Batteries Included

The largest envelope I've ever received in my life came the other day, about 15" by 18". I wish I'd been the one to carry it inside-- no wait, I wish I had a P.O. box that I hauled it out of like Mary Poppins's bag, holding the huge envelope in my teeth while I fished something out of my purse-- but it was waiting for me when I got home from teacher training. Still a fun surprise.

Turns out Georgetown finally mailed me my diploma! (Not their fault on the delay, I'm the one who skipped town for graduation and took my time paying back library fines) I've also been getting teacher exam results back and lots of documentation of certain parts of my training... it's been test/certificate city. Now I just need one that says "You have a job" or "Lottery winner" or "Thank you for discovering that really useful new thing" or "Your anonymous posthumous benefactor is now dead". The possibilities go on.

What sets this Georgetown one apart is that it so typifies the experience you have at Georgetown: A) It has to be one of the world's largest diplomas. I feel silly framing it knowing that it will just make it that much bigger. If we don't have room for it on the wall we may have to install some kind of drop-down display case that lowers from the ceiling at the hit of a discreet button on my enormous mahogany desk. B) In one final act of exclusion, Georgetown has ensured that the regular ol' hoi polloi (myself included) can't actually read my diploma as it is written entirely in Latin.* In fact I wasn't even sure it was mine because one of the few parts I could understand showed that C) I apparently got a Master of Science? I mean, I'm thrilled because I did try to gear my studies more toward the social sciences, but had no idea this is what I was working on. Good one, GU, you really had me going there. I think they may also have had the entire department going there, because we alllllll referred to it as 'the MA program' and whatnot. It's not that I don't agree with keeping this under wraps, I mean it is certainly a pleasant surprise, I just feel like maybe some kind of mysterious carrot could have been offered me as an incentive for pulling through on this-- "Get your diploma and you will get a supriiiiise! Or three.

My real point is that these 'suprises' shouldn't suprise me at all. If you'd have asked me to describe a Georgetown diploma based on my experience there, I'd probably have guessed that it would be ridiculous in size, boring-looking (it's all black lettering except for a gold seal), probably written in some elevated way that no one understands, and involve a little bit of do-it-yourself (it came with a ribbon that I "am permitted" to unstitch, press, and attach to the diploma in one of two ways). It would carry one message and elicit one response:

Georgetown (constantly): "You know this really isn't for you. It's for the school."
Lindsay (constantly): "...Okay. Whatever."

But I'm excited to have it, if only to laminate it and use it as a placemat in teh breakfast nook or perhaps put it down in my classroom to demarcate a certain play area. Just kidding, I am proud of it and find it rewarding as a kind of closure. I do not in any way regret my decision to go there and when I find myself facing the possibility of similar decisions I think that in a way this diploma shows that I can take whatever battery of tests is thrown at me, and that I don't technically need anyone to hold my hand.

*To their credit, they did include a dinky copy of a translation of the Latin. It looks like it is about the 400th time this sheet has been xeroxed, and the paper on which it's printed is really thin. In short, it's a quick explanation to the madding crowd that ensures its own disposal-- and if you don't keep it, the diploma keeps its mystique. Mystifying me while I eat my oatmeal on top of it.

You, Robot

Frustrated with the lukewarm affections and tidal passion of the majority of my acquaintances, I find myself spending-- happily-- more and more time alone. That way I'm not the only one putting forth effort, I'm not the only one who cares, I don't wait for a question about me, I don't find myself feeling silly for being obvious in my attentions. Well. All of those things are still true, but it's safely by default. On the other hand, that's no way to grow as a person; we need a community for accountability, and even the greatest of hermits and wandering ascetics reached a high level of consciousness before absconding with their truths. (If only as a point of reference in their memory, they still need community for their sublimation to mean anything.)

Alan Turing once defined artificial intelligence as the point at which there is no difference between the conversation of the machine and an intelligent person. Circular definitions aside, it sounds like the perfect solution! My robot friend stimulates my thoughts at the exact moment I need it to, acts as a sounding board and listens to my ideas. After all, it's not that different from the imaginary alien I used to talk to as a way of explaining my dreams (try it: when you're forced to painstakingly explain the literal meaning of every part of your weirdest dream, the latent meaning's often quite obvious). I already had Edward Scissorhands in the top three of my If-They-Were-Real-They'd-Be-My-Best-Friend list. This is the next logical step.

So I'm walking along late at night, maybe morning, talking to my imaginary robot friend. The conversation is pretty interesting, and he carries on the very rational side of the conversation in an uncreatively perfect imitation of C3PO. He follows alongside me, silently on one wheel just like that Jetsons maid, while we talk about whether or not it's a good idea to be out so late and how we'll get back in the house without a key. Seems he and I both forgot about the new garage door, the one that doesn't have my regular entry method-- a pet door-- installed yet.

It's an annoying conversation because he understands fear but not apprehension. He's never been attacked, snuck up on, had to fight anyone off, or even been surprised.

"I guess I just have a tarnished idea of society," I explain. "You probably will at some point too. If you're lucky it will come and go."

He asks why I have that idea and he doesn't; we don't know each other that well yet.

"Uhh. I mean, I think it's just part of life. Ever since Eve took that first bite and the white of the apple started browning around the edges." I pause to see if he's impressed.

"What's browning?"

And I can't explain brown. He doesn't relate to anything that explains or is explained by brown. Soil, stuffed animals, plants, skin, decay, poop. His circuit boards are green, all the metals and lights fill the rest of the spectrum, but no brown. Not a brown to be found.

I'm fascinated, not a surprise considering how much I like Richard Rodriguez, but never expected to find anyone interested enough to talk about this idea! This is awesome! Incredible! I go on and on about things he doesn't understand, how he doesn't understand them, why or why not he understands things. I check to see if he's bored.



I'm not so much dismayed that I don't have the sense to know he can't be bored. It's more by the fact that he never returns the favor of wondering if I'm bored.

Barbarians at the gate

Once I read that people who sleep on their backs have nothing to hide. I only know a few people who can sleep on their backs and they are at once the most honest people I can think of as well as the most genuine. For those people that mentality seems to come naturally, and I don't know if it's because they truly never learned or practiced otherwise or because they have practiced their sincerity so hard over such a time that they now render it effortlessly.

With sports they say that no one person is so lucky that the game comes easily to them, and that even the greatest talent is tempered by years of hard work. On the same note, well-applied diligence seems to make up for a lack of natural proclivities. For some reason I never thought of this angle when I wished I were more straight-forward. I always assumed that was a kind of natural capacity, whereas the self-conscious irony that is so popular today (and that I seem to have cultivated, with or without that intention) was something I imagined as a sharply-honed skill or defensive tactic. As cutting as it may seem, the bounces-off-of-me-and-sticks-to-you mentality still leaves you with a rubber knife. What's more, the truth is that with all the time spent re-seaming and polishing that shield to be stronger, and with all the effort of carrying it around, and with all the thought that goes into rationalizing your reasons for holding onto it, everyone that bears that burden just stumbles a little heavier. If you think about it, it's easier to hold higher ground, where there are fewer attacks in the first place. What now, smart ass?

Sometimes I think that if I just wore myself out enough I could sleep in any position, so really I just need to jog around all day on an hour of sleep and I'll be sure to pass out on my back. But of course that never happens; I just bellyflop into bed and never move from that position. Obviously I'm doing the wrong kind of work, I'm practicing Chinese to be a better pianist or I'm doing yoga to learn about gardening. I'm not sure exactly what my new exercises will entail but I'm sure they'll leave me sore and exhausted, but hopefully lighter and brighter.

Light at the end of the laberinto

"Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone, and the only one who seeks out another."

--Octavio Paz, El laberinto de la soledad

Comprehensive exams tomorrow. I just want to finish and then maybe get like a piece of paper that says I did that... although at this point I'd settle for some kind of wristband.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

In the past month I have read something like 13 books besides homework. I have probably added three times as many to my list of stuff I want to read-- I love my field of study.

Not fair that individual people can have such huge effects on me. I guess there's nothing to do but choose carefully who I associate with.

Where's my tiger?

A friend posted this on facebook, tagging it as being from beatonna.livejournal.com

Back in the parlor

One of my classes actually assigns me books that are short enough to be read in the time that I have available to devote to them-- this is of course a huge advantage for everyone involved.





Recently we read Salon de Belleza, which is one of those books that upon finishing you immediately want to read again. What struck me most about it was how it cut right to the bone without really being aimed at my particular bones to begin with. By all rights I really shouldn't relate to the storyline at all, but the way that it's written and the points of life that it brings out really resound with me and unify me with the communities represented.





The book is about a man whose beauty salon has become a moridero, which basically means 'place to die', for men in the final stages of a disease (presumably AIDS). The treatment of life and death, isolation and community, repression and resistance is truly compelling. One scene in particular strikes me as encapsulating the whole novel:

The narrator has set up all of these fish tanks in his salon so that he women
can come out feeling rejuvenated, as if they've just stepped fresh from a pond.
As the moridero fills up and guests die, he becomes frustrated with the fish
that die for no reason and he doesn't have time to care for the other tanks
properly. At one point he stares at a tank completely clouded with algae,
such that he has no idea how many fish are in the tank, and imagines it as this
primordial habitat brimming with life. He puts his face to the surface of
the water, inhaling the air and the oxygen emanating from the algae, and
imagines himself filling with the essence of that life.

I don't know if I explain it well here, but the solitude and the yearning to be filled with life (youth, health, energy, all that) is really striking. Trust me...?

Sort of makes me wonder about what I can really gain from reading about people I don't understand (but then who do I really understand in the first place?), a similar feeling I get when I read Invisible Man; the authors seem to be referring to people who don't understand them or who are outside their part of reality, but for some reason I feel like that's not me? How can that be a good rhetorical mechanism? I suppose it makes you not want to be 'one of them' but rather 'one of us', but that doesn't change your mindset. In fact it's almost more dangerous because it makes you seem like you don't need to-- after all, you're already included, right?

So far it seems like the only answer is to keep "reading" in an effort to understand.