Connections

Why is it that most of us go through life connecting with so few people, acting like strangers are a different species?  The other day I was walking out of my room and down the hall to go down the steps.  This girl that lives on my floor walked out of her room behind me, so I held the door to the stairwell for her.  She looked at me, and instead of smiling she actually grimaced, didn't say hello even though I said hi to her, and walked as slowly as possible to catch the door.  What is the point of this?  Here in Philly a lot of people act this way.  And then there are some people who are inexplicably kind.  I won't even pretend to understand why this juxtaposition exists.  At home in Colorado I don't think people act this way, at least not to this extent.  Could it be the Colorado air?  Generally, when hiking in Colorado hikers say hello to other fellow hikers.  It's way cool.  Solidarity.

the early years

Generally, I have no problem not participating in the social norms of collegiate wasteland.  At this moment I can hear some drunk girls outside, celebrating the final day of classes by playing Marco Polo.  It's 12:38 am.  Bitch, please.  Count me out.  

But sometimes I have these thoughts when it comes to participating in these little activities.  Not partying, per se, but just ridiculous things that are usually accompanied by drinking and so end up becoming stupid- social gatherings in a sense.  And I think to myself "Why not go have fun?  It's just life."  And apart from the realization that nothing is that fun when you're the only sober person in a group of lushes at 11 am, I generally think "Oh my God.  It's life."  And life is finite.  And teetering on the cusp of an existential crisis, I usually just decide to watch tv.

frozen lies

Have you heard the latest episode of "This American Life"?  Part of the program was about a man, Bob, who rather accidentally became the president of a cryonics group in the 1960s.  The program looks particularly at a young french girl named Genevieve with a terminal illness, whose father asked that she be cryogenically frozen, which she was.  Cut to a few years later.  The capsule that Genevieve was in had malfunctioned when Bob was out of town, and the liquid nitrogen inside that was keeping her frozen had become hot.  It had been hot for at least a couple of days.

Now here's the crazy part.  Bob says he met with Genevieve's father at the Montreal airport to tell him what had happened.  And he says that her father told him to just put more liquid nitrogen in the capsule and start it up again.  Bob then flew to another airport to meet another man, whose parents had been in the same capsule with Genevieve.  This man also asked that the capsule be started up again.  So Bob put more liquid nitrogen in the capsule, and started it up again.  No big deal, except that the bodies had been sitting in hot liquid nitrogen for a few days.  

But when Genevieve's father and this other man, the son, were interviewed by "This American Life", they both said they never met with Bob in an airport-in fact, he never even contacted them about the failure of the capsule.  When asked about this by "This American Life", Bob is steadfast in his conviction that he met with both of them at different airports, and that both of them asked that the capsule be started again.  From his voice, you can tell that he absolutely believes it.

 I have this absolutely vivid memory that I went to Red Lobster with my dad when I was about six.  I remember the restaurant being somewhat empty, the lighting was dim.  I ate a whole lobster tail.  It was awesome.  But as it turns out, I've never been to Red Lobster in my whole life.  I have been told this over and over, but I just can't reconcile that that was a dream and never actually happened.  All I can say is, at least the outcome of my Red Lobster "memory" wasn't malpractice and a lawsuit.

image from here

trombones

Paper clips in France are actually called trombones. I find them on the street all the time, so I just decided to start a collection.

Current count: 22

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.  

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.

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.

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."