December 2009
24 posts
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I’ve always suspected people who say they have no regrets.
Whether that’s envy or insight, I don’t know, but such a thing seems impossible to me.
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Kids Are Hilarious
My mother is a grade 1 teacher, and a very excellent one at that. In spite of her almost archetypal sweetness, she’s the teacher who says “you’ll live” to minimally injured children and celebrates the power of the well-meaning instructional fib.
She told me this story earlier tonight. And as it turns out, kids are hilarious.
In my class we use white glue that’s...
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“Can’t I just be afraid without a definite object?”
– She, Lars von Trier’s Antichrist
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I’ve had more than five years of postsecondary education, got a BA in English and an MA in Medieval studies, read countless canonical novels, undergone intensive philological training… And I still never spell weird correctly on my first try.
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“Skepticism gives one a certain sense of pleasure, perhaps the pleasure of...”
– Stephen T. Asma, On Monsters
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Odysseus is the origin of the masculine hero in the Western Canon. Driven, eloquent, martially supreme.
But of all the things to love about him, my favourite is that he cries… a lot.
If conventional masculinity could be aligned with a set of emotional characteristics, what would those be? Excess? Passion? Violence? Nothing synthesizes those traits like weeping.
Occasionally, I find myself wanting to fight child and teen psychologists. There’s something unnerving about people that bludgeon adolescents, kids who are still in youthful development, with overtly intellectualized questions and assertions.
I think it’s akin to an impulse that a lot of nerds (like myself) have: going to an eighth grade schoolyard and dominating all the kinds of kids...
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My Borders
There’s a great big a gash on my knuckle, one of those ones that’s so deep it heals while gaping open. Every time I look down at my hand, I’m surprised to see this discontinuation of my body, to see how permeable I am. I’m not used to the borders of my body being open, so it’s sort of an uncanny feeling.
Strangely enough, it gets me thinking about sex.
The little...
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Concerning the Fashion of Cities
Architecture as landscape’s personal adornment.
Neoclassic and Neogothic are your staple sets: textured blazers, collared shirts, finer cords and chinos. Denims? Perhaps on a Saturday…. They grace your wardrobe, flatter subtly, and provide a tasteful covering for any lifestyle.
Modernism. New takes on classic pieces. Your high-waisted, one-button, shimmery-black suit by Gucci. Chic....
The dangers of dancing alone in your apartment: breaking a toe on your steel-frame bed while performing a really bad-ass guitar kick. Worth it.
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A Scholarly Article
It’s rich, heavy, better with fine coffee to cut the overwhelming density. You have to take it slowly, marking your progress by degrees as it incorporates itself. Once you’ve consumed three quarters of it, you’ve probably had enough. Stopping there would be a waste, though, and you can’t quite let yourself leave off.
Come to think of it, good scholarship is a lot like...
Is there a name for this?
magicmolly:
The condition of constantly finding out that you have schmutz on your face.
I think it’s called enlightenment.
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Medieval Metareading
“…the ignorant man sees only forms—the mysterious letters on the page of the book of nature—without being able to read them, whereas the wise man passes from the visible to the invisible, and, reading the book, reads the thoughts of God.” -St. Bonaventure, beautifully paraphrased by John B. Friedman
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A Pressing Question
Why don’t more people make up dances, teach them to their friends, and have wild and beautiful times together?
I’m thinking of smattering drops of alcohol or fake blood on the essays I’m marking, or slightly burning the edges like you do to a report on pirates in the third grade. My will hopefully assume I live a life of dangerous intrigue.
Why Not
In lieu of both my general contempt for winter and my need to be happy, I figured I’d best think of some things I enjoy about this, the worst season.
Checking the Time The wrists on my leather gloves extend over my watch. They’re the very image of urbanity. When I check the time, I have to draw the leather back with the two fingers on my right hand. Something about the entire gesture...
People keep walking up behind me on the sidewalk and matching my speed.
I know it’s because cold weather makes people walk more briskly, but it still makes me nervous. Is that paranoid?
Worthwhile Indulgence
In the middle of most nights, my girlfriend wakes up and murmers something unintelligable. Then I respond, and she mumbles once more and drops asleep. She never remembers these exchanges.
I usually tell her I love her anyways. I like to think it resonates.
Words
If you don’t know them, don’t use them.
Nebulous: obscure, difficult to understand; especially of origins or meanings. Let’s not ignore this word’s etymology. It comes from ancient terms for mist and cloud, things that shift and obscure a view. Is the object of your attention itself misty, or does something lie between your gaze and its object? Bear those things in mind,...