What I say here and what this article says here are basically the same thing. Well, except the article I'm linking actually cites loads of great studies that support the assertions I've been making for years.
So, where are you, prospective beau? I can't smell you from here, but when I do, I'll know it's you!
Friday, January 11, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
The most demoralizing thing ever. Revised.
About a year and a half ago, I got my current job in DC. At the time, it was probably the biggest relief of my life, as I'd spent the two previous years in various states of quasi-unemployment (read: near-unbearable anxiety and fretfulness) and, when I got this job, I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that my amassment of fine art degrees and deep-seated intellectual curiosity about all that will not ever turn a profit had rendered me entirely unemployable. I wrote this post about this wholly demoralizing article. I'm still pretty convinced that I am the very soul described within that article. How is it not squarely miraculous that I've got a job at all (albeit, one I bitch about a lot... one that doesn't pay me for the work I do... one that often conflicts with a number of my ethical stances regarding eduction...one that doesn't actual fulfill me in any intellectual way)? But it's a job nonetheless, and the fact that I holding it down proves that Time Magazine doesn't know everything. Thank Jimmy in heaven. I pay my rent every goddamn month. Seriously. Thank Jimmy in heaven.
And then, I think, somewhere in the last few months, I encountered yet another article-- one that trumped the aforementioned article's dismal message. I think I would have linked this second article, but it made me so depressed that I just couldn't stomach it, and now I've lost track of it. But, I think I can sum up: the gist of it was that, at various points in the history of women seeking gainful employment, the wage gap between the genders has been attributed to the notion that women aren't as aggressive as men, the notion that women are more emotional, and therefore less able to operate cool-headedly in the workplace, than men, and/or the notion that women are all secretly green slimy slugs beneath there skin and are therefore not to be trusted with the finer (or courser) points of American capitalism. The article went on to say that, as none of these nodes of ridiculousness could be measured in any meaningful way (one teaspoon full of green slime too much and no money for you!), clearly, they could not be the real culprits behind why women make less money than their equally-educated, equally experienced, penis-bearing counterparts.
All that sounds vaguely, tritely positive, right? But then that article just sucks all the wind out of our sails, ladies. It basically says that men who are perceived as aggressive and actually ask for raises are rewarded for their straightforwardness. But employers (male and female alike) perceive women who ask for deserved raises as pushy and demanding and are, therefore, not only likely to deny them their raises, but are also likely to punish them for their pushiness by demoting them! So, either we're not aggressive enough and don't ask for what we deserve or we're too aggressive and are punished for asking for fair compensation for good work done. How does this not sicken us all? So I guess I didn't link that article because I didn't want to think about the studies cited within it any more than I absolutely have to. Dwelling on such things feels like a pretty defeatist activity. And I particularly do not want to be thinking about those studies now, as I'm coming up on two years of pouring out some sloppy quantities blood, sweat and green slime well beyond the stated parameters of my current position. No, I do not think that article's a good one to be obsessing about right now, as god knows I need me a freaking raise.
And then today, I found the most demoralizing article yet. Lucky for me, this one tackles a broader issue than my own piddly little financial worries. This one is about how capitalism doesn't value any of the things that interest and excite me the most. And, bless its little heart, the article sure tries to be positive about that, but I can't help it. I find it deeply, deeply saddening that the only way our American culture can attribute value to the humanities is to espouse a little consolation prize of an argument: the humanities have INTRINSIC value (but none other than that). Three consumptive little cheers for intrinsicity!!
As the article says, the humanities are an end unto themselves and we've got to be satisfied with that. But I'm not. I spent my 20s pretty much avoiding getting a real job because I was just so sure that somewhere out there, someone was going to put a monetary value on all that time I spent sitting around thinking-- about painting and poetry and sex and ethics and all these other little filthy by-products of human existence. But no one did. Because they really are just that-- by-products. And who's gonna pay for theoretical run-off?
I hate how true this whole premise is. It makes me wanna puke.
Because really? If there weren't those things out there, what on earth would I find about which I could give a flip?
Well, there's always creative vegan cooking, electric cars, sexy shoes, hair products that prevent frizz, my dog Noah, and the fact that I can impress my hot chiropractor with how bendy I am as a result of 11 years of yoga practice, right?
I guess I'll just have to go on living.
And then, I think, somewhere in the last few months, I encountered yet another article-- one that trumped the aforementioned article's dismal message. I think I would have linked this second article, but it made me so depressed that I just couldn't stomach it, and now I've lost track of it. But, I think I can sum up: the gist of it was that, at various points in the history of women seeking gainful employment, the wage gap between the genders has been attributed to the notion that women aren't as aggressive as men, the notion that women are more emotional, and therefore less able to operate cool-headedly in the workplace, than men, and/or the notion that women are all secretly green slimy slugs beneath there skin and are therefore not to be trusted with the finer (or courser) points of American capitalism. The article went on to say that, as none of these nodes of ridiculousness could be measured in any meaningful way (one teaspoon full of green slime too much and no money for you!), clearly, they could not be the real culprits behind why women make less money than their equally-educated, equally experienced, penis-bearing counterparts.
All that sounds vaguely, tritely positive, right? But then that article just sucks all the wind out of our sails, ladies. It basically says that men who are perceived as aggressive and actually ask for raises are rewarded for their straightforwardness. But employers (male and female alike) perceive women who ask for deserved raises as pushy and demanding and are, therefore, not only likely to deny them their raises, but are also likely to punish them for their pushiness by demoting them! So, either we're not aggressive enough and don't ask for what we deserve or we're too aggressive and are punished for asking for fair compensation for good work done. How does this not sicken us all? So I guess I didn't link that article because I didn't want to think about the studies cited within it any more than I absolutely have to. Dwelling on such things feels like a pretty defeatist activity. And I particularly do not want to be thinking about those studies now, as I'm coming up on two years of pouring out some sloppy quantities blood, sweat and green slime well beyond the stated parameters of my current position. No, I do not think that article's a good one to be obsessing about right now, as god knows I need me a freaking raise.
And then today, I found the most demoralizing article yet. Lucky for me, this one tackles a broader issue than my own piddly little financial worries. This one is about how capitalism doesn't value any of the things that interest and excite me the most. And, bless its little heart, the article sure tries to be positive about that, but I can't help it. I find it deeply, deeply saddening that the only way our American culture can attribute value to the humanities is to espouse a little consolation prize of an argument: the humanities have INTRINSIC value (but none other than that). Three consumptive little cheers for intrinsicity!!
As the article says, the humanities are an end unto themselves and we've got to be satisfied with that. But I'm not. I spent my 20s pretty much avoiding getting a real job because I was just so sure that somewhere out there, someone was going to put a monetary value on all that time I spent sitting around thinking-- about painting and poetry and sex and ethics and all these other little filthy by-products of human existence. But no one did. Because they really are just that-- by-products. And who's gonna pay for theoretical run-off?
I hate how true this whole premise is. It makes me wanna puke.
Because really? If there weren't those things out there, what on earth would I find about which I could give a flip?
Well, there's always creative vegan cooking, electric cars, sexy shoes, hair products that prevent frizz, my dog Noah, and the fact that I can impress my hot chiropractor with how bendy I am as a result of 11 years of yoga practice, right?
I guess I'll just have to go on living.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
look pretty/smell good/have a higher IQ/produce healthier babies through genetic diversity/it all adds up
For your consideration:
Article A: In which the WaPo reviews a book about how smells rule the world. And that's just exactly what I said here and here. None of the studies cited in the review look like new news to me, and the "academic at best, clunky at worst" assessment of the writing has prevented this book from landing on my (already rather unweildy) Amazon wish list, but, you know, it's good to find source materials to back up my crackpot theories.
And Article B: I'm linking this one not because it's new news either, but, rather, because it's got information that I've heard before (information that seems immanently logical, given the way outward indicators reflect genetic strength and overall health) but that seems to go against the pretty-is-as-pretty-does conventional wisdom. The truth is pretty people tend to be healthier, stronger, smarter, AND more reproductively viable BECAUSE their genes are stronger. And being smarter is every bit as much of a Darwinian advantage as having nice tits or a strong jawline, I would think. And so, I quite like this theory. Because nerds are sexy.
Article A: In which the WaPo reviews a book about how smells rule the world. And that's just exactly what I said here and here. None of the studies cited in the review look like new news to me, and the "academic at best, clunky at worst" assessment of the writing has prevented this book from landing on my (already rather unweildy) Amazon wish list, but, you know, it's good to find source materials to back up my crackpot theories.
And Article B: I'm linking this one not because it's new news either, but, rather, because it's got information that I've heard before (information that seems immanently logical, given the way outward indicators reflect genetic strength and overall health) but that seems to go against the pretty-is-as-pretty-does conventional wisdom. The truth is pretty people tend to be healthier, stronger, smarter, AND more reproductively viable BECAUSE their genes are stronger. And being smarter is every bit as much of a Darwinian advantage as having nice tits or a strong jawline, I would think. And so, I quite like this theory. Because nerds are sexy.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Fingering the text(ile)
Yesterday on my plane ride back from ye olde land of extremely extroverted relatives (Wow, they're a festive bunch! I'll say!), I read Cormac McCarthy's 2006 Pulitzer winner The Road pretty much in its entirety. It's a very short 287 pages long. And everyone I know LOVES this friggin' book.
But, I, alas, am left wondering, is the surface texture of a piece of writing enough to make it great?
Though it describes an utter burn-out of a post-apocalyptic wasteland (ash, ash, and more ash), it is lush and gorgeous. Of this, there can be no doubt. For those not quite in the know, the basic premise of the novel is that a man and his young son set out on a journey across what was once the North American continent, but is now primarily de-peopled and scorched due to some grave, unmentionable and unmentioned catastrophe. I say "primarily de-peopled" because, it seems, a few cannibalistic asswipes manage to survive and produce adequate menace throughout.
But the thing about this novel that makes me wonder for what purpose was it written is that it takes nary a turn that I didn't predict long before I got there. Of course the father has to kill a man in front of the kid. Of course the two come dangerously close to starving to death before happening upon a heretofore untapped cache of canned goods and blankets. Of course they make it to the coast and of course the coast is only more of the same ashy deathscapes. Of course the father dies a pitiful tubercular death (oops, spoiler-- but then, the whole premise is basically a spoiler, so, I'm not going to lose sleep. Sorry.).
So, then, what's left? A beautiful rendering? A few pithy truisms ("Where men can't live gods fare no better," to pilfer just one)? Is it enough to take a cliched cultural anxiety, pepper it with cliched plot points, top it off with a tentatively optimistic denouement, color all of the above in every shade of the lexical rainbow, smack a Pulitzer-Committee-Approved sticker on the cover and call it a day?
So, yeah, I'm pleased that I paused my holiday festivities long enough to run those cadences and all that inventive syntax through my brain, but I can't help but feel like it's not much beyond an poeticized, emo version of Independence Day (sans tentacles, of course. Well, and sans, uh, that victory-over-the-super-scary-Other business, too. And with more father-son-bonding. OK, it's a lame comparison. So, eat me.)
Shit. Somebody or other is really gonna slap me around for this one.
But, I, alas, am left wondering, is the surface texture of a piece of writing enough to make it great?
Though it describes an utter burn-out of a post-apocalyptic wasteland (ash, ash, and more ash), it is lush and gorgeous. Of this, there can be no doubt. For those not quite in the know, the basic premise of the novel is that a man and his young son set out on a journey across what was once the North American continent, but is now primarily de-peopled and scorched due to some grave, unmentionable and unmentioned catastrophe. I say "primarily de-peopled" because, it seems, a few cannibalistic asswipes manage to survive and produce adequate menace throughout.
But the thing about this novel that makes me wonder for what purpose was it written is that it takes nary a turn that I didn't predict long before I got there. Of course the father has to kill a man in front of the kid. Of course the two come dangerously close to starving to death before happening upon a heretofore untapped cache of canned goods and blankets. Of course they make it to the coast and of course the coast is only more of the same ashy deathscapes. Of course the father dies a pitiful tubercular death (oops, spoiler-- but then, the whole premise is basically a spoiler, so, I'm not going to lose sleep. Sorry.).
So, then, what's left? A beautiful rendering? A few pithy truisms ("Where men can't live gods fare no better," to pilfer just one)? Is it enough to take a cliched cultural anxiety, pepper it with cliched plot points, top it off with a tentatively optimistic denouement, color all of the above in every shade of the lexical rainbow, smack a Pulitzer-Committee-Approved sticker on the cover and call it a day?
So, yeah, I'm pleased that I paused my holiday festivities long enough to run those cadences and all that inventive syntax through my brain, but I can't help but feel like it's not much beyond an poeticized, emo version of Independence Day (sans tentacles, of course. Well, and sans, uh, that victory-over-the-super-scary-Other business, too. And with more father-son-bonding. OK, it's a lame comparison. So, eat me.)
Shit. Somebody or other is really gonna slap me around for this one.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Ecstacy/Prolixity
Merry Almost X-mas, fair reader(s):
Here's a fantastic article on the love of big words and the pros and cons of using them in quotidian parlance. It speaks to my soul.
And then, there's this new addiction of mine. Soon, you'll enjoy, as I have, hours of time wasted as you learn the difference between pelf and peripateticism.
My gifts to you!
Etymologically yours,
M
Here's a fantastic article on the love of big words and the pros and cons of using them in quotidian parlance. It speaks to my soul.
And then, there's this new addiction of mine. Soon, you'll enjoy, as I have, hours of time wasted as you learn the difference between pelf and peripateticism.
My gifts to you!
Etymologically yours,
M
Thursday, December 13, 2007
sex-positive feminism, my life in emails, and other lighter notes
After that last dreary post, I figure I'd better sop up the mess with something more entertaining.
So, it seems, my new hero, Chelsea G. has gotten it right again. I think I'm just going to have to start linking her virtually every time she posts some darling little nugget of cultural commentary. Today, for example, I think all audiences should check out this post. She makes a millions points more illustratively than I ever have, so, mostly I'll let her speak for herself.
But, just because I'd like to back up her argument with a case in point, I'm now going to include a real-live email thread that occurred between myself and a friend of mine a couple of weeks ago.
Disclaimers:
Please note: All names have been changed to protect those who've already been completely defiled--uh, I mean, to protect the innocent. (Admittedly, I am one of the participants in the ensuing conversation, but I figure it's best to refer, henceforth, to the two of us as "Gossipy Bitch 1" and "Gossipy Bitch 2." And heretofore, I shall refrain from distinguishing one from the other.)
Please also note: Because myself and certain others who participate in my social circle have been embracing our CSS (see post from a couple weeks ago) status as of late, this thread has a distinct anti-breeder bias. Hey, we're cranky and we're spinsters. What do you want from us?
And now...
"my psyche might implode: an email dalliance"
GB1: "Dude" across the hall from me is back in the office for the first time since his wife had twins. I don't know if I can handle overhearing the proud-father-baby-excitement discussions all day long.
GB2: I am so sorry for you. I don't think I could handle it.
GB1: Oh, dear god. It's all men, too! It's all these men, coming in and sharing their own baby stories. I really think I'm going to lose my mind.
GB2: Too bad you can't close your door. Maybe [I should travel to your neighborhood and] we could just have some more of our inappropriate conversations so they can see what they are missing out on...great sex or babies. Tough choice.
GB1: Really, you should come over and I'll say, "so, last night so-and-so came over and I let him cum all over my bare chest." And you say, "yeah, I love when that happens. I'm sure glad I'm not married! I hear married men don't really even like blowjobs anymore." And I'll say, "I hear that too! Isn't that strange??" And then you say, "I'm sure glad I haven't had any babies because my ass looks friggin' fantastic today." And I'll say, "yeah, mine too. I just feel so bad for women who've destroyed their bodies with all that breeding. It must suck to be a mom. Not to mention all the cleaning up of puke and intellectual bankruptcy."
Let's create a real grass-is-greener-on-the-single-side sensibility around here!
GB2: And I'll say, "yeah the bare chest is good, but I like it even better on my face." And you say, "yeah that's good but not as good as giving blowjobs." And I'll say "yeah, I hear women stop giving them when they get married. I'm glad I'm not married. I love giving them." And you'll say "I also hear women's bodies stretch out, ahem, down there, after giving birth." And I'll say "I'm glad I do my Kegels!"
GB1: And who gets to deliver a poetic monologue on how fabulous semen tastes? Me, oh, let it be me!
OH, my god. That is SO much better than the "what kind of antibacterial hand sanitizer do YOU use? I mean, my kids ARE preemies, after all..." conversation!
GB2: An "Ode to Semen"? As you do.
You mean you don't want to hear about dirty diapers?
GB1: Nope. Already have, though. Including the "how do you keep the boys from pissing in your face during diaper changes" Q&A session. Since when did men become such effin' mother hens????
GB2: Uh, you hold it down (that's what she said). Even I know that, and I was adept at avoiding changing my nephew's diaper when he was a baby.
Fin
Enjoy!
So, it seems, my new hero, Chelsea G. has gotten it right again. I think I'm just going to have to start linking her virtually every time she posts some darling little nugget of cultural commentary. Today, for example, I think all audiences should check out this post. She makes a millions points more illustratively than I ever have, so, mostly I'll let her speak for herself.
But, just because I'd like to back up her argument with a case in point, I'm now going to include a real-live email thread that occurred between myself and a friend of mine a couple of weeks ago.
Disclaimers:
Please note: All names have been changed to protect those who've already been completely defiled--uh, I mean, to protect the innocent. (Admittedly, I am one of the participants in the ensuing conversation, but I figure it's best to refer, henceforth, to the two of us as "Gossipy Bitch 1" and "Gossipy Bitch 2." And heretofore, I shall refrain from distinguishing one from the other.)
Please also note: Because myself and certain others who participate in my social circle have been embracing our CSS (see post from a couple weeks ago) status as of late, this thread has a distinct anti-breeder bias. Hey, we're cranky and we're spinsters. What do you want from us?
And now...
"my psyche might implode: an email dalliance"
GB1: "Dude" across the hall from me is back in the office for the first time since his wife had twins. I don't know if I can handle overhearing the proud-father-baby-excitement discussions all day long.
GB2: I am so sorry for you. I don't think I could handle it.
GB1: Oh, dear god. It's all men, too! It's all these men, coming in and sharing their own baby stories. I really think I'm going to lose my mind.
GB2: Too bad you can't close your door. Maybe [I should travel to your neighborhood and] we could just have some more of our inappropriate conversations so they can see what they are missing out on...great sex or babies. Tough choice.
GB1: Really, you should come over and I'll say, "so, last night so-and-so came over and I let him cum all over my bare chest." And you say, "yeah, I love when that happens. I'm sure glad I'm not married! I hear married men don't really even like blowjobs anymore." And I'll say, "I hear that too! Isn't that strange??" And then you say, "I'm sure glad I haven't had any babies because my ass looks friggin' fantastic today." And I'll say, "yeah, mine too. I just feel so bad for women who've destroyed their bodies with all that breeding. It must suck to be a mom. Not to mention all the cleaning up of puke and intellectual bankruptcy."
Let's create a real grass-is-greener-on-the-single-side sensibility around here!
GB2: And I'll say, "yeah the bare chest is good, but I like it even better on my face." And you say, "yeah that's good but not as good as giving blowjobs." And I'll say "yeah, I hear women stop giving them when they get married. I'm glad I'm not married. I love giving them." And you'll say "I also hear women's bodies stretch out, ahem, down there, after giving birth." And I'll say "I'm glad I do my Kegels!"
GB1: And who gets to deliver a poetic monologue on how fabulous semen tastes? Me, oh, let it be me!
OH, my god. That is SO much better than the "what kind of antibacterial hand sanitizer do YOU use? I mean, my kids ARE preemies, after all..." conversation!
GB2: An "Ode to Semen"? As you do.
You mean you don't want to hear about dirty diapers?
GB1: Nope. Already have, though. Including the "how do you keep the boys from pissing in your face during diaper changes" Q&A session. Since when did men become such effin' mother hens????
GB2: Uh, you hold it down (that's what she said). Even I know that, and I was adept at avoiding changing my nephew's diaper when he was a baby.
Fin
Enjoy!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
de facto hiatus
It's not that I really have intended to stop writing. It's just that it seems I can't. I have ramblings I'd like to express and films I'd like to discuss. But I can't.
As I think I mentioned a few posts back, this Seasonal Affective crap has really thrown me for a loop this year. And yes, it's a real thing. Palpably real. And miserable.
Actually, it hasn't been this bad since my freshman year of college, when I'd just moved to New Jersey and the snow didn't ever completely melt from the middle of October until the beginning of May. I really thought I was losing my marbles. The only comparable experience I've had was when I decided it would be a good idea to screw around with my usually very evenly regulated hormones (i.e., I went on The Pill for 6 months-- never again!).
So, nothing's wrong. I don't make enough money and my job alternates between frustrating me and boring me and, of course, I seem to be entangled in some typically unconventional relational situations (or, at least, I'm entangled in my own head. Participation of others is subject to interpretation)-- but none of that is any different from the usual year-round rhythms of my life.
But I can't stop crying. I wake up and I feel ok, even though my sleep cycles are even more out-of-whack than usual (typical fire-sign insomnia, exacerbated) and then I get into my car to drive to work and the only thing preventing me from falling apart is the simple vanity that I don't want to show up at work with mascara rings under my eyes. Or I get to work and manage to hold it together through the morning hours, but I soon find myself staring spacily at the grid on my office ceiling, willing the tears away (I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work.). Or, I proudly soldier through an entire work day and then I collapse into passionate, unweildy sobs as I navigate Georgetown traffic on my way home.
And still, nothing is ACTUALLY wrong, other than my brain chemistry being all half-mast and off-kilter. About the only reprieve from feeling sad that I've been getting is when I feel frustrated and annoyed that I'm so sad all the time. Frustration and annoyance are clearly preferable to this other overwrought, heightened, interminable sadness. Clearly.
Either way, I feel crazy.
And it doesn't help that it's just barely mid-December and the DC area has already seen a significant snowfall and another is predicted for this weekend. Nor does it help that I can't actually remember the last sunny day we had here.
Nor does it help that I arise in the dark, leave my apartment shortly after sunrise (spending a grand total of 25 or so seconds outside as I walk to my car), park in a garage underneath my office building, elevator up, work all day in an office with no windows, elevator down, drive home after dark and spend another 25 or so seconds walking from my car to my apartment. Clearly, three quarters of a minute is not adequate time for my retinas to register enough sunlight to create a sanity-sustaining serotonin level in my puny frenzy of a brain.
I am a mole-rat.
Most of the time, I can manage a little yogic trick. If I adopt the stance of the objective spectator in relation to my own self, I can watch myself feeling so sad, realizing it's a physiological sort of sad (as opposed to a psychological sort), and muster enough sense to realize that I'll weather the storm-- but even this variety intellectual detachment doesn't much help me turn off the friggin' waterworks. It's merely a management tool and does little in terms of solving the problem.
So, thank god the winter solstice is only 10 days away. I can only hope that, as the days begin to lengthen, I'll be able to think like a person again-- and maybe write something of substance.
Until then, fair reader(s).
As I think I mentioned a few posts back, this Seasonal Affective crap has really thrown me for a loop this year. And yes, it's a real thing. Palpably real. And miserable.
Actually, it hasn't been this bad since my freshman year of college, when I'd just moved to New Jersey and the snow didn't ever completely melt from the middle of October until the beginning of May. I really thought I was losing my marbles. The only comparable experience I've had was when I decided it would be a good idea to screw around with my usually very evenly regulated hormones (i.e., I went on The Pill for 6 months-- never again!).
So, nothing's wrong. I don't make enough money and my job alternates between frustrating me and boring me and, of course, I seem to be entangled in some typically unconventional relational situations (or, at least, I'm entangled in my own head. Participation of others is subject to interpretation)-- but none of that is any different from the usual year-round rhythms of my life.
But I can't stop crying. I wake up and I feel ok, even though my sleep cycles are even more out-of-whack than usual (typical fire-sign insomnia, exacerbated) and then I get into my car to drive to work and the only thing preventing me from falling apart is the simple vanity that I don't want to show up at work with mascara rings under my eyes. Or I get to work and manage to hold it together through the morning hours, but I soon find myself staring spacily at the grid on my office ceiling, willing the tears away (I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work.). Or, I proudly soldier through an entire work day and then I collapse into passionate, unweildy sobs as I navigate Georgetown traffic on my way home.
And still, nothing is ACTUALLY wrong, other than my brain chemistry being all half-mast and off-kilter. About the only reprieve from feeling sad that I've been getting is when I feel frustrated and annoyed that I'm so sad all the time. Frustration and annoyance are clearly preferable to this other overwrought, heightened, interminable sadness. Clearly.
Either way, I feel crazy.
And it doesn't help that it's just barely mid-December and the DC area has already seen a significant snowfall and another is predicted for this weekend. Nor does it help that I can't actually remember the last sunny day we had here.
Nor does it help that I arise in the dark, leave my apartment shortly after sunrise (spending a grand total of 25 or so seconds outside as I walk to my car), park in a garage underneath my office building, elevator up, work all day in an office with no windows, elevator down, drive home after dark and spend another 25 or so seconds walking from my car to my apartment. Clearly, three quarters of a minute is not adequate time for my retinas to register enough sunlight to create a sanity-sustaining serotonin level in my puny frenzy of a brain.
I am a mole-rat.
Most of the time, I can manage a little yogic trick. If I adopt the stance of the objective spectator in relation to my own self, I can watch myself feeling so sad, realizing it's a physiological sort of sad (as opposed to a psychological sort), and muster enough sense to realize that I'll weather the storm-- but even this variety intellectual detachment doesn't much help me turn off the friggin' waterworks. It's merely a management tool and does little in terms of solving the problem.
So, thank god the winter solstice is only 10 days away. I can only hope that, as the days begin to lengthen, I'll be able to think like a person again-- and maybe write something of substance.
Until then, fair reader(s).
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Somebody had to say it.
Thank you, Chelsea G., for hitting just the right note of amalgamated fury, indignation and pointed egalitarianism here.
On an almost-related note, someone who doesn't know me very well recently told me that I'm too hot to fall into the sorts of complicated relational entanglements that I do-- as in, I could get anyone I wanted, so why make it so hard for myself? Even if it was true (which it's not) that I could bag any simple, available, easy boy who crosses my path, I'm pretty unmotivated to do so. It would be a waste of time (and also, boring) for me to engage in solipsistic and ruthless self-analysis in which I parse out why I choose the particularly stumbling blocks that I do (over and over and over again) in this forum, so I won't. But I bring it up because Ms. Chelsea's point about how it's not all that easy for even women far more attractive than myself to get laid on a whim --or even, in a more calculated and mindful manner-- is an awfully good one. I mean, yes, absolutely. If it gets that bad, I have people I can call. But I'm always disappointed afterwards. As much as I'd like the girl who can do it without ladeling out a puddle of what Chelsea calls "steaming emo pudding," I'm not. And I'm drawn to challenge and complication, so, no, I can't make it easy on myself.
Fomenting attachment with another human being is bound to be rife with anxiety. Love -- and the fear of not obtaining it, the fear of losing it once it's obtained, the fear of never finding it again once it's been lost -- is an anxiety-ridden condition by definition. And that's WHY it's desirable. In other words, it's not boring. And being bored is a lot worse than being anxious. We don't fall in love to make our lives easier in the first place, so why would anyone assume that I would opt for an easier road just because my physical appearance and the fact that I'm a woman might provide a slim little by-way through the barricade that usually blocks said road?
On an almost-related note, someone who doesn't know me very well recently told me that I'm too hot to fall into the sorts of complicated relational entanglements that I do-- as in, I could get anyone I wanted, so why make it so hard for myself? Even if it was true (which it's not) that I could bag any simple, available, easy boy who crosses my path, I'm pretty unmotivated to do so. It would be a waste of time (and also, boring) for me to engage in solipsistic and ruthless self-analysis in which I parse out why I choose the particularly stumbling blocks that I do (over and over and over again) in this forum, so I won't. But I bring it up because Ms. Chelsea's point about how it's not all that easy for even women far more attractive than myself to get laid on a whim --or even, in a more calculated and mindful manner-- is an awfully good one. I mean, yes, absolutely. If it gets that bad, I have people I can call. But I'm always disappointed afterwards. As much as I'd like the girl who can do it without ladeling out a puddle of what Chelsea calls "steaming emo pudding," I'm not. And I'm drawn to challenge and complication, so, no, I can't make it easy on myself.
Fomenting attachment with another human being is bound to be rife with anxiety. Love -- and the fear of not obtaining it, the fear of losing it once it's obtained, the fear of never finding it again once it's been lost -- is an anxiety-ridden condition by definition. And that's WHY it's desirable. In other words, it's not boring. And being bored is a lot worse than being anxious. We don't fall in love to make our lives easier in the first place, so why would anyone assume that I would opt for an easier road just because my physical appearance and the fact that I'm a woman might provide a slim little by-way through the barricade that usually blocks said road?
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Nary a moment to spare and a newly-minted CSS
Somewhere between the too-intense-for-public-consumption intrigue going on inside my head and my somewhat ramped-up social calendar in November, I've had plenty of time to, uh, neglect my blog. I'm really hoping December will be better, but it doesn't look like the excitement will let up until the new year begins. I miss the writing and the discipline, though, and I would very much like to return to it soon. Also, I miss the movies, as I haven't had too much time for those, either.
And tomorrow, I turn 31. A few of my friends and I have agreed that this birthday marks the official onset of Cranky, Spiteful Spinsterdom. So, please be prepared, in the upcoming year, for posts in which I bitterly avow that if you are married or have babies or both, you are a gigantic loser. That's what spinsters do. You can thank me later.
There is an ongoing debate as to whether or not celibacy is a prerequisite for considering oneself a Cranky, Spiteful Spinster (heretofore known as the CSS). If you would like to weigh in on this matter, please feel free to post a comment, but be kind. Do not banish me to the hinterlands of sexual deprivation. I beg of you! It's only a birthday and I still get carded every-damn-where I go.
And tomorrow, I turn 31. A few of my friends and I have agreed that this birthday marks the official onset of Cranky, Spiteful Spinsterdom. So, please be prepared, in the upcoming year, for posts in which I bitterly avow that if you are married or have babies or both, you are a gigantic loser. That's what spinsters do. You can thank me later.
There is an ongoing debate as to whether or not celibacy is a prerequisite for considering oneself a Cranky, Spiteful Spinster (heretofore known as the CSS). If you would like to weigh in on this matter, please feel free to post a comment, but be kind. Do not banish me to the hinterlands of sexual deprivation. I beg of you! It's only a birthday and I still get carded every-damn-where I go.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
This Thanksgiving, Will would like to share his cracker with the world.
And a truer T-shirt adage may have never before been worn.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The real inner conflict resides in the body.
When I was in high school, I had a dream that continues to haunt me. I was in a house comprised of all hallways. All the rooms were long and narrow and gloomy and painted this awful, dingy, nauseous green. I navigated the hallways until I found the kitchen, another hallway, though this one was lined with kitchen appliances and cabinets. All sick and green. I began to open the doors to microwave, dishwasher, oven... and out of each tumbled a full-grown, naked man. They were beautiful-- white-skinned and dark-haired. Well-muscled. And significant quantities of some milky fluid burbled out of the appliances as they lurched forward from their tucked and cambered postures. And blood. Needless to say (or maybe needful, I don't know), all the men were dead. As is often the case in my dreams, I felt screams well up in my chest, but I just couldn't scream. This non-screaming happened here. And so, in lieu of screaming, I found a scabby-looking screen door at the end of the kitchen-hallway and I banged through it, barely breathing. I found myself on a big expanse of a beach, a swollen, tumescent sky above. I ran to the water, hoping to wash off the blood and fluid that had spilled all over me in the kitchen, but I found more of these beautiful dead men washing up onto the shore. The entire ocean was amniotic and cloudy. I don't suppose I've ever had a dream in which I've felt that level of terror-- before or since.
The imagery of this dream does not strike me as particularly subtle. Though I was probably only about 14 or 15-- and still miserably virginal-- it's clear as day that I was already feeling some anxiety about birthing babies. Dead bleached-out corpses, falling from narrow openings amidst assorted bodily fluids? Yeah, they are tough to miss, my still-born sons. Next week, I'll be 31 and my worries about using my body to produce children have shifted a little. It's not so much a horror show of death and blood anymore-- and more about a simpler vanity, I suppose. I still get carded virtually every time I buy alcohol-- and though I find this ridiculous, as I most certainly look older than 21-- I must admit that I kinda like the fact that all my body parts are still in the right places. I must also admit that I LOVE the social cache that my body parts being in the right places afford me. God help me, I love male attention. Preferably, male attention of my own choosing, but even less desirable male attention is nice, so long as it doesn't cross boundaries. And I worry, to an embarrassing degree, that all that will dry up when I get that post-baby belly-sag and breast-droop. I worry about it so much that I'm finding it difficult to apply language to the thought. And I'm shuddering a little to think of it.
Now, the irony here doesn't escape me. I spend an awful lot of time thinking about sex-- how to get it and what it means, why it's such a powerful force and how it's a filter for virtually everything in my life. And so, I find this insane bodily tug-of-war--- between the ways our bodies goad us into reproducing and a real physical tremulousness at the actual prospect of birthing a baby-- pretty funny. Surely, it's totally stupid that I have such a massive libido and also so much trepidation regarding the natural effects of indulging said libido. But whatever. No human drive is ever simple.
I bring all this up now because, a few weeks ago, I watched a little film called Stephanie Daley, and I found it so difficult to watch that I haven't been able to write about it since. Now, very few films make me squeamish (unless it's got vomit in it, and I feel like I've covered my vomit issues aplenty in this blog). On the list of films that have gotten to me is probably Requiem for a Dream (I really did have to fast forward through the gang-bang-followed-by-vomit scene-- give me exploding track-marks any day!) and well, Four Rooms-- though this is back to vomit again (there's no goddamn WARNING!!!). But in all honesty, I was really on the verge of fast-forwarding though a long, brutal sequence of this film. I managed to weather it, but it's tough, I'm telling you.
The basic story is about a 16-year-old girl and her shrink. The shrink is hugely pregnant and, we learn, found herself in such a state very shortly after suffering a still birth. The girl stands accused of murdering her baby while claiming to not have known she was pregnant in the first place. In many ways, it's clear that the writer/director, Hilary Brougher, drew inspiration from some sensational headline or other. But, ultimately, it's a story of two women dealing with the flip-sides of the birthing conundrum: when you don't want it, it comes so easily, to the detriment of your whole life-- and when you pine for it, it eludes you in the most painful way possible. It's a thoughtful exploration of quiet aches and particularly female aches they are.
However. My goodness. There is a scene in this film. It's pretty much muted out and you get only brief smatterings of sound. It's shot primarily through the gaps around the door of a public bathroom stall. And it's all close-ups of this girl's face while she's giving birth into the leg of her ski-pants. If you ever want to know what it feels like to have your guts ripped out through your vagina, please consult Amber Tamblyn's face during this scene. Her confusion, her physical pain, her utter all-alone-ness are palpable in the most disturbing way. Since when does the sheer emotion on the face of another human make me turn away in the same way that a puke scene would? Well, it's never happened until this film, during which I found my own head buried in my sofa pillows. I can only assume this is the case because the idea of forcing a kid out of my own body engenders no small amount of anxiety in my person-- as foretold by my scary dream.
For all you girls who've done it? Good god. You're all my heroes-- though I'm still not sure if I'll ever wanna be you.
The imagery of this dream does not strike me as particularly subtle. Though I was probably only about 14 or 15-- and still miserably virginal-- it's clear as day that I was already feeling some anxiety about birthing babies. Dead bleached-out corpses, falling from narrow openings amidst assorted bodily fluids? Yeah, they are tough to miss, my still-born sons. Next week, I'll be 31 and my worries about using my body to produce children have shifted a little. It's not so much a horror show of death and blood anymore-- and more about a simpler vanity, I suppose. I still get carded virtually every time I buy alcohol-- and though I find this ridiculous, as I most certainly look older than 21-- I must admit that I kinda like the fact that all my body parts are still in the right places. I must also admit that I LOVE the social cache that my body parts being in the right places afford me. God help me, I love male attention. Preferably, male attention of my own choosing, but even less desirable male attention is nice, so long as it doesn't cross boundaries. And I worry, to an embarrassing degree, that all that will dry up when I get that post-baby belly-sag and breast-droop. I worry about it so much that I'm finding it difficult to apply language to the thought. And I'm shuddering a little to think of it.
Now, the irony here doesn't escape me. I spend an awful lot of time thinking about sex-- how to get it and what it means, why it's such a powerful force and how it's a filter for virtually everything in my life. And so, I find this insane bodily tug-of-war--- between the ways our bodies goad us into reproducing and a real physical tremulousness at the actual prospect of birthing a baby-- pretty funny. Surely, it's totally stupid that I have such a massive libido and also so much trepidation regarding the natural effects of indulging said libido. But whatever. No human drive is ever simple.
I bring all this up now because, a few weeks ago, I watched a little film called Stephanie Daley, and I found it so difficult to watch that I haven't been able to write about it since. Now, very few films make me squeamish (unless it's got vomit in it, and I feel like I've covered my vomit issues aplenty in this blog). On the list of films that have gotten to me is probably Requiem for a Dream (I really did have to fast forward through the gang-bang-followed-by-vomit scene-- give me exploding track-marks any day!) and well, Four Rooms-- though this is back to vomit again (there's no goddamn WARNING!!!). But in all honesty, I was really on the verge of fast-forwarding though a long, brutal sequence of this film. I managed to weather it, but it's tough, I'm telling you.
The basic story is about a 16-year-old girl and her shrink. The shrink is hugely pregnant and, we learn, found herself in such a state very shortly after suffering a still birth. The girl stands accused of murdering her baby while claiming to not have known she was pregnant in the first place. In many ways, it's clear that the writer/director, Hilary Brougher, drew inspiration from some sensational headline or other. But, ultimately, it's a story of two women dealing with the flip-sides of the birthing conundrum: when you don't want it, it comes so easily, to the detriment of your whole life-- and when you pine for it, it eludes you in the most painful way possible. It's a thoughtful exploration of quiet aches and particularly female aches they are.
However. My goodness. There is a scene in this film. It's pretty much muted out and you get only brief smatterings of sound. It's shot primarily through the gaps around the door of a public bathroom stall. And it's all close-ups of this girl's face while she's giving birth into the leg of her ski-pants. If you ever want to know what it feels like to have your guts ripped out through your vagina, please consult Amber Tamblyn's face during this scene. Her confusion, her physical pain, her utter all-alone-ness are palpable in the most disturbing way. Since when does the sheer emotion on the face of another human make me turn away in the same way that a puke scene would? Well, it's never happened until this film, during which I found my own head buried in my sofa pillows. I can only assume this is the case because the idea of forcing a kid out of my own body engenders no small amount of anxiety in my person-- as foretold by my scary dream.
For all you girls who've done it? Good god. You're all my heroes-- though I'm still not sure if I'll ever wanna be you.
Friday, November 9, 2007
yeah, yeah, yeah, 9/11. But also...love and the lost self
It seems that a number of typically snark-jock movie critics really seem to like Reign Over Me. It's true, the real allure of Adam Sandler resides in his characteristic cocktail of rage, self-loathing and soulfulness. And, at last, this film is a real showcase for those aspects of his soul. He's subtle and funny and furious and it really works. For once, viewers can, perhaps, put Opera Man out of their heads while watching... not that I really have anything against Opera Man, per se. I'm of the camp that concedes that some of Sandler's deconstructionist comedy in the SNL Weekend Update segments were really fairly innovative. However, this piece is about character, not rule-breaking, and he carries it pretty well. It's no doubt he won some critic-fans with the role-- and the film.
However, all the reviews discussed the barely-scabbed-over lives of those whose families were affected by 9/11-- and how sensitive a story this movie is... blah, blah, blah. Sure, I guess it IS sensitive, but, just for the sake of argument, let's take 9/11 off the table. What if this were just a story about a couple of guys who've conceded some portion of their selfhoods to their relationships?
I've oft heard a very female lament about the girl who marries her dreamboat of choice and then winds up "losing herself" to the relationship, sacrificing her identity, her soul, her likes and dislikes, for the purpose of being the wife HE wants her to be. Oprah is a big pusher of the notion of the tragic narrative of the just-can't-say-no girls. I've had friends complain about having lost track of some aspect of identity when ensconced in a romantic relationship-- and I think I might even have phrased my own complaints similarly (though, in retrospect, I know I have most often been the one to force concessions from my partners--having a strong personality sometimes breeds some curious obliviousness), but I've wondered: what of the men who no longer recognize themselves, so lost are they in the daily morass of gesture and habit and ritual? Surely, assimilation into a relational unit couldn't possibly be a single-gendered activity, could it?
And along comes this movie. In it, we've got two guys. One guy loses his wife and three daughters (it's significant that all three kids are female, I think) to one of the passenger projectiles that have since entered our lexical commonality. As a result, he devolves into some crazy amalgam of automaton, ghost and rabid wolf. Simply put, without his family, his female flotilla, he has no real self left. When they were alive, his life was full because of them. And without them, there really isn't much man to spare. And the other guy, well, he still has his wife-- and two female children. But as a result of his "putting family first," he's manifested such a disconnect with his own desires, his own identity, that he begins to foment a fairly expected variety of resentment towards his wife.
Now, the solution to this problem is really the hinge of the plot. Both men seek refuge from domesticity in each other and, because they each adopt this outlet, they are able to return (or at least begin to heal in order to return at some point in the future) to some modified version of the family fold. Easy. Total cake. It's a reasonable and real-life solution to the emotional deprivation experienced by some men. And it works. But, it's also not all that interesting to me.
What is interesting, however, is the set of social constructs that create the types of ravenous hunger so readily apparent in these men. To be fair, I'm sure this aspect of the film's emotional tenor stuck out to me because I've been reading Laura Kipnis' book Against Love: A Polemic of late. This is a book that would be incendiary if it were required reading for the population at large, but, as it is, it's more like a flagpole sporting some tattered rag outside a seedy bar on the fringes of town. It rages about the ways in which conventional companionate co-habitation squelches our emotional lives and lulls our libidos into sad little stupors. The book wants more for us than so-called wedded bliss. It wants actual bliss. And I suppose I'm reading it because I, too, want actual bliss-- for myself and for the people (plural) with whom I fall in love. And so I read books that swear up and down that that which is packaged as blissful (love, stability, monogamy) is actually the enemy of the temporality and flightiness of real, mindful fun. I keep hoping that if I resist that which feels like it might entrap me or own me, I'll find a new transgressive joy. So far, so good. No, wait: so far, so occasionally good. It's a trepidatious mountain passage at best.
But anyway, I look at the stories of these two men-- one who is a veritable wraith of loss without his primary relationship and one who can barely speak, so gagged by the confines of being a "good father" or "good husband" or even "good man" is he-- and I am fascinated by the meandering avenues through which their marriages lead them-- and deposit them squarely in their respective marital miseries. Sure, they find their ways out again (via the flip-side of the self-same love that drove them to despair in the first place, mind you), but it is the insularity of love that is the problem for each. I can't help but wonder: if these two men dedicated a little less of themselves to their primary relationships-- and a little more to a legitimate pursuance of bliss? Would they feel so stranded and without recourse when those primary relationships wind up NOT being the be-all-end-all? Would they feel so alone, were they not so protective of their own emotional fidelity? If they put a couple of eggs in other baskets? Who's to say?
I would like to understand more about men's emotional lives. Though male actors continue to dominate the screen, rarely do we find filmic plumbings of male loneliness, detachment, estrangement, and ache for simple human connection of the nature found in Reign Over Me. I won't say that it goes this distance flawlessly-- it occasionally waxes maudlin and, frankly, it overshoots in terms of subplots and connectivity of narratives-- but at least it's trying. At least it's attempting to represent the ways in which the conventional social institution of marriage fails these guys in terms of their rawest, simplest emotional needs. It's supposed to be another diary page from the post-9/11 New Yorker. Ultimately, national tragedy is just a backdrop here. Because I came to this film with Kipnis in my head, I'm having a hard time seeing the real subject matter as other than how these men fight for stability in a landscape in which the bedrock of relational love swims in and out of their reach.
Another concession: the time-change has hit me like a brick. I'll acclimate soon, surely. But for now, I've had a week of imagined heartbreak and utter listlessness. Oh, sunshine! Oh, serotonin! How I miss you. This Seasonal Affective bullshit is a bitch. Time to fire up the Happy Lite again. So, apologies if I, too, am waxing overly maudlin. It's been a weird and weepy week. At least I can blame it on body chemistry, rather than real problems.
But anyway, I look at the stories of these two men-- one who is a veritable wraith of loss without his primary relationship and one who can barely speak, so gagged by the confines of being a "good father" or "good husband" or even "good man" is he-- and I am fascinated by the meandering avenues through which their marriages lead them-- and deposit them squarely in their respective marital miseries. Sure, they find their ways out again (via the flip-side of the self-same love that drove them to despair in the first place, mind you), but it is the insularity of love that is the problem for each. I can't help but wonder: if these two men dedicated a little less of themselves to their primary relationships-- and a little more to a legitimate pursuance of bliss? Would they feel so stranded and without recourse when those primary relationships wind up NOT being the be-all-end-all? Would they feel so alone, were they not so protective of their own emotional fidelity? If they put a couple of eggs in other baskets? Who's to say?
I would like to understand more about men's emotional lives. Though male actors continue to dominate the screen, rarely do we find filmic plumbings of male loneliness, detachment, estrangement, and ache for simple human connection of the nature found in Reign Over Me. I won't say that it goes this distance flawlessly-- it occasionally waxes maudlin and, frankly, it overshoots in terms of subplots and connectivity of narratives-- but at least it's trying. At least it's attempting to represent the ways in which the conventional social institution of marriage fails these guys in terms of their rawest, simplest emotional needs. It's supposed to be another diary page from the post-9/11 New Yorker. Ultimately, national tragedy is just a backdrop here. Because I came to this film with Kipnis in my head, I'm having a hard time seeing the real subject matter as other than how these men fight for stability in a landscape in which the bedrock of relational love swims in and out of their reach.
Another concession: the time-change has hit me like a brick. I'll acclimate soon, surely. But for now, I've had a week of imagined heartbreak and utter listlessness. Oh, sunshine! Oh, serotonin! How I miss you. This Seasonal Affective bullshit is a bitch. Time to fire up the Happy Lite again. So, apologies if I, too, am waxing overly maudlin. It's been a weird and weepy week. At least I can blame it on body chemistry, rather than real problems.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
cultural climate in which renegades, instead of the line-towers, look like zombies
It's been a good long while since I posted about a film. Don't ask me why. I've been watching them. It's just that sometimes I get sick of my own usual foul-mouthed, sexpotted rigamarole. It's a shame, isn't it? So, I figure I may as well get back on track with a big bloody, fiery, explosion-porn-rife zombie flick. Sure. Why not?
Much has been said of the cultural reflectivity of this particular genre. I don't suppose I really need to rehash it-- but, it's true. The Archetypal Zombie can function as cinematic folk devil for any measure of societal ills. Joshua Clover does a slick, dense little rundown about this film genre here. And I suggest you read his smart version, rather than allow me to indulge in blatant plagiarism. And it just so happens that his write-up is also about 28 Weeks Later, my sofa adventure this evening. What I find particularly interesting about this other blog-review is the comparison between the zombie outbreak in this film and the French Revolution-- or, say, ideological insurgency of any kind.
As my regular readers might have noticed (ha! regular readers... that's funny!), I'm sorta partial to rebels and outlaws, rule-breakers and transgressors of all colors. Well, maybe not all (some could argue that the likes of Hitler-think arose out of social rebellion, I suppose). But in general, social order doesn't often sit all that well with me, so I think folks that undermine it are kinda fun. But in Clover's analogy, the zombie are the rebels-- and they spread disease in rapid-fire. And they're pretty fucking scary, even considering they don't really have access to me personally, safe in my apartment, an ocean away from the rage-syndrome-ridden British Isles of the film. (Yeah, it takes a lot to ACTUALLY scare me.) They puke blood and are mindless consumers of human flesh. Chills and thrills all around.
But if we relay this back to our current American cultural Bogeymen--suicide bombers, insurgent militias and renegade ideologues of the Middle East-- well, then, would this film not reflect back to us a particular anxiety about THEIR ideology being contagious to us? We rational, not-religiously-zealous-AT-ALL, tolerant and diversity-loving Westerners? Yeah, that sounds just LIKE us! So, if we're worried that ideological insurgency is both contagious and zombie-fying, my sarcasm in the preceding sentences alone could lend itself to the argument that we're ALREADY zombies.
And so, in this circular method of thinking, rebels wind up right back on top--and paradoxically, at the bottom-- of the hero pile. And here's why: fear of zealotry can entail blindness to one's own version of zealotry which leads to the application of social pressure towards intellectual conformity which often manifests in a manner remarkably similar to (hey, surprise!) zealotry and therefore, the only voice of reason becomes the renegade--who is, indeed scary, because his or her new and innovative ideology might well be every bit as contagious and zombie-fying as the original form of zealotry. Christ. I think I might have lost myself in this argument. No, that makes sense, right? It's the same old overturn-the-government-with-a-new-regime-that's-every-bit-as- problematic-as-the-first-regime-because-both-have-been-devised- by-bumbling-humans argument, isn't it?
In any case, the movie's fun. Probably not as emotionally ripe as its prequel, 28 Days Later, but bloody and absorbing and anxious in its own way. As a zombie flick should be.
Much has been said of the cultural reflectivity of this particular genre. I don't suppose I really need to rehash it-- but, it's true. The Archetypal Zombie can function as cinematic folk devil for any measure of societal ills. Joshua Clover does a slick, dense little rundown about this film genre here. And I suggest you read his smart version, rather than allow me to indulge in blatant plagiarism. And it just so happens that his write-up is also about 28 Weeks Later, my sofa adventure this evening. What I find particularly interesting about this other blog-review is the comparison between the zombie outbreak in this film and the French Revolution-- or, say, ideological insurgency of any kind.
As my regular readers might have noticed (ha! regular readers... that's funny!), I'm sorta partial to rebels and outlaws, rule-breakers and transgressors of all colors. Well, maybe not all (some could argue that the likes of Hitler-think arose out of social rebellion, I suppose). But in general, social order doesn't often sit all that well with me, so I think folks that undermine it are kinda fun. But in Clover's analogy, the zombie are the rebels-- and they spread disease in rapid-fire. And they're pretty fucking scary, even considering they don't really have access to me personally, safe in my apartment, an ocean away from the rage-syndrome-ridden British Isles of the film. (Yeah, it takes a lot to ACTUALLY scare me.) They puke blood and are mindless consumers of human flesh. Chills and thrills all around.
But if we relay this back to our current American cultural Bogeymen--suicide bombers, insurgent militias and renegade ideologues of the Middle East-- well, then, would this film not reflect back to us a particular anxiety about THEIR ideology being contagious to us? We rational, not-religiously-zealous-AT-ALL, tolerant and diversity-loving Westerners? Yeah, that sounds just LIKE us! So, if we're worried that ideological insurgency is both contagious and zombie-fying, my sarcasm in the preceding sentences alone could lend itself to the argument that we're ALREADY zombies.
And so, in this circular method of thinking, rebels wind up right back on top--and paradoxically, at the bottom-- of the hero pile. And here's why: fear of zealotry can entail blindness to one's own version of zealotry which leads to the application of social pressure towards intellectual conformity which often manifests in a manner remarkably similar to (hey, surprise!) zealotry and therefore, the only voice of reason becomes the renegade--who is, indeed scary, because his or her new and innovative ideology might well be every bit as contagious and zombie-fying as the original form of zealotry. Christ. I think I might have lost myself in this argument. No, that makes sense, right? It's the same old overturn-the-government-with-a-new-regime-that's-every-bit-as- problematic-as-the-first-regime-because-both-have-been-devised- by-bumbling-humans argument, isn't it?
In any case, the movie's fun. Probably not as emotionally ripe as its prequel, 28 Days Later, but bloody and absorbing and anxious in its own way. As a zombie flick should be.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Crusaders who get naked
Please note the addition of the prettydumbthings blog to my blog roll. This site is kind of a hub of the stripper-literati discourse, as written by Chelsea G. Summers. I quite like her brand of feminist parsing and she's got a fairly fascinating bunch of sex-text links worth exploring on her own blog roll. Also, her archive lists April as "the cruelest month," which, I suppose gives her a little extra lit-nerd street cred. Enjoy.
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