If you've ever seen "Harold and Maude," you might recall that Cat Stevens' music plays a pretty dominant role throughout. I was thinking about that movie last week, and I was reminded of one of my favorite songs called "If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out." It has a good message and it always makes me feel a little better about myself. So, if ever you're feeling a little down, I suggest listening to Cat Stevens.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
if you want to sing out...
I cultivated a love for Cat Stevens as a kid. My dad used to play "Tea for the Tillerman" in the car as my sister and I made the weekly migration from my mom's house to his apartment, and I fell for his peace-loving lyrics and happy go-lucky sound. His words spoke to me then, and have never ceased to enchant me.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
little voice
Sometimes, I get this melancholy feeling that no one really knows me. I sometimes feel that not even my closest friends or relatives fully understand me. If I were to use a dorky and imperfect comparison, I’d say it’s a bit like the difference between savoir and connaître. They both mean “to know”, but connaître implies something more profound- more significant. To a certain extent, I’m not sure that anyone can really connaît another person- humans are just too complex and the interconnected web of emotions, intellect and mannerisms that make up any given person is just too complicated for anyone to fully understand.
In a way, I find it a little lonely knowing that I might never connaît another person and that another person might never really me connaît. It only really bothers me, however, when I think that maybe I don’t even know myself. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, in part because of a recent discussion in a French class. We listened to an interview of author Nancy Huston who rejects entirely the old adage connais-toi, toi-même, and believes instead that it’s impossible to really know oneself. The whole thing was sort of discouraging.
The more I think about the problem of identity, the more it becomes a crisis in which I question things I had previously considered fundamental. It is perhaps the penultimate worse thing I’ve experienced, which is rather unfortunate because it happens with particular frequency.
But during those moments of sheer terror - when the world as I know it seems lost amidst my heightened insecurities - I usually find comfort in something quite small. The conscience, Jiminy Cricket, borderline insanity- call it what you’d like, but I like to think of this little voice in my head as my inner self. When I find myself in times of trouble, not Mother Mary, but rather that little voice comes to me- speaking words of wisdom…
It might seem sort of cliché and unoriginal- but I think that this little voice doesn’t get as much credit as it deserves. We might talk about it in passing sometimes, but when was the last time you stopped to think about that little voice? I mean- that voice says what we mean, feels all the emotions we hide, understands what we can’t vocalize. That little voice is the voice of reason- assuring use that we're not failures, but reminding us of our vices. But more than that- I find the little voice is my real voice- the one I don’t use enough in everyday life. If only I had enough courage as my inner self does, to say the things that shouldn’t be left unsaid.
When no one in the entire world can relate to me- that little voice understands- and it’s comforting to think that maybe I really do know myself.
In a way, I find it a little lonely knowing that I might never connaît another person and that another person might never really me connaît. It only really bothers me, however, when I think that maybe I don’t even know myself. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, in part because of a recent discussion in a French class. We listened to an interview of author Nancy Huston who rejects entirely the old adage connais-toi, toi-même, and believes instead that it’s impossible to really know oneself. The whole thing was sort of discouraging.
The more I think about the problem of identity, the more it becomes a crisis in which I question things I had previously considered fundamental. It is perhaps the penultimate worse thing I’ve experienced, which is rather unfortunate because it happens with particular frequency.
But during those moments of sheer terror - when the world as I know it seems lost amidst my heightened insecurities - I usually find comfort in something quite small. The conscience, Jiminy Cricket, borderline insanity- call it what you’d like, but I like to think of this little voice in my head as my inner self. When I find myself in times of trouble, not Mother Mary, but rather that little voice comes to me- speaking words of wisdom…
It might seem sort of cliché and unoriginal- but I think that this little voice doesn’t get as much credit as it deserves. We might talk about it in passing sometimes, but when was the last time you stopped to think about that little voice? I mean- that voice says what we mean, feels all the emotions we hide, understands what we can’t vocalize. That little voice is the voice of reason- assuring use that we're not failures, but reminding us of our vices. But more than that- I find the little voice is my real voice- the one I don’t use enough in everyday life. If only I had enough courage as my inner self does, to say the things that shouldn’t be left unsaid.
When no one in the entire world can relate to me- that little voice understands- and it’s comforting to think that maybe I really do know myself.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Who's Your Favorite Supreme Court Justice?
I must admit, I think Justice Scalia is the shit. I don't always (ever?) agree with him, but you have to love a justice who regularly makes comments like this during oral argument or in opinions:
"Like some ghoul in a late night horror movie that repeatedly sits up in its grave and shuffles abroad, after being repeatedly killed and buried, Lemon stalks our Establishment Clause jurisprudence once again, frightening the little children and school attorneys of Center Moriches Union Free School District."
But Justice O'Connor runs a close second in my book because of this little nugget in one of her opinions.
"The requirement that dancers wear pasties and G-strings is a minimal restriction in furtherance of the asserted government interests, and the restriction leaves ample capacity to convey the dancer's erotic message."
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