When I say 'hello' on the phone sometimes, the other end of the phone asks me, "you sound busy. You busy? Your hello says 'busy'."
"I only said hello! You gleaned all that from two syllables?!" And then we break into some Abott and Costello routine.
Here's an odd confession.
I can't skip things that are on my schedule/calendar. I've tried a number of times but when I do I get attacked by royal pangs of guilt. 'Bad, Bri, bad. You skipped out on yoga or picking up dry-cleaning, or replying to so-and-so-'s email.'
If the tasks are not on the calendar, I can skip them but if they are, I can't not keep them.
This is the reason why I wouldn't sluff as a teenager.
My classmates would always ask in disbelief: "Why don't you want to go to a party instead of 19th century English poetry?"
"Because my schedule says I'm in class from 8-2, you know what I mean? Then, it's MTV after class. And then I've got ping-pong. And then Inspector Morse is on at 8 (Man, I used to LOVE Morse!). So, no, can't skip."
I laugh now when I am reminded of this seemingly odd behavior. I laugh but I still 'get' what my teenage version meant by "well, it's in my schedule to do this, so, yeah, I've got to do it."
Ok, consider this rather insipid illustration by Hugh Grant's character in About a Boy. This was the only minute in the film worth my time and interest. I turned off my attention after that. I get Hugh Grant's discussion of 'units of time'. It somehow makes perfect sense to me.
Sticking to a schedule helps many process information. Answers are often hidden between tasks. Panacea is to be found between tasks. Being busy keeps one in motion and being in a state of moving keeps one interested and in that very process interesting. Aren't most things about the latter, anyway?
It matters being busy. It matters because busy-ness brings a level of perspective that one cannot have when having too much time to mull things over.
My academic background has made me especially aware of this. Doing a close reading of half a 13-th century poem for a year can eventually test one's patience and one's relationship with time. I get general anxiety when I have much time on my hand to do one specific thing. The thing becomes less daunting, hence handleable, when done in the company of other things. The phrase that gets used by those in my life is, "you look like you're in your head again." I know what that phrase stands for. It stands for restlesness or rather fear of restlessness.
I got to thinking abou what we were doing this time last year on my drive back from work tonight. And this time last year I got a call from the phone operators of Real Time with Bill Maher informing me that we had won some complimentary tickets to a live taping of the HBO show at their studio on Fairfax Ave. in Los Angeles. Since we were heading to LA that weekend, the phone call could not have been timelier.
Seeing a live episode of Real Time was not just fun. It was another great example of how indispensable being busy is to me. Getting to the studio in time was nigh heroic. If you've ever driven in Los Angeles, you don't have to think too hard why. Los Angeles traffic is the stuff nightmares are made of. Our day this time last year consisted of a lot of activities and we made the taping of the show in the nick of time. I like it when I make it to things in the nick of time. I don't like to wait. Waiting sucks. Waiting makes me clench my teeth, move restlessly, and get aggravated at the thought that time, my time is being wasted.
Being busy matters because it gives many of us the impression that we count, that we are important. And the impression of being something, more often than not, has more weight than actual substance. Impressions are the stuff actual encouragement is made out of and encouragement is rarely inconsequential. Being busy reinforces a pattern of movement/motion and it is at the core of being dynamic, with a pulse, alive.
Showing posts with label quotidian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quotidian. Show all posts
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Ice, Ice, Baby!
I took this picture last night. I don't know how to explain what it's like to experience such different weather patterns in a mere 40-mile range. I call my house and say, "Yeah, so it's snowing heavily here. I'll be a while." The answer I get back is, "Snow?!" As if they're saying, "Yeah, right!" I understand though. It's only raining in the city and it's about 8 degrees warmer. As a matter of fact, when I do make it home, I agree to walk to the restaurant and all I'm wearing is a light jacket. I can't believe I experience such differences in a matter of one hour.
I'm going 20 miles per hour when, lo and behold, I see a white car sitting horizontally on the freeway blocking both incoming and outgoing traffic. I hit my breaks ever so gently and I still find myself swerving. Ice, ice, baby!
The ice is merciless.
I come really close to making contact with the horizontal car but, thankfully, I don't. I stop in the nick of time.
Sigh....
And then I think I need to take a picture.
People come out of cars and push the horizontal car out of the way. I drive another few miles and then, boom, the snow vanishes.
Dorothy, we're SO not in Kansas anymore!
I'm going 20 miles per hour when, lo and behold, I see a white car sitting horizontally on the freeway blocking both incoming and outgoing traffic. I hit my breaks ever so gently and I still find myself swerving. Ice, ice, baby!
The ice is merciless.
I come really close to making contact with the horizontal car but, thankfully, I don't. I stop in the nick of time.
Sigh....
And then I think I need to take a picture.
People come out of cars and push the horizontal car out of the way. I drive another few miles and then, boom, the snow vanishes.
Dorothy, we're SO not in Kansas anymore!
Friday, February 18, 2011
My Encounter with the Terrifying Sublime
Well, it was bound to happen to me, too. I had to cross paths with the terrifying sublime. And I did. Tonight, between 8:46PM and 1:03AM. The terrifying sublime came in the form of an ice storm on the highway.
I don’t usually make it a habit to inform the internets that/when I get scared. Or that anything really has too huge an impact on my personal Weltanschauung. Tonight, however, I experienced what Kant might have meant by the experience of the ‘terrifying sublime’.
I’ve always had a bit of a hard time when faced with the question to define the ‘terrifying sublime.’ It's not that I lack some experiential knowledge of it because I most certainly don't. It's that I can do a much better job interpreting it cognitively. It feels easier and somewhat safer. I also find it easier to interpret what my inner circle means by their own definition.
What I like about true and honest sociality is that, at the core, it’s about self-exploration and a better knowing of the self. I found this to be true as a child when interacting with my childhood pal, Alexander, and sharing with each other that sweet little nothing every little 7-year-old would love to hear on the playground: “Bri, you’ll always be my number 1 pick for the dodge ball team.” And then he pulled my pig tails, stuck his tongue out, and said, ‘whoever runs to your house first, gets to buy ice cream for both.’ I don’t think I’ve had better ice cream since, by the way. Victory always tastes sweeter. Whoever doesn’t agree must know very well what it means to always come in second. But that’s another post. I digress which, incidentally, is a most dexterous way to avoid having to deal with definitions of the ‘terrifying sublime.’
Back to my account. I left work around 8:35pm and started driving South in the direction of my house which is in the city. The work is not. The work is about an hour drive to the North. I don’t mind driving too terribly as I get to do most of my better thinking when behind the wheel listening to my self-selected playlists, and seeing how the Pacific looks in the company of capricious mountains. The way I describe my drive to my people is the following: “My eyes get made love to when I’m driving North.” I wonder why I’m tired after the drive but it truly is a pleasant, placid feeling after spending about an hour on the freeway looking at the sporadic islands and the meeting points of the ocean and mountains. It's a good tired. Sated tired.
So, tonight, while listening to the Arcade Fire’s track “Neighborhood #1 “Tunnels””, I started decelerating as traffic got awfully slow. A man in uniform started asking drivers to roll down their windows so he could share some info. He comes to me and says: ‘Due to severe weather, some cars ended up on a ditch. Yeah. So, the towing trucks are trying to get them out of there so that we can open the road. It’ll be about a half hour.’
Crap. I’ll sit here till 9:15pm. I’m tired. I want some tea. And a bath. And some more tea. Then I want to watch Shopgirl and maybe have a chat about absolutely nothing of consequence.
I keep listening to the Arcade Fire. My phone rings again. My house wants to know if I’m anywhere near home. I say, ‘yeah, not likely. I have not moved an inch since 9:12pm.
“Are you serious? You haven’t eaten since 4:14pm. It’s now 10:30pm.” Food is the last thing on my mind. And time is right after it.
The same uniform-wearing man comes to my window and informs me that they have detected a few more cars in a topsy-turvy situation in the freeway. Yikes. I like the phrase ‘topsy-turvy’ but no in the highway sense. He says it’ll be another half hour. Which of course means, it’ll be close to 1.5 hours.
I’m getting restless. I’m tired. I just want to go home and talk very little about things of little consequence so that I can finally unwind and go to bed. Instead, I’m stuck in the car, the Arcade Fire is playing, and my mind wanders to Kant’s Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime (Beobachtungen über das Gefühl des Schönen und Erhabenen) and his definition of the ‘terrifying sublime’. Then my mind revisits conversations I have had with people regarding definitions of the Kantian ‘terrifying sublime.’ My best friend defines it as waking up next to a person who has all the features of one’s love but smells like a stranger. Another one defines it as driving through Kansas. Poor Kansas! I wonder if it knows that it’s someone’s definition of the ‘terrifying.’
My definition would be something like, ‘Getting stuck under much snow while on thick ice. Listening to the Arcade Fire’s Funeral while the brain is exhausted, sensing no way out when looking at the watch. Stop. Kein Ausweg! You’re stuck on a one-lane freeway, sandwiched in-between two vehicles.’
Then I see myself let out a ‘hmm’ by way of a smile. I guess smiling is one of those involuntary reactions the brain has concocted as a way of dealing with unknown variables, hazardous weather conditions, sensorial overloads, and general feelings of confusion. And, wait, I choose to listen to the Arcade Fire’s album Funeral when processing all of this stuff?! What, does masochism need to be defined in real life, too. So, then I turn to another playlist. I pick Death Cab for Cutie instead. Because, of course, when you want things to start looking up you always go for Ben Gibbard’s voice.
I don’t usually make it a habit to inform the internets that/when I get scared. Or that anything really has too huge an impact on my personal Weltanschauung. Tonight, however, I experienced what Kant might have meant by the experience of the ‘terrifying sublime’.
I’ve always had a bit of a hard time when faced with the question to define the ‘terrifying sublime.’ It's not that I lack some experiential knowledge of it because I most certainly don't. It's that I can do a much better job interpreting it cognitively. It feels easier and somewhat safer. I also find it easier to interpret what my inner circle means by their own definition.
What I like about true and honest sociality is that, at the core, it’s about self-exploration and a better knowing of the self. I found this to be true as a child when interacting with my childhood pal, Alexander, and sharing with each other that sweet little nothing every little 7-year-old would love to hear on the playground: “Bri, you’ll always be my number 1 pick for the dodge ball team.” And then he pulled my pig tails, stuck his tongue out, and said, ‘whoever runs to your house first, gets to buy ice cream for both.’ I don’t think I’ve had better ice cream since, by the way. Victory always tastes sweeter. Whoever doesn’t agree must know very well what it means to always come in second. But that’s another post. I digress which, incidentally, is a most dexterous way to avoid having to deal with definitions of the ‘terrifying sublime.’
Back to my account. I left work around 8:35pm and started driving South in the direction of my house which is in the city. The work is not. The work is about an hour drive to the North. I don’t mind driving too terribly as I get to do most of my better thinking when behind the wheel listening to my self-selected playlists, and seeing how the Pacific looks in the company of capricious mountains. The way I describe my drive to my people is the following: “My eyes get made love to when I’m driving North.” I wonder why I’m tired after the drive but it truly is a pleasant, placid feeling after spending about an hour on the freeway looking at the sporadic islands and the meeting points of the ocean and mountains. It's a good tired. Sated tired.
So, tonight, while listening to the Arcade Fire’s track “Neighborhood #1 “Tunnels””, I started decelerating as traffic got awfully slow. A man in uniform started asking drivers to roll down their windows so he could share some info. He comes to me and says: ‘Due to severe weather, some cars ended up on a ditch. Yeah. So, the towing trucks are trying to get them out of there so that we can open the road. It’ll be about a half hour.’
Crap. I’ll sit here till 9:15pm. I’m tired. I want some tea. And a bath. And some more tea. Then I want to watch Shopgirl and maybe have a chat about absolutely nothing of consequence.
I keep listening to the Arcade Fire. My phone rings again. My house wants to know if I’m anywhere near home. I say, ‘yeah, not likely. I have not moved an inch since 9:12pm.
“Are you serious? You haven’t eaten since 4:14pm. It’s now 10:30pm.” Food is the last thing on my mind. And time is right after it.
The same uniform-wearing man comes to my window and informs me that they have detected a few more cars in a topsy-turvy situation in the freeway. Yikes. I like the phrase ‘topsy-turvy’ but no in the highway sense. He says it’ll be another half hour. Which of course means, it’ll be close to 1.5 hours.
I’m getting restless. I’m tired. I just want to go home and talk very little about things of little consequence so that I can finally unwind and go to bed. Instead, I’m stuck in the car, the Arcade Fire is playing, and my mind wanders to Kant’s Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime (Beobachtungen über das Gefühl des Schönen und Erhabenen) and his definition of the ‘terrifying sublime’. Then my mind revisits conversations I have had with people regarding definitions of the Kantian ‘terrifying sublime.’ My best friend defines it as waking up next to a person who has all the features of one’s love but smells like a stranger. Another one defines it as driving through Kansas. Poor Kansas! I wonder if it knows that it’s someone’s definition of the ‘terrifying.’
My definition would be something like, ‘Getting stuck under much snow while on thick ice. Listening to the Arcade Fire’s Funeral while the brain is exhausted, sensing no way out when looking at the watch. Stop. Kein Ausweg! You’re stuck on a one-lane freeway, sandwiched in-between two vehicles.’
Then I see myself let out a ‘hmm’ by way of a smile. I guess smiling is one of those involuntary reactions the brain has concocted as a way of dealing with unknown variables, hazardous weather conditions, sensorial overloads, and general feelings of confusion. And, wait, I choose to listen to the Arcade Fire’s album Funeral when processing all of this stuff?! What, does masochism need to be defined in real life, too. So, then I turn to another playlist. I pick Death Cab for Cutie instead. Because, of course, when you want things to start looking up you always go for Ben Gibbard’s voice.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Lost in Translation and Nostalgia
I'm into George Orwell these days. I don't know why I want to revisit 1984. I guess it has something to do with the fact that I was reminded of a smart student I used to have who used to wear a black t-shirt with '1984' on it. I remember wanting to smirk every time he made comments. My word! He was so original and so wise. And every time I had to work so hard to resist my usual reply, 'How does one get to think like you? You're brilliant, brilliant.' Instead, every single time and without fail, I would simply and much professorially say 'hmm, interesting point. Thanks.'
Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm proving myself right yet again when it comes to my often too tedious a point that good sociality can only occur when surrounded by those who share a number of cultural references. To feel gotten we need to expand our circles regardless of how great we think they are. But back to the black t-shirt boy.
Other classmates would ask him whether '1984' was his year of birth and annoyingly he would say 'NO!' thus, in a way sort of leave it at that. I remember wanting to divorce myself from objectivity for a quick second to interject some kind of answer about the contextual meeting of his t-shirt. Luckily, in hindsight, I didn't. It's best to just observe a few things and let them happen while resisting the urge to 'improve.' Some things are meant to be left untouched and/or unedited.
I'm watching Lost in Translation tonight as I do the other favorite activities of the evening. As much as evening sociality comes with its perks, my favorite part of the day is that space at night when all I can hear is the sound of my own thoughts mixed with whatever indie rick band I'm playing in the other room(s).
I often revisit Lost in Translation as it's filled with a number of important texts in my own existence. When it first came out, I remember resisting watching it. One of my grad school friends, a fellow nerd with a strong sense of high fashion, kept insisting that I watch it. However, I kept saying, 'Yeah, let's not.' I don't know why I resorted to that kind of puerile response but I guess we're bound to revert to childhood patterns regardless of how smart and informed we think we may become. However, after my friend relented, I did watch Lost in Translation. I didn't just like it. I felt gotten while watching it. Having lived in different countries much of my life, I felt I got the essence of the film.
Granted, my experience doesn't mirror that of the characters' as I've never lived in Tokyo. What I still have in common with the film is the way it captures the poetry of sadness that disconnectedness brings with it. There's no way to capture disconnectedness by words. I truly believe that you can only capture it via a commonality of experience.
Lost in Translation used to be the kind of film I would watch as a way of curing my insomnia. It would relax me, sort of like Wonder Boys and Tootsie can. This time however, I can sense quite a bit of creative fecundity while listening to traces of music from the other room, taking in the dialog of the film, and thinking what the heck transpired during the day today.
I don't know why I keep going back to my usual things. It's always Dante, Lost in Translation, J. M. Coetzee, or Schnitzler. And yet, my fascination with novelty does not get weaker by time. On the contrary, the older I get, the more I crave for more of it. I suppose it's a way to combat repetitive patterns. Repetition, is a double-edged sword, after all. It not only leads to expertise and enhanced ability but also boredom. And the latter is the one thing that manages to scare me almost as much as Inferno 5.
And yet Lost in Translation could never bore me. It, much like the beginning of a great connection and human story, gets better and more appealing with time. Every time I watch it, it brings me back to 2004, the year of the beginning of my actual self-actualization. And how could such a text ever become inconsequential?! Not anytime soon. At least not till nostalgia and immediate memory still have some clout. And they do. A whole lot if it.
Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm proving myself right yet again when it comes to my often too tedious a point that good sociality can only occur when surrounded by those who share a number of cultural references. To feel gotten we need to expand our circles regardless of how great we think they are. But back to the black t-shirt boy.
Other classmates would ask him whether '1984' was his year of birth and annoyingly he would say 'NO!' thus, in a way sort of leave it at that. I remember wanting to divorce myself from objectivity for a quick second to interject some kind of answer about the contextual meeting of his t-shirt. Luckily, in hindsight, I didn't. It's best to just observe a few things and let them happen while resisting the urge to 'improve.' Some things are meant to be left untouched and/or unedited.
I'm watching Lost in Translation tonight as I do the other favorite activities of the evening. As much as evening sociality comes with its perks, my favorite part of the day is that space at night when all I can hear is the sound of my own thoughts mixed with whatever indie rick band I'm playing in the other room(s).
I often revisit Lost in Translation as it's filled with a number of important texts in my own existence. When it first came out, I remember resisting watching it. One of my grad school friends, a fellow nerd with a strong sense of high fashion, kept insisting that I watch it. However, I kept saying, 'Yeah, let's not.' I don't know why I resorted to that kind of puerile response but I guess we're bound to revert to childhood patterns regardless of how smart and informed we think we may become. However, after my friend relented, I did watch Lost in Translation. I didn't just like it. I felt gotten while watching it. Having lived in different countries much of my life, I felt I got the essence of the film.
Granted, my experience doesn't mirror that of the characters' as I've never lived in Tokyo. What I still have in common with the film is the way it captures the poetry of sadness that disconnectedness brings with it. There's no way to capture disconnectedness by words. I truly believe that you can only capture it via a commonality of experience.
Lost in Translation used to be the kind of film I would watch as a way of curing my insomnia. It would relax me, sort of like Wonder Boys and Tootsie can. This time however, I can sense quite a bit of creative fecundity while listening to traces of music from the other room, taking in the dialog of the film, and thinking what the heck transpired during the day today.
I don't know why I keep going back to my usual things. It's always Dante, Lost in Translation, J. M. Coetzee, or Schnitzler. And yet, my fascination with novelty does not get weaker by time. On the contrary, the older I get, the more I crave for more of it. I suppose it's a way to combat repetitive patterns. Repetition, is a double-edged sword, after all. It not only leads to expertise and enhanced ability but also boredom. And the latter is the one thing that manages to scare me almost as much as Inferno 5.
And yet Lost in Translation could never bore me. It, much like the beginning of a great connection and human story, gets better and more appealing with time. Every time I watch it, it brings me back to 2004, the year of the beginning of my actual self-actualization. And how could such a text ever become inconsequential?! Not anytime soon. At least not till nostalgia and immediate memory still have some clout. And they do. A whole lot if it.
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