resurrecting the blog to bare my soul to the world, again (and to Zsa Zsa)

I have let this blog thing languish. It hasn't been the right medium for me to do what I needed to do.

Everything I write that is in any way shared with others, I write to a specific audience, often of one, with whom I am generally, to some degree, flirting. So, to carry forward that feeling, and to protect both the innocent and the guilty, and those in between, I have decided that I will fictionalize the current audience with a phony name. I name my audience Zsa Zsa.

∞   ∞   ∞   ∞

Dear Zsa Zsa,

In what I shall call "normal times," I maintain tight control over my being, my emotions, my expressions, and my behavior. I am not wholly unemotional, but I express my feelings indirectly, often through wordplay and humor. Although I appear fairly collected and calm, anxiety and fear impel my every movement.

In normal times, I follow an invariable routine, focused on productive activity, until I can no longer be productive because of the tremendous expenditure of energy on staying alert. Then I break down, one way or another.

My favorite way to break down involves terrible Bacchanalia, which I shall not describe in this space but hint at in order both to avoid revealing too much and to further titillate by leaving it to your imagination. For now, I emphasize: terrible Bacchanalia.

Of course these "carnival times" are destructive. At the end of them, and as their consequence as much as due to the effort to control myself during normal times, I am exhausted, beaten, and empty. And the tension throughout my body and psyche is finally gone.

I don't remember ever living my life any other way, including in childhood -- although childhood Bacchanalia typically didn't resemble those of present day. If it is a dysfunctional way to live, it is a lifelong pattern of dysfunction, and those are the most difficult to change.

You see, I recognize the desirability of change. I do not want to face the consequences of the destruction of carnival times. Yet I want to continue to indulge in the intense delectation of carnival, and I want to be able to keep it in my pants, so to speak, as needed for daily life.

I recently came upon a book that reminded me of a thought from a few years ago, on the difference between play and creative activity. I think this is key to finding a way forward. Normal times lack any play. Carnival times are something beyond play, something atavistic and bestial.

Play is goalless, not directed toward production, certainly not economic exchange of any kind. It is done for its own sake. It is not destructive, but nor does it necessarily create something that fulfills a need for anything beyond play itself -- at least, that is not its purpose. Many of the examples of play I can think of immediately are musical: Thelonious Monk's songs and style on piano; Marc Ribot guitar solos; John Fahey's demented restructuring of old folk music.

Imagine living a life like a Thelonious Monk song. Who would need either the normal or the carnival?

Of this, my fair Zsa Zsa, more to come.

teaching and going home

It's been a long time, but I once used to teach my classes and go home. I had other things on my mind then, like trying to hustle more classes to avoid falling even further into abject poverty, and limit intimidating phone calls from people I owed money to. This weekend I've been missing those days.

I am now deeply involved in many aspects of my stupid university. When I'm not teaching classes, I'm involved in the academic senate and on the senate executive committee, I do faculty rights representation for the union, I join book clubs and sometimes facilitate discussions, and I'm also involved in the AAUP. I know several faculty who do as much or more, but mainly, they do less. I understand why.

I know my level of involvement causes stress, and I know my motivation for being so involved is not entirely healthy. Anxiety seems to be self-sustaining, constantly reproducing the kind of alertness that makes everything appear to be threatening.

And then last week, two major sources of stress became serious objective threats. My anxiety level reached Threat Level Busey at once. I feel vulnerable, exposed, and low on energy. I don't want to keep having arguments in my head when I'm trying to sleep, and waking up with them raging again. I don't want this crapola affecting daily life like this. Dinner should not be a daily crisis.

I know my friends have my back. I know I have support. Generalized anxiety means that I can't trust that I have support. I can't even trust that I can support myself.

Kinda awful.

crazy people and philosophers (and other academics)

We were at a philosophy conference this past week. It was good.

A couple of papers dealt directly or indirectly with mental illness, which led to a discussion of mental illness among faculty. The group there assented generally to the idea that academics "are all OCD" and many are more significantly sick. This was amusing to all.

Meanwhile, I was reading Jung during respites from the conference itself, and came across this passage:

So the difference between [the sick person] and Schopenhauer is that, in him, the vision remained at the stage of a mere spontaneous growth, while Schopenhauer abstracted it and expressed it in language of universal validity... A man is a philosopher of genius only when he succeeds in transmuting the primitive and merely natural vision into an abstract idea belonging to the common stock of consciousness. This achievement, and this alone, constitutes his personal value, for which he may take credit without necessarily succumbing to inflation. But the sick man's vision is an impersonal value, a natural growth against which he is powerless to defend himself, by which he is swallowed up and "wafted" clean out of the world... The golden apples fall from the same tree, whether they are gathered by an imbecile locksmith's apprentice or by a Schopenhauer. ("The Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious," The Portable Jung, 90f.)

I know a lot of academics who are quick to self-diagnose. I also know a lot of academics who are the objects of bona fide psychiatric diagnoses, myself among them.

Now that I'm reading Jung's account of the extraverted personality and its unconscious, I'm seeing this behavior in a different way. There's something weirdly self-inflating about the self-diagnosis. It places one on a strange kind of pedestal, I think. It creates a status, a twisted status no doubt, but one prevalent in academia and one with related echoes.

Academics constantly speak of how busy they are, how frenetic their work schedules are, how many deadlines they are under, and how seldom they meet deadlines because they take on too much work. We chortle to one another about our poor social skills, poorer social lives, often our poor health and eating habits, chemical dependencies, and other marks of malaise.

This is a bizarre expression of arrogance and self-aggrandizement, according to a value system we adopt to be full-fledged members of the academy. Sickness, self-imposed sickness, physical, social, and psychological deformities, are virtues in this system.

And so, we recognize ourselves and one another (to the extent we do recognize one another--see social deformities, supra) as super-functioning pathological cases, in a gesture that expresses astounding antipathy for the truly and severely ill, and profound alienation from ourselves, one another, our communities, our humanity, and, yes, our work.

I may start to experiment this fall, responding to all the myriad expressions of this habitus, by saying something about my health, well-being, and free time. I suppose that means I'll be telling stories of cycling, guitar playing, and writing music.

it begins

I have only 67 more class sessions this semester.

It's taking a little while to gear up for this term. My usual level of enthusiasm for teaching at the beginning of a year is around a 12 on a scale of 2.7 to 14. This year, on a scale of π to 136, I'm only around 72.1-ish.

But, let me look back on the summer, and see how many of my goals I accomplished. I had some plans for reading and writing philosophy. A panel I submitted on the experience of orientation and disorientation was accepted by a conference coming up this fall, and I wanted to pursue those, and the concept of normal, as regular readers of this feature will perhaps recall. To that end, I intended to read Experience and Judgment, From Affectivity to Subjectivity, Refiguring the Ordinary, Assuming a Body.  Check.

I did not intend to read The Normal and the Pathological, but I did. I certainly did not intend to go back yet again into Phenomenology of Perception, but I did a lot of that, too. Four chapters worth, actually. I did not intend to read The Problem of Embodiment, but I did that, too.

I intended to read Getting Back into Place, and I read a lot of it, but got to a point that I felt like it was doing what Hegel called presenting clever remarks. Sorry, Ed. Maybe I just don't get it.

I wanted to look up stuff on the affective experience and worldhood of those who lose their memories, or a particular sense, or who otherwise undergo fairly radical alterations of "normal" orientation to the world.

I didn't think I'd be spending quite so much time revising an article. That's okay. The suckers printed it!

Unrelated to any of that, I wanted to read some of The Transgender Studies Reader, and some of The Prison Notebooks. Not as much as I'd hoped. Gramsci's kinda bitchy.

One of my worst emotional habits is comparing myself to other people, using an external criterion of my progress, and worse, my worth. Looking back at what I've done academically this summer, I think, "Um, is that good?" I don't know. I am fairly chuffed that article got published. I hope I scandalize people.

Possibly my greatest accomplishment this summer was reading all of Don Quixote. This is the kind of book, especially at this late date, that you could make a tidy academic career out of -- there are so many allusions to Cervantes' contemporary world to track down and decipher, so much to do to relate it to our own world, and it's so long that there can't be more than a few dozen people who've read the whole thing. It's perfect fodder for literature folks.

I wanted us to play a gig. We did that. I think we should have played more, but we didn't, mainly because of mental health. It went pretty good, though, and I hope we can do more in the future.

I wanted to write several songs. I ended up writing several tunes, and several very, very bad attempts at songs, that I have wisely destroyed. So much for my goal of recording a new CD. It's been two years now since Do Paper Cats Dream of Origami Birds?

Again, I dunno, is that good?

update and unbearably adorable kitten pic

This morning, Alexander lay on my lap, seeming comfortable, for about an hour while we watched the Tour de France on the tube (sucks to be Janez Brajkovic the last couple days). Then he crawled up into the kitchen chair he's basically lived in for a week.

But then, when Lauren made pasta salad, and started making apricot jam, Alex was roaming the kitchen with her, perched for a bit on the step-stool, scored a piece of pepperoni, and then he and Valentine took off after a fly. A few minutes later, once Valentine had successfully bounced himself head-first off the front window trying to nab the fly, Alexander chirped at it excitedly.

That's more like it.

This is Alex and Arthur as kittens.

diagnosis: chest pain

Here's how I ended up spending 24 hours in Emanuel hospital.

Tuesday morning, after Lauren drove off to work the day in Modesto, I started my bike ride to campus, right around 10:15. Going up Del's Lane, I started to notice it was taking more effort than usual, riding into a gusty headwind. By the time I reached the philosophy department, I was sweating heavily and a bit more out of breath than normal (I usually ride at high intensity and velocity, as many on campus can attest).

After maneuvering my bike into my office, I mopped the sweat from my forehead and drank some water, cooling down as usual. I didn't feel right. My heart was still beating fast, and the tightness in my chest seemed worse. I sat, made final minor preparations for my 11 o'clock class, added a couple short paragraphs to something I've been writing, and then headed to class. I had to mop my brow again.

I walked over to my classroom, a hundred yards, if that, from my office, upstairs in the Bizzini building. The stairs were very hard to climb, and I was overheated when I got to my class.

Class was short. I had a spell of lightheadedness about halfway through, but while discussing the whodunnit portion of Aristotle's Ethics and students' term papers due on Thursday, I felt okay.

By the time I returned to my office, I was having trouble catching my breath, and the chest pain was still worse than before. I sat, trying to calm down, trying to let myself cool down, but it seemed like my heart was racing. I decided I needed help. I told our department assistant I was going to the health center, and set off for it.

I was unaware that, for liability reasons, the health center will only see students. I tried to say it was an emergency, and the receptionist referred me to same-day care across from the hospital. I said I couldn't get there, because I rode my bike. Eventually, the doctor on call saw me in an exam room, "as a courtesy," he said, and took vital signs. He did a lot of frowning, and said he thought I should go to ER.

While he called for an ambulance, a nurse took my blood pressure a second time, did some more frowning. The doctor came back in and told the nurse to give me an aspirin and a sublingual nitro tab.

It seemed like this was taking forever. Finally two campus police came in, and asked me, like the doctor had, what was going on, and my basic stats - name, age, etc. Then two firemen came in and did the same thing. They took my bp and asked more questions. Then the ambulance came, and the EMTs asked me the same questions all the others had, hooked me up to a portable EKG and an electronic bp monitor. They didn't frown, but they looked very concerned. I couldn't see the EKG, but when I glanced at the bp monitor, it said 155 over 110 or something like that, with a pulse of 105. I overheard them radio in that the EKG was irregular - I think.

Off to the ER. The EMT placed an IV line, gave me another aspirin, asked me about the nitro tab, declared that the health center's nitro was no longer potent, and so he gave me another.

We reached the ER, where a series of nurses, technicians, and doctors all came and went, asking exactly the same questions, frowning, and so on. At 1, I felt like I could try to call Lauren at work (at her former boss' house, actually), and proceeded to find that I didn't have the number. Eventually I reached Lauren, and she came down.

While she was on her way, a cardiologist arrived, looked at my EKG, and told me I was not going to die of a heart attack, because he was pretty sure it wasn't a heart attack. He wanted me to stay overnight, because, it turns out, to rule out heart attack definitively, you have to have three clean EKGs six hours apart, and three blood draws that test negative for a particular enzyme, also six hours apart. The cardiologist ordered a stress test and echo-sonogram thingy for this morning.

The pain in my chest had waned considerably, especially after Lauren arrived. By the time I was in a room, the pain only felt bad when someone asked me how the pain was.

This morning, after a good 3 hours of sleep, I reported for the stress test. The nurse got me all hooked up, and said she didn't like the bp reading at all: it was 137 over 95 or so. I told her I was anxious, have anxiety and depressive disorder, and that being around anything medical was my major phobia. Yet another doctor arrived. I did ten minutes on the treadmill, reaching 4.2 miles per hour (around my typical walking pace on the jaunt to school), at 14% incline, before I reported I was getting a little tired.

I got off, and within five minutes my bp was 130 over 79. I did not say, "told ya!"

The echo was just an echo.

We waited back in my room for another doctor to free me. I got to eat something. We watched an episode of "30 Rock" on my iPad (it was our "unchallenging, unlikely-to-mention-medical-stuff" choice for entertainment, plus neither of us had seen more than 2 minutes of any episode).

Whatever happened, it was not a heart attack. My official diagnosis is, in fact, "chest pain." I am 99% certain it was the worst panic attack I've ever had, and about 91% certain it was the worst physical experience I've ever had. The echo turned up a slightly dilated aorta they think I should check on yearly. Otherwise, aside from being a basket-case after this academic year, I'm fine.

And now all I have to do is grade 120 term papers, approximately 60 additional short papers, and write two conference paper commentaries, before we head off to Canada on 27 May.

mood, typography, cognitive therapy

Mood's been uneven. The Christmas trip down to LA was good. The Penguins keep winning.

I'm knee-deep in a gorgeous book, The Elements of Typographic Style, by Robert Bringhurst (an acclaimed Canadian poet as well as a typography nut). It's not quite a textbook, and not quite a treatise, on the art of typography. The book follows its own stated axioms, and does so beautifully. Even the paper is beautiful.

Consequently, I'm dreaming up ways to re-format all the documents I used in classes. I'm being playful and ridiculous with the Professional Ethics syllabus, for instance.

One dilemma I already know I have regards the use of ligatures. In a lot of typefaces, they are very nearly obligatory. But since I provide documents online as well as well as in hard copy, I need fonts that are good screen fonts, and ligatures are not very clear on a screen. This is a good problem to have, because it keeps me off the streets and out of my head.

Main Street

Is it just me, or does the constant repetition of "Main Street" in financial bailout nooz irresistibly compel thoughts of the Sinclair Lewis novel?^*

It's just me.


^* Main Street is a satiric novel, or else a mean-hearted screed, about the incredible wellspring of hypocrisy Sinclair Lewis believed he saw in small-town America in the early 20th century. Some of these small towns have been the targets of real-estate and mortgage speculation over 20 or so years leading up to this collapse; others have been utterly emptied as people moved to greener non-pastures. The conceit of calls for helping bail out Main Street is such a painfully transparent political ploy I can barely contain myself when I hear or read it. There isn't a really good response, either. What do you yell at your TV or radio when that happens? I mean, "screw Main Street!" isn't really the sentiment I have in mind. And I don't necessarily mean to accuse "Main Street" of electing politicians on the basis of the same narrow-minded and ultimately hypocritical worldview that Lewis diagnosed. Much. Such an outburst would really intend to express my final exasperation at the perfidiously voided rhetoric. "Shove Main Street up yer ass!" strikes a satisfyingly crude and violent note, but seems still less en point. "Main Street called. They want their houses back" is so 2001. Plus, they really do what their houses back, so it's too earnest.

I think I'm gonna just go with "AAAAAAAARRRRRRIIIGHHRHRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUUU-
UUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHCKKACKACKACKAFLAGGRAAPP!!!"

finally, some good news

Not about the economy, which is still, according to some reports, 78.3% likely to go foom.

No, the good news is that, what with the subprime mortgage market scandal being breathtakingly revealed, we may finally be free from the scourge of web ads featuring badly animated dancing cowboys, lizards, silhouetted chicks in skirts, and so on, trying to sell subprime loans. Thank Moose for that, because I always came close to smashing my laptop against the nearest wall when those appeared.

Besides that, my loveliest found a wonderful item on the Internets, through an online friend of hers. I am proud to bring you garfield minus garfield.

relations, jury duty

It takes only a short holiday trip to reconfirm what we have all known for generations upon generations: Everyone's relatives are crazy. We know this is true because they drive us crazy, too.

Exactly how it is that we have been able to remain sane, when all of our relatives are out of their minds, is unclear. It is also unknown precisely how it is that their insanity produces our own, or how it spreads to us. Studies have identified correlative factors, but have never reduced these down to a core cause. Of these, the greatest controversy surrounds whether Outrageous Prejudice and Political Views or Dysfunction and Dysfunction-Blindness is the most significant factor. Others argue that Substance Abuse is the key, since it lowers inhibitions about expressing or acting upon the other two. Finally, a small but committed minority of researchers say the entire process is driven by a poorly-understood but apparently very powerful element that they call the Day-amn, These People Are Crazy Quotient.

Recovery times vary, apparently depending on three key variables: Visit-Duration, Relative-Density, and Vegetation-Opportunity. These factors do not mitigate the insanity-producing or -spreading effect of holidays with the folks, but they do predict rates of regaining good senses, within 3%.

We got back from LA early Saturday evening. This is my first post. Lauren's folk don't, for me, have a very high DTPAC Quotient (closeness of relation is probably another factor), but I'm still in the awkward adolescence of newfound sanity, if that makes any sense, and I doubt it. The Visit-Duration was short, Relative-Density less than usual, but what really screwed me this trip was the lack of Vegetation-Opportunity.

I had jury duty Monday. Man oh man oh man oh man do I loathe jury duty. It's not my civic duty that I detest. It's being in the courthouse, in courtrooms, being around bailiffs and judges, and hearing dozens of my fellow citizens plod through oral voir-dire answering 11 frigging questions that should take 30 seconds to respond to. Obviously I can't divulge. But I will say it's amazing to me that none of these people use illegal drugs. Truly, truly amazing. In fact, unbelievable, especially about that one guy.

lesson learned

One night, if you can't sleep, and you get out of bed to shuffle off to the next room to read a bit and try to get sleepy again, don't pick up Theodor Adorno. Most especially, don't pick up Minima Moralia, not unless you really like having nightmares. Goddamn Adorno.

Of course #1: That's why I call him Theodor "Don't Call Me Sweetie" Adorno.

Of course #2: Obviously, I should have known better. But I was annoyed by not being able to get to sleep, and Adorno seemed to fit the mood.

Note to self: Always have copy of Harpo Speaks! nearby.