills her the next morning. Schererazade volunteers to be the king’s next bride, but each evening, before they can consummate their union, she says they must wait because she has to tell him a story. In this way, she puts off her demise until the king himself is free from his obsession. The tales in the book are Schererazade’s; they are her way out of the life that is being forced upon her, and indeed upon all of the women in her kingdom.
Azar Nafisi opens up her memoir of life in Iran with reference to "A Thousand and One Nights", just as she opens up her first meeting of the secret book club. The reason for this choice becomes clear as Nafisi weaves her tales of life in Iran, as she writes about her girls under pretend names lest the Iranian authorizes find them today. Nafisi, like the fictional Schererazade, is subject to the imposition of what she calls a “fictional reality”, a way of life imagined by another and thrust upon those unlucky enough to lack the ability to escape. Both heroines realize that their only escape – indeed, anyone’s only escape – is in circumventing reality as it’s framed by the dominant group or individual. Both heroines also accomplish this in the same way: by framing another reality through storytelling.
I’ve always believed that telling a story is more than just conveying information or ideas, but I’d never really conceived of storytelling as subversive. Now it makes sense to me that in a reality where the very information people have access to is controlled with an iron fist, making information available outside of the dominant metaphor is the very essence of subversion. This is what Schererazade knew: her escape lay in creating another reality, a reality beyond what her new husband knew. And it seems that Nafisi subtely continues this tradition by exposing her students – also the unwitting objects of a male-dominated, violent regime – to the realities that are denied them in the contraband stories that Americans toss aside in exchange for the Cliff’s Notes.
Roland Barthe explains this phenomenon of multiple realities in Mythologies, where he outlines his understanding of what he calls myth. A myth, according to Barthe, is any narrative. He also points out something that we all know: the story that we know as true is always the narrative of the dominant. But Barthe goes beyond this to say that, despite what we accept, there simply is no narrative that’s true: every version of history is colored by perspective, and no narrative is unbiased. Knowing this, our job is to be mythologists, by constantly striving to deconstruct the narratives we’re told until we find our own truth.
I’m not a person who believes that there’s no absolute truth. But even the existence of an absolute doesn’t get around the fact that our knowledge of it is based on our own perspective, and is as unique to each of us as our own fingerprints. This isn’t a bad thing – it means that every person can teach something to every other person, that it’s completely impossible for anyone to know everything. It’s the responsibility that we each have to get to know each other.
In the time since I first read Barthe, I’ve realized that being a mythologist is a damn lot of work. It takes constant vigilance (to borrow a phrase from J.K. Rowling), not just to examine what you’re told, but also to keep your skepticism from evolving into negativity. It takes more self-awareness than I’ll probably ever have, and the ability to Listen. The Baha’I Writings give the following advice on seeking Truth:
“The state in which one should be to seriously search for the truth is the condition of the thirsty, burning soul desiring the water of life, of the fish struggling to reach the sea, of the sufferer seeking for the true doctor to obtain the divine cure, of the lost caravan endeavoring to find the right road, of the lost and wandering ship striving to reach the shore of salvation.” – Abdul-Baha
More than anything those words make me realize that reflection, in its true form, isn’t a hobby. It isn’t a pastime or something you can do casually. It’s a way of life that informs everything you do, it’s a questioning spirit and the ability to weave your own story. This can be disconcerting, save the recognition there’s not one grand answer to discover. Each answer is just the open door to the next question, and each question is its own guidance to the next answer.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Unreasonably distraught
Yesterday I was on top of the world - I picked up my highly anticipated copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and rushed home to start reading. And I read and I read. Then the book started upsetting me and I called Nikki for emotional support. Then I read some more.
EJHKA HIJESND AJIELOFMODHRD . . .
I just used a secret code to tell you what happens in the book. I then burned the magical talisman that contained the primer for the code, so I didn't give anything away. But I really had to tell someone, and my three Harry Potter fanatics are sort of indisposed:
1. Nikki is still reading because she spent the day helping people instead of reading. Meanie.
2. It's like 4am in NY where Krissa lives.
3. Alia is in China.
So here I am, alone and distraught, writing on my blog at 3am without even being able to say why I'm so upset. J. K. Rowling is amazing. The books are epic, magificent, and the most easily accessible form of myth that I've ever come across. But they make me very upset.
I think I'll go wake Matt up and see if he lets me tell him what happens.
EJHKA HIJESND AJIELOFMODHRD . . .
I just used a secret code to tell you what happens in the book. I then burned the magical talisman that contained the primer for the code, so I didn't give anything away. But I really had to tell someone, and my three Harry Potter fanatics are sort of indisposed:
1. Nikki is still reading because she spent the day helping people instead of reading. Meanie.
2. It's like 4am in NY where Krissa lives.
3. Alia is in China.
So here I am, alone and distraught, writing on my blog at 3am without even being able to say why I'm so upset. J. K. Rowling is amazing. The books are epic, magificent, and the most easily accessible form of myth that I've ever come across. But they make me very upset.
I think I'll go wake Matt up and see if he lets me tell him what happens.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Constant Vigilance!
Okay, people. I'm flipping out. TWELVE HOURS. The final countdown begins. Cannot. . .contain . . .excitement . . .AAAAAHHHHHH!!
Monday, July 11, 2005
Politically Incorrect Ranting
Here's the thing: the fact that parents let their eight-year-old kids play whatever video games they can buy at Wal-Mart really bothers me. The only way any child of mine will get a portable gaming device is if they have some rare disease that requires 24-hour television contact for survival. The fact that nine year olds get online and play video games with adults - adults who swear at each other and make totally smutty comments - is awful. I would love to have a job where I got to take gameboys away from little boys and could then force them to read books.
However, I have no kids, and people get mad when I make children cry. I'm just trying to get to my first point:
1. It is a parent's job to monitor a kid's video games, a kid's computer use, etc. And make no mistake, a lot of parents have their heads stuck in the sand on this one.
Now I move to my second point: I am a firm believer in free speech. I consider video games a viable form of artistic expression, and the people who make them should be able to create whatever they want. Free speech doesn't just mean letting people do things you agree with. I don't see the need for games re-enacting World War II, and you'd better believe no money of mine will ever go to a game like that, but people have the right to make them. So point two is:
2. Video game creators should have free reign to create.
HOWEVER. However, if it turns out to be true that the creators of Grand Theft Auto actually put that porn in the game and deliberately hid it, just so that the game wouldn't be rated "Adults Only" (and consequently not be sold at about half of all video game retailers) I will hunt them down, tie them up, and force them to watch man on man midget pornography for the next twenty years. Oh, does that sound cruel and unusual? Too bad. I'm livid and it makes me unconstitutional. Parents are having enough time figuring out what's going on with their kids without you deliberately hiding adult content in a game. Yes, you have the right to create it and put it in a game. But you do NOT have the right to hide content so that you can lie about how graphic the game is and thereby get more sales from minors.
I read a comment online from some gamer, most likely a single guy in his twenties, which basically said that parents should just watch their kids better and that this is just another example of people taking potshots at the gaming industry. Hear me now anonymous commenter: you are a moron and you need to go get a vasectomy so that you don't breed. Regardless of how aware a parent is, a game developer has NO RIGHT to secretly and knowingly peddle smut to kids. If they created a game with porn in it, which they knew would be found, and which they reasonably expected would be seen by the minors who owned the game, and then deliberately hid that porn so that KIDS WOULD BE ABLE TO BUY THE GAME, that is NOT people taking shots at the gaming industry. That's a couple of perverts ruining it for everyone bc they don’t' have girlfriends.
In the real world, do you know what we call it when an adult secretly makes stuff like this available to kids, in a way that parents might not notice? We call that perverted. And the fact that this seems to have been done for money - for money that could be made from the under-18 market - is disgusting.
*Deep breath* I know I'm getting a little ahead of myself, because we don't really know whether or not the developers put the porn content in the game. And again, they have every right to - they just don't have the right to pretend it isn't there so that they can sell it to kids. This degrades all of the other members of the industry, and will probably create a lot of backlash against video games. I hope that Microsoft sues you when they don't sell enough XBOX 360's because you made people afraid of video games.
And of course, after that, there'll still be the midget porn. I'll find you.
However, I have no kids, and people get mad when I make children cry. I'm just trying to get to my first point:
1. It is a parent's job to monitor a kid's video games, a kid's computer use, etc. And make no mistake, a lot of parents have their heads stuck in the sand on this one.
Now I move to my second point: I am a firm believer in free speech. I consider video games a viable form of artistic expression, and the people who make them should be able to create whatever they want. Free speech doesn't just mean letting people do things you agree with. I don't see the need for games re-enacting World War II, and you'd better believe no money of mine will ever go to a game like that, but people have the right to make them. So point two is:
2. Video game creators should have free reign to create.
HOWEVER. However, if it turns out to be true that the creators of Grand Theft Auto actually put that porn in the game and deliberately hid it, just so that the game wouldn't be rated "Adults Only" (and consequently not be sold at about half of all video game retailers) I will hunt them down, tie them up, and force them to watch man on man midget pornography for the next twenty years. Oh, does that sound cruel and unusual? Too bad. I'm livid and it makes me unconstitutional. Parents are having enough time figuring out what's going on with their kids without you deliberately hiding adult content in a game. Yes, you have the right to create it and put it in a game. But you do NOT have the right to hide content so that you can lie about how graphic the game is and thereby get more sales from minors.
I read a comment online from some gamer, most likely a single guy in his twenties, which basically said that parents should just watch their kids better and that this is just another example of people taking potshots at the gaming industry. Hear me now anonymous commenter: you are a moron and you need to go get a vasectomy so that you don't breed. Regardless of how aware a parent is, a game developer has NO RIGHT to secretly and knowingly peddle smut to kids. If they created a game with porn in it, which they knew would be found, and which they reasonably expected would be seen by the minors who owned the game, and then deliberately hid that porn so that KIDS WOULD BE ABLE TO BUY THE GAME, that is NOT people taking shots at the gaming industry. That's a couple of perverts ruining it for everyone bc they don’t' have girlfriends.
In the real world, do you know what we call it when an adult secretly makes stuff like this available to kids, in a way that parents might not notice? We call that perverted. And the fact that this seems to have been done for money - for money that could be made from the under-18 market - is disgusting.
*Deep breath* I know I'm getting a little ahead of myself, because we don't really know whether or not the developers put the porn content in the game. And again, they have every right to - they just don't have the right to pretend it isn't there so that they can sell it to kids. This degrades all of the other members of the industry, and will probably create a lot of backlash against video games. I hope that Microsoft sues you when they don't sell enough XBOX 360's because you made people afraid of video games.
And of course, after that, there'll still be the midget porn. I'll find you.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
4 years, 129 days
In two days my little brother, also known as Matthew G. or Quick-pix McDone, moves to Austin.
When I was about fourteen I started to notice how often people would ask me the same question: “How many years apart and you and your brother?” I would tell people that we were about four years apart, or really more like four and a half, and yes, we get along just fine. They would nod while they listened and act as though that information was important.
When I was sixteen I spent two weeks at the beach with my Mom, my brother, my grandparents, and extended family on my Mom’s side. My brother sort of drove me crazy the whole time because he’d stay up all night playing with his Gameboy and then sleep all day, leaving me alone to cope with the madness. But at some point during the trip my Aunt asked me basically that same question: how close in age are you and your brother.
I gave my standard answer and then asked why she was interested. “You know,” she said, “one of my brothers and I are really good friends, much closer than the rest of my brothers and sisters. I see sort of the same relationship between you and your brother. Everyone doesn’t have that, you know. It’s special; I hope my girls are like that as they get older.”
I found this information sort of surprising. Of course we get along, he’s my brother, why wouldn’t we? But as I got older I realized that what we have is pretty rare. Even those people I know who say they get along with their siblings will say that they don’t really hang out, or that they wouldn’t hang out that much if they lived in the same city. And for every person who gets along with their brother or sister, there’s another person who doesn’t.
Truth be told, my brother is a pretty easy person to get along with. We’re shockingly alike in a lot of ways: we’re great at telling stories but terrible at telling jokes, we’re both sort of obsessive-compulsive, we like talking to strangers, and if you order us to do something we’ll do the exact opposite. We’re also very different, most notably in the way that he’s more accommodating, and much nicer, that I am, a fact which I find both admirable and frustrating – admirable when he’s driving from one city to another to help a friend, frustrating when he’s talking to cell phone salesmen at the mall to be polite.
I know why people ask about our ages: because they want to know the chances for their own kids. They want to know whether they’ll end up with a couple of teenagers who hate each other, with adults who live in different cities and send yearly Christmas cards, or with sibling who’ll be friends. But by now I’ve met enough brother and sisters who are four and a half years apart to know that’s not really what makes it work. Some people are just lucky.
But just in case, I broke out a calculator to do the math. If anyone was curious, my brother and I are exactly 4 years and 129 days apart. Maybe there’s some mysterious energy about that age difference that dictates what kind of relationship siblings will have, and it’s what made it possible for my brother and I to be such good friends.
Or maybe we’re just lucky.
When I was about fourteen I started to notice how often people would ask me the same question: “How many years apart and you and your brother?” I would tell people that we were about four years apart, or really more like four and a half, and yes, we get along just fine. They would nod while they listened and act as though that information was important.
When I was sixteen I spent two weeks at the beach with my Mom, my brother, my grandparents, and extended family on my Mom’s side. My brother sort of drove me crazy the whole time because he’d stay up all night playing with his Gameboy and then sleep all day, leaving me alone to cope with the madness. But at some point during the trip my Aunt asked me basically that same question: how close in age are you and your brother.
I gave my standard answer and then asked why she was interested. “You know,” she said, “one of my brothers and I are really good friends, much closer than the rest of my brothers and sisters. I see sort of the same relationship between you and your brother. Everyone doesn’t have that, you know. It’s special; I hope my girls are like that as they get older.”
I found this information sort of surprising. Of course we get along, he’s my brother, why wouldn’t we? But as I got older I realized that what we have is pretty rare. Even those people I know who say they get along with their siblings will say that they don’t really hang out, or that they wouldn’t hang out that much if they lived in the same city. And for every person who gets along with their brother or sister, there’s another person who doesn’t.
Truth be told, my brother is a pretty easy person to get along with. We’re shockingly alike in a lot of ways: we’re great at telling stories but terrible at telling jokes, we’re both sort of obsessive-compulsive, we like talking to strangers, and if you order us to do something we’ll do the exact opposite. We’re also very different, most notably in the way that he’s more accommodating, and much nicer, that I am, a fact which I find both admirable and frustrating – admirable when he’s driving from one city to another to help a friend, frustrating when he’s talking to cell phone salesmen at the mall to be polite.
I know why people ask about our ages: because they want to know the chances for their own kids. They want to know whether they’ll end up with a couple of teenagers who hate each other, with adults who live in different cities and send yearly Christmas cards, or with sibling who’ll be friends. But by now I’ve met enough brother and sisters who are four and a half years apart to know that’s not really what makes it work. Some people are just lucky.
But just in case, I broke out a calculator to do the math. If anyone was curious, my brother and I are exactly 4 years and 129 days apart. Maybe there’s some mysterious energy about that age difference that dictates what kind of relationship siblings will have, and it’s what made it possible for my brother and I to be such good friends.
Or maybe we’re just lucky.
Ritual Dances
(Let it be known to all, or at least to B.C.G., that I'm writing this on my lunch break - not during worktime.)
Two nights ago Matt, Nikki and I were desperately waiting for our overdue pizza delivery when we heard a knock at the door. The nice but somewhat flustered-looking pizza girl handed us our food and then sort of stared at me like a deer in the headlights. We had paid over the phone with a credit card so I figured that, like Papa John's, this particular pizza company took a carbon copy of the credit card used for payment.
"So", I asked, "Do you want to do the rubbing of the card?"
At this point the delivery girl looked confused and Matt and Nikki started giggling. "I think I left your receipt downstairs," said the girl, looking longingly at the two-dollar tip I was clutching in my hand, "I'll go back down and get it."
As she left to get my receipt Matt and Nikki pointed out two things:
1. I was mean for making her go all the way back downstairs for my receipt.
2. The "rubbing of the card" sounds like some sort of strange ritual dance, which Matt demonstrated by doing this weird rapper's-girlfriend imitation while rubbing an imaginary credit card over his chest.
As it turns out, she did not need to perform the Rubbing of the Card, and I was more than happy to give her the tip in exchange for my receipt. I got my comeuppance the next day, when the ball from Nikki's mouse fell out while I carried her computer equipment upstairs, and bounced all the way down the hilly driveway, forcing me to trudge all the way back downstairs to retrieve it.
Two nights ago Matt, Nikki and I were desperately waiting for our overdue pizza delivery when we heard a knock at the door. The nice but somewhat flustered-looking pizza girl handed us our food and then sort of stared at me like a deer in the headlights. We had paid over the phone with a credit card so I figured that, like Papa John's, this particular pizza company took a carbon copy of the credit card used for payment.
"So", I asked, "Do you want to do the rubbing of the card?"
At this point the delivery girl looked confused and Matt and Nikki started giggling. "I think I left your receipt downstairs," said the girl, looking longingly at the two-dollar tip I was clutching in my hand, "I'll go back down and get it."
As she left to get my receipt Matt and Nikki pointed out two things:
1. I was mean for making her go all the way back downstairs for my receipt.
2. The "rubbing of the card" sounds like some sort of strange ritual dance, which Matt demonstrated by doing this weird rapper's-girlfriend imitation while rubbing an imaginary credit card over his chest.
As it turns out, she did not need to perform the Rubbing of the Card, and I was more than happy to give her the tip in exchange for my receipt. I got my comeuppance the next day, when the ball from Nikki's mouse fell out while I carried her computer equipment upstairs, and bounced all the way down the hilly driveway, forcing me to trudge all the way back downstairs to retrieve it.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
It's not easy being green
Yay for the new template! Although I do heart pink, I somehow managed to screw up my blog so I figured it was time for a change anyway. And since every blade of grass in Texas is now dead from the heat and the highway is lined by a brown median of ugly dead grass, I figured I could use some green. Plus, you know, I like money.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Remind me why I didn't move to Chicago . . .
For approximately eight hours today, the temperature was about 103 degrees. That's sans heat index. And when it gets that hot for that long, even those people lucky enough to have brand new A/C systems probably aren't able to get that cool. But they would come home to about 72 degrees and hear their A/C say something like "Hey guys! Look, I'm really sorry that I can't get it down to 70 degrees like you want. I'm really doing the best I can, so I hope you'll forgive me."
Unfortunately, Matt and I are not among those lucky people (not in the A/C sense, anyway.) So we come home to something like this: "Yeah, I know what you're thinkin' - it's not 70 degrees in here. Feels more like seventy-five, right? Well too bad. I've been working double shifts all week and if you think I'm gonna crank out a chilling breeze then you must be crazy. You'll get lukewarm and you'll like it. I can send you right back outside you know - it may be dark but it's still like 95 out there. You want a piece of me?"
So at this point Matt and Neville have fallen asleep on the floor, and I'm forced to try and keep cool vis-a-vis my Rachelsita:
Rachelsita the Sumo Wrestler fan was named after Amyesita the Sumo Wrestler Fan. He's plastic and takes four double-A batteries, but it's totally worth it.
Unfortunately, Matt and I are not among those lucky people (not in the A/C sense, anyway.) So we come home to something like this: "Yeah, I know what you're thinkin' - it's not 70 degrees in here. Feels more like seventy-five, right? Well too bad. I've been working double shifts all week and if you think I'm gonna crank out a chilling breeze then you must be crazy. You'll get lukewarm and you'll like it. I can send you right back outside you know - it may be dark but it's still like 95 out there. You want a piece of me?"
So at this point Matt and Neville have fallen asleep on the floor, and I'm forced to try and keep cool vis-a-vis my Rachelsita:
Rachelsita the Sumo Wrestler fan was named after Amyesita the Sumo Wrestler Fan. He's plastic and takes four double-A batteries, but it's totally worth it.
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