Doublethink
We humans have an amazing capacity to hold two conflicting points of view at the same time and never bat an eye. In my own head it’s been Saturday and Sunday all day long together. I’m a really horrible person and I really like me. Sure I can come to your party and take a test at the same time. God appoints leaders of every country and it’s ok for us to go in and change them. (Of course if we are sucessful that means that God also appointed us to bring the newly God appointed leader into his pre-ordained role, so no harm no foul.)
Orwell of course, called it doublespeak. Our new enemy has always been our enemy and will always be our enemy. But doublespeak would fall flat on its face without the strong backing of doublethink. What I’d like to know is how the human psyche developed this ability.
Perhaps it is an evolutionary trait. A person able to slit his loyalties was better suited to copulate with all partners. As he was capable of spreading his seed father and wider this trait soon found its way into the majority of the gene pool. And now we divide our loyalties and our brains into little compartments, each with its own universe and problems and solutions.
Then again, it could have political origins. Our more conservative right brains wish to advance their own agendas while those tree hugging left brains fly off into their ideals and never come down. When the mind starts acting this partisan, neither is going to pay any attention to the other. Each has an idea about how to spend your time surplus or how to overcome its deficit. And each is pressing its demands upon the public consciousness.
Or might it be a psychological defense mechanism? As it is severely distressing to realize that you hold two opposing points of view at the same time our subconscious works very hard to keep the two apart. Somewhere in our superego we realize that it is faster (simpler?) to hold both ideas than it is to consciously argue out both sides and toss one away or come to a compromise of the two. We don’t always have the time to spend thinking about these things. We need to forage for food and concentrate on procreating and invent wheels. Such things are much more important to existence than sitting down and thinking too much.
It could originate in literary terms. We might love to involve ourselves in irony. Rather a weak argument, I’ll admit. Irony has a nip of the surreal in it, as does the idea that I can think that it’s Monday and Tuesday all at once. But you are right. It’s a weak argument, surreal while a small literary style, is has a much bigger following in the art world, and should probably fall under that fine arts heading instead.
Have I lost you yet? Of course.
But it is odd, don’t you think? What do you attribute it to?
The Boy Next Door Chapter 1
I lived next door to a young boy once, did you know that? A strange age in my life, I already had crows feet printed next to my eyes. I was beginning to find gray woven into my hair. Too old to work much, to young to retire, nothing was making sense.
I met him on a nippy afternoon raking leaves. In the middle of my thoughts I was admiring the size of my leaf pile and the path of clean that trailed behind it. Ready for a cocoa break I dropped my rake and brushed my hands across my jeans and there he was.
"Hi," he said. Scrawny, smaller than you even, he was missing one of his front teeth. The one on the left. My left anyway. I’d say seven years old. A bright orange sweater and a blue baseball hat. Hot pink sneakers. A lunch box. And quite the stare. It disturbed me that day. I frowned back at him, trying to match the look.
"Good morning," I replied. "I like your shoes."
"Really? I picked them out myself. Mommy wanted me to get the gray ones, but I didn’t like them. Gray isn’t a very happy color is it? None of the other kids like them. But I don’t see them very much, only when I’m at school. And I don’t get there very much…"
So he was a talker, it turned out. We didn’t have many in this neighborhood in those days. But then, the kids all lived closer to the school so I didn’t see them all that much. Not on purpose you have to understand, I was never one to avoid children, we just never happened to be in the same place at the same time.
"…they run off when I get too close though. It’s fun to watch with those big bushy tails. I’m going to name them all this week. I’ve started. Gaston is the darker one and he’s always beating up on the little guys like Melvin and Rover. But they don’t seem to mind too much. Do you have any?"
"Any what?"
"Squirrels. I think everybody around here has them, so I’m asking."
"Yes. They keep eating all my birdseed. I don’t know what to do about it. And what was your name again?"
"Andrew. But don’t worry, I hadn’t told you that yet, so you it’s not one of the things you missed when you weren’t paying attention."
He had noticed. I was a horrible person. "I’m sorry Andrew. My name is Lilly. Would you like to come inside? I was going to make some cocoa."
"Yes, please." And polite. Was that normal? I could never tell in those days. "And don’t worry about listening to me. It happens a lot. I play a game with my mother where I try to time how long it is before she sees that I’m still talking. And I also like to find out how many different things I can talk about and how weird they can be. There are some weird things that you can talk about, aren’t there Mrs. Lilly?"
"Absolutely, young Andrew, and please, you can just call me Lilly."
"Oh, no I can’t. You are so much older than I am. I could never call you by one name. Please let me call you Mrs. Lilly."
We walked into my little cottage, and I sat him down at my kitchen table. His lunchbox plunked onto the floor. Smurfs. How sweet. His legs flung themselves all over the empty space between the seat and the floor, little streaks of flashing pink.
I smiled.
"But I’m not a Mrs. No one ever wanted to marry me. Now I am just an old maid living in a little house with a big yard."
He stretched his neck to see out my window. The little green eyes excited now, concentrated on that pile of leaves. The head went to work, working on a scene that I could not follow.
Then it was there. A picture of him in the middle of the load, with reds and yellows and browns stuck in his hair and shirt. The taste of dirt on his lips and the twig digging at his tummy. Pebbles in the shoe. The grin on his face. He stands up with a bundle of Fall in his arms, throws it up and sinks into the heap as it joins him again. Of course. Maybe he’d like to after his snack.
And back to now he comes.
"Well, I’ll call you Miss Lilly then. And that will make you feel like a little girl again, right? And if you feel like a little girl, maybe you won’t mind playing with a little boy like me. And I can teach you how to talk a lot and you can show me where all the squirrels live. Ok?"
He was twitching in his seat now. I laughed.
"All right Master Andrew. You have a deal. You teach me how to play. I’ve completely forgotten you know, it’s been so long. And I’ll answer all of your questions. Or try at least. You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?"
His head bounced up and down.
"This is going to be fun, Miss Lilly. I promise. And I can too, because I always have fun. All the time. Except sometimes because there are a couple things that I don’t like, but we’re not going to think about those things. They don’t make me happy. Like the color gray, right? So we’ll just avoid those all the way. Right?"
"Right."
I set a mug down in front of him.
He reached with both hands. His eyes stretched wide as he began to slurp it up.
"Can I tell you a secret, Miss Lilly? The cocoa made me think of it."
"Sure."
I sat down across the table from him and sipped from my cocoa as I listened.
"Well, it’s not an it, really. It’s a him. His name is Mr. Milk, and he really likes cocoa, too. But I’m the only one that can see him. I talk to him kind of a lot. In fact, it was his idea for me to come and see you today. I think he likes you. He is about your age. In fact, I think he may like like you. You know? Would you like to meet him sometime?"
Blushing? Me? Over an imaginary man? Maybe it had been longer than I thought.
"Of course, Andrew, you may bring him by any time you like. There’s always extra cocoa in this kitchen."
"Great!" He jumped out of his seat. "Let me see if I can go find him right now."
"But your cocoa. It’s going to be cold by the time you come back."
"No it won’t."
He closed the door behind him And I watched him run down the front walk. I picked up his mug to help him finish it, but I was too late. Already empty.
Math From My Past
Ever get random bouts of nostalgia for that stuff you learned in high school that as been swept from your brain in more recent years? Sure the vital stuff stuck around. I could tell you probably two things about the constitution of the United States and its history. Might be able to cough up a memory of Crime and Punishment. Could explain those little dominant recessive gene charts we had to do in biology class.
But there used to be more than all that, remember? And no, I don’t miss the rest of it. Unless I learned it between Algebra and Calculus. I noticed that today when I tried to re-teach myself those beginner lessons in first derivatives. I was looking for that equasion in the back of my brain. Not the cheat sheet one where the first derivative of 2x is 2 just because you learned the rule. The one where you subtract the two Ys from each other and divide that by the two Xs subtracted from each other as the second X approaches the first one.
I learned how to write all that stuff out once, and I even learned how to teach it to other people later, but it’s way way gone now.
And it gets worse. I don’t even remember how to find an equation for a line. I was studying my old Calc book and it referred to the "point slope form" and my first thought was, "I used to know that, but it’s gone now." It’s sad really.
So what’s the tragedy here? I know what you’re thinking. Something along the lines of Ahhhhhhh!!!! Are you insane?
Yes. And your point here is…
As a sick demented person, yes. I had lots of fun in school. Yes. I even enjoyed learning some of the more interesting random pieces, like that a star fish pukes its stomach out of its body to digest food then sucks it back in again after it’s full. And yes, I found calculus to be amusing and I miss knowing all those silly formulas and equations and all that jazz.
Two roads diverged in my woods and I thought I could not take them both. Is such the case? Will I forever be doomed to the literary world, completely cut off from the land of Xs and Alphas? But I see a gentle ray of hope, my future lies in education, maybe not the education I had previously envisioned.
What if my lot in life is to delve into that dark void that is the pubescent human? An interesting but mostly just frightening thought. Plus math.
You’re right. I am insane. Where is that mouse when I really need some help?
Guess What!
So the Red Sox won the World Series!!
Is two exclamation points too many? It is isn't it. But if one is going to go overboard, one should do it on behalf of one's darlings. Am I right?!
Please pass the ginger.
Further Advice On Wintering In Maine
I’m really beginning to understand the livability of this state for those other three seasons. Here’s how you do it:
You start with a cozy smallish house that doesn’t involve too many rooms. Four should take care of all your needs.
Start with comfy chairs and book cases in the living room with the stove. Here is where you spend your day time. Dream or play chess or read a book. Vacuum sometimes to get the blood circulating. Exercise is fine too, just shove some furniture out of the way. Anyway, you get the point.
About 4:00 retire to the kitchen for meal preparation. Don’t forget to preheat the oven. But remember, in order for that to be a viable excuse, you must be using your oven for actual cooking purposes at some point. Otherwise, you are a dirty rotten cheater! Also feel free to use one or multiple burners as well for your side dishes. A warm vegetable and a cream sauce works excellently and there’s two extra sources of heat.
While the baking is progressing without your help, wash the dishes. Then eat immediately after turning the stove off in order to bask in the afterglow of the warmth.
The bathroom really only needs heat once a day and that is the time when you are at your most vulnerable. Bare assed. Fortunately, a shower allows for a lot of steam to build up, make sure the door is closed and your fan is not running. Fogged up is a direct symptom of the heat which you so fervently desire. Let it. There is still going to be the ten second shock to the system between the bathrobe and the beautiful hot water, but if you let the water run a tad (thirty seconds tops) before you undress, that will aid the process some.
Finally the bedroom, for which you are going to need two things. One: flannel sheets. Two: a partner. Yes, body heat. Make sure you like this person. It will smooth the snuggling process. Now it is a common problem for your partner to enjoy 60% fewer blankets than you do, so be prepared. Finagle your bedfellow into acting as a blanket, covering you to a certain extent without smothering you altogether. As far as weight goes, the comfort of the certain extent of body is roughly comparable to your missing blankets.
And make sure you both brush your teeth before bed.
Mmmmmmm Breakfast!
Why do advertisements for pancake batters and syrups and warm fuzzy families eating breakfast always have that picture perfect stack of pancakes glazed with syrup and topped with butter?
Funny thought: pretty please with butter on top?
Several inherent problems with this picture. In order for all pancakes to look the same they have to be forged in a mold. Or when as embryonic batter it is pored large enough to fill the entire pan. But that could also be argued is for all intents and purposes a mold in this case as well.
Or they could be using fake pancakes.
But we aren’t here today to revel in the perfection of stacks of pancakes. It is at the behest of a much more deeply rooted and extra sinister image. That of the butter on top of the syrup. Is that how you want to teach young people today to eat their pancakes. This is an issue of butter side up/down proportions and if we don’t do something then all we have to do is refer to Dr. Seuss for the endgame.
Let me put forth this little jingle: “Butter before syrup you can sit in a stirrup.” Not the most logical saying ever, but that is not where my love lies.
My point is thus. The butter sheaths the pancake in a light protective coating of fat, hindering ultimate penetration of the pancake by the syrup. A girl does not want a saturated and soggy mouthful of pancake. She wants her syrup to know it’s place in the evolutionary order of breakfast, and that is on the outer levels of the griddle cake.
There are those as well who would argue against butter in these situations completely, to whom I would reply, “the butter introduces a necessary counterbalance for the sweet of the syrup and possibly the hotcake itself. As you see in the case of Poppycock, or caramel in and of itself, a mouth loves a variety of flavor. The sweet and the salt or the peaches and the cream, or the Jack and the Coke. Two opposite but complimentary tastes are much happier than one taste all by itself. In this way it is quite human. It desires company. Besides, the texture of the pancake is completely wrong and far too watery without the butter.”
Now perhaps there are those of you out there who disagree with these opinions and would argue that butter absolutely belongs as the last touch upon the breakfast. Or perhaps there are those who are simply bored with life and would choose to enlighten me because a certain satisfaction comes from advocating for the leader of all that is evil. Feel free.
Lets try Again Shall We?
My first Comment!
"Are you seriously pretentious enough to imply that more than half of this country is filled with idiots? Are you also so naïve and divisive as to think that anyone who even remotely disagrees with your perspective is simply following a sheep dog? Who, pray tell, are you barking after? Buried deep beneath your self-proclaimed individuality is a well-hidden, maybe even undiscovered amalgam of pantheism, transcendentalism and cynicism, none of which are original with you. You’re the mad scientist mixing a little bit of this, and a dash of that until you hold up a concoction labeled ‘intelligent’ and shout, “Eureka, I have found it!” But what has made this a sad, sad thing is your declaration of idiocy upon all who will not drink. It’s one thing to lie in a puddle of quasi-intellectual goo. It’s another thing to smear it across your body and laugh at all the “dirty people”.As for your accusation that I’m “ignorant and the braindead (by choice, not by birth)” – because I ‘spoke’ when I voted for Bush – this is almost as unfounded as the accusation that I would invite anyone to dance! This is also probably the flimsiest moment of your post. You demonstrate that you don’t understand the concept of preaching. The not-so-subtle implication that the preacher is a propagandist (and Moore is a martyr?!) is Biblically unfounded. True preaching is expounding the truths of God’s Word. If you don’t like the fact that preachers oppose abortion, please get on your knees and tell Divinity to get things straight. If you don’t like the fact that preachers oppose homosexuality, please shake your fist at the Heavens and tell him you “didn’t like the way he got things done”. If you don’t like preaching against sexual immorality, then tear your Bible into pieces.I could talk about the holes in your political comments, but I think I’ve addressed the most important issues here. Your candidate was courteous and respectful, Sarah. Why don’t you try that sometime?
I’ll try, but as you can see I’m a bad person and not very good at it (seriously, I mean that. Not sarcasm.). So here goes.
Obviously, I’m as completely baffled as every other member of the “liberal” media. I do not understand 59 million people in this country. Voters this year said that morality trumps the economy or the threat of terrorism or the war in Iraq. But I don’t get it. To me (and I’m wrong) morality in this case means that stem cell research and abortions and gay marriage are all bad.
But (and again I’m wrong here) why are these issues of morality more important than issues of tax cuts to the rich and not to the poor? What about the morality of all the people dying in Iraq, our soldiers, our civilians, their soldiers and their civilians? To which the answer is always, “the strong have a responsibility to the weak.” But why does that work for nation building in other countries and unborn people here at home, but not sick people?
And I don’t understand why you have faith in this leader. I don’t understand why you believe his words just because he says them. But maybe you don’t believe his words just because he says them. Maybe there is a thought process in between that no one has ever explained to me. I don’t understand why you defend his every single move. And it is my further impression (wrong again) that due to this complete and utter defense of everything that you think the man is infallible and I know that this has to be wrong and again it baffles me. I don’t understand how you know that he isn’t just playing the religious card to get you on his side.
As for my opinion of preachers, the cynic in me dosen't understand how you can discount the human element. True preaching expounds upon God's Word, but what about the rest of it? What about the days where they do everything short of endorsing the candidate? I don't understand how you get to that point from expounding upon God's Word. I don't understand when where or if they draw lines between personal opinion and this expounding. But then I also don't know when where or if I could draw such lines myself. I don't trust a preacher to make my decisions any more than i trust my parents or players on my favorite baseball team, or my personal hero.
You all have also given me the impression that you think it is all right for the United States to install a pro-us government in every country in the world and I don’t understand why that has to be. I don’t understand what moral judgments you use to come to that conclusion.
As for me, I am impetuous. I am not a good person. I am NOT in any way shape or form smart. I’m not even right. And I am sure as hell not original. I do not claim to be the first person to say ANYTHING that I have written up to this point. I am not the first person to tell others to do their own thinking. I’m not the first person to ask people to question authority.
But I am my own sheep dog. I believe in my right to rebel against you and i believe in your right to rebel against me. Which 59 million of you have. My initial response to such tells me that i still have some work to do to make my actions fit my thoughts.
I may not make the right decisions, but I do make them for myself. Yes, I am a mad scientist picking and choosing and concocting. And in the end I have invented: me. And I may be Frankenstein’s monster. Actually, i'd have to be to deliver a blow as low as insulting a voter's intelligence. I do believe that somewhere between then and now I have lost my conscience. And maybe that’s the reason that I would not trade the person I am now for the person I used to be.
This month in layers
It’s an odd year for weather, no? Have you ever noticed yourself saying, “nonono, this is all wrong. It’s only [fill in month here.]” Well this year it listened. October was a perfectly enjoyable month with nice enough temperatures. It didn’t even attempt to snow. And November shows up and sets up camp right on cue. The temperature drops twenty degrees and I found frost on my car.
But I am content. Fighting the weather is like fighting with traffic.
It’s curious though, this nip. Coming down so suddenly, I’ve not had a chance to acclimate. My clothing choices are wrong as I haven’t pulled out the old 25 pound leather jacket that loves me like a puppy. No, more like a seasoned veteran of doggy years, the mellow arthritic but lovable black lab.
I can call my jacket mellow, oui? Arthritic, doesn’t exactly apply.
Anyway, my layers are missing me and my tubby pieces are missing them. Isn’t it beautiful how a girl has no problem with her tubby parts when dressed in multiple layers of clothing? Think I’m joking? Hardly. I read about a study once where women in northern climates are much more at peace with themselves in the winter months.
But can you blame us?
It’s a psychological phenomenon, these layers. Gives us the impression that we’re snuggled up I front of a fire with a nice book or a lovable teddy bear of the male species. Warm happy thoughts all the way in. Dressing in layers is like getting a hug all day long. Now what impressionistic romantic (like the movement, not the novels) young woman wouldn’t go for that?
Hopefully not too many. Wouldn’t want it to get too overpopulated in my neck of the forest.
So for all you cynics out there, try an experiment. Put on a turtleneck and then put on a sweater. Wear it all day long and draw a stick for every happy thought you have during the day. If it’s more than usual, then maybe you won’t ever need actual human companionship for the rest of your life.
Ha!
The Missing Constituency
There's one group of voters that's been completely ignored by every media outlet I've seen so far. That's right, the ever important and always expanding Stupid People Vote. The ignorant and the braindead (by choice, not by birth) are everywhere this election, and last night they spoke. they said, "Do you hear us? We are no longer a minority. Dance with us."
Now, they may have been ignored by the media, but there is one out there who knew exactly how to win their love, that's right, the one who gives them hope and shows them that they too can lead the free world, George W. Bush. NOw here's a man who can give them a voice.
So what does a guy have to do to appeal to the stupid? Step one, you've got to act the part. Your opponent keeps looking like a know it all with all those depressing facts and numbers. practice your Dopey face (no really, is it just me or does he bear a resemblance to Dopey?) and stutter. Remember, Stupid people can only handle a limited influx of information, so say something once. then say it again and again and again so that stupid people don't miss any of your speech.
Step 2. Do not forget the handlers. You see the number one rule of stupidity is: Let Someone Else Think For You. Different flocks of stupid people are led by different sheep dogs. For some it is the preacher, for others it's the dj on the local Conservative radio station. And you must not also forget the rare "literate" stupid person (and remember literate does not equal literature) and write a book. Better yet, let someone else write the book and you won't have to worry about stupid people worrying that you may be smart enough to write a book.
Step 3. Let the stupidity simmer. How long, it's hard to say. Six months is more than enough to get you elected. Two years will let you go to war with a country that had no intention of harming you. Six years and you can get a blow job in the oval office, so i would say, the longer the better (and of course, more physically gratifying).
What does the simmering accomplish? It gets your flavor right into the middle so the stupid person becomes saturated with you. And when a non-thinking-yet-still-acting entity becomes saturated with a specific flavor of personality it is happy. Happy because it's handlers are proud of it, and happy because you are not calling them to think and happy because nobody is telling them not to be.
In the end, remember that stupidity is a thing to be feared. Its acceptance of face value (of course he can't be bad. Why? Because he said he was good. Duh!) is disturbing and it's widespread acceptance will be the death of us all. Please refer yourself to Farenheit 541 for theories as to the end of the world of the stupid and the thinkless.
Mandates and Malomars
Ok, I lied, no malomars after all. But I promise, it's not m fault. The mouse in my hair made me do it. Yes, that's right. I control not my actions or verbalizations or thought processes. A mouse lives in my hair. His role has expanded recently from personal media conglomerate (not possible, but nice word combination) to personality consultant. At least someone cares about me right?
I have a point. You really shouldn't take anything I say seriously. This is more of a safe outlet for all (ok, most) of my negativity and sarcasm that would otherwise get me sent straight to Hell. Because sarcasm is a sin. So I'm told. Personally I have no recollection of "thou shalt not sarcase" in either the old or new testaments, so further information on this point would be greatly appreciated.
Really, all I'm going for is "entertain." It's really not worth being "enraged" about the nasty things that I say. I may or may not mean them and this is just me practicing my inner bitch. And it's also completely not worth being baffled, mkay? Think water on a duck's back, or a grain of grain and what serious problems they become in the history of the universe. That's about where these posts stand. Get it? No? Not worry. Don't bother.
